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    <description>A blog for Ivory Tower, an art and literary journal designed, edited, and managed by the undergraduate students of Engl 3711 at the University of Minnesota.</description>
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       <title>A Bit of Reflection</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Dalton Craig, Copyeditor, <em>Ivory Tower</em></p>

<p>I'm sitting in a coffee shop in Dinkytown as I write this. (I know: how stereotypical of an aspiring writer. But at least I'm not writing a novel; I work on that at home, or anywhere but a coffee shop.) I've done a decent amount of pondering over what to write for this post--my last one before the Launch Party on this coming Wednesday (7:00 p.m.-10:00 p.m., in The Whole Music Club, in a relatively obscure section of the basement of Coffman Union). I suppose I could talk about the Launch Party in great detail, lauding the benefits of attending this annual extravaganza (free refreshments including coffee and baked goods, prizes, free copies of our literature-and-art-packed 2013 issue, and live readings by some of the authors published in our magazine). However, if you've been reading our social media posts regularly, you've probably reached the point where you'd rather attempt to give a porcupine a sponge bath than read another advertisement. So, instead, I'll share some of my reflections on what taking the <em>Ivory Tower</em> production class has been like for me. Still, though, come to the Launch Party: it's definitely going to be one of the highlights of the spring season.</p>

<p>When I first started the class, I was nervous. I'm sure we all were. I had never done anything like this before, and I'd actually been the last one of us to register for it, over the summer. It was unnerving at first, since everyone in the class helps out everyone else with a wide range of duties. So I, an editor and writer by nature, found myself helping out in the wholly unfamiliar areas of promotion and marketing as well. I got the hang of it, though, and ultimately I believe that the experience it gave me was worth it. The editing experience I got in the class was fantastic. I got experience with creating a style sheet (a list of guidelines that, among other things, gives rules for how an organization will treat linguistic ambiguities such as the spelling of the word "grey"), editing the work of actual authors, corresponding with authors to finalize their pieces for publication, manuscript proofreading, and a whole host of other resume-boosters. Furthermore, we had guest speakers from various organizations in the publishing and literary world, and it was a great opportunity for networking. I also got to read a great many interesting poems, stories, and nonfiction pieces. Everybody collaborated to help decide which pieces went in the magazine and which didn't, and I thought it was quite fun. My favorite part of the class, however, is the communal feeling that develops because the class is two semesters long. Especially in the second semester, the class starts to feel a bit like a hard-working family. This will be my last semester at the U before I graduate. I won't miss the workload of college, but I will miss going to class on Wednesdays, seeing so many familiar faces, and feeling truly welcomed and appreciated. If anyone reading this wants an opportunity to network in the publishing industry, get some excellent hands-on experience with producing a small magazine, and meet some great people, I would encourage you to sign up for this class. (Also, see how craftily I managed to slip in an advertisement for the class instead of the Launch Party? You didn't expect that, did you? Well, okay, you probably did).<br />
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       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2013/04/a-bit-of-reflection.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Mon, 22 Apr 2013 17:21:28 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Up Close: Interview with Matthew Ullery</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Melissa Meaglia, Fiction Editor, <em>Ivory Tower</em><br />
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This week I had the privilege of interviewing another one of our authors from this year's Ivory Tower, Matthew Ullery! Matthew is the author of "Delicate Hobbies" and is a junior this year at the U pursuing an English major. You can read "Delicate Hobbies" at our Launch Party on April 24th and maybe even meet him yourself!<br />
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<blockquote></p>

<p><strong>1. Some readers may have seen you reading your piece, "Delicate Hobbies," at Hazel and Wren's event Words at WAM. How was the experience? Had you done something like this before?</strong><br />
That was the first time I have ever read in front of an audience. I was incredibly nervous, but it was a great experience. I especially enjoyed hearing the other performers.<br />
 <br />
<strong>2. By the way, happy birthday! (April 1) Did you pull any pranks?</strong><br />
Thank you! I'm not much of a pranker myself, but I do have my fair share of traumatic birthday prank stories (thanks, Mom).<br />
 <br />
<strong>3. What do you want to say to the undergraduate community through "Delicate Hobbies" ?</strong><br />
I'm hoping everyone who reads it will get something out of it. I'm wondering how we can defy expectations placed on us and how we can turn sadness into strength and art.<br />
 <br />
<strong>4. If you were an actor, would you want to play a good-guy or a villain?</strong><br />
I would want to play a villain, but I don't think I'd be very good at it. I'd probably be better as the damsel in distress, which is my second choice anyway.<br />
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<strong>5. Where does most of your inspiration come from? How do you generate and develop ideas?</strong><br />
I get inspiration from everything - other artistic mediums, people on the bus, conversations, found objects... It's difficult for me to write anything without urgent inspiration. Usually a first sentence will come to me and I have to build off of it slowly, through lots and lots of writing and rewriting. <br />
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<strong>6. When and how did you decide you wanted to be a writer?</strong><br />
I have wanted to write for as long as I can remember. Nothing else has ever really interested me in the same way as writing has.<br />
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<strong>7. Besides writing, what are your other hobbies?</strong><br />
I know this might be surprising, but I like to read. I also spend a good deal of time playing with my cat. If drinking coffee is a hobby, then that, too.<br />
 <br />
<strong>8. What would your dream Saturday look like?</strong><br />
That's a hard one. I'd wake up early, get coffee, and go to the zoo or a museum or something! Then I guess I might go exploring outside, and end the day with a movie and a nice cup of tea.<br />
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<strong>9. Many writers stick to a writing schedule such as a designated time of the day, a certain amount of time, or a certain number of words they will write every day, week, etc. Do you do anything like this?</strong><br />
I really wish I could say I do, but I typically just write whenever the fancy strikes me, which means some weeks I write every day and others I don't write at all.<br />
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<strong>10. What advice would you give to aspiring writers?</strong><br />
Write about what you love, or maybe about what you hate. Or write about something you don't care about... just write!<br />
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<strong>11. And finally, just to mix things up, what are you wearing right now?</strong><br />
Okay, now you're getting a little creepy.</p>

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       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2013/04/up-close-interview-with-matthe.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Wed, 17 Apr 2013 19:23:09 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Up Close: Interview with KT Perleberg</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Dalton Craig, Copyeditor, <em>Ivory Tower</em></p>

<p>For today's blog, I emailed a set of interview questions to KT Perleberg, the author of the fiction piece "Hummingbird," one of the stories we're publishing in this year's <em>Ivory Tower</em>. The questions dealt with various aspects of her life, her writing, and "Hummingbird" in particular. So as not to keep you in suspense with a long-winded introduction, I'll keep this concise. Below are KT Perleberg's responses, as well as the questions themselves. Come to think of it, you could have figured that out for yourself without me telling you. Oh well. Anyway:</p>

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<p><strong>What sources do you draw inspiration from as a writer?</strong><br />
I draw inspiration from most everything around me, though I notice that I get most of my ideas at the beginning of a new school year or semester, when everything is busy and new and I'm surrounded by new people. Sometimes a particular character will be drawn from a movie I've seen, or even songs I hear on the radio.<br />
 <br />
<strong>The bio you gave us for the "Contributor Bios" section of the magazine says you're a Film Studies major. How did you decide on that as a major, and how do you think that relates to your writing?</strong><br />
I think a part of me has always known I was going to be a Film major. For as long as I can remember I've loved movies, and the more I learn about how they're made the more I'm in love with them, picking them apart and figuring out how they work. To me, it's all storytelling, in the end, whether it's written down or played on a screen.<br />
 <br />
<strong>What sorts of films do you most enjoy? What influence do you think they have on your writing?</strong><br />
I can usually find at least one thing to really enjoy in any film I watch, but I definitely have a taste for more films off the beaten track. I have a particular fondness for Tarantino, Allen, Coppola, and Russell. Like I mentioned before, just about anything can influence my writing. A character, a scene, a song, even the way the camera shifted around Bradley Cooper in the first therapist's office scene in Silver Linings Playbook can make my fingers itch to write.<br />
 <br />
<strong>In your bio, you said that you wanted to act, produce, and write screenplays in the entertainment industry after graduation. Do you also plan to continue writing short stories?</strong><br />
I don't think I could stop writing if I wanted to!<br />
 <br />
<strong>In addition to fiction, have you written any other types of creative work, like poetry, memoir, essays, and screenplays?</strong><br />
For a brief time in my middle teens I dabbled in poetry and songwriting, but didn't take to it as much as fiction. My dad and sister are very talented songwriters and musicians, so I always felt like I ought to give it a shot.<br />
 <br />
<strong>Of the many types of written works (novels, short stories, newspapers, magazines, memoirs, essays, research papers, the backs of cereal boxes, etc.), which do you enjoy reading most, and why?</strong><br />
As fascinating the backs of cereal boxes may be, I've lately been enamored of graphic novels. Mixed media like that has always interested me, and reading a comic book at the end of a long day is a great way to decompress while still immersing myself in great storytelling.<br />
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<strong>What is your favorite genre of fiction (realistic, historical, romance, science fiction, fantasy, etc.), and why do you enjoy that genre more than others?</strong><br />
Fantasy and science fiction are great, but I have a hard time enjoying them without a good dose of realism thrown in. Magical realism and stories about the real world that's just a little shifted to the left are definitely my favorite, because it makes the story and characters that much more relatable.<br />
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<strong>Who is your favorite author, and why? How much does his or her work influence your own?</strong><br />
Neil Gaiman and Matt Fraction are my favorites of the moment. They're very funny, though--Gaiman in a more dry, sneak-up-on-you sense where you can read part of his book, put it down, go about your life, and then in the middle of washing the dishes you suddenly get the joke and you're giggling into the soap suds. Not only that, but both authors have a very distinct narrative voice, which I always try to convey in my writing, even when I write in third person rather than first. I love having very opinionated third-person-omniscient narrators.<br />
 <br />
<strong>Who or what do you think is the greatest influence on your writing, and why is that?</strong><br />
There is no one person or thing that is the greatest influence on my writing. The whole world is constantly barraging me with new ideas from all sides. Sure, I might go through phases where I tend to focus more on a certain type of relationship, or a turn of phrase, or the way a fire feels when you sit too close but can't tear yourself away, but there's never just one thing. It's a sea of voices all clamoring to be heard at once.<br />
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<strong>In the literary world, there is a tendency to regard stories that focus more on plot and less on character--such as those of many old science fiction writers like A.E. Van Vogt--as less literary or less skillful than those which focus more on character and less on plot. What is your opinion regarding this attitude? Do you feel that character-driven stories are indeed superior to plot-driven ones, or do you feel that both types of story are more-or-less equally skillful, just in different ways? Or are you a rebel, who feels that the plot-driven story is actually superior to the character-driven story? </strong><br />
Each type of story demands just as much respect as the other, in my opinion. With the vast amount of pre-existing stories out there, it can be a real challenge to come up with an original and engaging plot, so anyone who is able to come up with something bright and new is a hero in my book. The same goes for characters: it's not easy to make a hero who is flawed enough to be relatable without composing them of clichés. <br />
 <br />
<strong>What is your process when you write a story? For example, do you know the plot of the story beforehand, or do you make it up as you go along? Do you write for large chunks of time at once, or do you space out your writing time into small, regularly scheduled intervals?</strong><br />
Usually I get either one specific scene, idea, or character in my head and build the rest of the story around that. Sometimes I'll be writing the early exposition of a story (I typically write in chronological order) but an idea for the last scene or the climax will be sitting in my head, and the words will come together just so, and I'll have to stop and write that in a second document before I lose it, then shape the story to lead the way there. I don't like going back to work on small projects in increments again and again; it's typically all or nothing in one sitting for me. I get everything down, let it stew for a few hours or days, then go back to reread with a fresh eye and fix anything that feels out of place. I never schedule when to write--it starts to feel too much like work--but I try to write a little bit every day no matter what. Even putting down one sentence makes it a little easier to sleep at night feeling accomplished.</p>

<p><strong>"Hummingbird" is about a world in which hearts are literally the source of human emotion. How did you come up with such an intriguing idea for a story?</strong><br />
Like with my favorite types of fantasy/science fiction, I love the idea of a world exactly like ours but shifted a little to the left, with one thing changed and therefore changing everything. It started when I read a compilation of short stories called Machine of Death, about what the world would be like if a machine were invented that, with just a prick of your finger, accurately predicted exactly how you would die. That idea sat with me for a long time, and so when it came time to write a story for one of my classes I decided to take that idea and play it around in my hands for a while. One thing led to another, and here we are.<br />
 <br />
<strong>The main character of "Hummingbird" is Lizzie, a girl who has no emotions. Where did the idea for her character come from?</strong><br />
She came a little bit from several of my most-loved fictional characters, actually. Part was from an online forum discussion about Sherlock Holmes, from the BBC series Sherlock, a modern take of the Victorian hero who plays at purging himself of all emotions to better understand the world around him. Another part was Black Widow from the Marvel Cinematic Universe, who pushes aside her own wants and feelings to disguise herself in the lives of other people. And the last was Spock from Star Trek. The one thing each of these characters, and Lizzie, have in common, is that at the end of the day, even the most heartless of people still reach out for human connections, whether they want to or not.<br />
 <br />
<strong>I notice a pattern in subject matter between this story and your first story (a girl who can't feel, a puppy who can't bark): both are about characters who are unable to do something that is considered "normal." Is this reflective of a lot of your writing, and if so, why?</strong><br />
Not entirely indicative, no. Recently I've been experimenting a lot more with testing my comfort zone in writing stories like "Hummingbird," but I used to stay relatively safe when it came to plot devices and character traits. Now I've become much fonder of the world-weary, damaged, and societally "wrong" characters that are so often the ones who need support the most, but don't seek it out of pride or fear.<br />
 <br />
<strong>Can we expect to see more submissions from you in upcoming issues of <em>Ivory Tower</em>? In other words, do you plan to submit again, so that future classes producing the magazine can look forward to reading your work?</strong><br />
It would be my genuine pleasure.</p>

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       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2013/04/up-close-interview-with-kt-per.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Mon, 08 Apr 2013 14:26:05 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Up Close: Interview with Andrea Tritschler</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Jessica Sanko, Poetry/Online Editor, <em>Ivory Tower</em></p>

<p>Very recently I had the exciting opportunity to interview Andrea Tritschler, author of the poems "Greetings" and "Yours Truly." Tritschler is a senior at the U of M and is pursuing a degree in Professional Journalism. You can find her two poems in our magazine coming out April 24. </p>

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<p><strong>Why do you write poetry?</strong><br />
I honestly don't know if I can answer that question. I guess because poetry comes naturally to me. I love anything where I can break rules. But poetry also challenges me in a way other forms of writing don't. It is the most personal form of writing for me, and it can be kind of exhilarating to put myself out there, but also completely terrifying. </li></p>

<p><strong>How did you get into writing?</strong><br />
I know it sounds cliché but I was always writing. Starting in second grade I always kept a journal. I actually still have all my old journals. I started writing about everything that happened each day, or observations about something odd. It slowly evolved into a more creative process.</p>

<p><strong>Where do your ideas spawn from?</strong><br />
I'm mostly driven to write by events in my own life. I find that's where most of my ideas are born, but sometimes I have really strange dreams that are so weird I feel compelled to write about them.</p>

<p><strong>Who are your favorite authors?</strong><br />
I have so many favorite authors. A lot of my favorite authors tend to be journalists as well. Some of my favorites are Joan Didion, Sylvia Plath, David Sedaris, Jack Kerouac, Paulo Neruda, Chuck Klosterman, and Vladimir Nabokov.</p>

<p><strong>Who inspires you the most?</strong><br />
I'm really inspired by spoken word poetry and poets like Andrea Gibson and Guante. I love the rhythm and passion of spoken word, and I try to incorporate that into my own writing. Even though I'm not brave enough to read it online.</p>

<p><strong>Do you write every day?</strong><br />
No. Writing every day would be torturous for me. Writing is a definitely a source of catharsis for me, and I find that my writing tends to be pretty dark, even when I'm writing about something cheerful. So to write every day would probably make me really depressed.</p>

<p><strong>Do you prefer writing digitally or on paper?</strong><br />
I prefer to write on paper. When I make mistakes on paper, they are still there to go back to. When I make mistakes on a computer and hit backspace they are gone. Sometimes mistakes end up being useful later. </p>

<p><strong>What do you think makes a good poem?</strong><br />
I think a poem is good when it reaches an emotion that you didn't even realize was there, or describes something that you couldn't. </p>

<p><strong>Are you more interested in realistic poetry or abstract poetry?</strong><br />
Abstract Poetry.</p>

<p><strong>What do you find most challenging in your writing?</strong><br />
Starting. Ideas come easily but when I first sit down to write, I go through like three pages or verses before I'm finally like, okay I know where this is going to go. </p>

<p><strong>What do you do when you experience writer's block, if ever?</strong><br />
I do something else--go for a run or clean the kitchen--just something to take my mind off what I'm doing.</p>

<p><strong>What is your favorite genre to write about? To read?</strong><br />
I prefer to write non-fiction and poetry. I think the two are very interconnected for me, but I like to stick with what I what I know and what I have experienced. I also like to read non-fiction, mostly essays and memoirs, but poetry and biographies too. </p>

<p><strong>What are your goals as a writer?</strong><br />
I would like to continue working as a journalist, but eventually I would like to get a book or collection of poems or essays published. I will continue to write creatively until the day I die or until I no longer can, so eventually I will get there. Let's just hope it will come sooner than that. <br />
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       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2013/04/up-close-interview-with-andrea.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Sun, 07 Apr 2013 13:26:50 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Up Close: Interview with Matthew McGuire</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Natalia Petkovich, Fiction Editor, <em>Ivory Tower</em></p>

<p>Recently, I had the pleasure of interviewing Matthew McGuire, a former staff member of <em>Ivory Tower</em> and one of this year's contributors. Make sure to check out his story "Silence is Sexy" when our magazine is distributed on April 24.</p>

<blockquote>

<p><strong>Natalia Petkovich, <em>Ivory Tower</em></strong>: Let's get into the important stuff right away: Are you a dog person or a cat person? </p>

<p><strong>Matthew McGuire</strong>: I think I am more of a dog person, but I see the appeal of cats.</p>

<p><strong>NP</strong>: Here's a more serious question: Who are your favorite authors? </p>

<p><strong>MM</strong>: David Foster Wallace was my first exposure to difficult literature and he remains my favorite. Ben Marcus, David Markson, Jena Osman, and Zachary Schomburg top my contemporary list. As far as the canon goes, I like William Gaddis, Ralph Ellison, Emily Bronté, Thomas Hardy, and Samuel Beckett. I think no one comes close to Kafka and the way his stories work. There's a British author, Stephen Gilbert, who wrote a brilliant book called The Ratman Notebooks.</p>

<p><strong>NP</strong>: Name a fictional character who you despise.</p>

<p><strong>MM</strong>: Walter Berglund from Freedom gets under my skin. He represents a lot of what I don't like in fiction, obvious social criticism, lack of genuine human relationships, misogyny masquerading as feminism. </p>

<p><strong>NP</strong>: Describe your writing process. How do ideas come to you and how do you turn those ideas into stories?</p>

<p><strong>MM</strong>: I get most of my story ideas from conversations with friends or bits of speech I overhear in public. Most pieces start with a voice and then I try to experiment until I find something that works. </p>

<p><strong>NP</strong>: "Silence is Sexy" has a unique style; what inspired you to write this story?</p>

<p><strong>MM</strong>: "Silence is Sexy" came from a friend's complaint about his relationship. He claimed to have trouble sleeping next to another person because of the extra body heat. My goal with the story was to completely eliminate anything that could indicate character, gender, names, age, etc. What was surprising to me was when I showed the piece to some trusted readers, everyone agreed on the genders of the speakers. </p>

<p><strong>NP</strong>: You were a fiction editor for the 2012 edition of Ivory Tower. What did you learn by being in that class?</p>

<p><strong>MM</strong>: Working on <em>Ivory Tower</em> taught me a lot, mainly that I don't have what it takes to be an editor. It was extremely difficult for me to reject pieces without having the necessary space and time to explain why the pieces didn't work or fit with a certain theme. Thankfully, the other members of the staff helped me make the tough decisions.</p>

<p><strong>NP</strong>: This year you'll be graduating with degrees in English and Philosophy. Do you have any plans for after graduation?</p>

<p><strong>MM</strong>: After graduation, I plan on moving out of Minnesota. I'd like to give writing a shot and see how far I can go.</p>

<p><strong>NP</strong>: Last question: Imagine that you're stuck on a desert island. You get three books, two movies, and one iPod that can play only one song. What do you bring with you?</p>

<p><strong>MM</strong>: Books: a collection of Kafka stories, a condensed OED, and Infinite Jest. Movies: Melancholia and Salò. Song: "Nobody's Wounded" by Deine Lakaien or "Love Less" by New Order.</p>

<p><strong>MM</strong>: Thanks to<em> Ivory Tower</em>!<br />
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       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2013/04/interview-with-matthew-mcguire.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Wed, 03 Apr 2013 10:42:38 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>On Literature</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Dalton Craig, Copyeditor, <em>Ivory Tower</em></p>

<p>For this post, I could choose to talk about any number of things. I could talk about how the date of the Launch Party is getting ever closer, and how you should come to it because it's sure to be an entertaining evening. I could talk about some of the books I've read for other classes, and analyze their literary significance. I could discuss the somewhat melancholic feelings brought about by wandering alone around the nearly-deserted campus on Spring Break, putting up flyers advertising the Launch Party. I could even go off on a tangent and give a detailed list of girls I'm attracted to, just to make the information known to them and to the public at large--although I'm reasonably certain our professor would flip his biscuits (and rightfully so) if I used this forum for such an esoteric topic. However, in lieu of those options, fascinating though some of them might be to explore, I will give my thought on a topic of more immediate import: Why does literature matter? Why does the U of M even have a literary magazine? Chances are if you're reading this blog, you already have an adequate answer to this question, even if it's just a feeling you get when you read something that touches you. But, if you'll indulge me, I'd like to give my thoughts on the subject.</p>

<p>As I see it, literature--and, indeed, all forms of artistic expression--matters because it's a way of expressing things that can't be so easily talked about in direct conversation. It's a way to indirectly express sorrows and frustrations, fears and regrets, joys and longings, and, of course, any observations that question the ideology of the society one lives in. Without such a way to relieve the pressure of suppressed thoughts, they might otherwise build up inside and lead to any number of unpleasant manifestations, from social awkwardness to mass murder (that last part is perhaps a bit melodramatic, but you get the point). Example: say you're single and you meet someone who seems perfect for you in every way. You can't just tell that person how much you like them: it doesn't work, and it may very well ruin your chances of ever even seeing them again (I know this from personal experience). But if, instead of telling that person how you feel, you write a story or a poem or even a memoir about the situation, or create a work of visual art inspired by what you're feeling, this can vent the feelings enough to prevent you from doing anything you'll regret. What you produce will most likely be an indirect enough form of expression that instead of being disliked for communicating too efficiently, you may be lauded for the quality of your artistic endeavor. This ability of literature, visual art, and the like to channel thoughts and feelings that can't be communicated directly into an acceptable medium is what makes these forms of expression important. And by providing a place for students to have their artistic expressions published, Ivory Tower gives these students a way to communicate what they want to say despite the barriers society has placed in their way. It's a way to circumvent the locked door of convention, to slip between the prison bars of protocol, and to breathe the fresh air of free expression, if only for a moment. Come to the Launch Party for our 2013 issue and you'll see what I mean: we'll be having live readings by many of the authors and poets in our magazine. Plus, there will be free coffee, tea, sandwiches, and other foods. And if nothing else, you can find me and chew me out for the hackneyed metaphors I used a few sentences ago. The Party is on April 24th at The Whole Music Club in the basement of Coffman Union from 7:00 p.m. to 10:00 p.m. Be there or forever wonder what it would have been like if you'd been there.<br />
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       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2013/03/on-literature.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Mon, 25 Mar 2013 09:00:31 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Ivory Tower: Set in Motion</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Dalton Craig, Copyeditor, <em>Ivory Tower</em></p>

<p>We've almost completed the layout of Ivory Tower's 2013 issue, and we're all very excited to see how it turns out. What's even more exciting, however, is what happens once the magazine goes to the printer. That's when our staff will really begin planning the details of the Launch Party for our 2013 issue. We already know it will be in The Whole Music Club at 7:00 p.m. on April 24th, but we don't know yet how we'll decorate the place or how many different types of refreshments (yes, there will be free food) we'll have for the audience. This will all have to be figured out in the five weeks between March 20th and the day of the party. Whatever happens during those five weeks, it will certainly be exciting, and [blatant marketing] it's guaranteed to result in one fantastic event on April 24th. We'd love it if you'd attend and see for yourselves.</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2013/03/ivory-tower-set-in-motion-1.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Tue, 12 Mar 2013 06:00:00 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>The Light at the End of the Tunnel</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Natalia Petkovich, Fiction Editor, <em>Ivory Tower</em></p>

<p>This is an exciting time of the year for the staff at Ivory Tower: We're moving into the final stage of magazine production and the light at the end of the tunnel is in sight. We recently finished the intense process of choosing all of the literary pieces and works of art that will appear in our magazine. Now, we just need to finalize the layout and send it off to the printer. I'm thrilled to see our final product. More than just thrilled: ecstatic, delighted, giddy, really any kind of adjective that expresses excitement and joy. I know that the rest of the staff feels the same way. Are you thinking that we're getting too excited about a simple magazine? Well, keep in mind that this magazine is something that the staff has been diligently working on for the whole school year. On the first day of class, we went around the room and everyone said that they were interested in careers in publishing. We knew that Ivory Tower would be a first step into the publishing world, and a class that would give us the unique opportunity create something special. After all of these months, our hard work is soon going to become a reality. I imagine that it will be somewhat of an emotional experience holding a physical copy of our magazine and knowing that it's going to be in the hands and hearts of many other people. It will be a bittersweet moment as well, because by the time we receive copies of our magazine, the class will be coming to an end.</p>

<p>Anyway, I don't want to start getting too sappy, so I want to end this post with a pitch for our launch party. It'll be at The Whole Music Club on April 24 at 7 p.m. We'll have refreshments, author readings, free copies of our magazine, and overall good company--mark your calendars and invite your friends, because it will be a swell time!</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2013/02/the-light-at-the-end-of-the-tu.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Mon, 25 Feb 2013 10:54:45 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Ivory Tower: Final Review</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Dalton Craig, Copyeditor, <em>Ivory Tower</em></p>

<p>The past week has been a hectic one at Ivory Tower. In addition to dealing with new class schedules, the sacrifice of leisure time (for those who still believe in the concept, anyway) to the demands of new homework, and the usual beginning-of-semester kerfuffle (yes, I did seriously just use that word), our staff members have had to finalize our decisions about which student submissions will be published in the 2013 issue of the magazine. Our staff is divided into four committees: one for each category of student work submitted to our magazine (Fiction, Nonfiction, Poetry, and Visual Art). Over Winter Break, each member of each committee reviewed every submission in the category that her or his committee dealt with. We arrived in our first Ivory Tower class of the semester on Wednesday, ready to discuss which pieces we thought should go in the magazine.</p>

<p>In the committee I was in, the Fiction Committee, we had decided before break that each of us would come to class this semester with a list of the stories he or she liked, or at least thought would go well in the magazine. As it turned out, one of us had exceeded expectations and made a particularly inclusive list. Therefore, we decided that he would read off the names of the stories on his list, and that after each name was read off, each member of our committee would assign that story a ranking from one to five, five being the best. We would then add up each ranking to give that story a total score, and we would decide which stories got included largely by which stories had the highest total scores. A few of us liked stories that weren't on the list originally, so we added those to be voted on as well.</p>

<p>So we voted, and we were surprised to find that we agreed on a lot more of the stories than we'd thought we would. When we'd finished voting on all the stories and we'd put them together into a list of twenty, ranked according to their scores, we felt quite satisfied with our work. None of us felt that our opinions were underrepresented in the finalized list, and none of us felt that any stories that we absolutely needed to include as possibilities were left off the list. For example, every one of the stories that I included on my personal list made it onto the final list. We submitted the final list to the Editors-in-Chief, who have the final word about what content goes in the magazine. The Editors-in-Chief may disregard some of the rankings on our list when making the final decision, in order to vary the subject matter of the magazine (many of our top choices diverged somewhat from ordinary life, and it might be nice to have a couple pieces dealing with more relatable subject matter), but we can all feel confident that each of us will see at least one of our top picks make it into the printed issue.<br />
</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2013/01/ivory-tower-final-review.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Mon, 28 Jan 2013 10:13:46 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Ivory Tower on the Moody Blues</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Dalton Craig, Copyeditor, <em>Ivory Tower</em></p>

<p>The topic of this post will seem rather obscure at first, but bear with us: it does have a literary point. One of our copyeditors received an album by the Moody Blues (a rock band from the mid 60's and 70's) as a Christmas present, and he just recently got around to listening to it. He found the music to be quite good--but that's not the point here. The point is that the album included several tracks that consisted of one of the band members reading some original poetry aloud. The copyeditor thought that, despite the fact that the poems rhymed (a technique that seems to be avoided like the plague in modern poetry), some could actually be considered quite good from a literary perspective. This reminded him of his desire to see a contemporary rhyming poem that could rival our era's standard, the unrhymed poem, in literary significance.<br />
	<br />
Just to clarify: this copyeditor--a quirky, lugubrious, but occasionally entertaining sort of fellow--does not hate, or even dislike, unrhymed poetry. He just thinks that rhymed and unrhymed poetry should both be appreciated as legitimate forms of literature. So it bothers him when rhymed poetry is treated as unsophisticated and is overlooked in lieu of unrhymed poetry, or when few people bother to write polished versions of rhymed poems, figuring (the aforementioned copyeditor supposes) that rhyming is passé.</p>

<p>As this copyeditor listened to the poems on the Moody Blues album, he thought that they sounded like the sort of rhymed poetry that could compete with unrhymed poetry. Still, the Moody Blues are by no means "contemporary" (their heyday ended almost forty years ago), so the copyeditor still couldn't say that he had ever encountered a contemporary rhymed poem that could put a dent in the exalted position of the unrhymed poem in our culture. Then again, he's on our Fiction committee, and isn't exactly well-versed in contemporary poetry, so that could be why he hasn't yet encountered one. He hasn't read many of the Poetry submissions we've received for the 2013 issue of Ivory Tower, either, since his committee isn't in charge of which poems to accept. For all he knows, there could be a rhyming poem such as the one he seeks sitting in the midst of our Submittable pages. We've received a great deal of good poetry, and what gets published will most likely come down to what fits thematically or stylistically with the rest of the magazine. It remains to be seen whether this will include a rhyming poem.<br />
</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2013/01/ivory-tower-on-the-moody-blues.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Tue, 15 Jan 2013 14:51:45 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Ivory Tower: Welcoming 2013</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Dalton Craig, Copyeditor, <em>Ivory Tower</em></p>

<p>Well, it's the end of the year again: a time for rejuvenation, resolutions, and (of course) partying. In this particular year, it's also a time to remind the people who interpreted the end of the Mayan calendar as the end of the world that they were quite mistaken. </p>

<p>Everyone greets the New Year in a different way. Some people go to elaborate soirees to imbibe expensive liquor and pretend to be interested in the conversations they're having; some people attend less formal affairs and party the night away; some people just hang out with their friends, make New Year's resolutions, and wait for the ball to drop in Times Square. We at Ivory Tower will most likely be doing a variety of things, such as reading through the submissions that we've received for the 2013 issue of our magazine, and making our own New Year's resolutions. The copyeditor writing this does not know what the New Year's resolutions of each individual staff member are, but he is certain that, as<br />
an organization, everyone on our staff has one common resolution: to decide which of the submissions we've received should be published in the 2013 issue of Ivory Tower. Granted, that was our goal before the New Year as well, but it never hurts to reaffirm it through the medium of tradition.</p>

<p>What are your New Year's resolutions, if you've made any? Feel free to share anything that comes to mind (as long as it's appropriate for public viewing), especially if it involves literature and art.</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2013/01/ivory-tower-welcoming-2013.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Tue, 01 Jan 2013 09:00:00 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Art and Literature: A Call for Analysis!</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>We at <em>Ivory Tower</em> do a great deal of thinking about literature and art, even when we're not working on the magazine. This includes thinking about art analysis and textual analysis. For example, one of our copyeditors, while playing video games with his friend Billy, once tried to analyze <em>Gears of War</em> for symbolic content--albeit jokingly. </p>

<p>Have any of you out there--in earnest--to analyze art, literature, or something a bit more unconventional (like a song or a video game)? We'd love to hear what you have to say. Oh, and if you're a University of Minnesota undergraduate who analyzed something and actually wrote a paper about it, we would love it if you polished that paper up and sent it to us: we're experiencing a dearth of nonfiction submissions at the moment.</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2012/12/art-and-literature-a-call-for.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Mon, 17 Dec 2012 15:48:14 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Between Finals and Shoveling, Uncover Your Creativity</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Elleni Paulson, Marketing Director,<em> Ivory Tower</em></p>

<p>Well folks, it's that time of year again. While some of us tried to stave this off as long as possible, the University of Minnesota campus was finally hit with Mother Nature's most beautiful weapon: snow. </p>

<p>The snow flurried nonstop throughout the day on Sunday, trapping students inside their homes and apartments, leaving them no choice but to cozy up with a blanket and--you guessed it--their study books. With finals fast approaching, the snow provided the perfect excuse to lay low for a day.</p>

<p>The staff here at <em>Ivory Tower</em> is thankful for Sunday's snow day. It gave us some extra time to read submissions, and hopefully, it gave you a little extra time to craft and perfect your own. Just a reminder: there is still time to submit! We have extended our deadline to December 22nd, because we know how inspiring the holiday season can be to all you writers, poets, and artists.</p>

<p>That being said, we feel that one of the most beautiful parts of this snow day is the art that it inspires. We know you feel the same way we do--and we want to see your work! Don't forget to take in this beautiful scenery (you do live in Minnesota, after all) and use your creativity as a creative outlet! Besides, we know you probably need a break from studying for finals, anyway. What better way to relax than to stimulate the creative side of the brain? </p>

<p>So, after you've come in from your long trek through the snow, after your coat is hung and your mittens are drying... find a place with a nice view of the snow-covered city, and create (and, of course, don't forget to pass it along to your art-and-lit-hungry friends at <em>Ivory Tower</em>).<br />
</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2012/12/between-finals-and-shoveling-u.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Fri, 14 Dec 2012 08:30:00 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Ivory Tower: Deadline Extended!</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Kristen Darveaux, Proofreader, <em>Ivory Tower</em></p>

<p>As temperatures begin to plummet, all University of Minnesota students know that finals--and the <em>Ivory Tower</em> submission deadline--are looming, causing stress for many. Although we've received hundreds of wonderful submissions already, we want to make sure those pieces you're polishing at the end of the semester get a chance to be considered. Don't worry: we at <em>Ivory Tower</em> have moved the deadline for submissions back to December 22!</p>

<p>We know that you started working on an awesome piece of poetry, fiction, nonfiction, or visual art, but did not have time to complete your masterpiece before December 1. Now you can finish and submit it before winter break starts. The staff at <em>Ivory Tower</em> has enjoyed reading and viewing all of the amazing work students have sent us so far. So don't be left out in the cold: now you've got a second chance to submit to the undergraduate art and literary magazine, sponsored by the University of Minnesota's Department of English.</p>

<p>Please take advantage of this extended deadline and upload your work at <a href="https://ivorytower.submittable.com/submit">https://ivorytower.submittable.com/submit</a>. It truly is a pleasure to have the opportunity to see how creative our fellow students are, and we wanted to do what we could to relieve the stress of the season by giving you more time. Now, if only we could do something about those finals.</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2012/12/ivory-tower-deadline-extended.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Tue, 04 Dec 2012 09:00:00 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Thoughts from a Poetry Editor</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><strong>By Aaron Bristow, Poetry Editor, <em>Ivory Tower</em></strong></p>

<p>Another Thanksgiving has come and gone, and with it the brief respite from the onslaught of end-of-semester homework, which is just as much a yearly tradition as the holiday season itself. At the end of November, we also find ourselves bidding farewell to autumnal bliss and battening down the hatches in preparation for winter. In combination, the daunting homework load and impending winter make me feel like an amateur soapbox derby driver, running around my flimsy car at the top of a winding hill, making frazzled, last minute adjustments to the wheels, chassis, and steering mechanism, hoping they won't all fly off on the first turn at uncontrolled, high speeds. Where are the breaks? You don't need them until you get to the bottom, and finals are still three sleepless weeks away.</p>

<p>Thankfully, at Ivory Tower, our pushcart is a finely tuned machine, partially because we have all put in hard work, and also because we have gotten the opportunity to talk to professionals in the business. The Twin Cities has a radiant and active publishing scene, and some of its active participants have visited our class, depositing rich and invaluable bits of information to ensure that our wheels stay on. Whole Beast Rag andHazel and Wren visited the Ivory Tower earlier in the semester and just last Monday, Jamie Millard and Meghan Murphy visited from the intelligent and graphically brilliant literary magazine Paper Darts.</p>

<p>After working on the 2009 issue of Ivory Tower, graduating, and spending countless hours and dollars in coffee shops, Jamie and Meghan started Paper Darts. The first edition of the magazine was hand sewn; however, subsequent editions have been mechanically produced. They told us about their experience creating the perfect relationship between graphics and text, printing in black and white, and graciously gave us a complimentary copy of Paper Darts Volume 4 to generate design ideas. Their website and printed material is a testament to their artistic and editorial skill. Check them out at <a href="http://www.paperdarts.org">http://www.paperdarts.org</a>.</p>

<p>The timing of Paper Darts' visit was impeccable as we begin designing the magazine and selecting the literature and visual art for the magazine. Remember to submit any last minute materials at <a href="https://ivorytower.submittable.com/submit">here</a>.</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2012/11/thoughts-from-a-poetry-editor.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Wed, 28 Nov 2012 19:00:26 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>National Novel Writing Month</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><strong>By John Moen, Fiction Editor,<em> Ivory Tower</em></strong></p>

<p>It's always an interesting experience when I catch a group of writers doing what they do best: huddled around a too-small table with their faces so close to their monitors that they can almost smudge the glass with their noses, their eyes squinting at the words on the screen, trying to figure out the best way to write that beautiful love scene or that particularly gruesome murder. Yes, a group of writers is certainly a sight to behold, and we at Ivory Tower love and appreciate them for what they do. November is the month of changing leaves, turkey, and family football games, but it is also an important month for writers.</p>

<p>National Novel Writing Month spans all of chilly November, and, as someone who has participated in previous years, I've observed that it brings out the best in the writers of our university. This event draws together the entire undergraduate community: it includes English majors, of course, but also students from many other disciplines. Some of the best writers I know are Computer Science, Biochemistry, Physics, and Math majors. Ivory Tower wants to hear from all students, because we know that while not everyone is crazy enough to tackle a whole novel in a month, that doesn't mean that the writing atmosphere can't inspire every one of us to create something great.</p>

<p>So, next time you see a group of students with fingers blissfully skittering across their keyboards, smiling as they smooth out that bit of awkward prose, take a moment to think about the ideas that you want to share. That's what it's all about. It's about you, and having your work featured in Ivory Tower. It's about your poems, your fiction, your non-fiction, and your art taking a place where everyone can admire it.<br />
Maybe you won't write a whole novel this month. But if you pick up a pen, type at a keyboard, or move a brush across canvas, you may create something: something uniquely yours, something you can be proud of, and something you can cherish in years far beyond the time you spend here at the university. And if you submit to Ivory Tower, it may be published in a handsome journal that will serve as a record of your achievement. You can submit your work at the following website: <a href="https://ivorytower.submittable.com/submit">https://ivorytower.submittable.com/submit</a>.<br />
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       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2012/11/national-novel-writing-month.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2012 09:00:00 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Twin Cities Book Fair 2012</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><strong>By Etta Berkland, Co-Editor in Chief, <em>Ivory Tower</em></strong></p>

<p>In elementary school, one of my favorite memories of autumn was attending my school's annual book fair. Class by class, we were allowed down into the gym where, gleaming on four shelves and two table displays, there were books--hundreds of books, it seemed to me at the time - filled with words and ideas. I would wander through doe-eyed, making lists of titles to pitch to my mother later that evening. Each book had the potential to be a great story, and I loved great stories. </p>

<p>So imagine my excitement when I walked into the Twin Cities Book Festival on October 13 and saw over 120 exhibitors displaying everything from chapbooks to literary magazines to full-length novels.  I wound my way through the crowd to the table we were sharing with dislocate (Ivory Tower's graduate counterpart), and chatted with co-editor Casey for a bit. After Casey left to check out the other exhibitors, Amy from dislocate and I took questions and passed out previous issues of our respective magazines to passersby. </p>

<p>It was amazing to see the humming literary world of Minneapolis and Saint Paul. We stood directly next to Conduit's funky, narrow journal, and back-to-back with Hazel & Wren advertising their open mic night. Paper Darts was just down the line flashing their brand new fourth issue. Later in the day, I stopped to look at the University of Minnesota Press' Children of the Northlights book, and Mary Jo Bang's rendition of Dante's Inferno, published by Graywolf Press. There were small publishers I'd never heard of before, like Uncivilized Books, and literary magazines I definitely want to read through in the future, like Hamline's Water~Stone Review. All the people I talked with were eager to discuss their publications, and curious to learn more about Ivory Tower. It felt great to tell them about our fantastic staff, how we're receiving many submissions, how we're applying for grants, and how we're learning InDesign. </p>

<p>What a wonderful opportunity.  Thanks to the Ivory Tower class, I have found a new autumn tradition, the Twin Cities Book Festival, where thousands of books and journals hold the next great stories.</p>

<p>	</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2012/11/twin-cities-book-fair-2012.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Mon, 12 Nov 2012 09:00:00 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Submit Your Work</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><strong><em>Ivory Tower</em> is now accepting the scribblings and creative expressions of undergraduate writers, artists, musicians, and anything else you feel like deeming yourself.</strong></p>

<p>Think you have something you want to share with the undergrad community? We want you to scour through those doodles and class notes for your best art, poetry and short stories. (Even the famous boy-wizard got his start on a coffee shop napkin!)</p>

<p>Just stick to a few guidelines on length and quality to help us give you the best product we can. Please be sure to read them over before you submit, and <em>let your creativity flow!</em></p>

<p><strong>Create. Share. Get Published.</strong></p>

<p>Note: <em>Ivory Tower</em> no longer accepts submissions via email. Please use <a href="http://ivorytower.submittable.com/submit">Submittable</a> to submit your work.</p>

<h2>Guidelines Specific to Genre:</h2>

<p><a href="http://www.ivorytowermag.com/submit">Comprehensive list of our genre guidelines</a></p>

<p><big><strong>SUBMIT FICTION, NONFICTION, POETRY, VISUAL ARTWORK VIA <a href="http://ivorytower.submittable.com/submit">Submittable</a>.</strong></big><br />
Include your name, contact information, and a brief bio in the designated space for a bio/cover letter.</p>

<p>We will carefully consider each submission and decisions will be made only after a lot of brow wrinkling and chin stroking.</p>

<p>We thank you from the bottom of our little hearts for your interest in Ivory Tower,</p>

<p><em>The Ivory Tower Staff</em></p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2012/10/submit-your-work.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Wed, 31 Oct 2012 14:18:20 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Ivory Tower: Coming to a Creative Writing Class Near You!</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>Going into creative writing classes to talk about <em>Ivory Tower</em> is exciting and new because, for many young writers in these classes, <em>Ivory Tower</em> is exciting and new.</p>

<p>During my first class visit, I scribbled and scrawled magazine information on one of Lind's formerly black boards and currently glimmering white boards while the writers gathered into an inclusive circle of desks, no doubt preparing to share, read, listen, and respond. The instructor entered the room energetically and invited me to tell the students how to submit their work to <em>Ivory Tower</em>. I told them that <em>Ivory Tower</em> is a student-run magazine only for undergraduates' writing, sponsored by the University of Minnesota English Department. I told them that we accept pretty much any form of creative expression in visual and written art. I told them that they can send questions to ivory@umn.edu and that submitting is easy via <a href="https://ivorytower.submittable.com/submit">https://ivorytower.submittable.com/submit</a>. </p>

<p>The class instructor was almost as excited as I was as she told the class about the great writers that have worked for or submitted to <em>Ivory Tower </em>(<strong>Garrison Keillor and Patrica Hamp</strong>l... just to name a few). We talked about how great of an opportunity this is for emerging writers to land their first publication and to be involved in a lasting literary tradition in the Twin Cities. </p>

<p>Then the visit was over, and I walked out the door; before it swung shut, I heard the instructor urge her class again even more strongly to submit. <strong>And they should--and so should you</strong>. Because submitting it to <em>Ivory Tower</em> is one of the best ways to gain affirmation and exposure for the beautiful work that students create;<em><strong> doesn't it deserve to be heard</strong></em>?</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2012/10/ivory-tower--coming-to-a-creat.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Mon, 29 Oct 2012 18:24:16 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Submit your work by the deadline - December 1, 2012!</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><strong><em>Ivory Tower</em> is now accepting the scribblings and creative expressions of undergraduate writers, artists, musicians, and anything else you feel like deeming yourself.</strong></p>

<p>Think you have something you want to share with the undergrad community? We want you to scour through those doodles and class notes for your best art, poetry and short stories. (Even the famous boy-wizard got his start on a coffee shop napkin!)</p>

<p>Just stick to a few guidelines on length and quality to help us give you the best product we can. Please be sure to read them over before you submit, and <em>let your creativity flow!</em></p>

<p><strong>Create. Share. Get Published.</strong></p>

<p>Note: <em>Ivory Tower</em> no longer accepts submissions via email. Please use <a href="http://ivorytower.submittable.com/submit">Submittable</a> to submit your work.</p>

<h2>Guidelines Specific to Genre:</h2>

<p><a href="http://www.ivorytowermag.com/submit">Comprehensive list of our genre guidelines</a></p>

<p><big><strong>SUBMIT FICTION, NONFICTION, POETRY, VISUAL ARTWORK VIA <a href="http://ivorytower.submittable.com/submit">Submittable</a>.</strong></big><br />
Include your name, contact information, and a brief bio in the designated space for a bio/cover letter.</p>

<p>We will carefully consider each submission and decisions will be made only after a lot of brow wrinkling and chin stroking. <strong>A notification of publication status will be sent for each submission before the end of February</strong>, providing advice for revision, a request for author and staff member co-editing, or just a hearty pat on the back. Once accepted for publication, your piece may appear in our yearly magazine, newspaper supplements, and/or website.</p>

<p>We thank you from the bottom of our little hearts for your interest in Ivory Tower,</p>

<p><em>The Ivory Tower Staff</em></p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2012/10/submit-your-work-by-the-deadli.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Wed, 24 Oct 2012 11:23:22 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>2012-2013 Ivory Tower Staff</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<em>Ivory Tower </em>is pleased to present to you the staff for the 2012-2013 year. These titles do not completely bind us to their definitions as <em>I am he as you are he as you are me and <strong>we are all together.</strong><br /></em><br />
<p><strong>Editors-in-Chief</strong><br />Casey Underkofler<br />Etta Berkland</p><p><strong>Managing Editors<br /></strong>Lindsey Geyer<br />Aaron Bergland<br />Damian Johansson <br /></p><p><strong>Online Editor</strong><br />Jessica Sanko <br /></p><p><strong>Marketing Director</strong><br />Elleni Paulson <br /></p><p>
<strong>Publicist</strong><br />Amy Wolner <br /></p><p><strong>Art Editor</strong><br />Cassandra Labriola <br /></p><p><strong>Design Manager</strong><br />WooHyun Shim <br /></p><p><strong>Copyeditors</strong><br />Dalton Craig<br />Heather Hamilton <br /></p><p>
<strong>Proofreaders</strong><br />Kristen Darveaux<br />John Moen <br /></p><p><strong>Fiction Editors</strong><br />John Moen<br />Natalia Petkovich<br />Melissa Meaglia <br /></p><p><strong>Nonfiction Editor</strong><br />Amy Wolner <br /></p><p><strong>Poetry Editors</strong><br />Aaron Bristow
<br />David Bowar<br />Jessica Sanko </p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2012/10/2012-2013-ivory-tower-staff.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Wed, 24 Oct 2012 11:21:00 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>TMNTs, affectionately</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Megan Borgert-Spaniol</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/tmnts-affectionately-1.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 10:15:13 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Kids Are Making Out in the Prop Room Again</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Tim DeYoungs</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/kids-are-making-out-in-the-pro-1.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 10:14:20 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Reptiles</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Marlene Moxness</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/reptiles.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 10:13:43 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>A Long Wait to the Processor</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By David Peterka</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/a-long-wait-to-the-processor.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 09:56:58 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Fifth St. First Congressional </title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Michael Daniel Lee</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/fifth-st-first-congressional.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 09:56:04 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>The Spokes</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Alex Higano</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/the-spokes.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 09:41:47 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Words Without Talking</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By History</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/words-without-talking.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 09:40:43 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Time Capsule</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Tim DeYoung</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/time-capsule.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 09:38:39 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Secret Society</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Casey Van Groll</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/secret-society.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 09:37:44 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Robin Robin</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Sam Tornio</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/robin-robin.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 09:36:43 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Laney&apos;s Sing-A-Long Song</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Sam Tornio</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/laneys-singalong-song.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 09:35:10 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Dracula</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Cory Aaland</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/dracula.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 09:34:22 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Curtain Call</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Tim DeYoungs</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/curtain-call.html</link>
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       <title>What Salley Got?</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Sam Tornio</p>]]></description>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 09:24:20 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Yao Dian</title>
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       <title>Tribute to Joseph Mallord William Turner</title>
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       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/tribute-to-joseph-mallord-will.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 09:01:39 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Target Bag</title>
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       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/target-bag.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 08:59:18 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Suction Cup Me Baby!</title>
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       <title>Stop.Rewind.Record.Reject.</title>
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       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/sioux-falls-mill.html</link>
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       <title>Robot Flower</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/robotFlower.jpg" alt="Robot Flower"></p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/robot-flower.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 08:41:02 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Rage - Special Content</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/rageSpecialContent.jpg" alt="Rage Special Content"></p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/rage-special-content.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 08:39:59 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Pathos Mending Ethos</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/pathosMendingEthos.jpg" alt="Pathos Mending Ethos"></p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/pathos-mending-ethos.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 08:39:03 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Outlets</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/outlets.jpg" alt="Outlets"></p>]]></description>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 08:38:29 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Nude</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/nude.jpg" alt="Nude"></p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/nude.html</link>
       <guid>181061</guid>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 08:37:44 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Morning Bed Sheets</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/morningBedSheets.jpg" alt="Morning Bed Sheets"></p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/morning-bed-sheets.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 08:36:54 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Lights, Camera, Action</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/LightsCameraAction.jpg" alt="Lights, Camera, Action"></p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/lights-camera-action.html</link>
       <guid>181059</guid>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 08:36:00 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>La Forêt-Special Content</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/laforetSpecialContent.jpg" alt="La Forêt-Special Content"></p>]]></description>
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       <guid>181058</guid>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 08:34:54 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Kobenhaven Destruction Site 3</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/kobenhavenDestructionSite3.jpg" alt="Kobenhaven Destruction Site 3"> </p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/kobenhaven-destruction-site-3.html</link>
       <guid>181057</guid>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 08:34:01 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Kobenhaven Destruction Site 1</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/kobenhavenDestructionSite.jpg" alt="Kobenhaven Destruction Site 1"> </p>]]></description>
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       <guid>181056</guid>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 08:33:03 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Katie</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/katie.jpg" alt="Katie"> </p>]]></description>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 08:32:16 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Giggle My Jelly!</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/giggleMyJelly.jpg" alt="Giggle My Jelly!"> </p>]]></description>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 08:30:14 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Drum Heads</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/drumHeads.jpg" alt="Drum Heads"> </p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/drum-heads.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 08:29:18 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Coloring Book</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/coloringBook.jpg" alt="Coloring Book"> </p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/coloring-book.html</link>
       <guid>181052</guid>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 08:28:19 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Buddha Row</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/buddhaRow.jpg" alt="Buddha Row"> </p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/buddha-row.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 08:25:51 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Alcatraz</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/alcatraz.jpg" alt="Alcatraz"> </p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/alcatraz.html</link>
       <guid>181050</guid>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 08:24:34 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Afternoon Tea</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/AfternoonTea.jpg" alt="Afternoon Tea"></p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/afternoon-tea.html</link>
       <guid>181049</guid>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 08:22:52 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>100% Satisfaction Guaranteed</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/SatisfactionGuaranteed.jpg" alt="100% Satisfaction Guaranteed"/></p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/100-satisfaction-guaranteed.html</link>
       <guid>181047</guid>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2009 08:10:43 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>End:Beginning::Antlers:Deer</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img alt="Ivory Tower 2009 cover image" src="http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/IT%20cover%202009%20blog.jpg" width="161" height="125" />Dearest Dearies,</p>

<p>What a truly wonderful year.  I can't help but sniffle a bit when I think that it is over for the 2009 staff.  For the new staff coming in, welcome--you will have the time of your life.  For all of you writers who were published, this is beginning of your long climb toward [sic] egotisticality.  For those of you who submitted, but were not included in our print issue, I want to thank you for your submissions also.  I have to say that the work we received this year was a really tough batch to decipher.  There were a number of great submissions, and a few of us took to pouting when our favorites were not selected.  Verdict: keep writing, keep submitting, don't stop--your words are inspiring.  We really look forward to seeing your names again next year.</p>

<p>As for you crazies out there, those of you who put some of that sweet greenback dollar bill lovin' into our Not-for-Profit account, I send a resounding THANK YOU!  Because of people like you, who care about the future of our undergraduate literary community, more emerging writers will have a chance to get their foot in the door.  What's more, students like me will get to experience and learn crucial skills that will really help them be active members of the professional community--this means even more than just the lit community, but a wider community that needs entry level employees who know how to fundraise, write letters, work in a team environment, and meet goals.<br />
This whole Ivory Tower thing is for you, too.</p>

<p>I must also say that I have made many friends and enjoyed every minute of this process, even on those late nights scrambling to get designs in order, or pieces edited.  We had a really good run, and I think that much is due to our fearless advisor, Terri Sutton.  You will be missed.  Thank you for being awesome.</p>

<p>Finally, I want to send a shout to significant others, family, friends, readers, supporters, and even those few who felt compelled to start competing literary magazines.  We could not have done this without you.  Thank you.</p>

<p>I am going to miss all of the warm and frustrating moments we had.</p>

<p>Until next time, Ivory Tower, stay free and super-interesting to read and don't forget to wear your jacket on those rainy days and brush your teeth and don't let anyone tell you they don't think you're pretty and stay in school.</p>

<p>Nostalgicallly,</p>

<p>Dixon Bordiano<br />
Co-Editor in Chief</p>

<p>P.S. Good luck Shantha!</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/endbeginningantlersdeer-1.html</link>
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       <pubDate>Wed, 13 May 2009 17:57:42 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Ivory Tower on Radio K</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><em>Ivory Tower</em> managing editor Derek Swart and nonfiction/special content editor Jenna Beyer were guests of Radio K's <strong><a href="http://radiok.cce.umn.edu/programming/mnnotebook/">Minnesota Notebook</a></strong> on May 10. Beyer and Swart <a href="http://radiok.cce.umn.edu/programming/mnnotebook/">talk</a> about the process of selecting work from the 800 submissions of 2008-09 and about the year-long class which produces Ivory Tower, ENGL3711/3713. (Their segment begins about 33:41 into the show.)</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/05/ivory-tower-on-radio-k.html</link>
       <guid>180238</guid>
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       <pubDate>Wed, 13 May 2009 14:02:41 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Unicycle</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Daniel Weispfenning</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/unicycle.html</link>
       <guid>178778</guid>
       <body>When I was sixteen, my mother decided to give me “the talk” as part of Sunday school curriculum instead of at a private, only partially-mortifying venue. My first assignment was to draw a car which would represent me as a sexual being traveling down the road of life until I parked in the driveway of a committed heterosexual relationship and gave my mother some damn grandchildren. I drew a unicycle. At the time, I thought I was just being goofy. Once I had become a gay, twenty-year-old virgin, I realized I was actually being clairvoyant.

It was summer. A month beforehand, I had successfully masturbated for the first time. Since most people started in their early teens, I had to make up for lost time. My pace would have been blistering were it not for Vaseline. Emboldened by my success at self-stimulation, I made a summer goal—get laid.

I didn’t want to contract Herpes until at least the third time I had sex, so I made a point to stop in the medical section of Rainbow Foods while grocery shopping. Rainbow had recently changed their logo to something that would make sense only if they also changed their name to Dark Green Foods. My theory on the logo change was that a rainbow logo was too gay for Middle America. By changing the color, they could pretend they were founded by and named for Thaddeus H. Rainbow.

Looking at the packs of condoms, I faced a conundrum. They all touted their abilities to please “her.” The class Comparative Orifices was not a part of my Catholic sex education. I didn’t know if pleasure ridges or bumps were more suited to anal cavities. I briefly considered asking a passing employee which brand he’d recommend for butt sex until I saw that he was seventy. He could have been the keeper of the greatest secret anal sex techniques, but due to his age, I wouldn’t have minded if they died with him.

Eventually I bought a three pack of what seemed to be the most basic variety. There would be time for experimentation later. Two were lost the moment they touched the nest of papers and debris around my mattress. The survivor was put into my coin purse. The coin purse had a Japanese cartoon penguin on it, but it was an evil Japanese cartoon penguin which I believe butched it up.

At that point, I didn’t have any specific plans as to with whom or where I would get laid. The condom was merely a good-faith gesture. It said, “Hey world, I’m ready for whatever sexual adventures you want to throw my way. Don’t hold back because you think I’m not ready.”

In July, a sexual adventure was thrown squarely at me. I had begun my first semi-relationship. We were on our second faux-date. The first one involved us walking around campus realizing that without chemical inducements we had no interpersonal connection. For our second sort of date, he came to my apartment, watched the first half of a movie, lost interest and started feeling me up. At first, it tickled, and I would laugh uncontrollably, forcing him to retreat. Once I was able to will myself out of being ticklish, he gave me a glorious boner. It pressed against my jeans so hard it hurt. This was when I was supposed to relieve the pressure by unzipping my pants. Then we would have segued into a light blowjob and then full-on sex.

But if that happened, I wouldn’t know exactly what to do. I had a general idea of the theory behind butt sex. I knew the prostate was something I should be looking for. However, I didn’t know any of its distinguishing characteristics. I feared that I would have to spend a lot of time rummaging around in him playing “hot” or “cold”. I should have done my research.

Instead I nervously laughed at the movie, hoping to divert his attention back to it. When that didn’t work, I tried to figure out what I should do with my hands. It didn’t seem right that I was experiencing the most spectacular hard-on I had ever had while giving nothing in return, but I was worried my attempts wouldn’t be as effective.

The movie ended, and the sex had not happened after thirty minutes of aggressive hinting. There was still a small chance we could become the best of fuck buddies—unless I was bad in bed, which I probably was. I said goodbye. I walked him to the door with the crotch of my jeans still taut. We had no further pseudo-dates.

For the rest of the summer, I came no closer to losing my virginity. The start of classes would mark my official failure. I planned to celebrate by inflating my condom.  The balloon would symbolize my hopes for the summer. It would be popped.

My last chance to meet someone was an end-of-summer party I attended with a friend and her boyfriend. The men at the party were overwhelmingly straight, as evidenced by the non-ironic beer pong table. On the walk back to my house my friend received a phone call. It was from a girl back at the party, a blonde from Iowa. Valiantly I offered up my condom. My friend whisked it back to the party. The blonde probably enjoyed it more than I would have.
One day I’ll be ready to learn to ride that unicycle . I know the pharmaceutical aisles at Dark Green Foods are waiting for me.</body>
       <category>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 30 Apr 2009 18:22:01 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Grandma Jesus</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Ana Staska</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/grandma-jesus.html</link>
       <guid>178777</guid>
       <body>Escaping the humidity at last, I collapse on the sofa, dead weight melting into the cool white leather. She brings me water and sits on the stone ledge of the fireplace, lighting a blue American Spirit, handing it to me, and lighting another. She waits for words.

I tell her I hate life. I’ve gained weight. None of my clothes fit, and what I’m wearing is filthy. I quit my job, grandma. I have no money, no air conditioning in my bedroom, and I haven’t slept for three days. I tell her that he says it’s over, but he’s lingering. He slept on the couch the other night. On the couch. I can’t even take a shower. It’s been on my to-do-list for a week. I actually have to write “shower” and “get dressed” on my to-do-lists these days.  

She snuffs her cigarette, sips from my water glass, and asks if she can wash my feet. The way she did when I was a little girl with long snarled hair. She sits cross-legged on the carpet by my feet with a steaming bucket of soapy water, a rag hanging over the side. I close my eyes. Sigh. Legs dangling over the edge in her thin soft hands as she pulls away layers of negativity, slowly, out through the soles of my feet, the dirt wrung into murky water. She smoothes rose oil into my arches, my ankles, between my toes.

She talks to me about Jesus, and this time, I don’t mind.
</body>
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       <pubDate>Thu, 30 Apr 2009 18:21:26 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Bad Spin</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Scott Long</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/bad-spin.html</link>
       <guid>178776</guid>
       <body>14:20. As I stare blankly at the clock on the computer I hear the incessant tick. 14:21. I spin my chair enough times to keep the room spinning after I stop, distracting myself for one patron-less minute. 14:22. 

I wonder why a digital clock ticks. I close my eyes and watch it melt. It’s my dream of the number two hidden amongst lines of binary code causing a complete system failure. It’s the absence of every repetitive job requiring buttons and screens. It’s freedom.

I reach for a rubber band beckoning me from my desk in the small booth. I bite the rubber band, and it becomes a rubber string. I bite small chunks off the string and spit them across the booth until the rubber string becomes small rubber rectangular cubes scattered across the floor. The clock ticks 14:23.

I haven’t been here for half an hour, and I want to leave. I want to go home. I want to listen to the voice of my love. I concentrate, and I hear her moan. She draws it out long, and I notice the car next to me has squeaky breaks.

An old woman rolls down the window of her car. She’s tied a purple scarf over her head, like a bonnet. She’s wearing what looks like a wedding ring.  

I slide her ticket into the rectangular, money-grubbing machine. It screeches at me, and the clock reads “$6.00.” I punch in a code stamped on the back of the ticket, which informs me she was visiting the dentist today, and the clock reads “$5.00.”

“Five dollars,” I say as if I too have been programmed. She hands me a ten. I realize the ring is on her right hand. She fumbles a little, but has a sweet demeanor about it. I imagine her life.  

She grew up during the Great Depression. She didn’t know that cheddar wasn’t supposed to crumble until after the war. Her sweetheart was a soldier. When he came home, he was cold, distant, and callous. She stuck with him. They had two kids, but he was a drunk, and would yell at them and even hit them. When their oldest was twelve, she divorced him. She got a job as a secretary at a law firm in Minneapolis and put her children through the University of Minnesota. Now she’s retired, lives in a small house in Fridley, and calls her kids often.. Today she told them about her visit to the dentist. I hit the enter button. The machine screeches at me again. I give her a five-dollar bill and wish her a good night. The clock reads 14:25.

The sign on my window says, “Attention Patrons. Validation stamps from Fairview Medical Center and The Radisson Hotel are not honored at University of Minnesota facilities.” The sunlight bleeds the image of the words and the letters backwards on my side of the window. I read it several times and find it difficult to retrain my brain to read forwards.

I tap my fingers. I should be doing something constructive, but every time I try, another patron interrupts. A co-worker once said, “This job would be great if it weren’t for the customers.”  

In the often short periods I have between one patron to the next, I have just enough time to daydream about my bed. I meditate on the comfort of my down blanket. I imagine the body of my bride-to-be, warm and naked, pressed against me. The soothing red glow of the lamp casts a greenish silhouette of her face over me on the wall. She smiles. I smile. The room melts. The walls drip. The drips become ones and zeros. Lines of code interrupting my perfectly organic daydream. A car has blocked my escape route. I think it’s a Lexus.

The man in the car probably isn’t thirty yet. He’s wearing a black suit, a white collared shirt, and a red tie. His dark hair is slicked back. He tries to identify with me by using some generic college student colloquialism; “Hey, dude,” or, “’Sup, man.”  

He was born into an upper class suburban family. He thought he was cool in high school, because he sold (and did his fair share of) all the great recreations known to suburbanites: weed, coke, and ex. He got a job at a bank and made some extra cash on the side by keeping up the old high school business—until he got caught with a gram of cocaine when he was high and speeding. He found himself a high-priced lawyer who got the charges dropped to a misdemeanor. This guy’s never seen a consequence in his life. How does he get off trying to identify with me?. He asks for his receipt. His company will reimburse him. I hit enter. The machine screeches at me. I smile robotically, give him his credit card and his receipt, and wish him a good day. The clock ticks 14:27.

Big brother is watching. Little brother is in the upper right corner of my booth. I look at the center screen, and I’m watching me too. Is that what I look like? I look so mechanical. I’m bolted to the chair. I move with the utmost efficiency. I wave to myself. Okay. I am still human. 

I count my fingers. Ten. Good. They’re all there. I test the stamp I use to endorse the checks on my forearm. It works. Good. I test it on the palm of my hand. There’s still ink on the pad. I test it on my neck. I test it on my forehead. I test it on my leg, my stomach, and my chest; anywhere that won’t offend the camera.
I call her Noni. It’s a childhood nickname of hers. I look at my hand. She drew on it last night. It says “NONIOIOOIIOOIOIIO” starting from the back of my hand near my thumb, wrapping around my palm. I imagine the Ns turned on their sides and it says “20210100110010110.” She stands inside the binary code. She offsets the program and brings me my freedom. She melts the clock.

The honk of a car horn to my left sets off a series of ones and zeros in my brain. A middle-aged man with a handlebar moustache laughs loud and warm and cracks a dim-witted remark about daydreaming. Everything is blurry as melted forms harden and regenerate. I smile. He seems like a nice guy. The plaid shirt and the truck tell me he works for maintenance of some sort.

“How are ya?” I say with as much cheer as I can muster.

He says something like, “Great! I get to go home,” and he laughs.

The machine screeches at me as I feed it his ticket. He asks if he can have a receipt. He’ll be reimbursed.
He grew up on a farm. He learned the value of a dollar and a hard day’s work at a young age. He was ecstatic when he was old enough to get a job that paid minimum wage. In high school, he drove a Trans-Am he bought from a local junkyard, and fixed up himself. When he graduated, he sold it and got a truck. He then moved to the big city and joined a workers union as a machinist. He never scabbed off a strike. He married and had a son. When his son started going to school on a full scholarship, he got a new job at the University so they could meet up and have lunch sometimes. Movement is sometimes all one needs to be free. A one talks to a zero talks to a zero talks to a one somewhere behind the enter button as I poke it with my middle finger and the machine screeches at me. I give him his change, a receipt, a smile, and wish him a nice night. The clock ticks 14:29.

A distressed woman leaves her mini-van to yell at me because the line is too long, and she needs to pick up her kids. Her car is behind only two others. She says she’ll just give me the money and her ticket if I can let her out in front of everyone else. I tell her it doesn’t work that way, but still she insists. I tell her there’s a weight sensor, and that it’s literally impossible for me to do that. She is not listening. She starts yelling louder. Then, finally, there’s the number two. I snap. I call her a bitch (among other things), and she stomps back to her mini-van.

I do a ticket and money exchange with a University professor. He zips past.  I collect toll for a young travel agent, and he’s on the go. I awkwardly take the money and the ticket in complete silence from the bitch who, less than a minute ago, was three cars back. She sneers. I roll my eyes. She zooms out of the garage. The clock ticks 14:32
I am the robotic arm. I am the almighty gatekeeper. I am the clock that is almost impossible to melt. I need the number two.

Her real name is Norah. When I am at work, she’s NONI; she’s 2021. She’s my freedom. 

A car pulls up to my window. It is decorated in stickers. There’s a five-point star in a circle on the windshield and an Obama sticker on the back passenger window. Inside is an older man covered in piercings and wearing a fishing hat. His name is Gary. Unlike every other patron, his book is open and full. Other patrons, I have to write the book when I meet them. But Gary’s book is already written. He’s one person out of hundreds, probably thousands of people who ever gave a damn about what I think. The first time he came through, he said, “I’m sorry, what was your name again?” as if we had been introduced before. Astonished, I told him.  

We discuss the recent election. We talk about why I’m in school, and why I work at the parking garage. We talk about his job at the hospital. He looks at me square in the eyes and squints slightly. He pushes his head forward slightly, and he imagines my life.

Scott was born in Minneapolis. He didn’t live there long enough to remember anything important about it, because his family moved to the suburbs before he was in school. He never got along with his classmates. His closest friend was his neighbor and was only his closest friend because they were neighbors. When the family moved to the country in fifth grade, he thought everyone there was a dumb, redneck yokel. He left high school early to go to college. He did well enough until he transferred to the University of Minnesota in the Twin Cities. At that point he became reclusive and depressed: a combination of homesickness and finding his place in a new habitat. He failed once, but got back on his feet. He met a woman. Skepticism left over from past disaster relationships made him skittish, but he soon realized she was the woman he would marry. She became the most powerful motivation he’s ever experienced. She is his place in the world.

I give Gary his change. There’s a long line of people behind him. They’re angry and honking. I don’t give two shits about them. He wishes me a good day and drives off. I don’t even glance at the clock.
</body>
       <category>
         22884
       </category>
       <pubDate>Thu, 30 Apr 2009 18:20:27 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Absolutely Everything is Leaning on Everything Else</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Kasandra Solverson</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/absolutely-everything-is-leani.html</link>
       <guid>178775</guid>
       <body>I telephoned to play you a song. Lying in a bunk, surrounded by volunteers in New Orleans, you whispered hello from the breathing silence of the church on Dryads Street. I planned the call well ahead. The song I picked from the heart of songs. When you answered I thought you said, “I’m sleepy.” (You really said, “Sing to me.”) The lights went out in the church and everyone was asleep except you, suddenly alone on one end of a dropped line. I put my guitar back in its case and curled up in a cot in the cold, snowy North.

You didn’t call me back. I suppose that’s because we were old inside, which is a thing to be understood straight away. The song I did not play was played more beautifully by the possibility of music, and became unparalleled inside all the other sounds. You insisted on this—when, as the months passed, you refused to answer my calls, missing me so much that you did not want to hear me. No, you didn’t call me back, to hear the song, or for any other reason. I imagine you laid back into your pillow that night and dreamt a dream, which you remembered in the morning for a moment before anything else, before dressing, and then forgot as you drank your coffee. I imagine things continued in an ordinary way, except that now you were old inside, as I was, for putting the pulse of a night so deliberately away, wild beams of light in our ears. 

As the summer approached I made plans quickly. I acquired an acre of soil from the farm I grew up on in Wisconsin and planted a small-scale vegetable farm. Five feet from the basil bed, I built a hut out of scrap materials and sod to live in, so close that some nights I stepped out and walked the black ground to scare deer away. The first night after planting corn, I lay awake in bed with Carl Sandburg’s poetry spilled across my chest, my hands keeping the shape of the hoe, listening to the dirt scrape the blade, feeling the give of the loose stuff and the stop of the old tobacco roots. I wrote to you about my field of sky, where I planted the sunlight and threshed the moon. Your words came back to me warm in the envelopes, shucking their timid husks every mile from the Gulf Coast to my field. Our signatures convinced me of something powerful, and I trusted it. In September the frost came. In October, you finished your volunteer term and returned to Minneapolis for school. I boarded up the windows on my hut and moved to the frosting metropolis to live with you, to save no money and belong to our rent.

I pinched my bus transfer between all of my fingers. Most everybody else did, too, out of cold desperation. It cost two dollars during rush hour to ride the bus, and it usually took more than one bus to get to the right place, so the transfer was for keeps and kept close, a person’s own sort of hallelujah ticket. I paid for mine every morning with twenty dimes from an old salsa jar I kept at home; that transfer got me to my job at the hardware store, and it took twenty more dimes at night to get home. It was an hour down Lake Street before my stop. Often, because it was winter, the things my mind woke up with—dreams, the objects of the morning—froze and became completely still. Sometimes I made my transfer in time, sometimes I didn’t. At 39th street I pulled the yellow cord and rose to the bright, alarming ding, watching my step as I pinned my name crookedly to my red shirt. I clocked in and took my place in the aisles of things, and a camera shutter closed around the hours.

As per the company’s employment philosophy, everybody learned how to do everybody’s job. I ended up a jack-of-all-departments. I worked hard because it felt busy, and while I did that I thought of our apartment, number four at the end of the hallway. I wrote letters to you on the receipts customers didn’t want, and on leftover sales ads from the previous week: “$29.99 Yellow Water Can Gerbera Daisy,” which read on its back, “I want to be your hard-headed woman.” When I greeted customers with “What can I help you with today?” there were fives and tens of sales advertisements in my pockets covered with pieces of “my dear,” “there are words,” “If I could tell you.” I wrote when the store wasn’t busy, no pipes to thread, ladders to climb. No one knew, not the store cameras, nor the customers staring at my name tag, asking for the price of things, things I could care less to buy, things you and I have never needed. We got by without these things. 

March brought an early thaw. You got a job at St. Stephen’s shelter on Clinton Street and went to classes. Across the street from the shelter we rented a small garden plot and learned how to plant onions the Mexican way from Regino, the man fixing his bike on the sidewalk. One evening we wound up in the alley behind our house, washed by the midnight. A kiss in the rain, a few of your New Orleans stories, and then back into the apartment where it was warm, back to your school work and to my writing. We hurried into our clothes and caught buses in the mornings; I adjusted my nametag.

On an evening in May, I closed my e-mail and stared into the glow of your computer. Beans simmered on the stove, slowly becoming ready for you to arrive back home from the library. I thought of the books stacked around you there. I thought of the desperation of the city. Half listening for the sound of your key in the door, I typed “college in the woods” into Google, and clicked “search.”
 
Because it was a town with a University; because the manager of a food co-op agreed to interview me for a job; because the Minneapolis hardware business made my bones ache for beds to lie down in; because buses charioted me into redundancy; because apartment four became our cells unto ourselves; because the fountains of another city might rinse a person better, on a June afternoon I flew to Swarthmore, Pennsylvania, and you came with me, carrying a big red bag on your back. We made appointments to meet professors at Swarthmore College, agreed to consider the change of geography in our own individual ways. You put off your registration at the University of Minnesota for the next semester and I took off a few days from the hardware store. We changed our footing and stepped into the wind. 

I knew no one who could pick us up in Pennsylvania at two in the morning, so we prepared to sleep in the airport until the trains started up again. I had never flown, never saw the lines of tired people. If it weren’t for Mrs. Payne, your friend’s mother, who agreed to pick us up, we would have slept in the terminal. We would have curled up on the floor behind some chairs; would have leaned vaguely against each other for a few hours, the plane engines in perpetual language, the baggage carts waxing us to sleep, the five a.m. train to Philadelphia pulling in like a piano crescendo, bells rung, seats filled. It didn’t matter that we didn’t have to, in the end, because on the way out of the airport we pointed out the spot we would have claimed until the sun rose on our faces. 

She drove us to her home in Media, a few miles outside Swarthmore. You talked to her about volunteering with her daughter in the Gulf Coast; I had never been so far away from home. Mrs. Payne’s street was quiet. We followed her up the stairs to a room we could sleep in, and she showed us the bathroom: “We’re going to take out these yellow tiles and put down new ones,” she said, and then left us alone to quietly undress and fall asleep. I listened to you drift off. 

I wanted to disappear before the sun came up. The room still dark, I woke up on my belly and stared at the clock on my phone, clicking the light back on, clicking it again. I didn’t have much time to learn about Swarthmore College, the co-op, the east coast. As the room filled up with soft, blue light, your eyes opened on me, and I recognized, even in Pennsylvania, the bold emergence of your body, and then the straightening of your long back—bendable stone, the statue I slept with, the long red hair like a flame. You yawned and said, “We should go, huh?” I nodded and went to the bathroom. 

I sat on the edge of the tub as I brushed my teeth and spread my toes on the tiles of the family’s home, trying to push myself into the grain of it so that when I left and the tile was removed to make way for something new, I would feel the change in my bones. Sun washed my feet as I gripped, and you came in with a towel. We had an hour to catch the train to Swarthmore College to make our meetings on time. 

The first plant I saw on Swarthmore’s campus lawn was labeled with its common and scientific name. Every plant was labeled. Swarthmore was three hundred acres of catalogued, studied vegetative life. As we walked, I read; as I read, I became lost. The names were unfamiliar to me, or I forgot them in the heat. I tried to rehearse everything I knew about plants, but things around me being so labeled and clear, I lost intrigue. You left me to find the Sociology Department, and I wandered the grass, receiving silence all around me. 

When we separated, I stood in front of the big wooden doors of the Biology building and looked at the handles; I noted how heavily the door must rest on its hinges. A student pulled it open and sunk inside the academic fissure, and as the door came shut, I saw myself in the glass. Who wears bright green pants to meet a reputable professor, I thought, and then I thought, who sits there with her legs crossed in the office of a reputable professor pretending her pants are not bright green, but dark and serious brown? It was a mistake, coming here, assuming this role of risk-taker, wearing all the wrong clothes, not knowing the names of their plants.

Passing slowly by the doors of Biology professors, I read the cryptically meaningful sayings they’d posted for students to read. One of them, a handwritten excerpt from a J. D. Salinger book, roped my attention, and while I had expected it to be from Catcher in the Rye it was from Seymour, an Introduction: “Seymour once said that all we do our whole lives is go from one little piece of Holy Ground to the next. Is he never wrong?” I shifted my feet and stood shapelessly in Dr. Vollmer’s doorway.

I sat, she paced; her hands flailed as she talked about Microbiology. The back of my neck dewed. I forgot about my bright green pants. Goosebumps swallowed my body and my mouth opened, saying nothing initially, and then saying everything: Sustainable Agriculture, Dr. Vollmer. I described my farm, what I understood to be botany and the poetic intricacies. Tossing my bag on the floor, I leaned forward and tried to explain to her that absolutely everything was leaning on everything else. She leaned forward and said, “If you don’t wake up in the morning and yearn for textbook, you’ll stick out here like a sore thumb, because our students love to learn more than anything.” I couldn’t imagine. “You don&apos;t learn until you’re out of your comfort zone,” she said, and gave me her card. 

In the basement I found a small room with a window looking out at a Japanese garden. Water stood still in a pool where fish lived, silvered and orange. I looked into the room painfully. Were I a student, I would stack my textbooks there, like sacred things, and pray to my homework. Down the hall I heard a group of people. I took my bag from my shoulders and sat at the table, touching the grain in its surface; sunlight cracked open the room, and satisfaction ran down my face. After a few moments, I left and found you in the rose garden, circling the flowers in such a way that said, “The Sociology Department failed to impress me.”

The manager of the Swarthmore Coop stacked goat cheese with one hand, holding coffee in the other. His name was Gerry. He poured me a coffee, and we sat outside on the patio, trading stories. I talked about my farm, and he told me about the meat deli he used to run upstate. The merchandise surprised me for an organic co-op: blue rows of Oreo cookies; Chiquita bananas; tomatoes from cheap labor farms; oh yes, and the tabloids. He asked me what I thought. I pointed out one of his employees scrubbing the produce bins with Windex, generously spraying the produce besides. I also pointed out the unusual placement of the produce, a small supply of vegetables and fruits shoved into the back of the store. “You’ll make an excellent lead for my produce department if you decide to move out here.”

I walked to the train station where I found you reading, looking sadly into a book like someone who had forgotten something important, waiting to see who would come first, the woman or the train. We caught the 4:30 back to Media and bought dinner.
 
We had been two people always. The tea orders came in pairs of cups, saucers, and spoons. We had sipped separately, cordially yours, I love you too, etcetera, etcetera. We were in Pennsylvania with each other’s strange foreign minds. The summer precipitated through my shirt and dampened yours; we walked to the rhythm of train departures, train arrivals.

After leaving Swarthmore, you phoned an old friend from New Orleans living outside Philly. He picked us up at a bookstore somewhere in Valley Forge, took us to his home, and fed us. You met him at the church on Dryads Street. Unlike most volunteers flocking to New Orleans, Scott went there alone. He was there for the first house you gutted for hurricane damage; he jogged along St. Charles Ave. and drove other volunteers around in his car so they could get out, see the city, walk the French Quarter. 

After dinner, he gave us a ride into the heart of Philadelphia, and the three of us went for a midnight walk. You and I slipped into a theatrical pairing, pretending not to be intimate in order to remain private in the company of your friends and these new cities, with their dangerous capability to separate us forever. We walked unattached through the historic district as I admired Scott’s autonomous life, wishing I had met you gutting a house, wondering what our letters had meant, what music meant. I stared into all the famous windows as if the Declaration would be signed again, and Betsy Ross would stare back from an old wooden chair, stitching her flag. We passed some music bars and clubs. I bumped into a famous country singer outside a bar, and she didn’t look too great. I looked up at the oldest buildings in the city. I couldn’t look hard enough at every brick because I had never known anything like this.

What makes a person search for the antithesis of her own life? What I mean to say is, why do people long for the sea in the old ballads, and what makes us sing those ballads as if they were our own, as if those were our own boats bobbing on the oceans, like fools, like dying, unhappy poets and sailors and fry cooks and clowns? It was the possibility of a different life held tightly inside Philly’s grain. It was the fear of that possibility, and the nerve to consider it at the expense of a life that was already good.

My mind fell asleep in the aesthetic of nightclubs and lamplight, and we started to walk in circles. Even with the attention to detail; even though the humidity focused my eyes on everything in front of me; even with your body beside me; even in the calmness beside that black iron gate around Benjamin Franklin’s grave, his body wrapped and covered in stone, folded deep in the ground with his wife; even though the clean, white sheets at Scott’s house waited like an altar to host our blessed forms; even despite the hours until then, the hours after—I could not for your sake or mine find a way into our happiness.

We went up the stairs to a bed. I asked you if I could sleep in it with you, and it was a question meant to tell you that I was disappearing into the locations, getting used to the changes in the skyline. I crawled into the sheets and wished I had lain down somewhere else so that I wouldn’t invade your dreams as I slowly slipped out of them. Neon lights flickered me to sleep as I recalled them in bed, the bright, glowing “Bank Street Hostel” burned in the muscles behind my dreams. Your arms made a circle around me, and I pulled away because my ribcage was a glowing crescent. The moon emptied itself into the room and illuminated the gesture of my pulling out and your pulling-in. 

In the morning, I forgot where we were, and my hands found you under the sheets. When you reached for me, I remembered our discontent and faced the window. I thought to myself that we had been walking for three days in the pastures of Pennsylvania, boarding the sidewalks of our lives, and had grown too exhausted to function properly. For a moment before I turned a delicate sort of happiness picked me up and held me so close I could hear the hole in its heart. I pinched the edge of the bed, letting a bus transfer fall away. An exquisite fear filled me, and I thought I would ask you to leave your school and move; but then I turned and saw the throbbing moon inside your mouth, “Are we on your terms?” I dressed and couldn’t hear all of your words as you explained the pain I’d given you; they went through my ears, and I opened the window to let the world in. You rearranged your bag to make it fit your dirty clothes, took out the educational pamphlets you got from Swarthmore College, and flipped through them. You would not go to that school; you could not live in that town.
 
I sat across the table from you on Samson Street, drawing you into my notebook. You thought the streets looked European there, in University City, Philly. Your figure proved difficult to render as you sat quietly in the chair across from me with your tea, telling me about the cities in Germany, Scotland, and Ireland, about the time you pretended to be a student at the University in Galway. I drank some cold water and tried not to think. Your lips curled and your eyebrows bent in disgust as the group of professors next to us criticized all the Quakers at Swarthmore College, the people we had met the few days before. I wanted to fix my drawing, because now it was wrong, now that you had rearranged the graces in your face.

We didn’t smell good anymore. The sun fell on the city and heated up the urine people could not seem to keep off the sidewalks, corners, streets, sculptures. As we walked through the city, I looked but could not find a holy ground to step on. The moonlight had dried away and left a hardness. You kept your eye on the clock so we wouldn’t miss our train to the airport, and we wandered more, hungry but stubbornly not spending money. We lay in the grass in Rittenhouse Square, lay with the hundred others, and imagined our lives to ourselves. I saw myself in an apartment by the Liberty Bell, propped up in bed, writing, engulfed by my books. In the context of those moments, while we waited for our train, words seemed so much more possible, my hands so much more capable, my heart peeled open. You looked at your clock. I closed my eyes. In the context of autonomy, my Philadelphia apartment was in the corner of an old building and got all the afternoon sun.

I was in Philly with you, and the letters I wrote to you in my mind didn’t leave with us on the train. “I threw them into the river,” I want to say, but I didn’t. They are flung somewhere else, tucked into something different. My own discontent gave me the words to ruin us, and I put them quietly away. The east coast opened up its ground and groaned. Possibilities screamed in the air like birds and perched in the archways of universities. Strangers pissed on the city and did not explain, while the torrents of urine polished your face and polished mine.

What belongs to me in Philadelphia lies there on the ground, in the grass, incomplete and abandoned. I did that for love—I chiseled the torso of our broken togetherness and left the stone in the University lawn to sink and be eaten by the wind. We waited two hours for our train and left Pennsylvania.
</body>
       <category>
         22884
       </category>
       <pubDate>Thu, 30 Apr 2009 18:18:29 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>A Long Way to the Processor</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By David Peterka</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/a-long-way-to-the-processor.html</link>
       <guid>178774</guid>
       <body>Barreling down the beach in a beat up old brown Chevy Silverado, past an ever-changing landscape of obstruction and peril, Colorado Kurt shoots me one of his insane, coffee-fueled, crack-headed glances that penetrates the roaring, coughing unreliability of the dilapidated truck and the hazy Alaskan darkness that we both know won’t last for more than a few hours, and you know what he says to me? He says, “DAVE!” hoarse and hollering, “IF WE DON’T MAKE THIS…WE’RE FUCKED!” as we haul ass bouncing down into one of the many stream beds that haunt this endless stretch of beach, split the water wide open, slam into the opposing bank, lurch and crawl, and every last horse under the hood belching and blaring and begging for reprieve, pressured by two thousand pounds of dead and dying salmon. We emerge relieved, weary, but far from victorious because it’s been a long day and it’s a long way to the processor, and we’re riding in that same damn run-down disaster truck whose vital organs hit the dirt just the other night while Kurt navigated the same lonesome route, humbled locomotive innards rigged in place by an awkward combination of rope and duct tape—details lost in the tumult. An hour later, Colorado Kurt pounds the door and wakes the young guy from Washington who is stuck working the station, and he replies with grinding hydraulics, jarring forklift advance and retreat driven under the influence of that same burning “What the fuck am I doing out in Bristol Bay?” question that rots the mind at four in the morning, and a Sprite for the ride home. 

We make our return in silence, move down the beach with care, absent-minded exchange of words just to keep our eyes open. Kurt tells me about his wife, beginning with “I ain’t gonna lie to ya, Dave,” and ending with some rambling story about how she’s not too pretty, but to him she’s the most beautiful woman in the world. I hang on his words in the flickering dawn, drift-boat spotlights dot the water by the millions, and we’re losing sleep by the second, when it spills over me warm and fleshy that this whole Alaska thing sure isn’t pretty, but right now it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. 
</body>
       <category>
         22884
       </category>
       <pubDate>Thu, 30 Apr 2009 18:17:33 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>They Put Their Pants on One Leg at a Time</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Billy Mullaney</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/they-put-their-pants-on-one-le.html</link>
       <guid>178773</guid>
       <body>So they say to us.
Yet the imagination
Invents some machination contrary:
Every day they just
Simultaneously
Thrust both legs within
Their trousers.
Who can count the hours lost in
Flamingo posture
Pondering this paradigm
While the pants elite
Floor their feet in half the time?</body>
       <category>
         22886
       </category>
       <pubDate>Thu, 30 Apr 2009 18:13:42 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>there was never a leprechaun in peanuts!</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Zachary Binsfeld</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/there-was-never-a-leprechaun-i.html</link>
       <guid>178772</guid>
       <body>I finally said what I hadn’t wanted to say,
but a hairy green man in stockings ran between us waving
an insect net meshed small enough to catch words.
He got all the good ones so I sounded like Mrs. Donovan

during that time of the month. It would not
have been better had the wordflies landed on your ears,
anyway.
</body>
       <category>
         22886
       </category>
       <pubDate>Thu, 30 Apr 2009 18:12:27 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>The Transatlantic Between</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Katelyn Dokken</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/the-transatlantic-between.html</link>
       <guid>178771</guid>
       <body>1.

I have a longing to burst open a globe, to see the insides

because what’s in there but blue liquid

anyway.  Running down into heels of our shoes--makes the socks

stick. Or miles of plastic? 

Or one hundred lost love songs sent to an overseas stranger. 

I want to burst the tiny globe in your mouth. Roll it between your lips and mine. 

I would open my teeth to it. Suck on it like a jawbreaker, dance with your Russian tongue. 

Lick your closed eyelids, make them sticky with whatever glues the

continents to the sea. 

Write so many things on your face with the Ukrainian ink. 
Place names: Moldova, Kiev, St. Petersburg, Bemidji, Minneapolis. 
 

            2.

We could take the globe outside to every town’s ice rink,  
listen to our string instruments under wool caps while

sharing the orb, back and forth trading it between the silver

blades of our feet. 

Keeping divided the territories between you and I.  
 

            3.

I want to swallow the globe. 

Wait for it to take root, vines planting me wherever I may be

then, a deep-seated star on the old maps. Old globes.

A capital. 
 
 

            4.

Maybe I’d call for you like a bird calls goodbye.  

You would come and I’d kiss you. I’d un-swallow cleanly our

proof of place. Existence of east and west. Our northern states. 

I’d place it in your hands and watch you crush it

beneath boot soles like a little black beetle. 

I doubt there would be much blood, just a little sticker 

made in the U.S.A., in the transatlantic between, in 

all the places you are not. </body>
       <category>
         22886
       </category>
       <pubDate>Thu, 30 Apr 2009 18:05:56 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Post-Portait</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Scott Sundvall</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/postportait.html</link>
       <guid>178769</guid>
       <body>She does not know

the Promethean ache

the midnight collapse 

of Hyperion

she calls at 3am

calls it the milk 

thistle blues. She is

no hyacinth plucked

from Apollo’s bow 

and sleeping in

thornberry bushes

next to temporary 

gods. Or for him

who can whisper

“i carry snake-oil 

baskets of fever

to cure it.” And

holding a tattered 

parasol she thinks

this a broken

melody (for) who 

wouldn’t? With skin

you can’t peel she eats

an orange. And scrubs. 

waiting under the

pier, between the page:

a scrape without 

a scratch. Junk is

the garbage you don’t

throw away.</body>
       <category>
         22886
       </category>
       <pubDate>Thu, 30 Apr 2009 18:04:14 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Pre-Portait</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Scott Sundvall</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/preportait.html</link>
       <guid>178768</guid>
       <body>Chasing shadows

in the darkness, 

takes for granted

the movement of 

photons. She bleeds

liqourice sticks. 

As a kid she

danced with 

little ponies.

Where was her 

dinner date now?

Her pasta would get cold. 
 

She was the reason

men loved torn dresses 

She hated herself

for that. She won’t 

drink white wine but

she’ll break your lips 

with her glass. She won’t

break bread 

over prayer or

forgiveness or any name 

of a mother’s death-bed

gift. Her own 
 

omen is this:

in the cage, under 

the bed sheets

you will find 

the scared lioness

A wall that wants 

to crumble but won’t

let you pass. Even 

if you say please,

feign to know the 

password. A dusty whisper

screams when you turn around.</body>
       <category>
         22886
       </category>
       <pubDate>Thu, 30 Apr 2009 18:03:31 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Mr. President</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Kaylord Hill</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/mr-president.html</link>
       <guid>178767</guid>
       <body>My son clasps his hands together each night as an admirer; he dons your Halloween mask. Your status has flirted my son away from my heroism. But you have given my fatherhood peace. My son didn’t step through the vineyards of struggle, but that has made his legacy all the more triumphant. His black and white playmates have destinies sewn together in a social fabric unknown to them.

Your poster envelops my son’s room. He walks by and smiles as if he has obtained some secret friendship. Tears begin to sashay down the smooth slopes of my brown history—
and woo me to sleep. I witnessed you define the goal of MLK so when I awoke. . .

My son was the President.
</body>
       <category>
         22886
       </category>
       <pubDate>Thu, 30 Apr 2009 18:02:51 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Kids Are Making Out in the Prop Room Again</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Tim DeYoung</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/kids-are-making-out-in-the-pro.html</link>
       <guid>178766</guid>
       <body>There are bunches of them and they are busting with corruption.
The one with the watermelon head has put on a fake mustache
and the others are rolling on the floor, hands dug into their fat and
sordid stomachs, laughing like dumb people.

Cackling with a fistful of dry-erase markers, 
the tall one, a ginger, writes “slut” across the board
in all caps before running the markers down 
the face of a boy she calls Gay Bobby.  He’s a lamb 
and watches the green ink drip from a hair on his lip.

The fraternal twins are in the back closet in their underwear
chomping on capsules of fake blood. They can’t stand the starch
so they spit the red on the floor.  The oldest one, by two minutes,
slips on the tile and his back smacks the floor like a wet basketball
while the younger one makes a joke about parting the Red Sea.  

It is an unhealthy frenzy. All exhausted, they sleep
on a pile of fluorescent boas and tweed pea coats,
the dumbest one having a most brilliant dream;
God is there, well manifested in a burning shrub,
and tells him that the holy spirit is infused in everything
and you only have to squint to see it.

The boy’s exhale smells like pumpkin spice.  And across the room 
a girl with grey hair has woken up and is getting too warm while
sifting through wigs, she stands erect to let her heavy cotton sweatshirt 
fall slowly to the floor, almost not falling at all, more like capsizing.</body>
       <category>
         22886
       </category>
       <pubDate>Thu, 30 Apr 2009 18:01:57 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Intimacy</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Tim DeYoung</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/intimacy.html</link>
       <guid>178765</guid>
       <body>Intimacy (noun): 

1.  The tender things that occur between individuals being close.

	*often used euphemistically

2.  Each touch to the nape of the neck or thumb to the base of the ear
that is applied with care, much the same as a person’s mother 
in pressing a small black spider against a wall.  

	*and feeling the spider press back through the white napkin

3.  Alternative to kissing, just two mouths resting on one another;
pressed together like two musty caves, a breeze inside slowly blowing
back and then forth again.

	*whistling through the teeth 

4.  Each time a strand of hair happens across one&apos;s mouth
and the tongue reaches out to it, pulling it down like a dark well
swallowing a loose kite.  

	*followed by a shallow cough like a sleeping kitten           

5.  State of lying still like two creased pieces of art covered in a film 
of soft white from a street lamp, like from the flashlight held 
by a burglar peering through a museum window.

*neither party is afraid to sleep 

**Because sleep is the water
turning the powder to concrete.   
</body>
       <category>
         22886
       </category>
       <pubDate>Thu, 30 Apr 2009 18:00:33 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Impact</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Britta Bauer</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/impact.html</link>
       <guid>178764</guid>
       <body>My cousin Cale and I used to play on the beach. A lake beach. A clear lake. So clear that as I leaned over the bow of my grandfather’s fishing boat, I could see the pontoon plane that crashed through the water twenty feet below me. I saw the outline of the cockpit window and the propeller blades and thought that doesn’t belong down there.

Cale and I ran along the shore, between my dock and his, throwing fistfuls of sand at the lake. A thousand tiny pieces of earth crashing into water, the inverse of rain. And rain called us in. Gray threads stitching sky to water on the opposite shore, lightning cutting through the fabric, sending us sprinting, kicking up sand behind us like comet tails, leaving tiny divots like craters. 
</body>
       <category>
         22886
       </category>
       <pubDate>Thu, 30 Apr 2009 17:59:36 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>History of Battles</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Alexandra Riley</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/history-of-battles.html</link>
       <guid>178763</guid>
       <body>the meager warrior stands atop the crest of the hill

i think there were buttercups

he then suckles at the boo boo on his index, and shouts plainly

&quot;thou concurrently forthwith vanquished foe!! something something...what do i say here??&quot;

nevermind this meager warrior. i liked the buttercups.</body>
       <category>
         22886
       </category>
       <pubDate>Thu, 30 Apr 2009 17:59:00 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Eden&apos;s Orchard</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Vadim Lavrusik</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/edens-orchard.html</link>
       <guid>178762</guid>
       <body>I was thinking about apples,
how I always bring them to you 
and on occasion they are ripe,
or sometimes rotten from being neglected 
in the cool of my fridge and I know you like 
them ripe but not too soft, juices oozing 
from the edge of your mouth with every bite,

remembering how I first studied you in New Orleans, 
later discovering you under a small-town 
sky and how I learned to love you in 
the little apple, but how each morning after 
learning you loved apples, I delivered you one,
sometimes blood red and maybe pale green, 
you accepted them, 

and now you save them 
and say they are crowding you, and they are 
too ripe and how I still bring you apples 
every day hoping to change your mind.</body>
       <category>
         22886
       </category>
       <pubDate>Thu, 30 Apr 2009 17:58:24 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Double-Wedding Ring</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Katelyn Dokken</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/doublewedding-ring.html</link>
       <guid>178760</guid>
       <body>Don’t ask me nothing about nothing, I might just tell you the truth. Remember how they took her bloody clothes out of the car, ripped locks of hair. Outlaw souvenirs to sit on the pantry shelves. Well it’s like this, you and 

me—we could cut a path clean across Kansas and Missouri and Oklahoma and everybody’d know about it. You listen to me. You listen to me.

Something switched inside. My flood within: to rip up riverbeds, to deliver warm dirt elsewhere, to grow things like magic. The red body of water of which we pull garbage trucks and catfish net full after net full. Split buildings downtown, this is what love feels like: spreading electric fires because the water enters in through windows, lets the sparks swim until

you go home and sit in your room and think, when and how will I ever get away from this? And now you know

how it is that I can tell you—I am followed by drowned men, dripping. A saw toothed morning glory stands at her grave and I stuff wildflowers in your mouth so that you will look at my face, take hostage the light, my taconite mouth. Reduce the fever. Please just

listen to me. You listen to me.

My surrender song, plea bargain being: don’t you see I show my inclination, this fire in the belly, by attempting not to love you? Opposite of white flags instead I’ve got my Browning drawn and I can’t speak the last words: Oh, the things I would do to you. 

Don’t kid yourself, Baby. Bonnie and I fired every shot.</body>
       <category>
         22886
       </category>
       <pubDate>Thu, 30 Apr 2009 17:52:05 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>America, Revisited</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Mark Brenden</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/america-revisited.html</link>
       <guid>178758</guid>
       <body>America? Is that you?
I’m surprised by you, baby. Fifty-three years since Ginsberg addressed
you and now look at you.
You’ve put on some weight, which is curious considering you have us all
constantly chasing that orgastic green-light at the end of that high-speed
treadmill you call the American Dream.
America take off your make-up; I believe in natural beauty.
America show yourself naked. I swear I don’t care about the size of your
cock.
America enough small talk.
America one time I put a Qur’an in the Bible section of the bookstore,
don’t get sore.
I read the Qur’an, don’t scold me.
I know what I’m doing.
This isn’t A Doll’s House, don’t treat me like Nora.
America the city upon the hill is being bombarded by bursting bombs and
sky-bumming buildings surrounded by smothering hazes of simmering smoke.
America you say freedom isn’t free. Do you take credit cards?
I’m afraid my life is beyond my budget.
America my sacred duties aren’t to you, they’re to myself.
America if you could see what I think in my head I would be in the electric
chair faster than you can say Habeas Corpus.
America my sacred mind thinks through things
My sacred mind sings softly but smugly under a smothering surface.
My sacred mind cracks cool whip for kicks.
My sacred mind through things thinks
My sacred mind burns with indignation while slipping on ice on the
pavement, twice, twice.
My sacred mind thinks things through.
My sacred mind plays “The Ballad of Ira Hayes” on repeat with boundless
sentimentality.
My sacred mind has page 67 of Catch-22 embedded in the back realm for
whenever I need it.
My sacred mind thinks not of nothing never.
My sacred mind is mine, mine, mine.
America I left you for awhile, did you miss me?
I missed you. I still miss you.
America let’s hug again; become one again.
America don’t you see? 
America beneath the roar of your hallowed engine, I sing for thee! </body>
       <category>
         22886
       </category>
       <pubDate>Thu, 30 Apr 2009 17:45:31 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>TMNTs, affectionately</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Megan Borgert-Spaniol</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/tmnts-affectionately.html</link>
       <guid>178756</guid>
       <body>When I went for my interview at InterCo. Loans I followed a gray-jumpsuited man down the long hallway that led to the door that led to Reception. He was carrying a rug. The three of us squeezed through the door (him, the rug, then me) in a confused and cumbersome dance. The receptionist said “Doreen?” and he said “Yes,” and she looked apologetic and I followed him because I was to have my interview with the woman named Doreen. 

—

I’m not really sure what I’m doing here. I’ve been here almost two weeks now—so, about nine days, roughly 72 hours—and I can’t let myself get comfortable. I’m in the wrong ecosystem, this is such foreign territory, these people, I can’t relate, I can hardly breathe—

“Hon, could you fax these for me?”

I will not. Never.

“Sure.”

— it’s like they’re one species, I’m another. I’m not in my element. I have no room to flourish. I have no idea how to send a fax.

-

What I DO know about InterCo. Loans:

1. It consists of a bunch of scanners, a handful of photocopiers, hundreds of computers, and too many fax machines. Of this, I personally use one scanner, one photocopier, one computer and, if I can help it (and I think I can), zero fax machines.

2. Over 400 people work here, in this one building. That’s 400 people who walk through one set of doors every morning, 400 who walk out every night. (When I walk down the street, I’m wondering how many coworkers I’m passing. When I lock my apartment door on my way out, I’m wondering if the man down the hall doing the same thing is headed for the same place as me. When I’m at a stop light, I figure everyone turning left with me could only be going where I’m going. Anyone. It could be anyone.) 

Of these people, I know two: myself, and Doreen. Which brings me to my next point.

3. It is home to Doreen, who, out of all 400 InterCo. employees, may very well be the most thrilled to be here. And so it would follow (naturally) that Doreen is my supervisor.

Things Doreen loves:

1.) Heart-shaped post-it notes 
2.) Baking “treats” for the office (Brownies. Lemon bars. The like.)
3.) Inter-Company Loan Requests
4.) Sanitizing, things that are sanitized, people who offer to sanitize
5.) Rugs. Oh god, the rugs.

What I DO NOT know about InterCo. Loans:

1. What it does, i.e. what its purpose is, i.e. why we are all working here, Monday through Friday. Nine to five.
And I don’t want to know. I refuse to know, actually. The more I know, the more I am connected to this place. I will close my eyes and cover my ears; I will kick; I will scream; I will refer to it only as InterCo. Loans and never as ICL because ICL is an acronym and acronyms are chummy. And the fax machine—I am dedicated, I’ll do whatever it takes, I’ll have to use the bathroom every time someone asks (“Tom, could you send this fax?” “Oh, you know, I was about to run to the bathroom, so…”)—I refuse to learn how to use the fax machine.

“New rug!”

Oh god. I’m much too busy right now, surely you can see that, look at my posture, I’m clearly immersed in scanning these documents, I’m in the zone, I mustn’t be bothered—

“Tom, new rug!”

I didn’t hear that, see, my brow is furrowed, I’m squinting, you can see that what I’m doing requires immense concentration and certainly no disruptions, maybe you should—

“Tom? Would you mind giving me a hand, sweetie? I have a feeling this is the one!”

Since I’ve started working here, five rugs (five!) have made their ways into this office; five rugs have been examined, scrutinized, felt up, and judged; five rugs have gone back to where they came from. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg. 

Apparently, Doreen has been in search of the perfect rug since long before I started here. So, I don’t just scan and photocopy and avoid the fax machine,; I help Doreen haul in and unroll rugs. She tries to make me feel included, like I have a say in the decision (even though it’s clear that I am not and I do not). But I refuse to take part in the charade. I’ve made it my personal goal to get through this job without having ever stated any kind of opinion about any rug. That, and the fax machine thing. It’s actually a pretty fun challenge; by now I am beautifully primed by past Rug Exchanges, and I have gained the tools needed to handle all future Rug Exchanges with awe-inspiring ease. 

The latest:

Rug Exchange #6: New Rug that Doreen Feels May Be The One

[Doreen and I have just unrolled rug. She dissects rug with eyes, fingers tap cheek, hand rests on hip. I stand opposite her, hands on hips, weight shifting awkwardly from leg to leg. I look anywhere but at rug.]

“Hmmm….”

“ – ”

“It’s a bit shaggy…”

No. Never.

“…don’t you think?”

I will not.

“A little shag is okay, but you hit a point where it’s unprofessional, you know? Do you think we’ve crossed that line?”

We? No. But you… “It’s a fine line.”

“Right, it really is….”

“Fiiine line….”

“And the color…”

Bring it on.

“…how do you feel about the color?”

“You know that’s funny, because I’ve been meaning to ask you how you feel about the color.”

“You know, I don’t know! I like the contrast, but at the same time it’s not very mellow, and I’m very mellow, and I think mellow might work better for an office environment, you know?”

“Mmmm….”

“Hmmm….”

“Alright, well I’m going to go eat lunch.”

“Oh, of course, right. Thanks for your help, darling.”

“Sure. You bet.”

fin


At lunch I share the break room with two men. One eats Doritos from a Ziploc sandwich bag, the other warmed- up lasagna from a Tupperware container that probably isn’t microwaveable. I walk in on what sounds like a heated discussion:

“I’m just saying, I’ve been here for three years, I’ve done this thousands of times….I think I would know which is better.”

“And I’m just saying that faster isn’t necessarily better….”

I’m curious. I start listening in unabashedly— – 

“The stick model is much more efficient.” At this point, man with Doritos picks up a staple remover and frantically showcases the tool.  “It’s the simplicity of the design. The staple comes out clean-cut, no ripped paper, no….”
— – and then I stop.

That’s it, I think.

That’s it. That is it. Back to the temp agency. I’m done here. God take me now if I am ever to become the man who uses a staple remover on a daily basis. No. Not me. No one wants to be that guy. Doritos over here didn’t want to be that guy until he became that guy. I’m giving my two weeks notice. This isn’t happening. Not to me.

I jump up from my chair, then stop. My eyes are wide and unblinking as I wrap my head around what I’m about to do; the two men flinch and stare from my panicked movement. I unlock my eyes and look, actually look, from Doritos to Lasagna.

“Nothing,” I say.

I fumble with the door handle because my hands won’t stop shaking. I’m not even thinking this through! I’m quitting without thinking because I don’t want to be either of the men I just walked away from. I reach Doreen’s office and my stomach burns because the door is open, telling me that I can do this, I can do this now. Doreen is at her desk eating a sandwich, and I take in some air, and I raise my fist to tap the door, and— –

And I stop. Doreen is eating lunch in her office. She isn’t eating out, or in the break room where everyone else eats. She is sharing her meal with a small, silent room. I stay outside her door, unable to move at the sight that says everything to me and very little to anyone else. Doreen takes a bite from her sandwich and chews with her eyes glued to the meeting place of two walls. After swallowing, she takes a deep breath and lets out a long, quiet sigh. 

“She looks back down at her sandwich before taking another bite.”

This is when I forget about my two weeks notice. This is when I realize that Doreen probably wants more than InterCo. Loans.

When I was eight years old, I harbored a desperate longing to be... a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. It’s funny, because my main concern wasn’t that the TMNTs (this acronym I use affectionately) were fictional; I think I figured I’d cross that bridge when I got to it. No, that wasn’t an issue. What did occupy all of my precious eight-year-old brain power was the simple question of how I would get discovered by the TMNTs. I imagined this happening in countless scenarios, dreamed a different one up every day. Two of them:

1) I go to Italy on vacation with my family. We are eating lunch at a pizzeria when all of a sudden, the suited Italian Stallion sitting alone in the corner booth rises,  revolver in hand. He moves it back and forth to cover the area of the dining room, like an oscillating fan that relieves all inhabitants of a sticky, hot room. Panic and gasps rise from the tables and take control of all air space, spreading to corners and seeping through crevices. I rise immediately, coolly. The smirk on my lips and calm arrogance in my eyes say, “Really, Black Tie? Are you really going to try and pull something? While I’m here? That’s funny! No, really, it’s funny! You make me laugh, Black Tie.” At that point things get blurry because I never actually took the time to figure out what exactly I would do to help the situation with Black Tie. I favored the idea of talking to him, calmly conversing with him, while the other patrons cower in their booths, pizza sauce left idle on their chins. I wanted very much to be that guy; the witty, suave smooth-talker. I would walk empty-handed, my weapons would be my words—chilling, mind-blowing words that I would string together to form even more chilling, mind-blowing sentences, leaving the culprit of the day at a loss. Anyway, I do my thing, give my speech, and Black Tie is taken care of. (You’re welcome.) I sit back down at my table and the locals cheer, then resort to excited mutterings:

“Chi è?”
(Who is this?)

“Ma è troppo giovane!”
(But he is so young!)

“Lui è un ragazzo savvy.”
(That is one savvy boy.)

Then, they emerge. Out of the kitchen, donning sauce-spackled aprons, the Turtles come forth. Donatello is tapping a flour-dusted rolling pin against his palm; Raphael has a thin circle of pizza dough draped over his closed fist. They file out, one by one, and take their places in front of my table. The rest is history: they tell me they saw everything unfold, witnessed my poise under pressure. Leonardo presents me with a yellow mask, and that’s it. I’m in.

2) The TMNTs take on a paper route that goes through my neighborhood. They are in the middle of hand-delivering my news when I open the door and strike up a conversation. I’m charming as hell. Leonardo presents me with a yellow mask, and that’s it. I’m in.

When I get to work the next day, something has changed. The office is different; it feels different, and I feel different in it. Then I realize what it is: the New Rug is still here, unrolled on the floor; the plastic is gone; all tags have been clipped. My heart starts racing before I understand why it’s racing. I try to calm myself, to be rational about this. But then it happens: Doreen stands up from her chair, grabs a stack of papers, and walks across the rug. She walks across the rug. Doreen has never stepped on a Rug in Consideration. You do not step on Rugs in Consideration.

She sees me staring from the doorway.

“Oh Tom, look! It’s official— – we have our rug!”

“Oh, well…wow, so you decided….”

“Yeah, I was a bit iffy at first, with the shag, and the color, but when I walked in this morning I turned on the light and it just worked. Everything just worked and that was it! Just like that!”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that! Do you like it?”

I blink. I’m baffled.

She found The Rug? The new rug is The One?

I look up at Doreen, who is taking in this new addition as if she can’t get enough of it, as if everything will be right with the world, so long as The Rug remains in view.

“Yeah, it’s…good. It’s nice.”

“Good, good. I’m glad.” 

After a pause, Doreen breaks her Rug trance and steps toward me.

“Now, I have this fax that needs to be sent out before noon. Would you mind taking care of it?” Doreen holds the fax in front of me, at that unassuming distance that makes no demand. The Rug below laces the paper in a deep orange fringe.

—

When I left ICL a year later, I was carrying a rug. The receptionist smiled, and I waved, and The Rug burst through the door before me in all its faded orange glory. The new supervisor hated it, was turned off by the matted shag. Its final destination was still an uncertainty, but InterCo. Loans was no longer an option. You do not keep a rug in a place where no one will appreciate it.

 It’s unprofessional.</body>
       <category>
         22883
       </category>
       <pubDate>Thu, 30 Apr 2009 17:40:04 -0600</pubDate>
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      <item>
       
       <title>There Is Nothing a Drop of Rain Can Do to Avoid Hitting the Ground</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Deniz Rudin</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/there-is-nothing-a-drop-of-rai.html</link>
       <guid>178754</guid>
       <body>If you cut open a cloud, the cross-section looks like a gigantic ant farm with an intricate network of tiny pathways. In this way each cloud in the sky is a city. In each unnamed cumulus metropolis, rainwater flows through these corridors like blood through veins. To us, the cloudlife of raindrops seems like it must be a gestational period, and in a way it is. The way that warm, dark cloudflesh surrounds and envelops rain in the sky is womblike. However, the life of a drop of rain inside a cloud is not the same as the mindless growth and development of a mammalian fetus. It is altogether more like school.

Citizenship and community are important to rain; after all, raindrops can literally merge with each other to become larger entities, though the base unit of the drop always retains control over itself. It is in puddles that rain shares information, and in the cloud-cities there are myriad recesses of varying size in which raindrops gather and learn. In one such classroom, drops are told that the collective Rain should always be valued above the individual droplet. In another, they learn of the cycle of rain: falling honorably and gracefully from clouds to replenish the Earth, then rising back to the clouds to fall again. In another they hear tales of the soil and seas that await them at the end of their fall, and in yet another they are told to be proud of their home-cloud, as there are many lesser clouds hovering in the sky. After a drop has learned its lesson, it separates from the teaching puddle and is whisked away by the streaming hallway to the next classroom. Such is the cloudlife of a drop of rain. Naturally, some take to it more than others.

When every drop has visited the majority of the countless classrooms in a cloud, the city becomes dark and heavy with their collective knowledge. New pathways are eroded, pathways that lead not to any classroom but to howling wind. The first to jump are the malcontents, the disbelievers, and those that just want to get it over with; the thrill-seekers; the zealots all too eager to begin their transformation. They drizzle down toward what is below while those left in the cloud make snide little jokes in their puddles. But before long the time for mass exodus comes, and the cloud is evacuated in dozens of somber processions.

Quite a lot about the nature of any raindrop can be learned if you simply watch the way it falls. Some show that they never completely believed in the cycle by the way they spread themselves flat, trying to fall as slowly as possible. On the other hand, you can tell a true believer by the way it shapes itself into a sleek bullet to get to its goal as quickly as possible. Others simply take pleasure in the fall, swooping rambunctiously around other drops, knowing that whatever happens will happen and so why worry? Their exuberance annoys some but is contagious to others. Some drops find another drop to merge with, and lessen the fear of the upcoming ground by sharing it. And some just fall, glistening globules, at peace with what they are and what they are to do. What none of them know, not the frightened nor the fanatical nor the playful nor the affectless, is that they are the last rainload of the last cloud, and what they fall toward has neither soil nor sea, but only concrete for miles and miles and hundreds of miles, the Earth a newly-paved parking lot for its satellite, the fantastically glamorous casino-moon.</body>
       <category>
         22883
       </category>
       <pubDate>Thu, 30 Apr 2009 17:39:03 -0600</pubDate>
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      <item>
       
       <title>Lt. Miner Drinks Some Coffee</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Patrick Anderson</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/lt-miner-drinks-some-coffee.html</link>
       <guid>178753</guid>
       <body>Lt. Miner sat alone under the awning of a small coffee shop. The angle of the sun didn’t permit any shade, so he sat exposed to it. It hung low on the southern horizon, just above the graveyard on the top of the hill. That was the direction Lt. Miner faced: toward the sun, toward the graveyard, toward the hill.

Lt. Miner drank his coffee and drifted. The sun was damn hot. It moved in a slow whirl to the west. 

Lt. Miner started to daydream. 

“There was one point, when we were young, that I hated you,” he said to his wife. “The summer of 2004. I hated you, then.”

A rivulet of sweat formed at Lt. Miner’s right temple. The sweat was damn annoying. It bubbled across his forehead. It dampened the small of his back and the armpits of his dress shirt. What a bastard, that sun.

Lt. Miner, under the heat of the sun and the heat of his coffee, could see the red armchair he was sitting on, his wife on the couch to his right. 

“There was one day, one morning. I woke up and went to the bathroom. On my way to the bathroom I saw you naked on the floor. I walked down to that coffee shop on the corner and sat there, drinking coffee. That was in fucking August, and for some reason, probably because I was stupid from shock, I ordered a coffee. I sat there, sweating like a maniac. Couldn’t even cry. Drinking a near-boiling cup of coffee and just sweating the shit right out through my pores. And in my head there was a three ring circus: God, Christ, You. I called you a million names. 

Whore. And then I imagined marrying you and being married to you, and I felt like a fucking schizophrenic.”

“And then you did marry me,” his wife said. 

He broke from the dream, stood up, and walked away with his coffee in hand. The lake was three blocks away. He headed in that direction, thinking he might go for a small walk. </body>
       <category>
         22883
       </category>
       <pubDate>Thu, 30 Apr 2009 17:38:17 -0600</pubDate>
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      <item>
       
       <title>Kuebiko</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By David Watson</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/kuebiko.html</link>
       <guid>178752</guid>
       <body>Do you remember Abraham? Yes, that Abraham, the one God ordered to take his son up the mountain and make him a sacrifice. Do you remember Abraham? The thing I wonder and that I guess everyone wonders when they hear that story is this: what if God hadn’t intervened in the last moment to stop Abraham from cutting the boy’s throat? I guess this is a moot point when you are talking about someone who is all-powerful, but what if there had been a snag in the plan? What if the angel had been waylaid like the angel in Daniel who was kept at bay by the Prince of Persia for twenty-one days? I guess I don’t really know what would have happened to Abraham then. I suppose he would have tried to explain to his wife why he left on a camping trip with their son and came home alone. Maybe he wouldn’t have gone home at all. I mean, maybe it would have been better for him to hit the road after a stunt like that. Light out for Ur of the Chaldeans and never look back. Maybe there are some tests that you simply can’t pass. 

There was our man and he was standing in the rain outside of a bus depot. He wore a gray raincoat, executive cut, and he carried an attaché case and smoked a black cigarette with a little gold ring just above the filter. He had dark hair and pale skin and those deep craters under his eyes that looked like he had smudged eyeliner pencil into sunken little half-moons with his thumb. He was staring at the multicolored chart on the wall of the depot that tells all the places that the buses run and all the times that they arrive and depart. In three days this man, sitting on a California beach, would open the fingers of his right hand into a V and use those same fingers to mash out both of his eyes. 

The depot was a building made of gray bricks so big that they looked like cinderblocks, all stained from people extinguishing their cigarettes and cigars on the side in ugly black smears that never quite seem to wash off in the rain. The roof was slightly inclined and there were tin rain gutters that were supposed to direct the water toward the down spouts into the big forty-gallon plastic barrels. But it had already been raining for two and a half years without ever even once showing the slightest sign of letting up. So the gutters were filled up and the barrels were filled up and the water was just pouring out like soldiers going over the top at Verdun or the Somme and splattering away on the ground in deep old puddles, flowing away in little rivulets carving their way across the parking lot. Doesn’t that just beat everything straight to hell? Two and a half years. That’s nine hundred and twelve whole days, plus one very soggy morning. He was wondering if there was a bus going somewhere that the sun was shining. 

A lady sidled up to him. He couldn’t hear her over the sound of the rain and the water pouring down out of the gutters and anyway he wasn’t really listening for any ladies sidling up beside him. This lady was very tiny. So tiny that when he finally did notice her he wondered to himself how it was that she hadn’t been sucked away in one of the parking-lot rivers. She was wearing a yellow slicker and had big horn-rimmed spectacles and her hair was wrapped in plastic sheeting to keep it dry. It was a cold day. Autumn was turning into winter and the days were getting shorter and the wind was starting to take on a serrated edge. He coughed and the little lady turned to him.

“You shouldn’t smoke,” she said. She smelled like damp baby powder and mildew.

“I know,” he said.

“It’s bad for you,” she said.

He nodded. “That’s the idea.”

“Huh?”

“Gradual suicide.”

She didn’t say anything after that for a moment and then she asked him where he was headed and he said that he didn’t know. 

“What do you mean?” she asked him. “How can you come to the station without knowing where you are going?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it. Somewhere sunny.”

“Is that supposed to be a joke?” she asked. “Because it isn’t funny.”

“No. I guess not. Still though. Wouldn’t a little sun be nice?”

“I am going to see my grandchildren in Topeka,” the tiny woman said. “I’s my grandson’s birthday and I’m going for a visit.”

“That’s nice.”

So he got on the first bus bound for California and it took him all the way to San Francisco. Three thousand miles and he sat by the window the whole way. You know what he saw? Ruin. Everywhere they went there was nothing green or growing anywhere. Everything was dead. They drove through huge stretches of what had once been wheat fields (green grass, gold and amber stalks, rich soil, all beneath a blue sky, green tractors, and red irrigators) and all those fields had become enormous playa lakes that reflected rain clouds and any headlights passing on the freeway. They drove through the mountains. There used to be trees in the Rockies, big fir trees and oak trees and ash trees and birch trees and all kinds of trees. But now the trees were all rotted away beneath tangled heaps of moss and lichen because moss and lichen are just about the only things that can grow in the constant damp. Every stop along the way he saw more people dressed in wet clothes, wearing wet shoes over wet socks. It isn’t right, he thought, that a man could get jungle rot in Nevada. But sure enough.

“I guess I thought it might be different here,” he said to no one in particular as the bus turned south toward San Francisco. “But it really is just the same everywhere.”

He got off the bus somewhere between L.A. and Frisco. It doesn’t matter where precisely, just somewhere along the way. It was a rinky-dink town. You know the type: a gas station rusting out from under itself; a diner whose sign is missing letters; a no-tell motel with rooms for nineteen dollars a night; several bars that might be dive bars but aren’t because dive is a concept of relatives and here in Podunk, CA, everything is a dive, a warsh, the tried and true walking nightmare of a mad somnambulist. Everything was gravel and soot and the aching, backbreaking odor of despair. It was the kind of place where noir things happen on rain-swept nights and even the rich banks of clouds can’t protect a body from the deep-down crazies brought on by the obscured light of a full moon. The kind of place where a car breaks down and its owner moans, “No…anywhere but here.”

But there was a beach not far from the bus depot. The last twenty miles into town he could see it from the highway: the gray sky, water that moved like lead in a crucible, whitecaps churning up on the beach, driftwood and seaweed scattered like a net in whose grommets lay decaying fish, caked in sand, picked at by the birds.
He left the terminal behind, crossed the street, waded through the mud and muck of the embankment down to the place where the soil turned to sand, and he kicked off his shoes and pulled off his socks and walked barefoot onto the beach. The rain had darkened the sand and left it cratered with minute pockmarks as if an ant army had loosed its miniature artillery and made no man’s land of the dune. Several yards ahead a fish, gray-scaled and white-bellied, flopped in one of the shallow pools that the rain had turned into small, isolated seas. He walked along the beach, looking out towards the horizon. In the distance the sky and ocean faded together into a single ashen thing, an elemental merger of water and air. A taut breeze was rolling off the waves and it carried with it the smell of brine, kelp, and ice. He rubbed his hand along his face and felt the three-day stubble beneath his fingers.

About fifty yards down the beach he saw a man sitting and watching the waves. This stranger wore a brightly colored shirt with no sleeves, a pair of Bermuda shorts, and had his hair bound back behind his head with a handkerchief that was white and red. His hair was golden, as if it had been gobbling sunlight for the course of his entire life, storing it against the day when the sun would disappear. Now, in the never-ending, rain-soaked gloaming his hair blazed out like the sun’s reflection in a polished mirror. His feet were buried in the sand. The stranger turned and saw our man coming down the beach towards him and he raised a well-muscled arm and waved. The golden haired stranger was sitting on a long tow board with a high fin and a blue stripe that ran the middle and ducked away around either end.

“Out for a stroll?” the surfer asked.

“You might say so.”

“What’s your name?” the surfer asked. Our man raised his shoulders and let them drop. The surfer looked him over top to bottom and then nodded.

“Yeah. I dig. I know why you’re here. You thought you might find a sliver of sunlight. Isn’t that right, traveler?”

“Yeah. That’s right.”

“You should know by now,” the surfer said. “There isn’t going to be any sun ever again. Those days are over.”

“You still come out here to surf?” our man asked. The surfer looked at him for a moment as if he had not understood the question.

“You’re sitting on a surfboard.” He pointed and the surfer turned and then his face broke into a wide smile.

“Oh,” the surfer said, “I don’t surf. I found it right where it is now. Seemed like as good a bench as I was going to find down here.”

“So why are you here?”

“I’m here every day,” the surfer who was not a surfer said. “I like to watch the ocean.”

“In the rain?”

“It rains every day,” the surfer who was not a surfer said. “I don’t see how you can let it stop you forever.”

“It’s depressing.”

“So it is.”

They sat in silence for a long time. Waves broke on the shore, seagulls glided through the rain and called out to one another in voices that seemed to come from a great distance, and from the road came the sound of cars and trucks shifting down to stop at the traffic light on the corner by the bus station. Our man looked at his watch. It was a quarter to noon. Behind the clouds the sun should have been almost in the center of the sky.

How do you remember something like the sun? How do you pick out a single sunlit day to rest the mind upon when every day for a lifetime and for a thousand lifetimes the sun has been the world’s one constant? That was the trouble that plagued our man. He could remember the sun, but only as an abstraction. Now that it was gone it did not take a definite shape in his memory, remaining, instead, a general theory of light and heat as divorced from the reality of the sun as Planck’s constant is divorced from the cooking of a marshmallow over a roaring fire.

What might have been different for our man if at that moment the sun had appeared--if the clouds gave way, as the Prince of Persia gave way to Daniel’s angel, and there had been a moment of illumination? Would even a single ray of clear, unfiltered light have been the hand of God staying Abraham from the terrible sacrifice? But the clouds did not break and for a little while the two, our man and the strange Kuebiko, sat side-by-side staring out over the water.</body>
       <category>
         22883
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       <pubDate>Thu, 30 Apr 2009 17:36:10 -0600</pubDate>
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      <item>
       
       <title>Hungry, Hungry</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Marlene Moxness</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/hungry-hungry.html</link>
       <guid>178750</guid>
       <body>Once she was outside of it, Happy didn’t really pay much attention to her box. When she and the other hippos were arranged around the playing field, she was all business. Happy knew that there was no real skill involved in her work, but she liked it just the same. Then one day she found herself positioned next to the box, staring at an artist’s two-dimensional rendering of a fat pink hippopotamus. “My God,” she thought. “Do I really look like that?”

It started out small. At the next game, Happy munched slower than the other hippos, more methodically. She chewed each marble 27 times. Her competitive side ached play with the same zeal as the other three hippos. She had always been one of the guys, in the thick of things, chomping furiously. Happy began counting the number of marbles she ate. Appalled at the huge quantity she was consuming, Happy decided to eat only every third marble that came her way. This worked out perfectly because three cubed was 27. Three was the perfect number. 

Happy was wallowing. In a moment of clarity brought on by her newly ascetic lifestyle, the full burden of her absurd situation weighed down upon her. Her life was meaningless. She spent her days eating as many small white marbles as she possibly could, and for what? For sport? Was there any logic behind this game in which she found herself? All her self worth was wrapped up in the futile effort to gorge herself more quickly than the other three hippos. Three males, against her. She was constantly surrounded by males, one on each side and one across the field. Her whole world was this stupid game with three males, and she’d never even had a boyfriend. Happy was going to die fat, sad, and alone. She had to make a change. After she saw that picture, she knew what she had to do. Everything else in her life was beyond her control, but within the sphere of the game, Happy had a choice. She could say no to marbles. She could clamp her teeth down every time one came her way, ricocheting it back across the field. If she could handle this, then maybe, just maybe, she could finally live up to her name. 

Happy turned her head to the left, but she still could not see her backside. She couldn’t decide if this was a good omen or a bad one. The contortions made her dizzy. She lowered herself to the ground. With her eyes closed, she took three deep breaths. 

“Hap, are you okay? You look sort of ill.”

She leapt to her feet with all the grace one would expect from a hungry hippo. “Homer! What? No! I’m fine. What’s your problem, anyway?”

“Are you feeling okay? You didn’t seem to be playing at your peak today.”

“What? No! I’m fine. I’m great! I’m just trying to be more ladylike, that’s all.”

Homer raised one green eyebrow suspiciously. “Ladylike? You’re, like, the only lady in the game!”

“I know!” Happy snapped, her pink cheeks darkening. She didn’t want to be having this conversation. “I’m just trying to get healthy.”

“I suppose we are starting to get to that age. Thirty already. It sounds so old when you say it out loud.”

“Come on now,” she said, nudging him with her shoulder. They had been friends since ages four and up. “You’re still nimble! Your neck is as fast ever! Now, I’m going to go lie down. I’ll see you later though, right?”
Homer gave her a half smile and went to find the others. It was time for a little chat. 
	
In the middle of the next game, Homer signaled to Harry and Henry. They stopped what they were doing, and all heads swiveled in Happy’s direction. Homer spoke for the group. “Happy, who do you think you’re trying to fool?”

“Whhff?” Her words were muffled by the marble she held in her cheek.

“I said, who the hell do you think you’re trying to fool? You haven’t won a game in weeks and you haven’t eaten a single marble all day!”

She felt all three pairs of eyes. Without meeting them, she spat her marble towards Homer’s feet. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“There! You didn’t even eat that one! What’s going on, Happy? Are you sick—”

“How many times do I have to tell you? I’m fine! It’s none of your damn business what I eat!”

“But Happy, you’re not eating. It’s not right. Hippos like us are supposed to eat marbles. It’s our, I don’t know, our destiny.”

“It’s ridiculous, Homer! We’re hippos, for god’s sake.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Forget it, Homer. Don’t even talk to me about destiny. Get over yourself!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! Look, Happy, I’m worried about you.” He gestured towards the others, and they nodded in orange and yellow unison. “Happy—”

He stepped forward as she started to cry. “Happy….”

“I’m…I’m just so…hungry! Hungry!”

“You’re going to be okay,” he said, nuzzling her with his long neck. “It’s going to be all right. We’re going to get you the help you need. It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”

She wiped her eyes, long lashes matted together with tears. “I just wanted to be pretty, pretty…” she whispered.
 
“Happy, you’ve always been pretty. No, no, hey now, I’m not just saying that. Look at you! You’re pink and shiny. You’re a gorgeous hippopotamus.”

“Really? But—”

He shook his head. She sniffled again. After a long minute, he spoke, his voice low and firm. “You are beautiful.”
Another long minute.

“Would you like to play with us?”

Happy shot him a damp look, her pink brow furrowed. Henry and Harry had already taken their positions on the field. 

“Come on,” Homer coaxed. “The only way for you to get over this is to be plunged right back into the competition. It’s for the best.”

Happy sniffled one last time and slogged over to where the others were waiting for her. She could do this. She was perfect the way she was. She was going to get over this. She just needed to get back in the game, and everything would be back to normal. This was the best way. Homer knew what he was doing. 

As the marbles ricocheted around the field, Happy felt the thrill of the game run down her neck. She could do this. Homer lunged for a marble, but it caught on his front tooth and shot her way. Happy readied herself, blinking to focus her eyes on the marble coming straight towards her. The blood pounded in her ears as she quickly analyzed the velocity of the marble with her known jaw speed and the slope of the field today. She could do this. She had done this a thousand times. With a loud crack, she chomped down on the marble. She felt its cold plastic and moved it along her mouth. As it reached her throat, Happy made a conspicuous effort to swallow. She could feel Homer’s eyes on her as the marble worked its way down her long neck. With a hollow plunk, the marble came to rest. Happy met Homer’s eyes. He smiled. She smiled back at him. The other two hippos returned to their frantic marble munching as soon as the tender moment came to a close, and Homer shifted his attention back to the game. Happy continued to smile, wondering how long it would be until she could sneak away and throw up the marble. No one would ever know. They say the most fun is playing together, but Happy knew this was one game she would need to keep to herself.</body>
       <category>
         22883
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       <pubDate>Thu, 30 Apr 2009 17:33:52 -0600</pubDate>
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      <item>
       
       <title>Folksong Out of Time</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Kalen Keir</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/folksong-out-of-time.html</link>
       <guid>178749</guid>
       <body>Apart from the echoes of white noise sifting through the tall wooden doors, there was not a quiver of motion outside the pillars of the great hall; not even the flag swayed from its place halfway up the pole. The day’s drizzle had retracted into a brittle glaze of ice at the corners of the pavement. The air was just as thin and somewhat electric, a burning cold stillness in its breath. 

A mile or so away in any given direction, there were people—deep within the insulation of their dwellings, wrapped in sleeping bags, in front of the television, alive—but there, in the blackness of the old downtown, the only sign of light or life radiated from within the auditorium. 

Anxiety roiled in each and every stomach inside the hall, though few paid the feeling any mind; acknowledging one’s dreams had long held consequences, and despair threatened to spill from behind the blinds one might draw in search of brightness. Nevertheless, it was the anticipation of the music which had compelled them to brave the streets on that frigid November evening, and which now fueled the hushed excitement that grew as the people shuffled toward their musty velvet seats.

William Clark, a forty-year-old critic, sat crossing and uncrossing his legs near the aisle of the second row. He was becoming impatient. From this close to the stage, he would be able to see and hear everything: each pious strum and every unpredictable lyric, uttered against the grain, a challenge to the forces of oppression, a rebirth of the passion—he stopped himself there. It was going to make for a rich write-up. For the first time in over thirty years, the man known as Peter Frye was to emerge from the abyss of anonymity, to play a single show. No one quite knew what to expect. 

This was the city in which the troubadour had found a voice, first by singing the songs of the poets who had come before him, and later by molding them into his own. His raw voice pierced any pretense; his lyrics captured the subtleties of the common citizen’s life while it growled at the privileged; his bright and heavy guitar sound was unforgiving; and always, his harmonica rang with a youthful cry. That was one winter before the first trenches were dug. In a violent blur of time that hardly resembled a year, Frye was immortalized on the screens of the media, swept into the centrifugal whirlwind of the growing counterculture. That autumn, when the momentum reached a head, there was a march on the capitol city, concentrating around the government building, which was dubbed the “White Mountain” amongst the crowd. Millions chanted “Brave the tide, shake the Mountain”—it was half defiance and half reverence, an obvious allusion to Frye’s song, “Are the Tides on Your Side?” 

The country had adopted Peter Frye’s voice as its own. His face became the ever-changing face of the people, his song the symbol of a nation. He was called by several names— Troubadour of the Tracks, the Thracian Challenger; he would be the one, above all others, to demolish the mountain, and with it the threat of war. But while his reputation preceded him wherever he went, while his image was omnipresent, the mortal being became reclusive, and before anyone noticed, the world lost track of Peter Frye. Stories spread of how he’d been killed —stabbed and drowned by fanatics or swallowed by the Mountain, as good as dead—they might as well have been true. His disappearance was baffling to most, although ceaseless speculation attempted to demystify it. In the depths of February, the first launches were ordered, to the nation’s horror. Its voice was silenced, the wind swindled from its sails, and the face of its savior all but forgotten. The man was gone, and the people, abandoned, interrogated his ghost.

William Clark had not made a reputation out of writing about ghosts or gods. Sure, to most people Frye was either a runaway or an exile, but tonight he was a man with a responsibility, a destiny which he had returned to fulfill—but he was late, and the audience leaned ever closer to the front of the hall. Clark’s pen found a beat on his notepad sixty times, his heart forty, before at last the curtain jerked, swayed, and parted. The house lights cut out as if they had been swiped by a wave, and a dim glow followed like smoke from the stage. People heard the music’s first gesture before they could see anything. But it was neither a chord nor a note—it was the dull crash of a symbol. It rang twice, and then a third time. 

Clark was beside himself. A band?  This was Peter Frye, playing with a—a fourth crash interrupted. Then all at once, a clamor of strings rang out; bass, guitar, steel guitar, mandolin, banjo. The progression began, a folksy ¬one, two, three chord strum, then falling back to the tonic, each time lingering there a few beats longer. The writer could now make out six figures on stage, each draped over their instrument. As best he could tell, Peter Frye was in the middle of them, his head toward the floor; with a tilt of his neck, the shadowy musician sang into a black microphone. The voice resonated from a distant place within the man’s twisted, aging body; by the time it stretched over cables, squeezed through the huge speakers, and trickled into William’s ears, the words were nearly unintelligible. Pondering what he could put together of the verse, he realized it was a song he knew—not Frye’s at all, but a plain, authorless traditional! Not a masterpiece charged with inspiration, but “A Wind in the Clouds:”

Would I could, I’d be a wind in the clouds,
Would I could, I’d be a wind in the clouds,
Yes, a wind in the clouds, ain’t no more mountain now…
Fly high away from those mountain towns

Absorbing what he heard, Clark was as dazed as he was angry. Belligerently he scribbled to himself. What meaning could he derive from this? “A flop, a fraud! Spineless performance, inscrutable, washed up—and this trivial song, why? Where is the voice, the command? Where is Peter Frye?”

He pieced together another verse: 	
Would I could I’d stand on my hands, 
Would I could I’d stand on my hands,
I would rest my calloused bones, I could stand on my own,
Join me a steel-pickin’ band…

Not a word had been rewritten, not a syllable reimagined. This was nowhere near the performance Clark had envisioned: it was supposed to lift people’s heads from the slump of hardship. ¬His leadership was supposed to return expression to a faceless nation, one person at a time. Instead he was mocking himself, mocking a need. Nothing would come of this, any way William looked at it. Not a spark. Forever, the verses seemed to drone on, until he realized that nearly twenty minutes had passed. 

Oh I ain’t no hammerin’ man 
No I ain’t no hammerin’ man 
He’ll hammer what he can, there’s nowhere left to stand
He’ll die with just a hammer in his hand

He lifted himself from the seat, and resolutely made his way toward the exit, so dismayed by his inner void that the idea of the frozen air outside could not deter him. He would go on to write a review which would be noticed scarcely more than a fire in the sun. 

Clark did not see the face of the man sitting above him as he passed beneath the lip of the balcony. Nor could he have seen it, had he tried: the face belonged to a hardened, older man by the name of John Lunsford, who did not occupy the same room the young man had just left. As far back as he sat, John couldn’t make out any words, and his eyesight didn’t help either; but none of that mattered to him.

John Lunsford had lived in a small town most of his life, where Peter Frye was the name of something which existed in a mythical place, along with the great poets and the people of folklore. When he came to the city for work, along with countless others, Frye’s music was everywhere, as the troubadour had only just vanished. John had no personal acquaintance with the man behind the music, but had felt that they were, somewhere along the line, related. Now, as the memory of those first years in the city began to take on a faded amber hue, his own hands cracked from years of labor, John had finally reached that place of myth, where men breathed the same air as legends. Tonight, the auditorium was the only place he could be.

The band strummed away at the same song, verse after verse, tireless. The singer’s voice was twisted and inscrutable. His face, sunken with age, was not the same as the one which had been stolen for the posters of revolution. His guitar sounded distant, the wood dry. Everything about him seemed to be covered by a thick film, as if he’d walked for thirty years through a desert to come here and sing this song.

Then he raised a harmonica to his lips, drew a long breath, and blew a shining, dissonant chord that illuminated the room. Instantly, all the dust and obscurity fell aside as the hall began to change; the high ceiling and walls swelled and fell away, and the icy sidewalks and skyscrapers beyond evaporated. John felt long grass underneath, even longer than it grew at his childhood home. Still one could hear the harmonica’s wail, rising and falling, but where Frye had stood was no longer a dilapidated old man: to see him was impossible, for one could not capture a clear image. John looked and saw a dark man in ragged coveralls. He had never seen the man before, but all the same he understood that this was the author of “A Wind in the Clouds.” Straining for a better look, he discovered not a man, but a woman, wearing heavy coats and a black veil over her face. Even through her moth-bitten layers, John knew she was the Russian painter and revolutionary Adriana Amatova, who had been imprisoned and executed. Then, his eyes burning with curiosity, he thought he glimpsed someone he knew better than all the rest: he saw himself, dressed in a long, white robe. But while the man onstage seemed to be the mirror image of John Lunsford, the figure was Orpheus, the ancient poet, lyre in hand, his body whole. Just then the harmonica reached the end of its breath and subsided, catapulting John Lunsford back into his seat with the rest of the crowd. 

All at once the song ended on the same chord with which it had begun. The symbol hissed, and the room stood firm around once again. Everyone sat in silence for a moment, before surging to their feet with applause. It was for John as it was for everyone else in the room. The Thracian Poet had never fully existed until that moment; he had truly become the wind, and for a short time lifted the people with him, above the oppressive steel city and the world around it—away from fear, away from the White Mountain. An old man stood motionless on stage, in the middle of the band, and what appeared to be a smile passed over what once again resembled a face.

Apart from the echoes of applause sifting through the tall wooden doors, there was not a quiver of motion outside the pillars of the great hall. Suddenly, a lone figure broke the stillness. His strides, steady and swift, resounded on the concrete, heading straight for the great hall. Behind him followed a strong wind, born from the loins of an autumn long past. The figure was William Clark, and he brought with him the knowledge of the momentous events which had come to pass since he had exited the same doors not thirty minutes before. As he passed the flagpole before the steps, he thought of how he would break the news. He imagined how the relief of the war’s end would sweep over the people like a rushing tide. But they already knew.

-After Ovid, Akhmatova, Yevtushenko, Lunsford, Dylan, and those voices which are never heard.</body>
       <category>
         22883
       </category>
       <pubDate>Thu, 30 Apr 2009 17:30:58 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Elephants</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Amy Nelson</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/elephants.html</link>
       <guid>178748</guid>
       <body>Grandpa’s vintage black Cadillac pulled up on the parkway in front of our small yellow house, and I watched him from the front window as he rearranged stacks of papers, bowling balls, and trash to make room for me in the passenger’s seat. He already looked warm in the black polo that pulled to cover his paunch, and his silver comb over was starting to melt. As he walked up to the house, he blew his Danish nose in a handkerchief, and I was so excited to spend a day with Gramps. 

We were going to the zoo because he wanted to visit its newest edition: the African elephant. The newspaper said it was sick, and Gramps figured we should check on the big guy.

Gramps bought us hot dogs when we walked in the gate, and we ate them while sitting on the train that circles around the entire zoo. I never liked eating with him because his teeth were so old they didn’t seem to work. Dad always told him to seriously go see a dentist, but Gramps always thought he was doing okay. I must have had mustard and ketchup all over my face when we get off the train, ‘cuz Gramps threw his handkerchief my way as we walked to the elephant. 

Personally, I liked to look at the polar bears: dangerous and endangered. A polar bear’s skin is black, but in the same way that a white cloud is made up of clear water, the bear’s fiber optic fur is really only the color of ice. The sign under the thick Plexiglas also told me that all polar bears are left-handed. I looked over at my grandpa standing downwind from the elephant, but I was having more fun trying to make my Arctic friend wave back to me with his left hand.

In sickness or in health, Gramps just wanted to hang with the elephant, and he even chatted with the cage attendant about the African beast. He looked so lovingly at the scary face, with its big ears and all of its tragic muddy majesty. I wondered hard at my grandpa’s fascination. On his coffee table in his house there was a picture of a few men in uniform in front of an elephant. Grandpa said that was when he was in Germany. He had been a military man, so he had traveled more places than I could name. Not that I could name many, because, as I realized, I didn’t know much of anything about his past. 

He didn’t notice as I wandered away to start my own zoo-venture. I skipped around saying “hi!” to all the rest of God’s creatures. I watched the tiger that was getting a part of his back shaved so an animal doctor could treat a rash. The cool thing about tigers is that they have striped skin, not just striped fur. As I walked from the tiger’s den to the snake pit, I saw an ostrich following me on the other side of the fence. I stopped to measure him up, but I didn’t stay long because the giant feather duster had too much anger in his eyes. There was a mongoose in the zoo, too. I had a puzzling time with him, because a mongoose isn’t a goose, but more like a meercat, which isn’t really even a cat, but more like a prairie dog, which isn’t even a dog, but more like a ground squirrel.

My head was swimming with useless animal trivia, so I decided to check on Gramps. He was a very old man, and I knew I shouldn’t trust him to be alone for too long. There he was, smiling a semi-toothless smile at his friend the big African elephant. The beast was standing right next to Gramps, who barely measured up to the tower of thick grey skin that was the elephant’s front leg. 

I stood beside my grandpa, with my fingers laced through the fence and my left foot up on the zoo street curb, a smaller mirror of his stance. At that moment I overcame my little lump of fear, turned to him, and asked, “Gramps. What’s with this elephant?” 

As he turned to smile at me I could see that it took him a great deal of effort to pull his watery old eyes away from the hypnotic pendulum of the elephant’s swinging tail. 

“Ahhh…” My grandpa has this way of taking forever to start a sentence, and there is nothing more annoying to an anxious little girl. “Well, um, elephants, you know.” But I didn’t. I thought again about the picture on his coffee table with an elephant in it and expected a story about Germany. “Did you know that I grew up in Tennessee?” Well, I did know that, and I told him so. He paused, picked me up, and set me on the railing so I could see the elephant better. I just wanted to hear the story. “The first time I ever saw a real elephant was in 1916. I was fifteen years old and my dad took me to the circus.” I tried to picture my grandpa as a kid, smaller with a full head of hair. I couldn’t imagine it at all. 

“Except that elephant—her name was Mary—she killed a man, and crushed the brains out of his head with her foot. So the circus, and the state of Tennessee decided that the elephant needed to be executed. There was a big spectacle, because they didn’t know how. I mean, she was colossal. So they took a huge crane and marched Mary out to the train tracks. And in front of everyone they hanged her by the neck from a derrick car.” My chest got really tight, and I didn’t notice the animal smells anymore. 

“The first time, because she was just so big, she fell out. She sort of wiggled out, and I heard her hip crack. So she just sat there, upright and sad while they got a stronger chain.”

By this point I think my grandpa noticed me pouting. He sighed as he jingled the change in his pockets. “So yeah, I saw an elephant hanged. They took her tusks and made them into dice.” 
</body>
       <category>
         22883
       </category>
       <pubDate>Thu, 30 Apr 2009 17:27:51 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Craig&apos;s World</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Jade Bove</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/craigs-world.html</link>
       <guid>178747</guid>
       <body>Craig woke up with his head on a rock in the middle of the woods. It was getting dark, and there was a small fire in front of him. His head was foggy—he couldn’t hold on to a memory for longer than a few moments before it blurred into obscurity. The name “Macy” kept echoing in his brain, along with an unknown symphonic that he could only half-hear, like the remnants of a dream. Each time the name reverberated against the walls of his skull, his chest tightened and his eyes moistened. There was a strange taste in his mouth and an afterimage of crimson.

He looked down to check for injuries. He stretched his legs and flexed his arms and scratched his behind. His hands were dirty. A rusty brown substance stained the wrinkles of his hands and lined his nails. He hated dirty hands. Everything else seemed to be in order. He looked around for a water source so he might freshen up. 

He was wearing his favorite suit, the one with large shoulder pads and the sleeves permanently rolled up to his elbows. It was wrinkled. He hated wrinkly clothes. The ash grey of the suit and salmon pink of his shirt betrayed his sense of fashion. Despite this small flaw, he was attractive by anyone’s standards.

He reached up to wipe the sweat from his forehead and found he was wearing a helmet. He took it off. It was a football helmet wrapped in aluminum foil. “Why the hell am I wearing this?” he thought. As he looked at it, something inside his chest started punching at his ribcage; something else was pushing the boundaries of his skull. Panicking, he shoved the helmet back on his head, and the stress subsided. 

Craig gazed at the dancing flames and tried to remember. Several minutes passed. He decided to wait here—wherever “here” was—feeding the fire with his thoughts, and possibly some wood, until morning. He was so busy thinking about his situation that he didn’t notice the Administrator had shown up. 

The Administrator was a short man, gnome-short to be precise, and round like a plum with beanpole thin limbs. He emerged from the bushes dragging a small soapbox behind him. He swore mightily as his conical red hat became tangled in the shrubbery. The little gnome stopped across the fire from Craig, stood on his little soapbox, took out a little pipe, took a few little puffs, and cleared his little throat.

“Ah-hem!”

Craig’s shrill scream took all of the birds and squirrels in the trees above him so completely by surprise that they simultaneously loosened their bowels upon the quaint campfire and its immediate area. Craig didn’t want to think about the cost of dry cleaning.

“Hmmmm, yes. Thank you, Craig. I have had better introductions, but that will have to do,” said the Administrator, wiping some berry- and nut-scented goo off his shoulder. “You don’t exactly have all the time in the world.”

Craig’s nice suit now looked like a baby-sealskin dyed orange from the firelight. “Who are you? What am I doing here? Where am I? Who’s going to pay for my suit to get cleaned?” 

The gnome, irritated by all of the questions, exhaled a small cloud of smoke. “I am the Administrator. I greet new travelers in this land. My name is Seamus O’McMally. Everybody who comes to this land stops here at my campfire first. I help them figure out how they got here and which way they need to go to get home.” 

Craig wrinkled his brow, and tugged thoughtfully at his ear. “What are you? Some kind of elf or fairy or something?” 

“No!” the Administrator replied hastily and rather defensively. “The elves are a bunch of stuck-up pricks who think just because there were a couple famous plays written about them that they are hot shit. We prefer to be called Supernaturally Endowed Vertically Impaired Mineral Workers. Jerk-offs, like you, would call us gnomes. To be precise I am a Rather Plump Rolling Hill Gnome, of the Hill Rolling clan.” 

“What does that mean?” asked Craig.

“It means that me and my kin are rather plump,” he gestured to his midsection, “and in our spare time we take great pleasure in rolling down hills. Try it sometime if your anus ever unclenches.” He paused. “The name really says it all; most things here are named literally by what they do and what they are. Honestly, why do you mortals insist on complicating everything with meanings? May I continue?” 

Craig nodded, taken aback by the gnome’s annoyance.

“Good. Now according to protocol we need to find out what it was that led you here before we can send you back to whatever world it is that you came from.”

A sudden thought struck Craig: So far none of this had seemed too far out of the ordinary, which was odd because by any rational reckoning it should seem very strange indeed. Craig decided to just roll with it.

“What do you mean whatever world I come from?”

Seamus stuck the pipe back in his mouth sharply. Craig could almost see the numbers going backwards from ten inside the gnome’s little head. After what seemed like hours, Seamus exhaled a billowing cloud of smoke. “Anyone ever tell you that you ask too many questions?”

 “I am a lawyer,” Craig said sheepishly.

 “That explains it, then. Look, we don’t really have time to get into the whole Multi-Dimensional Entity Existence thing. Right now my job is to find out how you got here. Tell me everything that you remember.”

Craig felt nervous. For the first time in his life he was unsure of what to say. He decided it was best to start at the beginning and see where that led. 

“Well, uhh. . . . My name’s Craig, as you know. Um, how did you know that, by the way?” 

“That’s not important right now. Get on with it,” snapped Seamus.

“For being a cute, plump gnome you’re kind of nasty.” 

“Fucking get on with it!”
 
Craig cleared his throat. “I’m 28, and I graduated from Princeton Law in ‘83. I recently made partner at a very prestigious law firm in New York City and work closely with the investment banking firm Pierce &amp; Pierce. One of my primary clients at the firm is a man named Bateman. He’s an odd guy, but I’m paid well for my services. I’m on my way to becoming a wealthy man.”

He paused to take a breath and scratch an itch under his helmet. Seamus puffed on his pipe and nodded for Craig to continue.

“I’ve been working for the firm for just over a year, and my girlfriend and I recently moved into a nice penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side. Her family is from the Garment District just off Fifth Ave. I was at the office late last night, trying to talk Mr. Bateman out of hysterics. He thought he was a serial killer or something. I told him to lay off the cocaine and get some sleep. I packed up my briefcase and went home. Macy was going to be leaving the studio around nine—she’s a fashion designer. I was going to propose to her that night. Everything was ready when she got home: the china, the candles, the red-checkered tablecloth. I even had time to slip into something more comfortable, if you know what I mean.” 

The gnome rolled his eyes.

Craig could feel a veil lifting from his memory as he talked. It was almost as if someone—some omniscient being of incredible power and authority—was putting the words directly into his head, and all he had to do was open his mouth.

“I love her more than anything.” He was speaking faster now. “She’s kind, funny, and smart.” He paused. “I was positive that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. There were still questions. You know, cold feet kind of questions. As I sat there waiting for her, I went over them again. What if she says no? What if she loves someone else? What if she is secretly psychotic? What if she has a hot sister? Would they be into that sort of thing? Am I doing the right thing? Does she torture small animals? Will she eat olive loaf?” Craig loved olive loaf.

“She walked through the door at 9:30 and was completely surprised by the romantic dinner I had prepared. She sat down, and her face—her face was absolutely radiant. I stared deep into her eyes.” Craig smiled and corrected himself. “Her one eye actually, she lost the other one playing lawn darts.” He sighed. “The candlelight shone off her freshly waxed scalp. God, she was so beautiful. I reached over and took her prosthetic hand.” 

Seamus looked a little pale. 

“‘Macy, I love you….’ I said. ‘Will you...’ and then I had to stop. There was a strange music coming from somewhere. Violins or something. I hadn’t turned the tape player on. I tried to ignore it. Said, ‘Macy, sweetheart…will you be my…’ then I had to stop again. I couldn’t concentrate; all I could hear was the music. It was building. Getting louder, straining to reach the crescendo. ‘Do you hear that?’ I asked her. She shook her head and smiled, and her dentures fell out onto the table. I carefully—lovingly—put the teeth back in her mouth. The music was getting louder. Something weird was happening. Something was moving inside me. It was pushing at my ribcage, trying desperately to get out. I thought it was my heart, so full of love.”

He paused to wipe away a tear. 

“I said, ‘Macy, I love you….the music, I love the music!’ The beautiful song had changed me in a way I didn’t understand. When I looked at her now, I didn’t see my beautiful angel.” Craig readied himself for the confession. “Instead I saw a giant turkey leg with an eye patch. And it looked delicious. I started to feel kind of hot. Hot, and itchy. The music was still playing. I looked at my hands to regain my composure, and I saw claws—savage claws—the claws of an animal. My arms were covered with thick orange hair. I felt my mouth begin to lengthen into a muzzle. The music was changing me into some sort of beast. I looked up at my beloved and thought, ‘Damn, I want you, Macy…with a side of chipotle ranch sauce.’

“Through the fangs I tried again to say what I wanted to say. Said, ‘Macy, I love…will you… I want…ah fuck it.’ I gave in to the music, the beautiful violins, cellos, violas. I lunged across the table and—devoured the one woman I loved more than anything in the world.” Craig was crying now, unashamed to let the tears flow for his beloved. 

“I came to several hours later in the dining room. Guts, blood, and bodily fluids decorated the room. I remembered what happened. I was still a beast of a man, or maybe a man of a beast. I howled at the moon. I cried a little. I knelt down and ate her leftovers.” Craig wiped the tears from his cheeks, and Seamus tapped out his pipe. 

“After that I loped out of the house and off into the darkness. I passed out sometime after—I dunno—three in the morning. When I woke up, I was here.”

It was silent around the campfire. The ruddy orange glow played with the two men’s features, making them into gargoyles or demons. Seamus refilled his pipe and lit it with a twig from the fire. 

“This fire is getting low. Grab a few of those logs behind you, Craig, and toss them on. We have to be on the lookout for the Vicious Black Tree Cows and their masters, the Rare and Timid Tree People. A nice campfire usually keeps them at bay until morning.” Seamus noticed Craig tense up. “Hey, relax, buddy. We’ll be fine. Now why don’t you tell me about your nifty little helmet there?” He didn’t try to mask his condescending tone.

“Well,” began Craig, “when I woke here there was this strange man sitting on that log. His face was shadowed by a deep cowl, and his body engulfed in a long black cloak. He was wearing black nylon socks with flip-flop sandals, which was a little strange. My bestial instincts were still raging, and I wanted blood. I lunged at him. With one fluid movement the man produced a silver aerosol can. I was stopped in midair by a cloud of sticky, amber liquid, then I landed in a heap at the man’s feet. Whatever he sprayed me with was starting to sting.

“The man said he knew what had happened to me. He said he had temporarily immobilized me with a special potion. I was still a beast-man-thing, and my tiny brain could barely make out the meaning of the words. The man stood up, and his cloak fell open to reveal his complete and utter nakedness. It was disgusting. His man-boobs sagged, and the paunch of a belly hung low and pale like…like a gibbous moon kissing the horizon.” He paused. “Unfortunately it did not cover his manhood, which was shriveled and small. His white legs were scrawny and hairless. I threw up in my mouth a little; it leaked through my fangs and dribbled onto the ground. It was embarrassing. I tried to ask him what he knew, but it sounded like I was speaking through a blender. 

“The hooded nudist said, ‘You, my friend, have fallen victim to something very foul and insidious. A force has been loosed upon the worlds that drives individuals completely mad.’” Craig’s voice had taken on an elevated tone. “‘I am talking, of course, about the theme music, the music that plays when the mood is just right. It makes scary moments truly terrifying, causes tension to become anxiety, turns happy moments into pure bliss. In your case, it made romance blossom into unconditional love. However, you are not supposed to hear it. To hear the theme music is to enjoy an opera performed by the sirens of myth. It drives one completely mad.’

“I looked at him, dumbfounded. That was the stupidest thing I had ever heard. But why, I asked, why had I turned into a beast? Was I some kind of werewolf now? My animal noises were silenced by a dismissive wave.

“The man went on. ‘There is a man in this world who has found a way to control the theme music and bend it to his will. He wants to take over all the worlds. He has issues, deep psychological and emotional issues. In fact he is quite insane. I’m not sure how this man is able to control the theme music, but I assure you I will know soon. Until then, you must wear this special insulating helmet.’

“I have absolutely no idea where he was hiding it,” Craig explained, “but he placed the helmet on my head. He told me it would keep me from turning into the beast. I was starting to feel tired. The repellent combined with the helmet was sapping my energy. Through a haze I heard the man say, ‘I have to leave you now. When you wake up, you will see a campfire. Wait for the Administrator. He will make all of this clear.’ The naked man then gathered the cloak around him and melted back into the forest.”

Seamus looked irritated, as if he were engulfed in a cloud of gnats buzzing the tune to “The Song That Never Ends.” “I thought that jackass had been kicked out of this place.”

“Seamus, who was that guy? And what about the music he was talking about?” 

Seamus paced in front of the fire, jabbing at shadows with his pipe. “That guy is a menace. He’s part of the reason people end up here. He makes my job difficult. Nobody knows his name. Most of us just call him ‘Wee Willie.’ He has been roaming the worlds spouting this half-cocked notion that someone is controlling the theme music in order to conquer countries. It is true that there is theme music, and that you mortals do go a bit coo-coo when you hear it, but it is rarely as severe as what happened to you.”

“Well, is there a guy who controls the theme music?” Craig asked.

“Of course there is, dummy. Everything has some sort of moderator or administrator or distributor; an avatar if you will. Juan is a director, but not a very good one, and he was feeling depressed about it, so we gave him the theme music. But we keep tabs on him. He shouldn’t be able to manipulate it, merely guide its flow like a small stream.” Seamus was visibly worried. 

“Juan…?” Craig struggled to keep up.

“Juan Sanchez. He is the dictator of a land whose people won’t take him seriously. It’s south of this one.” Agitated, Seamus pulled his hat off. The firelight reflected off his balding head. He looked to the west and saw that the sun was coming up.

“Okay, chief: Here’s what we’re gonna do. I have some things to check out. Don’t move from this campsite. Keep your helmet on and try to get some sleep. Once I come back, I’ll have a plan, and we can work on sending you home.” Seamus grabbed his soapbox and started dragging it back into the bushes, muttering about menaces and depressed dictators and how the whole lot of creations was going right down the drain. 

Craig listened until the voice trailed off into nothingness.

He decided to heed the little guy’s advice. He added a log to the fire to coax the flames from their hiding places. Curling up next to the glowing coals, he was soon fast asleep, dreaming about Macy.

The park police were aware that the homeless and deranged regularly camped in Central Park. As long as they didn’t start any fires and kept to themselves, the police were content to leave them be. Officer Sanchez was on the Sheep Meadow to East Green circuit when he smelled the smoke. He followed it to its source: a thicket walled by large shrubs and sheltered by low-hanging elms. He wasn’t surprised to find a homeless man. He was a little curious about the battered lawn gnome perched on a wooden crate surrounded by candles, and the broken mannequin wearing an eye patch. The man was wearing a badly chipped Raiders helmet and using a large stone as a pillow. The area was littered with empty Coors Light cans. A dog-eared copy of Bret Easton Ellis’s American Psycho lay next to the sleeping hobo. 

Officer Sanchez didn’t want to, but he had to give the guy a citation for an open fire. It was unfortunate—these guys never paid their tickets and sometimes got violent. He sighed as he bent over to shake the sleeping man awake. 

“Seamus? Is that you? Have you figured out what Sanchez is up to?” said the homeless man, who was covered in pigeon shit and dirt and fleas. 

“Sorry, buddy. I’m not Seamus; I’m Officer Sanchez, and I need you to put that fire out.” 

“I can’t let the fire go out—it isn’t safe yet,” cried the confused man. “I have to wait for Seamus to get back, so we can stop Juan Sanchez from taking over the worlds with theme music!”

Officer Sanchez wondered how the man knew his name. The poor guy couldn’t possibly know that he moonlighted as a composer. “Look, buddy, I just had an unpleasant conversation with your naked friend in the hoodie and sent him downtown. If you don’t want to join him, you’d better put that fire out. Now.” Sanchez felt bad. The bewildered look in the man’s eyes appeared genuine. Sanchez often pondered whether these people, the homeless and seemingly crazy, actually inhabited a world of their own design—one that just happened to intersect with his own from time to time.

The two stared at each other for a few moments, Sanchez sizing up the man in case he got violent, the other clearly trying to decide if Sanchez were trustworthy. “Alright, pal,” conceded Sanchez, “why don’t you take off the helmet and tell me your story. Then put the fire out.” That seemed to placate him.

The man removed the helmet. “I can’t be held responsible for any harm that comes from taking this off,” he said nervously, eyes darting around the clearing.

The man talked, and Sanchez listened until the sun had risen above the eastern horizon. From a distance, Sanchez thought he could hear a string quartet playing a glorious ode to the rising sun. Suddenly the man doubled over and howled in agony. Sanchez rushed to his side. The man convulsed and kicked the helmet over by the gnome. The man was trying to say something, but what came out were grunts and growls. 

“You’d better get that helmet back on his melon, Chief.” The voice came from behind Office Sanchez. He whirled around…and nearly soiled himself when the ceramic gnome stepped off the crate, retrieved the helmet, and waddled over to him. “Go on, put it on him, and I’ll bring you up to speed.”
</body>
       <category>
         22883
       </category>
       <pubDate>Thu, 30 Apr 2009 17:21:56 -0600</pubDate>
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      <item>
       
       <title>August 1985</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Erin Poljanac</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/august-1985.html</link>
       <guid>178746</guid>
       <body>He didn’t know, he would never know. The cake twisted and curved, the icing like caterpillars squirming around the edges. Charles’s wife would never know either. She preferred the heroics, the stories of the march down the Champs Elysée as the whole army followed a glimpse of De Gaulle’s head, and best of all, the sight of Charles in uniform on his way to her house. Charles had left De Gaulle’s near assassination out of stories for her sake since she loved that man in all his exoticism. Yet she loved Charles, more than heroics, and so she stuck her square hand behind his back, pulling him towards her. They agreed with the first stiff swing of the hammock that they would get married. Many years later, yards from that hammock, their house sheltered four boys, named after his brothers and himself (Mike, Matt, Frank, and Charlie). 

All four sat across from him now, tossing their fingers across the wood table, watching the cake and their father’s eyes glittering. He smiled at the mark of life in each candle.

“Make a wish. Need help blowing out the candles?” 

Matt had always been the sensitive one. 

“He’ll be fine.”

Mike denied things (he still refused to accept that his first girlfriend dumped him and not the other way around).

“I’m going to count to three and then I’ll take a picture.”

Frank wanted memories in all forms except those that were permanent inside his head.

It was Charlie’s turn to offer a word of gratitude or forecast the impending happiness for the next year of his father’s life. Instead Charlie sank in his chair, silent, his brown eyes forced further back. He remembered the vestiges of love. The memory appeared to him, initially, unfocused, like the clutter of Uncle Mike’s house. None of the uncles had children to share except Uncle Mike, who had only one child of his own, a woman in her early thirties who worked as an accountant in Colorado. The only time Charlie saw her was at Uncle Mike’s house on the day of Grandpa Heller’s funeral. Her mahogany hair, trimmed into a combed pixie cut, reminded Charlie of old black and white movies. This sole cousin skated out of the house before any deeper knowledge could come of the experience. The rest of the kids were left to scavenge for themselves. His brothers’ whereabouts could not be determined (it was probably the night of their first real drink, a stolen trip to a curb a block away with other equally rebellious mourners and a cup of vodka to share). 

During the funeral reception, Mom and Dad separated at first to deal out sympathies to relatives who could barely remember their faces, but they drifted back to each other within half an hour. Standing on her toes, Mom raised her long makeup-less face to Dad’s black collar. He allowed her to whisper a comment directly into his ear, words that required a close proximity due to their inappropriate nature. As Mom crushed her block of yellow hair, biting her natural lips into color, Dad laughed privately with his hands in his pockets, diving his head down in shame to smother the noise. Charlie’s imagination tossed possible conversations:

“Aunt Virginia’s skirt is see-through. She’s on your left. Don’t be obvious. I’ll look right and you get a quick look.” 

“Why do I need to see this?”

Then the laughter.

Or: “I need a fucking drink. I mentioned us living together before we were married to Great-Aunt Emma.”

“You didn’t see her giant cross? She’s 90 pounds. It takes up her entire body.”

“I was too distracted by her death stare. I didn’t see it until after the fact.”

Then the laughter.

The vestiges of love—not marked by the quasi-religious symbolism of a ring on a finger or children resembling both of them. Charlie had basked in the attention as he nibbled on a ham sandwich and leaned against the couch, which scratched his back. There was a tide of comfort, like the tucking in of sheets, that set in with the apparent happiness of his parents. Actually, they never tucked him in except when he ordered them one night to do so, and even then he received blank eyes and scrunched noses. Dad trod solemnly to Charlie’s bed as if he was performing a coronation under order of death. Mom hung on the other side, angular hands intertwined, her almond eyes half shut to strategize the next movement. No one needed to talk; they would build on each others’ silence like the creation of a story passed along the campfire. Charlie’s covers mummified him; Dad ensured any mobility impossible, including the ability to unravel in the shiftless morning. Charlie exempted them from further ceremonies, insisting it was the best for all of them—including the covers.

The family gathered, tucking themselves nearer around the table. He didn’t know, he would never know, Charlie thought as he eyed his father, a laughing mop of wrinkles. Vietnam. Saigon. The search for his hometown friend, ending, as always, in vain—he’d searched every shrub, every place a friend could be hidden except under the ground. His father blew out the candles, sputtering a cold breath across the table towards his sons. He enjoyed this moment between the wish and the cutting of the cake; Charles would always belong to the era of birthday parties, Truman and Normandy (a won battle, all of them). His was the generation that built tanks from melted spoons—or so Charlie dreamed when he was a boy overhearing war stories from everybody but his father. Outside, a bird chirred, gravely alone. The veterans had warned him: “Every time you hear a bird chirp and leaves rustle…” But Charlie had told them, “I’m a different breed.” What did he think he was, a golden retriever? Ten years later, he still sunk lower in his chair whenever he heard a damn bird. 									

“Who wants a piece?” the wife and mother asked, holding the knife above the cake in the art of surgery. It was a beautiful cake. It danced. They would all eat it, fall under its spell, and talk again like before wars and attrition. She had packed away the hammock (its skeleton was weaker than hers), but she would put it up tomorrow. Perhaps all by herself, she might make it a surprise for all of them, waking in their old beds, restored, a hammock waiting outside for them to sleep or read on.

He didn’t know, he would never know; the father complied, recalling the Champs Elysée and the German snipers nesting above in the grooved, ancient rooftops. The Vichy collaborators shot, as many as the candles, hurling upwards in smoke. Charles and Charlie stared across the table, silent against the chatter that sounded around them. But, as Charles accepted a piece of cake with a nod, that would be all right. </body>
       <category>
         22883
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       <pubDate>Thu, 30 Apr 2009 17:17:33 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Launch Party</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>Hey guys! To celebrate the release of this year's Ivory Tower, we're throwing a party! </p>

<p><strong>Saturday, May 9th<br />
7:00 pm, program begins at 7:30<br />
Mississippi Room, Coffman Memorial Union</strong></p>

<p>Come enjoy some food and Lucy Michelle will be playing! Hope to see you there!</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/launch-party.html</link>
       <guid>178745</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         14783
       </category>
       <pubDate>Thu, 30 Apr 2009 16:36:16 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>5th St. First Congressional</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Michael Daniel Lee</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/5th-st-first-congressional.html</link>
       <guid>178418</guid>
       <body>Church steps sit
4 steps from the god step
as wind steps gently
through my bones
carrying my skin to the heart center
of a breath breeze
flak jacket
lung smoke and rib meat
are meeting
each other for the first time
as gusts of god
cover us gently
me and my
smoke cloaked brother.

Nothing embraces us
and his children smile gently
as god whispers through their
hair
respiration
is beautiful
when you know it exists
and you sit inside of it
letting it swallow you whole.</body>
       <category>
         22886
       </category>
       <pubDate>Tue, 28 Apr 2009 17:26:56 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>On The Edge</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>It’s April now, and we’ve somehow finished most of what we set out to do as a literary magazine. We have edited the pants off of the rough copy of the Ivory Tower (multiple times) and given it a kiss and sent it off to the printer in Wisconsin. It looks great, and we now have to wait a few weeks to receive the copies we’ll distribute on campus. So we study literary magazines while we wait. It has been interesting to observe how literary magazines have changed (or in some cases, stayed the same) through the years, and how they can be barometers for the times during which they were published.  </p>

<p>We’re also working on planning our launch party. We’ve found a location in Coffman and are looking into finding some delicious food and décor for our shindig. Lucy Michelle (from Lucy Michelle and the Velvet Lapels) will be playing, and we’re excited to have her. It’s going to be an awesome event, and we’re hoping lots of people will show up for it! Hope to see YOU there!</p>

<p>Kate Carpenter<br />
Poetry Editor</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/on-the-edge.html</link>
       <guid>176347</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         14783
       </category>
       <pubDate>Tue, 07 Apr 2009 16:35:55 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Judges</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>Part of our launch party program (which is May 9th!) will be to present an award to the submitter of the top piece in each genre. Our magazine includes poetry, fiction, non-fiction, art and special content--music, comics, etc.</p>

<p> Our poetry judge is Todd Boss. Check him out at www.toddbosspoet.com . He has recently written a book of poetry called Yellowrocket which I bought immediately after having heard him read from it. It is published by Norton, which is a pretty big deal and he lives in Minneapolis! He does readings with other poets once a month at Nina's Coffee Cafe too--go check it out. </p>

<p>Our fiction judge is Lin Enger. He recently wrote a book called Undiscovered Country and has also co-written a number of mystery novels. He is a U of M grad and now teaches creative writing at Moorhead. His website is www.lin-enger.com . </p>

<p>Our non-fiction judge is Brad Listi. He has a best-selling book out called Attention. Deficit. Disorder. His website, bradlisti.com, is a lot of fun to check out. He also founded the online literary community and publication www.thenervousbreakdown.com which features writers from around the world. </p>

<p>Our special content judge is Laurie Lindeen. She was the front-woman of the band Zuzu's Petals and wrote a memoir called Petal Pusher: A Rock and Roll Cinderella Story. She read part of it for us at our last workshop (another one tomorrow!) which she did a wonderful job of leading. Her website is www.laurielindeen.com </p>

<p>We still haven't found an art judge but we're looking very hard for someone very awesome. </p>

<p>Look out for more information on our launch party and make sure you come! </p>

<p><br />
Evy Bround<br />
Marketing and Public Relations Director</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/04/judges.html</link>
       <guid>174617</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         14783
       </category>
       <pubDate>Wed, 01 Apr 2009 18:18:11 -0600</pubDate>
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      <item>
       
       <title>We Want Your Music and Movies!</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>Sup guys! </p>

<p>Are you a dude or a chick that films stuff on their digital cameras for fun? Or do you record music for fun?</p>

<p>We're now accepting Music and Movies!</p>

<p>E-mail us your submissions!<br />
If you have any questions... you can also e-mail us about that!</p>

<p><br />
<strong>Deadline is April 8th.</strong></p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2009/03/we-want-your-music-and-movies.html</link>
       <guid>174184</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12853
       </category>
       <pubDate>Tue, 31 Mar 2009 16:57:11 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Utne Reader</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><a href="http://www.utne.com"><h3>Utne Reader</h3></a></p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/11/utne-reader.html</link>
       <guid>155756</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12984
       </category>
       <pubDate>Thu, 20 Nov 2008 14:57:54 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       <enclosure url="http://mediamill.cla.umn.edu/mediamill/download.php?file=13273.flv&amp;width=320&amp;height=20&amp;repeat=false&amp;autostart=false&amp;image=http://mediamill.cla.umn.edu/mediamill/thumb.php?id=8711%26big=true" length="2512700" type="video/x-flv" />
       <title>A Quiet Dinner With A Friend</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>Rhael Laramy</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/a-quiet-dinner-with-a-friend-2.html</link>
       <guid>128824</guid>
       <body>








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       <category>
         17021
       </category>
       <pubDate>Fri, 16 May 2008 14:12:28 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>A Journey to the Land with No Tollbooths</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>Jeff Shockley</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/a-journey-to-the-land-with-no.html</link>
       <guid>128814</guid>
       <body>








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       <category>
         17021
       </category>
       <pubDate>Fri, 16 May 2008 13:07:39 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Summer Rain</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>The Abdomen</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/summer-rain.html</link>
       <guid>128812</guid>
       <body>








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       <category>
         17021
       </category>
       <pubDate>Fri, 16 May 2008 13:05:08 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Drift</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>Roster McCabe</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/drift.html</link>
       <guid>128811</guid>
       <body>








</body>
       <category>
         17021
       </category>
       <pubDate>Fri, 16 May 2008 13:02:54 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Black Pride</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>Timotheus Gordon, Jr.</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/black-pride.html</link>
       <guid>128810</guid>
       <body>








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       <category>
         17021
       </category>
       <pubDate>Fri, 16 May 2008 13:01:15 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>New Girl</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>Jonathan Dessi-Olive</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/new-girl.html</link>
       <guid>128809</guid>
       <body>








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       <category>
         17021
       </category>
       <pubDate>Fri, 16 May 2008 12:56:37 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Bleach the Black Away</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>Cindy Koy</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/bleach-the-black-away.html</link>
       <guid>128808</guid>
       <body>








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       <category>
         17021
       </category>
       <pubDate>Fri, 16 May 2008 12:52:51 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>You Don&apos;t Care</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>DNT</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/you-dont-care.html</link>
       <guid>128807</guid>
       <body>








</body>
       <category>
         17021
       </category>
       <pubDate>Fri, 16 May 2008 12:49:57 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Little Company</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>The New Music Machine</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/little-company.html</link>
       <guid>128806</guid>
       <body>








</body>
       <category>
         17021
       </category>
       <pubDate>Fri, 16 May 2008 12:48:25 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Be Connected</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>Jasmine Omorogbe, Thomas Toley, and Mosun</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/be-connected.html</link>
       <guid>128805</guid>
       <body>








</body>
       <category>
         17021
       </category>
       <pubDate>Fri, 16 May 2008 12:44:25 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Bring Me Down</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>Will Hutchinson</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/bring-me-down.html</link>
       <guid>128804</guid>
       <body>








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       <category>
         17021
       </category>
       <pubDate>Fri, 16 May 2008 12:40:26 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>A Cold Silence</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>Sarah Boden</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/a-cold-silence-1.html</link>
       <guid>128803</guid>
       <body>








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       <category>
         17021
       </category>
       <pubDate>Fri, 16 May 2008 12:37:13 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Osbick Bird</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>Lucy Michelle & the Velvet Lapelles</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/osbick-bird.html</link>
       <guid>128802</guid>
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       <category>
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       </category>
       <pubDate>Fri, 16 May 2008 11:59:32 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Stacks</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>Little Boxes</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/stacks.html</link>
       <guid>128795</guid>
       <body>








</body>
       <category>
         17021
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       <pubDate>Fri, 16 May 2008 11:52:50 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Jamison</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>Marlene Moxness</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/jamison-1.html</link>
       <guid>128794</guid>
       <body>








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       <category>
         17021
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       <pubDate>Fri, 16 May 2008 11:49:32 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Won&apos;t you come see me</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>Two Beat Band</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/a-quiet-dinner-with-a-friend-1.html</link>
       <guid>128791</guid>
       <body>








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       <category>
         17021
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       <pubDate>Fri, 16 May 2008 11:22:21 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Sweet Home Chicago</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Timotheus Pharaoh Gordon, Jr.</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/sweet-home-chicago.html</link>
       <guid>128768</guid>
       <body>Download Sweet Home Chicago (PDF).</body>
       <category>
         12737
       </category>
       <pubDate>Fri, 16 May 2008 09:31:30 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>La Mer</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Marisa Tam</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/la-mer-1.html</link>
       <guid>128402</guid>
       <body>I follow him against my better judgment, knowing that I should go home, forget him and this city I could never love, the sailors and the fish blood on the street. Yet I follow. We walk along a pier of rocks, a strip of rough land laid into the sea, for what purpose I do not know. We walk for hours, it seems, the rocks prodding my feet through my shoes, before he stops and tells me to look up. I do.

“What do you think?? he asks.

“C’est... c’est...?  The language fails me, and I simply breathe: “It’s beautiful.?

Azure blue waves stretch from our feet to the horizon, white caps tumbling in the distance, the clear water lapping at the rocks on which I stand.  His fingers brush mine, moving to settle between them, linking us together in this moment.

The word epiphany forms in my mind, and I wonder what the French would call it. Here, we are two tiny, insignificant breaths in the great gale of wind. We are fleeting heartbeats and violent opposites connected by the tenuous union of hands, the small caress of simple human contact in the face of the unrelenting sea. This moment is the closest I have ever come to God. I am Eve, holding on to Adam, wondering what the brave new world has in store for us.
	
I feel his heartbeat in his fingers. It races, trips over itself in its haste to meet my own, which is quickening in response. How is it that we can fight and tear each other to shreds, and yet our unspilled blood still burns, passion confused between hatred and love?

This must be the temptation. Perhaps I stand not with Adam, but with the serpent at my side. He has led me here, shown me what it is to know the world, and now am I to taste the apple? I consult the ancient, impassive sea, and beg her for answers. I miss the response in the wind, so I look at him instead. I hate him. I love him. I want him, beyond all reason or counsel. In his eyes I see the earth of France, deep, rich brown in which to settle my roots, to find my place in this strange land. A corona of blue surrounds him, dark hair and dark eyes against the sea and sky, the earthly against the heavenly. I brush his lips—a kiss, but not a consent. I cannot stay in Marseille. I cannot go to Paris. I hate him, I love him, I want him.

The wind that whips my hair carries in its breath the sounds of the port. The ships, the sailors, fishmongers and seafarers, the cries of a city drowning in the sea, reveling in the shade. I cannot stay where the ground seems to move underfoot with the swells of the sea, where humanity stands against the power of the water.

“Viens,? he is saying. “Viens.?

The rocks prod my feet through my shoes. The clear water laps at the rocks on which I stand. There is no serpent, no apple, no sin.

There is only the sea.
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       <category>
         12735
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       <pubDate>Tue, 13 May 2008 19:50:06 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>What&apos;s Inside You</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/laughlinWhatsInsideYou.jpg" alt="What's Inside You"> by Peter Laughlin</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/whats-inside-you.html</link>
       <guid>126192</guid>
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       <pubDate>Fri, 02 May 2008 11:51:18 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Urban Renewal</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/raffenspergerUrbanRenewal.jpg" alt="Urban Renewal"> by Erin Raffensperger</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/urban-renewal.html</link>
       <guid>126190</guid>
       <body></body>
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       <pubDate>Fri, 02 May 2008 11:48:17 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Untitled 2</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/edstromUntitled2.jpg" alt="Untitled 2"> by Justin Edstrom</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/untitled-2.html</link>
       <guid>126189</guid>
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       <pubDate>Fri, 02 May 2008 11:45:06 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Pacific</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/forsaaenPacific.jpg" alt="Pacific"> by Pal Fosaaen</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/pacific-1.html</link>
       <guid>126187</guid>
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       <pubDate>Fri, 02 May 2008 11:39:41 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Northern Pacific Lights</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/wardNorthernPacificLights.jpg" alt="Northern Pacific Lights"> by Davidson Ward</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/northern-pacific-lights.html</link>
       <guid>126182</guid>
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       <pubDate>Fri, 02 May 2008 11:33:46 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Little Beating Hearts</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/buronLittleBeatingHearts.jpg" alt="Little Beating Hearts"> by Nic Buron</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/little-beating-hearts.html</link>
       <guid>126180</guid>
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       <pubDate>Fri, 02 May 2008 11:20:18 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Lights and Motion</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/tamLightsAndMotion.jpg" alt="Lights and Motion"> by Marisa Tam</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/lights-and-motion.html</link>
       <guid>126178</guid>
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       <pubDate>Fri, 02 May 2008 11:14:15 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Kowalski Girl</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/duMonceauxKowalskiGirl.jpg" alt="Kowalski Girl"> by Brittany du'Monceaux</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/kowalski-girl.html</link>
       <guid>126172</guid>
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       <pubDate>Fri, 02 May 2008 11:02:37 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Jacques</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/ridgewayJacques.jpg" alt="Jacques"> by Aaron Ridgeway</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/jacques.html</link>
       <guid>126169</guid>
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       <pubDate>Fri, 02 May 2008 10:57:34 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Iron City</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/kirbyIronCity.jpg" alt="Iron City"> by Allison Kirby</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/iron-city.html</link>
       <guid>126167</guid>
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       <pubDate>Fri, 02 May 2008 10:52:15 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>I Was Born Into This</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/deSoniaIWasBornIntoThis.jpg" alt="I Was Born Into This"> by Sylvia de Sonia</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/i-was-born-into-this.html</link>
       <guid>126165</guid>
       <body> </body>
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       <pubDate>Fri, 02 May 2008 10:46:13 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Farming</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/ridgewayFarming.jpg" alt="Farming"> by Aaron Ridgeway</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/farming.html</link>
       <guid>126161</guid>
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       <pubDate>Fri, 02 May 2008 10:38:53 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Dorothy Becoming A Woman</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/reuterDorothyBecomingAWoman.jpg" alt="Dorothy Becoming a Woman"> by Sarah Reuter</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/dorothy-becoming-a-woman.html</link>
       <guid>126159</guid>
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       <pubDate>Fri, 02 May 2008 10:33:06 -0600</pubDate>
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       <enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/ziolkowskiConquest.jpg" length="16094" type="image/jpeg" /><enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/ziolkowskiConquest.jpg" length="67110" type="image/jpeg" />
       <title>Conquest</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/ziolkowskiConquest.jpg" alt="Conquest"> by Christopher Ziolkowski</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/conquest.html</link>
       <guid>126156</guid>
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       <pubDate>Fri, 02 May 2008 10:26:35 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Comics Rule 3</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/silvaComicsRule3.jpg" alt="Comics Rule 3"> by Michelle Silva</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/comics-rule-3.html</link>
       <guid>126152</guid>
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       <pubDate>Fri, 02 May 2008 10:12:36 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Comics Rule 2</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/silvaComicsRule2.jpg" alt="Comics Rule 2"> by Michelle Silva</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/comics-rule-2.html</link>
       <guid>126150</guid>
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       <pubDate>Fri, 02 May 2008 10:02:05 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Comics Rule 1</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/silvaComicsRule.jpg" alt="Comics Rule 1"> by Michelle Silva</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/comics-rule-1.html</link>
       <guid>126149</guid>
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       <pubDate>Fri, 02 May 2008 09:42:31 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Cold Love</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/reuterColdLove.jpg" alt="Cold Love"> by Sarah Reuter</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/05/cold-love.html</link>
       <guid>126145</guid>
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       <pubDate>Fri, 02 May 2008 09:27:09 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Like Running But Not Exactly</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Erica Schwanke</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/04/like-running-but-not-exactly.html</link>
       <guid>125299</guid>
       <body>Download Like Running But Not Exactly (PDF)</body>
       <category>
         12737
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 28 Apr 2008 15:10:29 -0600</pubDate>
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      <item>
       
       <title>Mr. Bones</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Jim Benz</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/04/mr-bones.html</link>
       <guid>125297</guid>
       <body>Download Mr. Bones (PDF)</body>
       <category>
         12737
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 28 Apr 2008 14:58:01 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Astrophil 2000</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By W.A. Alexander</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/04/astrophil-2000.html</link>
       <guid>125291</guid>
       <body>Download Astrophil 2000 (PDF).</body>
       <category>
         12737
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 28 Apr 2008 14:49:43 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Assumption</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Sarah Bodeau</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/04/assumption.html</link>
       <guid>125290</guid>
       <body>Download Assumption (PDF)</body>
       <category>
         12737
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 28 Apr 2008 14:45:04 -0600</pubDate>
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       <enclosure url="http://mediamill.cla.umn.edu/mediamill/download.php?file=13273.flv&amp;width=320&amp;height=20&amp;repeat=false&amp;autostart=false&amp;image=http://mediamill.cla.umn.edu/mediamill/thumb.php?id=8711%26big=true" length="2512700" type="video/x-flv" />
       <title>A Quiet Dinner With A Friend</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Rhael Laramy</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/04/a-quiet-dinner-with-a-friend.html</link>
       <guid>125289</guid>
       <body>Download A Quiet Dinner With A Friend (PDF).









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       <category>
         12737
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       <pubDate>Mon, 28 Apr 2008 14:40:47 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>The Chandelier</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Lisa Lipschultz</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/04/the-chandelier.html</link>
       <guid>125288</guid>
       <body>Download The Chandelier (PDF).</body>
       <category>
         12737
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 28 Apr 2008 14:36:04 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Debris</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Erica Niemiec</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/04/debris.html</link>
       <guid>125277</guid>
       <body>Download Debris (PDF)</body>
       <category>
         12737
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 28 Apr 2008 14:21:32 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Chainsaw</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Andrew Rosch</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/04/chainsaw.html</link>
       <guid>125273</guid>
       <body>Download Chainsaw (PDF).</body>
       <category>
         12737
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 28 Apr 2008 14:12:43 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Just A Game</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Jamie Joslin</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/04/just-a-game.html</link>
       <guid>124756</guid>
       <body>Download Just A Game (PDF).</body>
       <category>
         12736
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       <pubDate>Fri, 25 Apr 2008 10:30:04 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Idiot Toothpaste</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Dixon Bordiano</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/04/idiot-toothpaste.html</link>
       <guid>124753</guid>
       <body>Download Idiot Toothpaste (PDF).</body>
       <category>
         12736
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       <pubDate>Fri, 25 Apr 2008 10:19:55 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>The Circles We Live In</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Kari Volkmann-Carlsen</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/04/the-circles-we-live-in.html</link>
       <guid>124752</guid>
       <body>The Tuesday ladies, so named because they meet every Tuesday of the month, are two sixty-something friends who sit facing so that their graying bobs of hair seem to reflect each other. They always sit by the window alongside the flower bed, perhaps so that their view is a little more like an English garden and a little less like the urban Starbucks I am sitting in. I know that the woman with the British accent is called Gwyneth because she has a tendency to insert her own name into anecdotes: “And I said to myself, ‘Gwyneth, I simply don’t understand how you’ve developed such a green thumb!’ ? Rarely a minute goes by in which neither of them speaks, though it is really Gwyneth who ensures the constant flow of words, her friend listening attentively. Her friend has become fairly adept at properly inserting laughter and, when it seems fitting, wrinkling her eyebrow in a furrow of disbelief. Gwyneth appreciates this silent input, and it encourages her to push on, full steam, with another equally mundane story.  

Most days I watch Gwyneth because she demands attention in a way that is almost exhausting. Today, I am more interested in the listener who never seems to tire of her friend. It’s clear the listener is a lover of purple, for she is clad in it every Tuesday from head to toe. Trying to hide the fact that I am watching her, I avert my gaze every so often to the artwork behind the British lady—a garish digital print of a large-eyed youth—but it is difficult to pull my eyes away from the listener’s violets and amethysts and plums. She is wearing no other color, aside from the white rubber soles of her purple Keds. I have never met anyone so fond of this color, besides myself aged six and, of course, my almost-step-sister of the same age; but society doesn’t scorn monochromatic attire if you still pick your nose in public and eat popsicles so fast that your brain freezes for a week. 

Our invested interest in purple, which included clothing, lunchboxes, backpacks, winter coats, and whatever else we could manage to color purple with the help of Crayola, was not all that unlike other Barbie-crazed girls of our age. Nevertheless, in the same way the body purges excess vitamin C, so had my body discovered a clever way to rid itself of purple. The year we were six, my almost-step-sister and I celebrated the only Christmas we would have together. We were given the same t-shirts by our parents, which, through some miraculous chemistry, changed colors in the sun. Inside the kindergarten classroom the shirt was pink, but at recess it turned into a bright and lovely violet. At least that is what her shirt did. I had been given one that changed from orange to yellow and everyone agreed that it was significantly less cool. I decided that the proper way to save face was to boycott pink and purple. And I stuck to it until I got home, where my mom stomped out any ideas of reform. With only the enemy colors in my wardrobe, there was little I could wear besides a hand-me-down Hooters t-shirt, and that would not be accompanying me to school the next day.

I didn’t have that sister long, because shortly after Christmas, my mom kicked her dad out. He took my almost-step-sister with him, back to Florida. For a while I got letters from her telling me things that made me jealous. She said she threw away her winter coat because it was so warm down there, and that her new friend was from Texas and taught her how to do “hook-‘em-horns.? I didn’t know what this was, but I wished that I did. The snow melted in Minnesota, and with it, it seemed, so had Danielle’s desire to write to me. That spring, my mom and I moved in with a man she had met, and by the time I started first grade in the new town, I had nearly forgotten about my almost-step-sister. I wore a purple dress for the first day of school, and I rode the bus alone. 

It wasn’t until third grade that I dug the memory of her out of the cobwebbed portions of my brain. Her grandmother had sent a letter to my mom inviting us to visit them. For whatever reason, my mom thought she would take up the invitation, and we found ourselves in Florida the winter I turned nine. We spent only four days there, in a hotel down the street from Danielle and her grandma. She didn’t live with her dad anymore because her grandma wouldn’t allow it. Nobody told me why, but I didn’t wonder too much because I didn’t live with my dad either. 

I was timid when I met Danielle again; I no longer considered her my almost-step-sister. My mom and her grandma left us alone to play while they talked, and Danielle taught me how to do “hook-‘em-horns.? She folded down her three middle fingers, leaving the thumb and pinky sticking straight out, and shook her hand back and forth. I thought it wasn’t as cool as she made it sound in her letter, but I didn’t say that. She gave me her school picture and when my mom and I returned to Minnesota I taped it on my binder at school, along with the rows of other classmates’ pictures. All of my friends wondered who she was. I told them she was my sister, and the boys’ eyes stared unblinkingly at the tiny squared-in face. 

A single human being really doesn’t take up that much space. I imagine circles drawn on the floor of the coffee shop, representing the area around each person. All circles considered, relatively little room is actually occupied. Yet many people are looking around for empty seats, wondering whether it is okay to sit at a table with someone they don’t know. The circles are moving precariously, and one is taking small steps closer to me where there is an empty seat. I smile to let the young, suited man with a laptop know that he is welcome to sit with me. I know that he will not expect conversation, as he seems to be here for business, so I turn my attention back to the Tuesday ladies. Their circles almost overlap. They seem as comfortable with each other as two would-be sisters once were. 

I haven’t seen Danielle since I was nine, and the last I heard of her was in a letter her grandma sent when I was 16. Danielle was pregnant, and her grandma was asking my mom for advice in dealing with it. I guess she felt that my mom would know what to do because she was raising a young girl of the same age. I try to imagine Danielle with a baby, but I know that her child is now five and too large to cradle in her arms. I don’t even know if she had a boy or a girl. All that my imagination will allow is a little pig-tailed kindergartener with a purple dress, anxiously holding her mother’s hand as she waits for the school bus. I see their two circles side by side, one much smaller than the other, creating the image of a short snowman. I feel bad, almost judgmental, but I cannot conjure the image of a third and larger circle. 

Once, I asked my mother why she didn’t have any more kids. She said I was already enough trouble for her. As she laughed at her joke, her eyes searched for that which was irrecoverable. It didn’t occur to me until I was older that when I lost my almost-step-sister, my mom lost her almost-step-daughter. 

My memory shoots back to being six, walking off the bus to where my mom sits waiting, me carrying my backpack on one shoulder like I saw the older kids at school doing. Through the mist of my breath, I can see her strained smile. Years later, when I leave home, she will smile like this again: it is an upward twist of the right side, lips stretched to capacity without showing teeth, eyes squinting with the weight of the tears she is holding back. Now, in the bitter cold of winter, she greets me from the bus with a tender hug, a warm kiss on the cheek, and up close I glimpse the bluish-purple outlines of a hand upon her skin. Even at six I know that isn’t supposed to happen.

We, the one-time almost-step-sisters, know nothing of each other—who we have become, or how we got here. Perhaps, had we not so easily adapted to our separate lives, as children can so quickly do—had we not forgotten we were sisters—we might now be as the Tuesday ladies are, circles overlapping, conversations delightfully commonplace. 

I lift my coffee to take a drink. It is cold from the lengthy memories between each sip, from trying to imagine what my memories might have been—me greeting a smiling Danielle, a proud mother holding her child’s hand. Where my cup sat is a coffee stain, a watercolor ring encircling marginal scribbles: “I am a forgotten aunt.?
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       <category>
         12736
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       <pubDate>Fri, 25 Apr 2008 10:08:00 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>A Cold Silence</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Sarah Boden</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/04/a-cold-silence.html</link>
       <guid>124751</guid>
       <body>Forty-five miles west of the Indiana-Kentucky border, right before the exit for Uniontown on I-64, my father’s red Ford Taurus sat stuck in the snow. Stuck in the abysmally unexceptional midwestern landscape that spans flat, punctuated only by an occasional patch of trees, farm house, or gas station. Stuck with the ground slowly rising to the falling white sky. 

Just my twin brother Andy and I, and our father sat in the Ford Taurus on the way to Louisville. Our uncle and his family lived there, and this was the first Christmas we were coming to them. 

My stepmother Sue wasn’t with us. She was in Rockford, Illinois with her parents. Sue was an only child, most of her aunts and uncles populated cemeteries on the east coast, and her cousins long estranged. I hadn’t seen my father’s wife in three weeks and wouldn’t for another fifteen.

It was a freak snow storm, the kind Kentuckyanna hadn’t seen in decades; perhaps the weather had taken a wrong turn on its way to Manitoba. I felt an urge to apologize to my fellow motorists, for I secretly suspected that our family caused the blizzard. 

Sue had beaten my father earlier that December, the climax of seven miserable years. Sue, in classic midwestern stoicism, drank herself stupid and indifferent daily while devouring pain pills, making meals out of them.  Making meals out of vicodin, pork roast, and cheap red wine.

We did not talk about these things while we sat in the Ford Taurus, nor did we listen to the radio, because during a recent fight with my father Sue snapped the antenna from the hood of the car. Andy listened to Eminem—another disenfranchised midwestern male—on his portable CD player loud enough for us to hear and loud enough for him to pretend not to hear us. 

My father and I sat silently in the front seats of the car for six hours and said nothing. 

As trip navigator, the map lay upon my lap. If we’d taken the previous exit at Corners, we could have driven back roads the rest of the way to the Travel Lodge on the outskirts of Louisville, avoiding this gridlock. We would later discover that the standstill was due to a colossal accident involving several vehicles about twenty miles ahead from where we sat. 

I suppose this was our fault too.

I wanted to say many things, sitting there in the cold. In fact, I wanted to yell in an atypical midwestern fashion. Yell at my father for his stupidity and selfishness.  Yell at him for being a coward and not leaving his ridiculous wife though he had wanted to for years. 

He did not leave Sue when she called me, his daughter, a bitch and liar, falsely accusing me of stealing her jewelry. My father did not leave Sue when she demanded that he drive my then twelve-year-old brother, his son, to a secluded, unfamiliar road and leave him there as an arbitrary punishment. He did not leave Sue when she was rude to his mother, scolding Grandma in front of her sons and grandchildren. And he was not leaving her now, though she beat him. He would not leave Sue, though he did not love her, because ending his marriage was contrary to the midwestern morals which were his ten commandments, for my father had no faith. 

I felt we had made the snow fall because we’d neglected to visit my father’s brother all those years, and this was karmic retribution for our reluctance; we had not loved them enough to drive the eight hours across three state borders.  Only now we chose to come, damaged and angry. I thought about how we were going to ruin my uncle’s Christmas.  I wondered if the snow was building a barrier, keeping us away from his marriage and daughters who weren’t broken and angry and hateful. I feared we would contaminate their family and knew we shouldn’t have come.

The white fell clean, first in inches then feet, covering the long, contrite, double single-file lanes of automobiles—twin snakes, stretching halfway to Illinois perhaps. Drivers were turning off their engines to maintain the batteries in hopes that one day they would move again. As protection from the cold, we passengers layered our bodies in hats, coats, and gloves, waiting for the right moment to uncover and resume a steady, cautious pace along the narrow highway to our final destinations. 

Midwesterners are not hasty. 

It is difficult to start conversations sometimes because you don’t know if they will stop, or how. I was afraid to tell my father to end yet another marriage because I did not want that responsibility.  Once my father asked me if he should divorce Sue—that was back in May, seven months ago, right around the time he was fired from his job. I told him, “No…don’t do it,? and now I regretted it. 

I secretly feared I had ruined my father’s first marriage to my mother by being an unplanned birth.  Only meaning to have one child, my parents got twins instead, and I was the second infant to appear. I suspected that the stress of my existence ultimately caused my mother to leave her husband. If I had told my father to divorce Sue back in May I would have destroyed his life yet again. 

I was afraid if I started talking angry words would fall like snow from our mouths. And these mad, mad words would cover us, until we wouldn’t be able to move—just as we couldn’t move now.  My family was not unique but we did not realize this; just like we could not see the other red Ford Tauruses on the road, though there must have been more.
 
My father was ashamed, I think, because he was the battered spouse. Some people might have thought him a weak degenerate for not hitting his wife back. Midwestern men are strong and do not cry, though they might make it snow. 
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       <category>
         12736
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       <pubDate>Fri, 25 Apr 2008 10:02:32 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Trash and Treasure</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Marisa Tam</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/04/trash-and-treasure.html</link>
       <guid>124748</guid>
       <body>Leonard Lowenstein was a simple man. At least, that was how his mother described him. The state of California insisted on using terms like mentally retarded, or, when required to be politically correct, mentally handicapped, mentally impaired, or, most frustrating to Mrs. Lowenstein, mentally challenged. Mentally challenged—as though Leonard’s difficulties would go away if he only tried a little harder.

Chris MacDougal didn’t know Mrs. Lowenstein personally, but he heard her yelling on the phone through the too-thin walls that separated his cheap apartment from the Lowensteins’ cheaper one. When the formidable matriarch died of a brain aneurysm (“She broke her brain with all that screaming,? insisted Polly Quince from number 24), Leonard was sent to a state-sponsored mental institution, and Chris found himself helping his neighbor pack up his things.

Leonard had accumulated a startling amount of detritus in his thirty-eight years; Chris sifted through brown grocery bags full of broken toys and dirty hubcaps, trying to ignore the occasional whiff of dumpster-rot that accompanied Leonard’s treasures. True, he had seen Leonard’s round form poking around the garbage area on occasion, the sun gleaming off a perfectly round bald spot on the back of his head, but Chris had never given it much thought. Now, however, he realized that his neighbor had been unearthing these pieces of crap from the other residents’ refuse. One man’s trash—well, you know.

If Chris was intrigued by Leonard’s selections, the collector himself was perfectly disinterested. Leonard was very quietly folding his few items of clothing and carefully placing them in his old suitcase. He arranged them by type—pants first, then underwear, shirts, and socks on top—and then by color, according to the spectrum. This made Leonard’s suitcase very tidy, the way Mother always said it should be. Leonard tried very hard not to think about her, preferring to place all his white Gold Toes on the left and the black ones on the right. It was calming for Leonard, and he even smiled a little to himself as he examined his handiwork.

Chris left Leonard alone for the most part, turning every now and then to ask if he wanted to keep a particular bag of junk, to which Leonard always responded, “No, thank you.? None of the castoffs were particularly interesting—worn-out flip-flops, a broken remote control, some old popping corn—and Chris took the bags out to the trash four at a time. He paused and sighed when he came across a cracked mirror in a black plastic frame and saw his own skewed reflection gazing back dully, a sad reminder that he didn’t have the life he’d hoped for when he drove across the country to chase his California dream. He pushed the mirror back into the bag and moved it to the “discard? side of the apartment.

Chris was officially out of his early twenties, approaching his twenty-sixth birthday with little to show for it. He’d lived in the same apartment since moving to Los Angeles from a nondescript midwestern suburb three years ago, had worked the same dead-end, minimum-wage job, sorting mail at a local radio station and keeping himself afloat by working as a janitor on the weekends. Every morning, except Sunday, he folded his lanky frame into a dark gray 1989 Ford Taurus with rust over the wheel wells (the same car he drove from Minnesota to California) and drove to the station, took the employee entrance to the mailroom, and fired up the ancient IBM to check for delivery notices. Gladys, the building receptionist who was both menopausal and overweight, would come down to see him on her lunch break, fanning herself with a manila folder and gushing about his blue eyes and dark hair, straight nose and strong jaw, and altogether making Chris extremely uncomfortable.

As he dragged more bags of trash outside, he contemplated, for the billionth time, leaving his job. “But where would I go? I have no skills and a degree in philosophy that I don’t deserve,? he muttered, tromping back up the steps to the walkway running the length of the building. No, Chris reasoned, it’s too late. Better to just stay with the familiar. Old dogs and new tricks, et cetera.

Leonard was sitting on the plastic-covered sofa in the empty apartment when Chris returned for the last three bags of discarded collections. He was slowly paging through a battered photo album.

“What’re you looking at, Len??

“Pictures.? Leonard turned another page.

“What are the pictures of??

“Sophia.?

“Sophia?? Intrigued, Chris sat beside Leonard, the sofa cover crunching under his weight. Leonard let the album fall across their knees.

Every photo was of the same subject, and every caption identified her as “S.? She was a young woman and a striking model. Chris turned a few pages to see her smiling, laughing, looking away or gazing seriously into the lens.

“Who’s Sophia, Leonard?? Chris asked.

“I dunno. I found that book outside my cousin’s building. I called her Sophia because of the letter ‘S’ under the pictures,? Leonard answered proudly.

Chris was silent for a minute or two, looking through the pictures. “I guess you want to take this with you, huh?? he asked finally, closing the album and holding it out for the other man to take.

“Nuh-uh,? Leonard pronounced, shaking his head with finality. “I’m giving it to you for a present.?

“To me? But why? They’re your pictures.?

“I think that you need them more than I do,? Leonard intoned matter-of-factly.

Chris looked at the large, worn faux-leather-bound book in his hand for a moment before thanking Leonard, who picked at some lint on his shirt.

“You’re welcome.?

He drove Leonard to the institution later that afternoon, saying goodbye as long rays of orange-tinted light angled through the lobby’s plate-glass façade. Leonard cast a long shadow as he shuffled down a hallway into the facility that would serve as his home until he eventually followed Mrs. Lowenstein into the Great Unknown. (However, before that time, Leonard would meet the great love of his life in the form of a nurse named Bethany Riggs, and they would live very happily ever after every day at three o’clock, when she brought the checkerboard in and they played until dinner.)

The photo album was waiting on the passenger seat of Chris’s old Taurus when he climbed back into the car.. He felt a strange sense of gratitude as he looked at the pictures, almost as though something he’d lost had been returned to him intact—which was absurd. He didn’t even know Sophia. In fact, her name probably wasn’t even Sophia. He closed the album and ran his finger over a jagged slash across one corner of the cover. He couldn’t help but think he had somehow opened a particularly squirmy can of worms. 	

Over the next few days, Chris spent most of his free time studying the album. The woman Leonard called “Sophia? was pretty, though not without flaws. The shape of her jaw was somewhat ambiguous, and her mouth was a bit small. She had a tendency to slouch and seemed to be fond of a particular ill-fitting plaid flannel shirt. In a few pictures, she had cut her unruly light brown hair into an unflattering bob. She looked like she could be a waitress, a cowgirl, or a hooker. The pictures never gave any hints—just the same woman at home, on vacation, at tourist attractions around L.A., surrounded by strangers who didn’t seem to notice the camera or the woman.

The more Chris looked at Sophia’s likeness, the more he wished he could meet her. While he sorted mail at work, he thought about what he would ask her. He wanted to know what year she went skiing in the mountains—was she there when he was, in 2005? Who took all these pictures—a whole album’s worth—and did she love him? Or her? How old was she really? How did she break her arm on page twelve? What was that cat’s name? What was her name? What does the “S? really stand for? What does she love? What does she hate? Where can I find you?

It was this last question that kept Chris awake one warm May night. Superficiality made him uncomfortable, and having realized he had fallen in love with a woman based solely on her image, Chris was distressed by what he considered a serious transgression of his own moral code. Moreover, each time he thought about Sophia, he couldn’t help but think about the sorry state of his sex life. Chris hadn’t been laid in nearly three years, and at this point, an imaginary affair was about as exciting as his life was going to get, short of winning the lottery, which he tried once a month with a ticket for the Super Lotto. He knew exactly what he would do with the money if he won, but he never put it on paper or told anyone about it. Unhatched chickens, and so forth. In any case, it was probably best if he threw out the album. Sophia couldn’t help him with his woes, wherever she was. Not unless he went out and found her.

Chris sat up. Why couldn’t he just find Sophia? All he had to do was ask Leonard where his cousin’s apartment building was—where the book came from—and then he could start asking questions. Millions of people live in Los Angeles, and at least one had to know who “Sophia? really was. Someone had to have seen her, employed her, talked to her, slept with her. Someone had to have taken the pictures and thrown them out. It was just a matter of finding the right people.

In Los Angeles, everybody knows somebody.

Well, everybody except Chris, who only knew Leonard, Polly Quince from number 24, menopausal Gladys, and Tomás, the Mexican immigrant with whom Chris worked his janitorial hours.

But, safe in the knowledge that he had a plan, Chris laid his head back onto the pillow and closed his eyes, a smile on his lips and Sophia on his mind. He slept soundly that night.</body>
       <category>
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       <pubDate>Fri, 25 Apr 2008 09:51:07 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Spliced</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Nora Powers</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/04/spliced.html</link>
       <guid>124747</guid>
       <body>With the finesse of a true surgeon, Syri pushed the broomstick down the throat into the innards of the decapitated human being lying on her metal table. She had been careful to sand the old janitor’s broom so that it would not catch or snag on any delicate tissues on the journey through. Then, with as much gentleness as possible, she steadily forced the heavy, lifeless head onto the part of the handle that was left protruding above the rigid neck. They didn’t quite meet. There was still a small, dark jagged canal between the head and its body. Standing behind with both hands on the head, she drove it further down the rod using small, quick bursts.

 She had never performed a procedure like this, but she had felt compelled to accept the grieving soul in front of her. None of the other funeral parlors had dared. They had looked at the old widow with repulsion when she explained her wishes. She insisted upon an open casket service for her late son, though his head had been completely removed from his body in the crash. No one had known how to respond. They attempted to persuade her otherwise, but only disjointed sounds stumbled off their tongues and onto the woman’s crinkled old ears. Her eyes remained big placid pools of muddy water. “Perhaps a turtleneck,? was all she had said in response.

“Is that comfortable enough for you, sir??

The dead man, of course, did not respond. Syri had been prepared for this. She had been taught that a medical professional should always ask about the comfort level of one’s patient. Even if there was nothing to be done about the discomfort, it made patients feel better to have the opportunity to express it. “Don’t let the title fool you,? she remembered Doctor Godfrey saying. “You are first and foremost a social worker.? Though the man on the table did not confess any pain, she carefully slipped a white clinical pillow under his head before she began threading fishing line onto a surgical needle.

Syri felt a deep sigh rising from the bottom of her chest. She let it go, allowing her breath to swirl with the cold and the chemicals of the basement air. There was no way Mr. Svellick had imagined himself here now either. Years ago, when he was planning his future life, he surely didn’t see himself dead on a table having his eyelids glued shut so as not to stare up at the funeral guests when they looked down into his casket. The glue came undone, and Syri let her gaze sit in Mr. Svellick’s mellow brown eyes. She fixed the glue and put him to bed in the refrigerator. She clicked the lights off and picked up her bag.

The door to her one-bedroom apartment no longer fit right in its frame and had to be shoved open and shoved closed. The apartment itself had little sign of personality, although it did appear lived in. There were dirty dishes in the sink, trash in the trash can, and sheets that lay pushed aside on the bed. But all items personal to her, books and photos mostly, still sat packed away in their cardboard box against the wall. Gray-green linoleum started right inside the door and stretched a few feet before turning into gray-green carpet. Both the carpet and the linoleum had that kind of dirty look that can’t be cleaned out. It looked this same way when it was brand new, like the designer realized the flooring was going into a dirty world anyway, so there wasn’t much point in making it look clean. There was a fading blue couch along the left wall, opposite her bedroom door. A brass lamp and an empty water glass stood on her pine bedside table. Above the dresser hung an unframed mirror. 

The mortuary was the big business in town. People traveled long distances to have their loved one’s service at Williamson’s. The traffic was good for the rest of the town as well. The women often had their hair done at Loretta’s, and out-of-towners commonly stayed the night at the Sleep Easy to avoid stuffing too much driving into one day. The mortuary kept business bubbling. Economy of the dead.

Syri’s favorite quality of the town was that it was miles away from any major city, settled off in a nook of the planet where few urban crawlers bothered to go. No one in town knew her. No one had any idea about her life before the Williamson mortuary except that she used to live in Chicago. She was an outsider, good only for being a target for their rich scandalous stories.

Syri awoke at six-thirty the next morning and was in the basement with Mr. Svellick by seven. The sheet ruffled his dense chestnut hair as she pulled it away from his head and neck. She rubbed her gloved hands together quickly and placed one on his right cheek. Petting it softly, she let some of the warmth from her fingers absorb into his pale, graying skin. He was still too cold to work with. She pulled up a stool and sat next to him while he adjusted to the warm air. As she waited she began molding the putty to raise his sunken cheeks. 

“Something soft, gunky, but not sticky,? Mr. O’Connor had advised. “Sculptor’s clay, carpenter’s putty, hell, use Play Doh if you have to, but never use cotton. It never looks natural. Makes the mouth look full. You don’t want a son looking into his mother’s casket with her looking like she just took a big bite of chuck roast.? 

Mr. O’Connor had worked zealously with the dead nearly every day of his adult life, but even he was not above the fear of death. He didn’t fear the end of his own mortal life: he was terrified of the idea of his precious mortuary dying when he was no longer there to operate it. He had put his heart into his business and its clients, perfecting his own unconventional yet very successful techniques for preparing the dead. Strangely, he did not put his own name on his cherished establishment. “Williamson, real noble sounding, but at the same time down to earth,? he had said. Syri had turned out to be the saving grace of his operation. She had a flawless knowledge of anatomy, unyielding patience with detail, a solemn politeness, and no idea how typical mortuary procedures should be done. He was buried with a smile on his face, as according to his own mandate.

The shaped putty was slipped inside Mr. Svellick’s right cheek, but the left cheek would be more of a project, along with the nose, forehead, and left ear. They had all been shredded by the freeway asphalt. Luckily, the other major head trauma had been to the lower back of the skull, which would be hidden by the maroon satin pillow. His injuries, along with the rest of his face, had been washed and sterilized. His face had the appearance of a raspberry pie with pieces of the top crust ripped out, revealing the dark purple, nearly black fruit filling inside. He needed patching.

She removed another ball of the carpentry putty from its bucket. The color, traditionally used for patching unstained, lighter woods such as maple or holly, matched his fair skin well. She took a large chunk and patted it to make it smooth. She placed it in the hole in his cheek, pressing hard enough to avoid air bubbles between the putty and his tissue. Then she used a plastic half circle to match it to the arch of his cheek, starting at his chin and going up to his temple, running it lightly along the curve of his face. To finish, she painted over her creation with a thin layer of silicone gel to prepare his putty skin for its final treatment. She treated the rest of his facial injuries similarly.

Makeup had always been a challenge for Syri. She found it hard to balance between doing the person up like a clown and leaving too much of the ghostly paleness. The dark circles and spots of blood under unbroken skin were touched up using a heavy homemade paste. She spread a thick coat of light beauty store foundation over his face, ears, neck, and hands, then carefully outlined his features with darker powders, a mix of cosmetic and art store materials, blending in the dust by making small bouncing circles with her brush. Finally she added a little blush to his cheeks and ears to give him a more lively color. In the end, his face did not look human as much as it did angelic. He looked too pale to be living, but had a glow that anyone would have agreed seemed undeniably alive. The next morning she planned to dress him and move him to his coffin.

The funeral was held on a blustery Saturday morning. The Midwest wind had been running across hundreds of miles with nothing but a few swaying stalks of corn and wheat to slow it down, so when it hit the guests’ cheeks, they glowed red. These guests—a few friends, but mostly relatives—paraded solemnly through the heavy wooden front doors, across the lobby, and into the reception room of the funeral home. A few tables with appetizers and desserts were set up in a room off to the right of the lobby. The chapel was directly opposite the front doors.
 
The chapel doors were closed, allowing Syri a few more minutes to make sure everything was properly set up. Heavy maroon curtains hung over the tall windows that looked out onto faded pink and gold prairie grasses. Cushioned metal chairs were set up in eight rows of fourteen, split down the middle to form an aisle up to the coffin at the front. The oak casket was open, displaying Mr. Svellick as one piece in a brown tweed suit coat over a thick cream turtleneck. Syri went to find his mother.

The widow Svellick was sitting on one of the overstuffed couches in the reception room. Her wrinkled old face stared at the woman chattering at her. Occasionally she smiled with half of her mouth and said something like, “I think Tim would really like these gooseberry tarts.? What other folks might have taken as senility, the guests accepted as strength. They muttered their praise of her in between nibbles of cheese and fruit. Syri approached her and asked if she cared to have some time alone with her son before the ceremony began. She helped the widow get up from her chair and led her into the chapel.

The old woman looked down at her son. His chestnut hair was parted and pushed to the side. There appeared to be a healthy glow in his cheeks. She sighed and concentrated her forehead wrinkles into a deep crease between her eyes. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but let it relax a little. Then starting again, without breaking her gaze on her son, she said, “Well, doesn’t he look peaceful. You know, I just couldn’t have him going into the ground like he was. I knew he would heal all up. I just needed to see it for myself.?

The widow had Mr. Svellick’s mellow brown eyes. Syri watched as his eyes bubbled with tears in his mother’s face. Her lips quivered, but stretched into a smile. She sighed once more, asked Syri to close the casket before the rest of the guests came in, and took her seat in the first row.
</body>
       <category>
         12735
       </category>
       <pubDate>Fri, 25 Apr 2008 09:37:37 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>La Mer</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Marisa Tam</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/04/la-mer.html</link>
       <guid>124745</guid>
       <body>I follow him against my better judgment, knowing that I should go home, forget him and this city I could never love, the sailors and the fish blood on the street. Yet I follow. We walk along a pier of rocks, a strip of rough land laid into the sea, for what purpose I do not know. We walk for hours, it seems, the rocks prodding my feet through my shoes, before he stops and tells me to look up. I do.

&quot;What do you think?? he asks.

“C’est... c’est...?  The language fails me, and I simply breathe: “It’s beautiful.?

Azure blue waves stretch from our feet to the horizon, white caps tumbling in the distance, the clear water lapping at the rocks on which I stand.  His fingers brush mine, moving to settle between them, linking us together in this moment.

The word epiphany forms in my mind, and I wonder what the French would call it. Here, we are two tiny, insignificant breaths in the great gale of wind. We are fleeting heartbeats and violent opposites connected by the tenuous union of hands, the small caress of simple human contact in the face of the unrelenting sea. This moment is the closest I have ever come to God. I am Eve, holding on to Adam, wondering what the brave new world has in store for us.

I feel his heartbeat in his fingers. It races, trips over itself in its haste to meet my own, which is quickening in response. How is it that we can fight and tear each other to shreds, and yet our unspilled blood still burns, passion confused between hatred and love?

This must be the temptation. Perhaps I stand not with Adam, but with the serpent at my side. He has led me here, shown me what it is to know the world, and now am I to taste the apple? I consult the ancient, impassive sea, and beg her for answers. I miss the response in the wind, so I look at him instead. I hate him. I love him. I want him, beyond all reason or counsel. In his eyes I see the earth of France, deep, rich brown in which to settle my roots, to find my place in this strange land. A corona of blue surrounds him, dark hair and dark eyes against the sea and sky, the earthly against the heavenly. I brush his lips—a kiss, but not a consent. I cannot stay in Marseille. I cannot go to Paris. I hate him, I love him, I want him.   

The wind that whips my hair carries in its breath the sounds of the port. The ships, the sailors, fishmongers and seafarers, the cries of a city drowning in the sea, reveling in the shade. I cannot stay where the ground seems to move underfoot with the swells of the sea, where humanity stands against the power of the water.

“Viens,? he is saying. “Viens.?

The rocks prod my feet through my shoes. The clear water laps at the rocks on which I stand. There is no serpent, no apple, no sin.

There is only the sea.</body>
       <category>
         
       </category>
       <pubDate>Fri, 25 Apr 2008 09:25:48 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Jamison</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Marlene Moxness</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/04/jamison.html</link>
       <guid>124742</guid>
       <body>At 7:57,  Jamison’s alarm goes off. He never sleeps in because he might accidentally wake on an even number, and that is a risk he cannot accept. At 8:39, Jamison reaches the corner of Cumberland and Congress, where he waits for his bus. He would prefer arriving at 8:37, of course, but realistically he needs the extra two minutes to count the 737 fence posts between his apartment and the bus stop. There used to be 738; he uprooted one under cover of darkness. The property owners still have not replaced it. This suits Jamison just fine. 

While he waits, Jamison lights a cigarette. He’s read the surgeon general’s warning and seen all the PSAs. The way he sees it, he can either end it all now, by walking out in front of the bus, or later, by smoking while he waits. It’s a dicey decision—prolonging his banal existence and attracting vagrants looking to bum a smoke. If the bus is late enough, he can smoke two. The benefits of this second cigarette must be weighed with the risk of the bus arriving before he finishes. If he’s not done, Jamison will have to let it pass him by. A fortune cookie once told him that he should finish what he starts, and who is he to argue with fortune? In a world fraught with danger—not just from numbers, but from dirty doorknobs and matricidal sidewalks—this semblance of control offsets the fact that two is an even number. 

Today, he decides to live a little, take a chance. Jamison lights his second cigarette and squints up the hill to watch for the lumbering descent of his bus, sure to have been prematurely provoked by his recklessness. It is a glorious cigarette, the kind of cigarette of which dreams and Tex Williams songs are made. As he hums to himself and crushes the butt beneath his toe, a metallic screech interrupts his nicotine reverie. The bus is seven minutes late. Jamison counts this as a sign and hops on. 
</body>
       <category>
         12735
       </category>
       <pubDate>Fri, 25 Apr 2008 09:21:35 -0600</pubDate>
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      <item>
       
       <title>Daniel</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Derek Swart</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/04/daniel.html</link>
       <guid>124731</guid>
       <body>The cold water lapped steadily at the shores of the lake  that had once been a hill.  Rich, dark  earth had once stood where fish now swim.   The roots of the trees reached deep, below the point where the bottom of  the lake lies now, and the water’s green hue recalled the grass and leaves that  had once covered the landscape.  The  proud hill had stood for hundreds of years as the tallest point on the horizon,  a beacon for the Ojibwe who had traveled these forests for generations.
Mining companies discovered the pastoral landscape and soon  stripped the minerals from the earth, leaving the hill a hole in the  forest.  Decades passed. Water collected  to form a pond and the pond became a lake.   Every year the lake grew in size, encroaching more and more on the  shoreline until it spanned the width of what had once been the base of the  hill.  The water ran deep and cold as  resentment built towards the beings who had taken its pride away.  It stoked its fury like a wounded veteran,  hiding it in the back of its consciousness, never forgetting the feeling of  axes and fire, machines and saws. 
A father watched his son fish the shores of the cold lake  and felt nothing of this, but he enjoyed the shimmer of the October wind  running through the glossy cottonwood leaves.   He had nestled himself in the roots of one of the great trees with a  book and his own fishing pole, though he was paying little attention to either.  He gazed proudly at Daniel. Daniel had a shock of blond hair that reminded his  father of the wheat farms he had grown up on: somehow smooth and coarse at the  same time and best seen in the brassy autumn sunlight. The boy looked up from  his casting, acknowledged his dad with a brief jerk of his head, then returned  to patrolling the shallows with his lure.
The old man returned his attention to the water in time to  see his red and white bobber casually drifting against the wind, then  submerging an inch or so beneath the waves.   He stood up quickly, rod in hand, and dropped the paperback he had been  leafing through so that it fell on the dirt.
The father ran a quick checklist through his head, and his  mind’s voice sounded a lot like his son: Feel him on there, don’t be too  aggressive. In these waters it’s probably just a crappie.  Don’t tear the lips.  Give him a minute to commit, then set the  hook.  He waited, slowly reeling in the  slack line until he could feel the flutter of fins against his hands.  The line went taut in his grip, and he gave a  strong but gentle pull to embed the hook.
It was a good fish, and he laid it on the grass next to the  others after removing the hook.  Let  Daniel worry about catching the big fish, he thought, I have enough for supper  tonight.  He bent down to wash the scent  of fish from his hands in the chilly water and shivered as he rose to return to  his tree.  The days were getting shorter,  and he knew time like this was limited.   The weekend trip would soon be over and he would go back to his classroom  to teach, Daniel would return to his college life, and everything else would be  the same as it always had been.  These  weekends were so few and far between, the father knew, and it would likely be  springtime again before they could return.  
He shook his head.   That’s not the way to think, he told himself.  He needed to learn to live in the present,  but it was hard to not think about the future.   Something always made him think about work, or money, when he really  just wanted to enjoy his time away.  
“These are good fish,? he said to clear his head, “but they  must be cleaned or they are useless.?  He  began to collect his things.  The sun was  not more than three hours from the horizon, and that would make it about an  hour to supper time for the pair of fishermen.   The man forced his stiff legs to rise from their comfortable roost  against the tree trunk and winced in pain.   There had been a time when it hadn&apos;t hurt him to stand up, but that time  had passed long ago.  Everything ends, he  told himself, shaking one leg and holding himself against the tree with his  free hand.
He tossed the dead and dying fish into a plastic bag, adding  them to the jumble of clothing and tackle boxes in his backpack.  He looked up just in time to watch his son  lean towards the water, feet spread like a boxer, carefully feeling the tension  of the line that circled about in the water as if it had a spirit of its  own.  Daniel slowly reeled in the excess  line, his green eyes locked on the tiny spot where it met the water in a circle  of ripples.  His father smiled and leaned  against the tree again to watch.  
Daniel moved quickly, and pulled against the fish in the  water.  The rod tip bent under the  pressure and slackened as the fish jumped in the air, its mouth gaping open as  only a largemouth bass can do. The boy brought the animal in, and lifted it out  of the water for his father to see.  It  opened and closed its mouth sullenly. 
“Nice fish you got there.?
Daniel turned his green eyes on his dad—eyes that were an  odd accompaniment to his otherwise soft demeanor, eyes that gave his youthful  face an aware, hawkish finish.  They’re  old, the man thought. They’re old eyes.   He saw them soften as Daniel smiled.
“Yeah, I get by, I guess, “ he said.
“Like hell you do,? the old man said grinning.  “How many you got on the end of that  stringer??  He pointed to a blue line  that dangled in the water.  
“A few,? the boy said.
“A few??  The old man  snorted.  “Alright, a few.  Me too.   I caught a couple.?
“Yeah?  A couple,  huh.  Must have been a hell of a day for  you.?
The old man smirked at the kid.
“You’re kind of a smart ass, you know that??
The boy grinned back at him and scoffed, “You’re an English  teacher, and all you’ve got for me is ‘smart ass’??
“I’m just calling it as I see it, kid.  Listen, I’m heading back to camp to cook  these things. You want to come with or stay here??
Daniel shrugged.  “I  think I’ll probably stay here for a little while longer.  Although,? he said, squinting off into the  lowering sun, “if that cloud keeps heading this way, I’ll probably head back a  little sooner than later.?
The dad held a hand over his eyes and stared off into the  west, and sure enough there was a dark cloud on the horizon.  
“How the hell you see stuff like that, I’ll never know,? the  old man said, rubbing his eyes from the sun.   “Just don’t stay out too long if it does start to dump on you,  alright?  It’s kind of a hike back to  camp, and you know, hell if it’s wet out.?
“I know, don’t worry about me.  Just don’t fall yourself. I don’t know what  I’d do if you threw your back out or something crossing those rocks.  There’s no cell phone service out here, and  I’ll be damned if I’m putting up with you complaining all the way back to  civilization.?  
The rocks, the father thought, were the worst part of the  trip back to camp.  A part of the trail  narrowed so that only one person could cross, and even then, only if he did it  sideways.  
“Yeah, sure.  Just be  careful is all, alright??
“I’ll be either careful or good.  How about one of that??
The dad rolled his eyes.   “Try for both, but go with careful if you can’t.  Anyways, I’m heading back there.  See you in about an hour I guess??  Smart ass, he added to himself.
Daniel stared off into the sun again and the light caught  his hair; for a moment, his father couldn’t tell where his hair ended and the  low sun began.  The father had to lower  his eyes from the light.  When he looked  back up, his son was casting his lure back into the weeds, looking for another  bass to round out the day.
“Yeah, about an hour or so,? he said.  “See you then.?
The trek back to the campsite left Daniel’s father sticky  from sweat.  That he would still break a  sweat from an easy hike like this one made him wonder if he was still young  enough to  go on these little adventures.  The rocks on the way back were hell, he  thought, so that was part of it.  To get  it out of his head, he thought about the next day of fishing that he had to  look forward to before going back to work.   No, that was the wrong way again.   He had another day of time with Daniel, he told himself.  Never mind fishing, never mind working, never  mind grading papers, he needed to look at things as they came.
He busied himself around the campsite to move his mind onto  something new.  The fish needed to be  cleaned, so he did that while watching the dark cloud in the distance lumber  its way eastward.  It didn’t worry him;  Daniel had been the one to see it, after all.   He would know to get back before there was any danger to himself, or  more importantly, his dad thought smiling, to his fish.
One of the fish flopped suddenly in his hand, causing him to  nick his finger with his filet knife.   The cut wasn’t bad, but it reminded him to focus on what he was  doing.  Again he imagined his son’s  voice:  Keep your mind on what’s in front  of you, old man.  There might be a later  to worry about, and there might not, but there sure as hell won’t be if there  isn’t a now to take care of first.  
“Yeah,? the old man said, “I know.?
He started a fire and greased a pan to fry the fish.  They sizzled satisfyingly, and he poured a  cup of coffee and leaned back against a tree trunk.  It had been a good day.  He closed his eyes and might have drifted off  if he had not heard a low gurgle in the distance.  Thunder, he thought.  That’ll bring him back any time now.  
But the time passed, and it did not bring Daniel back to  camp.  The old man told himself that  there was no point in getting bent out of shape; Daniel would be back to tell  him he was worrying about nothing, just letting the fish burn.  A few rain drops splashed on his arms and sizzled  next to the browning strips of fish fillets, and that did it for him.  He took the fish off the fire and scattered  the wood in the dirt circle he had dug the night before.  It hissed angrily as he strode off into the  forest.
He did not run, not yet.   He would meet Daniel on the next bend of the pass.  The rain hadn’t even begun to gather in the  empty puddle holes on the path.  There  was nothing to worry about.  
The old man looked up, and a large drop of water landed on  his forehead.  The sky had turned an  oily, charcoal color, and the wind whistled through the treetops.  He tried to hear his son’s voice telling him  to forget about it, that if he could get into college, he could probably  navigate a rocky pass that the animals managed just fine.  But they didn’t do it in this weather, the  old man thought, and they weren’t carrying a flopping rope full of bass.
His pace quickened as the rain came down more and more  heavily.  His boots made a slapping sound  against the thick earth beneath him.  The  muddy ground clung to his feet, as if it were grasping at him to slow him  down.  The pass wasn’t far ahead.  He began to wonder whether Daniel had known  of another way, one that would not lead him across such a dangerous and precarious  path.  Perhaps he decided to wait by the  lake, opting to chance lightning instead of the wet rocks.  That could be true, the old man thought.  Running raggedly, he rounded the final corner  and scanned the cliffs, but there was nothing for him to see.  A stream of water had washed out the middle  of the path, and the rain coursed down the hill now.  Daniel was nowhere in sight.  The old man started to breathe again.  He must have stayed at the lake.
The old man was about to turn around and head back to the  camp to wait when he saw a movement.  It  flickered in the center of the rocks, and it was gone a moment later.  He almost dismissed the thing as something in  his mind, but he saw it again.  His heart  fell.  There was movement, he was  sure.   But what was it? It couldn’t be  Daniel.  
The father dashed up the craggy hill, fear for his son  overcoming his fear of the sodden rocks.   Shapes formed in front of him in the darkness and fled just as  quickly.  Finally he got close enough to  see the mouth opening and closing, gasping for breath on the dull, rocky  terrain.
It was a bass, the largemouth that Daniel had caught about  an hour ago.  His father couldn’t tell if  it now struggled against death, or if its nerves were firing randomly.  If the fish were here, he thought, his son  must have come by.  He wouldn’t have left  this here if something weren’t wrong.   Maybe he almost slipped and dropped the fish, and then thought to go  back to the lake to wait out the storm.   But why didn’t he wait at the other side of the pass if he decided not  to cross?  Why would he have to go all  the way back to the lake?  The old man  was getting scared now.  Earlier the fear  had been something irrational, but now it was real, and it howled in unison  with the wind.  He should be there.  He should be waving like an idiot at you  right now, shrugging that he lost all the damn fish he caught earlier.  But he isn’t.
The old man looked around the pass, then looked down.  He had been avoiding looking down the  slope,  because he knew awfully well what  he might find there.  The cliff wall was  stained with mud, and there was a rock dislodged from its resting place, but  his vision tapered off before the bottom could be seen.  The old man paced back and forth, knowing  that he had to go down there.  Even if  there was nothing waiting for him, he had to be sure.  At last he saw that there was an incline off  to the side of the slope that made for the most passable way to the forest  floor, and he decided that he would have to risk slipping and navigate the wet,  grassy trail.  
It was a thin trail that must have been made by deer on  their way to the lake.  The father wished  that he had known about it before, but that was in the past and  could do him no good now.  Only make it down, he told himself, make it  down and find that there is nothing there.   You’re just being the same worrying parent that you’ve always been.
When he reached the bottom, his jeans were soaked with mud  and grime and rain from sliding most of the way.  His hands were cut from holding onto roots  and grasses, but he paid no attention.  A  smash of lightning and thunder made him cringe, but it illuminated the ground  in front of him and he saw something dancing in the wind.  The light was gone as soon as it had arrived,  so he couldn’t be sure.  But yes, there  it was, something limp, something torn to and fro in the wind.  Something blond.  
The lightning struck again, and a green glint caught some of  the light.  It was Daniel, lying broken  at the bottom of the slope, the dislodged rock from above resting on his  stomach.  His eyes were open.  For a moment, the old man thought he was  dead.
“Daniel!  Daniel,  Danny, Danny, Danny, what happened??
Consciousness surged forward in his son’s green eyes.  At first, only a sharp, ragged inhale, and  then his eyes squeezed shut again.  
“There was this rock,? he finally said. “Even I slip  sometimes, old man.  I guess I picked a  bad time to do it though.?
“Don’t talk.  Don’t  say anything.  I’m going to go get  help.  Just don’t move, you’re going to  be fine, Danny.?  
The thunder rumbled, faintly now.  Moonlight through the cloud cover offered  just enough light for the old man to register the fear in his son&apos;s eyes.
“What are you doing, Dad?   Don’t leave me.  You aren’t going  to get any help, there’s none to get.   Remember where we are?  Just stay  with me.?
“What do you mean stay with you?? the old man choked out,  his voice catching in his throat. “I’m going to get you help, son.?
“There’s not any help for twenty miles.  God, I just don’t want to do this alone,  Dad.?
The old man bit back tears for a moment, then lost the fight  and started to sob.  
“It’s all a goddamn mess, isn’t it, son??
“Yeah, it is.  A  goddamn mess.?
“I,? he started, “I can’t outlive you.  God dammit, you’re only eighteen.?  He reached out for Daniel’s hand and clasped  it gently.  The boy squeezed back, still  strong, but the effort showed in his face.
“Doesn’t matter.  What  else do you think is going to happen?   That’s what I was thinking about as I was laying here.  Everyone dies, Dad.  Everyone.   Some people do it in five years, some in a hundred, but everyone does.?
The old man cried quietly, and Daniel stared out at the  sky.  It was clearing, and he thought he  could see a star.  There was only one,  but it was bright, and he focused on it. 
“I’m glad I got to spend today doing what I wanted.  That’s really the point, I think.  Those people who live to be a hundred aren’t  any more happy than me.  They just have  more time to find it.?
The old man nodded and squeezed his hand again. Daniel  squeezed back, more softly this time, still gazing up at the sky.  The forest was quiet as the storm prowled its  way farther east, and the wind was gentle now.   It tousled Daniel’s hair like his father used to do when he was a kid,  and Daniel smiled a little bit.  It  wasn’t the usual smirk that his father had come to love, but it was a peaceful  smile.  The father squeezed his boy’s  hand a third time, and this time there was no response.  The green eyes were still.  
In the distance, the waters of the lake still ground against  the earth“I,? he started, “I can’t outlive you.   God dammit, you’re only eighteen.?   He reached out for Daniel’s hand and clasped it gently.  The boy squeezed back, still strong, but the  effort showed in his face.
“Doesn’t matter.  What  else do you think is going to happen?   That’s what I was thinking about as I was laying here.  Everyone dies, Dad.  Everyone.   Some people do it in five years, some in a hundred, but everyone does.?
The old man cried quietly, and Daniel stared out at the  sky.  It was clearing, and he thought he  could see a star.  There was only one,  but it was bright, and he focused on it. 
“I’m glad I got to spend today doing what I wanted.  That’s really the point, I think.  Those people who live to be a hundred aren’t  any more happy than me.  They just have  more time to find it.?
The old man nodded and squeezed the hand again; Daniel  squeezed back, more softly this time, still gazing up at the sky.  The forest was quiet as the storm prowled its  way farther east, and the wind was gentle now.   It tousled Daniel’s hair like his father used to do when he was a kid,  and Daniel smiled a little bit.  It  wasn’t the usual smirk that his father had come to love, but it was a peaceful  smile.  The father squeezed his boy’s  hand again, and this time there was no response.  The green eyes were still.  
In the distance, the waters of the lake still ground  against the earth.</body>
       <category>
         12735
       </category>
       <pubDate>Fri, 25 Apr 2008 08:45:51 -0600</pubDate>
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      <item>
       
       <title>The Loft Literary Center</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><a href="http://www.loft.org"><h3>The Loft Literary Center</h3></a></p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2008/02/the-loft-literary-center.html</link>
       <guid>108821</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12984
       </category>
       <pubDate>Fri, 08 Feb 2008 09:32:07 -0600</pubDate>
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       <title>Minnesota Literature</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><a href="http://www.minnesotaliterature.org"><h3>Minnesota Literature</h3></a></p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/12/minnesota-literature.html</link>
       <guid>101036</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12984
       </category>
       <pubDate>Tue, 04 Dec 2007 15:10:54 -0600</pubDate>
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       <enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/tile.jpg" length="29362" type="image/jpeg" /><enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/tiledetail_Allen_Peterson.jpg" length="221482" type="image/jpeg" />
       <title>Tile Detail</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/tile.jpg" alt="Tile Detail">by Allen Peterson</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/tile-detail.html</link>
       <guid>99809</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12713
       </category>
       <pubDate>Tue, 27 Nov 2007 13:04:40 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       <enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/shiva.jpg" length="14696" type="image/jpeg" /><enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/shivanataraja_Blaine_Garrett.jpg" length="131262" type="image/jpeg" />
       <title>Shiva Nataraja</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/shiva.jpg" alt="Shiva Nataraja">by Blaine Garrett</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/shiva-nataraja.html</link>
       <guid>99807</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12713
       </category>
       <pubDate>Tue, 27 Nov 2007 13:02:44 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       <enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/rasputin.jpg" length="20333" type="image/jpeg" /><enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/rasputin_Kessie_Wheelock.jpg" length="92787" type="image/jpeg" />
       <title>Rasputin As A Youth</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/rasputin.jpg" alt="Rasputin As A Youth">by Kessie Wheelock</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/rasputin-as-a-youth.html</link>
       <guid>99806</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12713
       </category>
       <pubDate>Tue, 27 Nov 2007 12:58:53 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       <enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/shakti6.jpg" length="27381" type="image/jpeg" /><enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/omshakti6_John_Tribbett.jpg" length="165844" type="image/jpeg" />
       <title>Om Shakti 6</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/shakti6.jpg" alt="Om Shakti 6">by John Tribbett</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/om-shakti-6.html</link>
       <guid>99805</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12713
       </category>
       <pubDate>Tue, 27 Nov 2007 12:56:35 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       <enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/shakti5.jpg" length="22264" type="image/jpeg" /><enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/omshakti5_John_Tribbett.jpg" length="142611" type="image/jpeg" />
       <title>Om Shakti 5</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/shakti5.jpg" alt="Om Shakti 5">by John Tribbett</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/om-shakti-5-1.html</link>
       <guid>99803</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12713
       </category>
       <pubDate>Tue, 27 Nov 2007 12:52:39 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       <enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/shakti4.jpg" length="23757" type="image/jpeg" /><enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/omshakti4_John_Tribbett.jpg" length="153858" type="image/jpeg" />
       <title>Om Shakti 4</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/shakti4.jpg" alt="Om Shakti 4">by John Tribbett</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/om-shakti-4.html</link>
       <guid>99801</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12713
       </category>
       <pubDate>Tue, 27 Nov 2007 12:50:37 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       <enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/shakti3.jpg" length="18883" type="image/jpeg" /><enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/omshakti3_John_Tribbett.jpg" length="93201" type="image/jpeg" />
       <title>Om Shakti 3</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/shakti3.jpg" alt="Om Shakti 3">by John Tribbett</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/om-shakti-3.html</link>
       <guid>99799</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12713
       </category>
       <pubDate>Tue, 27 Nov 2007 12:45:26 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       <enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/shakti2.jpg" length="23852" type="image/jpeg" /><enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/omshakti2_John_Tribbett.jpg" length="157484" type="image/jpeg" />
       <title>Om Shakti 2</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/shakti2.jpg" alt="Om Shakti 2">by John Tribbett</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/om-shakti-2.html</link>
       <guid>99794</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12713
       </category>
       <pubDate>Tue, 27 Nov 2007 12:39:24 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       <enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/shakti1.jpg" length="24019" type="image/jpeg" /><enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/omshakti1_John_Tribbett.jpg" length="164543" type="image/jpeg" />
       <title>Om Shakti 1</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/shakti1.jpg" alt="Om Shakti 1">by John Tribbett</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/om-shakti-1.html</link>
       <guid>99791</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12713
       </category>
       <pubDate>Tue, 27 Nov 2007 12:36:27 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       <enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/close3.jpg" length="18010" type="image/jpeg" /><enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/close3_Kessie_Wheelock.jpg" length="81706" type="image/jpeg" />
       <title>Close 3</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/close3.jpg" alt="Close 3">by Kessie Wheelock</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/close-3.html</link>
       <guid>99790</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12713
       </category>
       <pubDate>Tue, 27 Nov 2007 12:34:43 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       <enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/close2.jpg" length="18930" type="image/jpeg" /><enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/close2_Kessie_Wheelock.jpg" length="86429" type="image/jpeg" />
       <title>Close 2</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/close2.jpg" alt="Close 2">by Kessie Wheelock</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/close-2.html</link>
       <guid>99788</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12713
       </category>
       <pubDate>Tue, 27 Nov 2007 12:33:06 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       <enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/close1.jpg" length="19220" type="image/jpeg" /><enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/close1_Kessie_Wheelock.jpg" length="78264" type="image/jpeg" />
       <title>Close 1</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/close1.jpg" alt="Close 1">by Kessie Wheelock</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/close-1.html</link>
       <guid>99785</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12713
       </category>
       <pubDate>Tue, 27 Nov 2007 12:30:47 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       <enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/caliban.jpg" length="16151" type="image/jpeg" /><enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/caliban_Kessie_Wheelock.jpg" length="167802" type="image/jpeg" />
       <title>Caliban</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/caliban.jpg" alt="Caliban">by Kessie Wheelock</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/caliban.html</link>
       <guid>99784</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12713
       </category>
       <pubDate>Tue, 27 Nov 2007 12:28:51 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       <enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/bridge.jpg" length="23843" type="image/jpeg" /><enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/bridge_Daniel_Sobaskie.jpg" length="146508" type="image/jpeg" />
       <title>Bridge</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/bridge.jpg" alt="Bridge">by Daniel Sobaskie</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/bridge.html</link>
       <guid>99783</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12713
       </category>
       <pubDate>Tue, 27 Nov 2007 12:10:54 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>You Peel Fruit</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Josie Sigler</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/you-peel-fruit.html</link>
       <guid>99775</guid>
       <body>1. The Orange.

Worth a dare, common enough,
I’ve seen them in the bins waiting.
I’ve seen them taking alms,
impatient with the grey flecks in your eyes.
Small in your hand,
but you lean
with the nail of your thumb
like Orion driving at winter’s earth
from sky; you try, sucking at the wound
until the blood’s gone dry;
pull back again, stare: Seductress,
and in the concave bird
of finger-crease,
the zest; and in the air,
a fine mist coming.

2. The Grapefruit.

Larger, and it sung
in the kitchen cupped
entirely between your palms,
nimble as you readied it beside a tall
glass of milk, your fingers
grow lean, removing the silk
threads bearing down to the Glisten:
You can Get at them all.
Listen, parting it at the center, you do the math
of love.

3. The Avocado.

The shape, blood-time held still
for wanting; you take
the cocoon and run a knife along it,
edging the supposed moth
back out; Avocados taste best in a season
of doubt, say spring,
but you’re busy, you’re hurrying, it’s a fact
of the thing: you want this flesh;
you smart a knife into the pit, it sticks,
come out triumphant, use your hands to scoop
And, even licking, that butter clings
to your lips.

4. The Pomegranate.

Too many’ve loved her wrong, you say,
they squeezed until she bled on their neat shirts
You understand in a lifetime she’s worn
the most-varied of skirts; you remove
each neatly, separate
the whites, let each red pustule dance so briefly plump
between your first two fingers,
slight small pause before the basin comes to the brink
of full, you cull any that have burst:
you like to bring them, you like to think
of me waiting so I can praise
but I’ve watched all along:
a marvel that someone so strong could do the gentle thing
we’d asked, and so bent
at your task.</body>
       <category>
         12716
       </category>
       <pubDate>Tue, 27 Nov 2007 11:58:03 -0600</pubDate>
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      <item>
       
       <title>How To Kill A Cat</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Eddie B. Oroyan</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/how-to-kill-a-cat.html</link>
       <guid>99774</guid>
       <body>First of all, after the divorce
Never call it &quot;Pumpkin&quot;
But call it &quot;Cat!&quot; or
&quot;Hey!&quot;
Let it sleep, sometimes with you,
sometimes outside the door.
Feed it twice a day.
Let it pee in the sink.
Yell at it if it goes on your counter, table, desk
And ask, &quot;Are you going to make me come over there?&quot;
or &quot;Hey! ... Hey!&quot;
let it sleep sometimes with you.
Bathe it when your house is warm
(dress its head with socks)
let it eat what’s left on your plate in the sink.
Sing to it, play with it, talk to it.
Clean off its eye boogers.
Get angry at it for not knowing better after
How many times you’ve told it to stay off
the counter and it STILL doesn’t listen!
Spank it...
Let it sleep, sometimes with you.
sometimes outside the door.</body>
       <category>
         12716
       </category>
       <pubDate>Tue, 27 Nov 2007 11:56:34 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Where I&apos;m From</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Kirk Wisland</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/where-im-from.html</link>
       <guid>99773</guid>
       <body>I’m from nowhere
in the middle
from a two car garage port
basketball court
overhanging shade trees
and boredom battles
I’m from Sunday morning regularity
and stand up straight
and dinner’s at six
and don’t be late
and futile rebellion
against back of the hand diplomacy
I’m from certain rock
transplanted
to the avenue of questionable indecision
and unfortunate decisiveness
where it intersects with shaky ground
Every year or so
here
we burn the mementos
uproot and re-pot
to a little further east
of sense.</body>
       <category>
         12716
       </category>
       <pubDate>Tue, 27 Nov 2007 11:54:18 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Untitled</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Danielle Sobaski</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/untitled-1.html</link>
       <guid>99771</guid>
       <body>Too late in the season for a ladybug there it is crawling on a leaf the color of sun tea, I haven’t seen that tea since I was a kid on my father’s back porch. Haven’t seen him either, he hates me or I hate him, so long I don’t remember who hates who. It still matters to me what he said and the things he never said. The lady bug has moved on but the sun tea leaf still sits there. No wind, well not enough to move the leaf from its resting. Not cold enough to move me either but my butt is numb, I should stand. Yet I can’t stand and write, so here I sit wasting lead and trees ‘cause I can’t write regardless. So many write and move mountains but as I write that leaf still sits there mocking me. I should move on, my next adventure awaits for my lead and trees to be wasted this time in a language that is not my own. But before I leave I stomp on the leaf and ground it into dust, remnants of who it was, so at least I can make an impact on today.</body>
       <category>
         12716
       </category>
       <pubDate>Tue, 27 Nov 2007 11:50:51 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>A Farce of Life</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Eric James</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/a-farce-of-life.html</link>
       <guid>99770</guid>
       <body>Creeping up faster on your lifeline
The throttle is getting high
I am watching a gauge turning to the right
Dance, dance you crazy man
Make me another mocha and
Play the guitar in the moonlight
Or quiet offices of the building
Silent, silently, tapping the chair seat
Then again, make your move
Once again, pull the rope
Which again, makes me choke
Stuck in another closet full of manikins
Dance, dance you crazy man
A farce of life is beautiful
Only when you make it to be
Continually on a quest for greatness
Be a great man, crazy man
Its time for you to shine
Its time for you to shine
Don&apos;t die so fast
Don&apos;t die</body>
       <category>
         12716
       </category>
       <pubDate>Tue, 27 Nov 2007 11:48:27 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Swim Lessons</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Josie Sigler</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/swim-lessons.html</link>
       <guid>99769</guid>
       <body>Grandma left to get the towels, Jimmie
and me on the muddy bank of Uncle Ed’s
back cut in the shade of the old boat house:

Jimmie crows, Grandma only has to teach
you to swim because your momma is a drunk.
His daddy, my uncle, tried summer before

throwing me off the rickety wooden dock, all
the peonies in the yard glaring at him as I fell,
slow-motion, to the swallowing water.

My mother laughing as my head surfaced, hair
pushed down like a drenched rat but when I was
a baby, she put me on my back in the water gentle,

said &quot;find the octopus on the ceiling, white-pool ceiling
with dark beams, and I searched like something
fed on white, but that was before Jimmy your momma

is a drunk-skunk and I forgot how, still,
my grandmother waist-deep in the murk, the firm,
uncompromising hands under the water, it don’t matter

who teaches you, you gotta learn her grip so tight
on one forearm it almost erases Grandma only loves
you because your mother doesn’t and the sky

is deep, has color, is a wound---the line of her eyes
cut through his words relieving a tight-chestedness
the loose thread of a body in water recalls.</body>
       <category>
         12716
       </category>
       <pubDate>Tue, 27 Nov 2007 11:47:19 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Fall in San Diego</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Jenny C. Blaine</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/fall-in-sandiego.html</link>
       <guid>99767</guid>
       <body>Why fall? Our yankee leaves fall, temperatures fall, nights fall
early. Businessmen and mothers fall up here if they walk
careless like a southerner on ice.
Some people who move to San Diego from L’Étoile
du Nord say they miss the seasons.
Some people say there are seasons
in San Diego.
But in San Diego their dads don’t have to go up
two tall stories on ladders with forty-pound storm
windows, glass and wood, lean out, risk a fall to put them on.
In San Diego, they don’t go from summer outside dogfoot pads burn on
asphalt to winter if you fall down and can’t get up, not enough on, die ... freeze.
Their green tomatoes always ripen.
There, our houseplants can grow outside, become trees.
They don’t need to spin cocoon skin of wool, silk, fleece.
In San Diego they have real Dr. Suess trees
and unlike in the Battle of the Bulge, on a Christmas Eve
They don’t have to dig in snow for a father’s wristwatch lost
in a foxhole. They can let the outside in.
They miss the seasons in San Diego? They can let their guard fall.
Their iris, thyme, rudbeckia, peonies
don’t know the embrace of straw or oak leaves.
They don’t have to change socks or their doughboy feet freeze
in the cattle cars. They can leave the dead with their socks
in place and let the inside out.</body>
       <category>
         12716
       </category>
       <pubDate>Tue, 27 Nov 2007 11:41:44 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Stepladder Nation</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Martha Vogel</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/stepladder-nation.html</link>
       <guid>99766</guid>
       <body>I am orange and silver, standing like a pyramid.
I am reds, blacks, yellows, and whites.
Why are the darkest dyes at the broad base?

I am smooth side railings, rough rungs.
I am lives of many sizes, shapes, and ages.
How can one ignore the siren song of the next rung?

I am the quiet click of my center pieces locking.
I am the clattering collapse leaned too far left or right.
Why are the margins so nasty and noisy?

I am lingering vapors of paint and primer.
I am myriad smells, evidence of luxury and labor.
What can connect such a deep divide?

I am the taste of old garage dust.
I am the sweetness of hope, bitter bile of despair.
Are tears only to salt the tongue, dampen the face?</body>
       <category>
         12716
       </category>
       <pubDate>Tue, 27 Nov 2007 11:37:53 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>The Day</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Alison Fiebig</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/the-day.html</link>
       <guid>99765</guid>
       <body>I will die in New York on a melancholy night.
Leaves will kiss my boats, and the wind will brush my sandy strands of hair.
The park will murmur its good-bye and the pond will reflect innocence back into my life.
The park passes, but doesn’t know -
How could it? It sends me on with the bitter tides of breeze and movements by the trees.

I think it will be Thursday like today, except the clouds will wither and stars will hum.
The shriveled, breathless dandelions will shake themselves of the endless ugliness.
I will kneel besides them, lean in and cry.
&quot;It’s sad how no one sees past your ugliness,&quot; I’ll say.
That is how I know it will be a Thursday.
The dandelions will cry with me.</body>
       <category>
         12716
       </category>
       <pubDate>Tue, 27 Nov 2007 11:30:54 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Self Coagulation</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>"That's the way it is with a wound." - Amy Tan, The Joy Luck Club.<br />
by Charles Aslesen-Rekela</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/self-coagulation.html</link>
       <guid>99583</guid>
       <body>The layers grow faster than can be peeled away.
The scab seals the scarred surface
Supposedly seeking the sun.
Search for sight
Beneath the dried blood.
Pick it. Pick me.
Choose open and visible wounds over oddly smooth leather scabs.

If you pull the flaky-cracked and broken blankets over your late teen
(Though not wonting worldly wise)
Eyes,
He applies
The darting darkness lies
And exhausted nightly crys
To the section of his brain saved for the dust and flies.
Under pressure, emotion dies.
Tell me what that implies.
Never mind.
Rhyming does sensationalize.
Distort the truth, subterfuge, fake false faux guise.
Androgenize, artificialize, anabaptize.
Cauterize.

Is it possible to squirm around sands much more
and wade through muck much less
Than does he with collected rhyme and directed diction
Showing not telling his way
Around the foggy draggled forest?
(Mother Tongue’s sore congeals within the articulated chops.)
You take the low road through the tapering jungle and watch him
Outside the edge
Fiddling a tune on the yellow brick sunshine high road.
If you are lucky, he will extend
A smooth and creamy hand to you
To point.
(The forest closes in and begins to coalesce.)

A sticky lump of thought thus coagulates:
When the scabs are in season, they grow plentiful.
When one falls ripe yet dry from the vine, a truth escapes the scabless place.
When the open sore begins to wane
Under the weight of the clotting corpuscles,
The pain cannot see the light
And the light can’t see the pain.</body>
       <category>
         12716
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 26 Nov 2007 15:40:04 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Damn</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Nikki Schultz</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/damn.html</link>
       <guid>99580</guid>
       <body>he wears cool like blue jeans
kissed by sidewalk scuffles
baptized by blue ribbons
slouches in his seat with indigo
jazz rhythms so heavy
he might glide to the floor
a heap of threads bought secondhand.
we met as hungry clumsy angsters
hiding behind long hair and tall intellect,
penning our post-industrial tragedies up and down Brady Street,
necking in the gilded gutters of Milwaukee post-consumer waste.
fathers made piece, grunting and grinding
through factory lines at ManPower, Miller, Masterlock
so that we could make love to language and languish
in the poetry of a café chord strum
reminiscent of Marx and Stevie Ray
ironic fathers of working men’s blues.
seventeen was an explosive composition
i would brood over brewed awakenings in awe of how simply
his wit nibbled to the quick of fingered fury
each fret an exercise in love’s fleeting firsts and seconds
these days i could trail his guitar case
to a hundred coffee bars and still not taste
our yesterdays in his chord progressions.</body>
       <category>
         12716
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 26 Nov 2007 15:38:55 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>The Portrait of Mollie Tenggren: 1935</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Morgan L. Mann</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/the-portrait-of-mollie-tenggre.html</link>
       <guid>99578</guid>
       <body>Mollie should be a movie star.
She’s gazing at me and I’m falling
in love with her.
Purple and turquoise
pale and pink.
Long hands resting against soft
thighs. And her lips ...
turned down, head cocked.
That dress ...
green silk and skin
graceful and elegant.

There are rich people
contemplating putting her
in their foyers ...
She belongs on the red carpet
at the Oscars.</body>
       <category>
         12716
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 26 Nov 2007 15:37:48 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Bonsai</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Julie Kahlow</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/bonsai.html</link>
       <guid>99575</guid>
       <body>If you fell I think I would hear you...
not in the woods, but on my windowsill,
extending placid branches,
claiming space for nature in my silicone world.
tender greenness sprouting from harder browns,
you are a tiny version of the earth:
dirt, moss, bark, and leaves,
occasional berries ripen red.
I read your paper label:
exotic and hard to care for.
I only wanted something alive to share my room with.
When your branches begin to break,
And your leaves crumple to brown,
I will remember,
I forgot to water you.
now I have another concern.
What I really wanted was a cat.
says the other, unsure of what he could do, but clearly
something must be done: the hands are moving backward.</body>
       <category>
         12716
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 26 Nov 2007 15:36:39 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Nocturne</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Morgan L. Mann</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/nocturne.html</link>
       <guid>99574</guid>
       <body>There is moonlight floating
on the river. Or is it street light from the bridge stretching
across the water?
Under the reflections, the mirror mimics the sky
obsidian hued
deep as a dream
like I could see supernovae
and Saturn’s rings
if I gazed far enough into the water.
Every light moves in the wrinkling black glass
twinkling, cold and distant
a tessellation of waves and stillness.

Pin pricks of light
staccato and sharp
oil across the frigid depth.
I imagine myself diving
from that bridge
and plunging into the bracing abyss
just for fun

Myriad biting bubbles
of black champagne
on my cheeks
and in my eyelashes
One of those little moments
of insanity

Watching from my room, a swarm
of little lighted windows gaze
at mine from across the water
orange against the black
sky. The bridge light sparkles up
from between the banks</body>
       <category>
         12716
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 26 Nov 2007 15:34:20 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Beloved</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Eddie B. Oroyan</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/beloved.html</link>
       <guid>99573</guid>
       <body>Amidst delirium and pain, then grief
Stormed a spirit trailing Life afterglow.
She, an emissary? An answer? A thief!
Accomplice to mine Usurper of woe!
Am I among the vicious and helpless?
Praise Thee, O Father, for her to my aid.
How clear my crown anything but selfless;
How clear her love evidence of Thy Braid!
Beneath the beauty of her encasement
Bursts sovereign flames of Thine endless glow;
Reaching the wretched with graced amazement.
Within her, without her Thy will, my tow.
O Jesus in her eyes, two haloed stars,
Consume my evil thirsts and seal my scars.</body>
       <category>
         12716
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 26 Nov 2007 15:32:08 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Never-ending</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Katie Kirchoff</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/neverending.html</link>
       <guid>99568</guid>
       <body>It’s a rule of driving out where I live
that home is twenty minutes from everywhere
And everywhere is forty-five minutes
from everywhere else so cars drive
more than they should and it’s easy to lose track
of where things are and the musical tracks
on the CD player that skips when it hits a bump
skips a beat when the Cavalier rolls towards the stop,
the stop that has stopped a million stops
and the Cavalier slows and the foot’s on the break
but the mini-van coming down the hill is so close
but not close enough to allow to beat on the left
the Cavalier which is younger and faster and stronger
no point looking right where things never happen
out in the country where people drive faster
if I’d been in the cities, where things move much slower
and white trucks they don’t barrel at ninety per hour
I wouldn’t have ended up in a field
fifty yards from the spot where my car collided
with a man about twenty years over his due
And my white shirt I’d worn since before I remember
wouldn’t have been soaked with the blood of another
except the blood was mine but it couldn’t have been
Because girls my age don’t get covered in red
And the glass of my windshield and the glass in my eye
were made from the same patch of granular sand
and the decorative frog on the edge of my window
Is nodding his head and this is a dream because dreams don’t happen
So I lay in the grass where the crickets are chirping
And the white clouds flow by and the blue sky flows too
I close my eyes and this should end, so I can be back in my bed
But my car has driven more than it should
And the roads and fields are swallowing it whole
And as much as I want this dream to end
my bed is twenty minutes away from here
and forty-five minutes from everywhere else.</body>
       <category>
         12716
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 26 Nov 2007 15:30:34 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Another Lost Soul</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Holly Strong</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/another-lost-soul.html</link>
       <guid>99566</guid>
       <body>The waves fall violently upon one another
Collide, stinging the sea
Casting a slight breeze across the rickety bridge
Which brushes the unshaven face of a broken man
His faded, torn jeans press upon
His worn legs
The cold of this air inflames
That frigid feeling deep within his soul
Seeming to mock his pain

Above, bold stars hide
Behind clouds of onyx mist
So surreal, reminding him of a van Gogh painting
He once encountered in this bleak city
The swirls of the sky creating an aura of false peace
But below his meek legs tremble
Reminding him of the fear deep inside
Of the unknown, of what is to come

Still feet slowly creep toward the edge
Drawn toward the rush of the waves below
Unsuspecting drivers continue their journeys
Among the city lights which shine
Like scintillating diamonds
Amid a never-ending black pool
They will never know
This lost, drained man

The man does not detect their presence either
He is defeated by despair
Mesmerized by this minute
Ready to momentarily take flight
He bends his aching knees
Allows his feet to slip now
Falling, drifting, relaxing, releasing
In slow motion, time dragging
Unlike tasks from his past
Which somehow always got out of hand

A chill pulses through his entire body
As his weight interrupts the sea
His breath is seized, his heart crushed
Under the last pressure
To torment and tease
His tired soul
Now at rest under the churning waves
On a journey toward the unknown
As the only witness, that painted sky
Rains its tears for another lost soul</body>
       <category>
         12716
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 26 Nov 2007 15:29:47 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>The Loneliness Clock</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Josie Sigler</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/the-loneliness-clock.html</link>
       <guid>99565</guid>
       <body>Two boys stroll past the house, hands inside
their jacket sleeves. They walk so far apart.
We here are not allowed touch, even in cold winter.

Loneliness is a tower, clock slightly obscured by weather.
Here we either praise or continually crash into its base,
surprised that something so large
sprung up without drawing our notice.

Some of us watch boys walk down the road
that moves past our quiet house.
On lucky occasion, the winds blow just a strand
of whip-cloud past the face,
revealing, for a time, before the temperature rises
and the hands regain their privacy, exactly
how long it will be before someone touches them
precisely the way they want to be touched.

Maybe they should just stop walking now.
Maybe they should give up wishing and touch each other.
At least to get warm.

Of course, they’re distracted, laughing boyishly
at the tower appearing behind my head. &quot;How long’s it been
since someone touched her?&quot; asks one. &quot;What I could do for that
lady,&quot;</body>
       <category>
         12716
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 26 Nov 2007 15:28:46 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Animal Lover</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Jennifer K. Barger</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/animal-lover.html</link>
       <guid>99564</guid>
       <body>There I was, minding my own business,
when he turned around and bit me on the arm.

What was I to do? Start yelling? Cry? Bite him back?
I don’t want to make a scene and he knows that.
That asshole.
Laughing at himself, laughing at his funny, comical self, he then turned around completely and grinned at me,
a malicious smile filling his entire face.
I averted my eyes, but I could still feel him staring and shaking with laughter at the dilemma he’s put me in.
Oh how I hate him.

Fighting the urge to kick and scream, I calmly wiped the blood from my arm and turned around to leave the scene
before I made a scene.
And of course he follows, acting all innocent, like nothing has happened, putting on his I’m- so-sweet look for the benefit of those around us.
All I can think of is biting him back.
See how he likes it.
Maybe draw a little blood from his arm.
Then acting like a saint, filled with nothing but love and sunshine.
I know he does it just to infuriate me.

As I wipe the blood from my arm
I imagine his life
Doing nothing but dreaming of ways to torture me with his very existence
Aggravating me, hounding me, constantly keeping me on alert for what shit he might pull next.

He jumps on my back now, almost knocking me over
I stumble
I catch myself with my hands
And lose it.

Turning around, I start chasing him with all the fury I can muster
Intent upon showing him what’s up
Who’s the boss
Who’s running the shows these days
I yell at him, not caring about the scene I was making, until hands grab me from behind.

He’s blocks away now, probably running to tell someone what I did, whimpering and batting his puppy dog eyes...
No one knows the viciousness underneath that pitiful sham...

Well he started it...

Loathsome dog.

We’ll see who wins next time.</body>
       <category>
         12716
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 26 Nov 2007 15:27:19 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Word Of The Day: Mother</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Kayla Schaefer</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/word-of-the-day-mother.html</link>
       <guid>99541</guid>
       <body>I am late again. It is 8:00 a.m. and I am ten minutes away from her group home in South St. Paul. I am supposed to be there and already on our way to St. Louis Park. She is going to be so late. I punish myself for not getting up when my alarm went off.

I pull into the small parking lot ready to pull out as soon as she hobbles to the van. She is there waiting on the stoop of the first house. She lives in the third one but eats and takes her medication in the first. I can tell she has been waiting there a while.

&quot;I was just calling you,&quot; she greets me without a smile. &quot;I was hoping you didn’t answer because you were on your way.&quot;

&quot;I’m sorry, Mom! I am so sorry. Are we going to be able to make it there on time?&quot; I say while squishing my shoulders up and pouting my face, showing her I am sorry and ashamed.

&quot;We’ll see,&quot; she exhales, letting me wallow in the guilt.

My mom has this way of packing the guilt together and dropping it on you, like the anvil crushing the coyote. It hits you square in the gut every time. Suddenly you are just being drowned by so much guilt that you can hardly keep track of who you are.

The 20 minute drive to St. Louis Park is driven in silence. Well, more like I am silent. Mom jabbers on about how she is feeling and makes a few phone calls to doctors on that cell phone of hers. Her phone bill is off the charts and she says she doesn’t know how it happens. I can tell her. She talks on the phone and the minutes accumulate. Simple as that. I try to ignore what she says, but I can’t.

&quot;Kayla, you really understand me. You are so much like me, we have this special connection. Kayla, you are the only one that wants to see me, well maybe Krista and Kathryn. Your father hasn’t been that great of a man. He just doesn’t care about the family the way I do. I am scared that Kaitlyn is going to turn out just like Grandma Schaefer. That is where she is headed.&quot;

I try to make all her comments go in one ear and out the other, but I can’t. Just the conscious thought of wanting the comments gone make me concentrate that much harder and continue listening. I need a thick wall to be built between the passenger seat and the driver’s seat. There has to be some law somewhere that says that the passenger is only able to tell the driver happy things. My wall is the radio.

&quot;Do you mind if I turn on the radio? I just feel like listening to music,&quot; I suggest, hoping that she won’t realize my real intentions.

&quot;Well, I would prefer if you didn’t. Jingle Bells just won’t go away, and I’m scared that another will replace it if it does,&quot; she says staring out the window through traffic.

Mom told me about a week ago that she was hearing songs in her head. Christmas songs to be exact.

&quot;Hearing songs?&quot; I questioned her as I followed her up the stairs to her room, &quot;Like...what do you mean?&quot;

&quot;Well, the doctors gave me some medicine for it. Some anti-schizophrenic meds. Hopefully it will go away,&quot; she stated nonchalantly, as if it was no big deal.

&quot;Oh,&quot; I said and let the subject drop, trying to pretend it was no big deal, too. I told myself, at least she is getting help, and she isn’t hearing people talking to her, they’re just singing. Singing Christmas songs.

I was trying hard to think that Mom wasn’t crazy. Was she like this when she was living with us? June 1, 2000 is the exact date that she moved out. Could it be that it was only three weeks ago that she lived with my five siblings, my dad, and me? So much has happened since then, and so much has changed.

&quot;Oh! That reminds me, I need to call Dr. Meets to get another prescription.&quot; She fumbles through her new plastic purse, a recent purchase at Target, until she finds her calendar. She takes out her cell phone, to add a few more minutes to her bill, and dials. She gets the wrong number, and then dials again, this time reaching the office. I decide that the radio won’t kill her and tune it to 93X, hard rock.

We make it to the doctor 15 minutes late. We are always late. I am a perpetually late person, and since I drive Mom everywhere, she is a late person too. It is hard to make Mom late, when I know if she were driving herself, she would be on time. Being on time will be my next goal.

I park the van in the handicap spot near the door. I get out of the car quickly as if I am the one late for an appointment, and help Mom out of the van. Her arms are extremely thin now. I cringe just grabbing her bicep, always surprised by her delicateness. You cannot see how thin she has become just by looking at her because her clothes are so baggy. Hitting the automatic lock button on the passenger door, it locks each door simultaneously, sounding like a line of gunmen cocking their hollow guns.

Mom’s 43 year old body hobbles down the tiled hallway to the office of her doctor, with her aluminum cane clicking with each step. I stroll along next to her. There isn’t a comfortable pace to take while walking with her. It is either you are walking too fast and stopping constantly to allow her to catch up, or you are shuffling along, and the mere pace of reaching each destination is so slow it drives you to depression. I keep my mind on other things, allowing myself to enjoy the smaller things in life.

&quot;See how much time you are spending with Mom?&quot; I encourage myself. &quot;You are a good daughter. You should be glad that you are getting all this quality time with your mom. Not every 17 year old would do this.&quot; I smile because I am doing so much good.

Then I concentrate on the tiles on the floor, and keep my steps in the exact place so I step on each horizontal line as I approach it. To keep my pace with Mom, while continuing to look like a mature person, are the most challenging parts. I take one big step, slowly, as to stay with Mom’s small shuffles, and I pause. I then take two small steps before another big one to hit the next line. I stay at Mom’s right hand side the whole time.

&quot;Yeah, I know what you mean, Mom,&quot; I contribute to her conversation, which she has been continuing since we arrived. Someday I will get caught. She will see that I am not paying attention and understand that my comments are so general that they would fit any conversation. I try to listen. I really do try. It seems like when I try not to listen, I do listen, but when I try to listen, I just can’t do it. My mind wanders off. I think I need to try harder. I need to be here for her. She needs my support.

I wait in the waiting room for her appointment to end. Wheel-of-Fortune is on the television in the upper right corner. A woman is wheeled to the phone where she dials and makes a phone call for a bus. A little boy sits perpendicular to me with his grandma. His legs bounce up and down on the chair as she reads him a picture book from the table. Mom is taking forever. I check the wall clock, then get up and head to the cafeteria.

I only have enough money to buy a medium. What I want is a large. A large Coke and maybe some food would be nice. I didn’t have time for breakfast in my rush to get to Mom’s. I take my Coke and my book out to the veranda to sit in the sun for a bit. Despite it being June and nearly 80 degrees, I wear pants. I get too cold in all the air conditioned buildings if I dress for summer, but the sun feels so nice warming my skin. Sunbathing, I sit among the dining doctors and secretaries. They chatter about work and their children, and I can’t help but think that I don’t belong here.

Mom comes outside and calls for me, disturbing my peace. She has finished her appointment. I wonder how she knew that I was out here, but then I remember that I came out here on Monday too. I get up and slowly walk inside to join her on our journey down the hall to the parking lot.

&quot;How did it go?&quot; I ask with a smile, in hopes that it was positive.

&quot;Ok,&quot; she exhales emotionless, &quot;Dr. Tram missed part of her lunch so she could see me.&quot;

&quot;I’m really sorry for making you late, Mom. I’m glad that you still got to see her though.&quot;

&quot;It’s just that I am never usually late for anything,&quot; she adds.

~~~~~~

She wants to stop at Target on our way back to her place. She always needs something new. Luckily I just found one near her house. We used to have to drive the 30 minutes back to Burnsville just to go to Target.

Mom has a great idea for a purchase today. After getting her Kiwi-Strawberry Gatorade (which is the only thing that she drinks) we head for the jewelry department. Mom wants to get me a watch.

&quot;You need a watch, Kayla. It’ll help you stay on time,&quot; she states, looking through the Timex sport watches.

&quot;I don’t know, Mom,&quot; I doubt her. &quot;I don’t think that will help.&quot;

She doesn’t seem to listen to me. I think she just wants to buy something, and it is for me, so I am not going to argue it any further. I pick out one with a blue fabric type wristband, and Velcro clasp. The face glows in the dark. I figure this watch will make the day worthwhile.

I carry our purchases up to the cashier. I note how funny it is that the Target cashiers match the counter and stand there waiting for customers, like hunters wait for prey in their camouflage outfits. I set the watch and the Gatorade on the conveyer belt.

That’s when the cashier said the dreaded phrase, the phrase I fear coming out of any person’s mouth in my mom’s direction while I am anywhere near.

&quot;How are you doing today, ma’am?&quot; the innocent lady asks my mother.

Automatically, I turn away and pretend to be really busy looking at everyone else. The man at the customer service counter is returning something, the child in the next aisle is picking his nose, but please don’t let me hear what my mother is telling the poor woman. Of course, my attempt to block it out is futile. I hear every word.

&quot;Well, it isn’t so great,&quot; she puts in a fake airy laugh here, &quot;It’s tough when you have no money. My husband doesn’t want me spending any, but what am I supposed to do? But of course it probably helps that I don’t eat that much. This Gatorade will probably be my lunch. I’ve been buying posters to hang on my walls of the group home. You just have to make it seem homey, right? I hope it will grow on me. Anyway, what was the total again? I just cannot seem to concentrate these days. Must be the depression.&quot; Then she performs a few more airy laughs, shifts her weight, and finally begins writing out the check.

I can feel how uncomfortable the cashier must feel right now.

&quot;I hear ya,&quot; the cashier replies. &quot;Sometimes I only eat a candy bar for lunch. And my husband is a tight wad, too.&quot;

Yeah, I want to say, but don’t you eat other days? Don’t you consider your family when you spend money? Don’t you shower? Don’t pretend that you have this bond! I want to laugh at how wrong she is to even pretend they have something in common. But instead I just help my mom put away her things, smile at the cashier and leave, pretending nothing has happened. I trail behind her just enough in a way that says that she might not be related.

Ordinarily, people say that teenagers don’t want to be seen with their parents, and I suppose I fit the stereotype. Sometimes I pretend that I am merely a hired hand, or I volunteer at a group home to bring the residents out to shop. I am not related to this woman, but I choose to help out because my passion is helping the mentally ill. My real parents wait for me at home with dinner, hugs, and eagerness to hear all about my day</body>
       <category>
         12715
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 26 Nov 2007 14:42:49 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Swallowed</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Scott Wenker</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/swallowed.html</link>
       <guid>99540</guid>
       <body>I can feel myself slipping back into the hole. You know the hole I’m talking about. It’s the place you go when life is throwing shit at you left and right. It keeps piling up and if you don’t do something, you’ll be in over your head. So you take a pill, or two, or more. You drink a few beers. I don’t. I am invited out to eat. I go. I want to eat and eat. I do. I need to stop. It’s finals. My rotator cuff may be torn. I need a job. I need to graduate. I need to find a woman. I’m lonely. I’m frustrated. I’m afraid. I’m hungry. I eat and I eat. I need to stop.

The saying goes, &quot;such and such is a bitter pill to swallow.&quot; Science tells us that if it’s bitter, don’t eat it. The cave dwellers never ate bitter food, because bitter meant poison. Life can be a bitter pill, can’t it? But not too bitter. It may hurt going down, but it feels good once it gets there. It feels good because you know it’s going somewhere. And it&apos;s not too poisonous. It kills you slowly. You swallow every injury, every lonely Friday night, every bad grade you ever get and you fade away. You consume every little pain in life so it doesn’t consume you. But it does.

I can’t remember how everything has happened in my life. This is my state of mind being represented through the actions of a little boy in my memories. This little boy never aged. He learned when he was five that his parents did not get along. His life was not as &quot;perfect&quot; as he remembered it. In an effort to return his life to how it was, this boy never matured. The things he did when he was five he did when he was ten, fifteen and twenty. When I try to talk to this little boy, he says little. He instead draws me a picture- of a boy - standing alone on the outside, shivering and watching those inside move on without him. Time stands still on the outside. The little boy never feels like he is wanted inside, so he remains outside. For him, nothing has ever changed. For him, nothing that happens is important. All that matters is where he is, and where he is not.

I need to stop. I told myself this before. I was 340 pounds or more for the past five years since I graduated high school. I battled obesity all my life, and was steadily getting slimmer until my senior year. I developed my first real crush on anyone ever with a classmate. Through the first three years, she did not know who I was. We had two classes together in twelfth grade and had to work together on projects. We slowly grew to know each other and became friends. I couldn’t stop thinking about her, though. She saw me as a friend and I wanted more. I would get depressed and jealous whenever she ignored me. I didn’t know how to handle it. Then one day, she confided in me.

&quot;Do you know what I heard?&quot; she asked me, looking into my eyes, &quot;I heard that So-and-so has a crush on me. I mean, ew!&quot;

I don’t know what she saw in him that made her say &quot;Ew.&quot; He often smelled bad, and acted like a fruitcake. Nobody really liked him, but nobody liked me either. No matter what she said or what she meant, in my mind she called him fat. I was fatter. I went home that night and every night after that and went to sleep. I would wake up to play Playstation, to eat and to use the bathroom. Eventually, I would wake up to get ready for bed. During the day, I went to school and I listened to her gossiping, and I swallowed my tongue.

When I finally got over her, if I ever got over her, I just ignored the tears that were crying to get out, and they welled up inside of me. I spent four years of college letting it well up inside of me. Pound by pound I grew. I took the elevator because I was out of breath and sweating when I got to class. I was not able to lower university desks without my gut sitting on top. I couldn’t write; there wasn’t enough room for my notebook. I couldn’t understand what I had become. It was not sudden. It was not a conscious decision. I just let it happen, pound by pound.

Everyone, you must be thinking, has had a crush. Everyone has had his or her heart broken by a crush. Everyone has dealt with it and moved on. My broken heart was only part of what I had to deal with, and I have never handled anything well. As a young child, when I was not getting enough attention I would throw tantrums. A tantrum includes, but is not limited to: excessive screaming, throwing, and breaking things. If I had a grievance, I wanted to be heard. I could remember when I was a baby; whenever I needed something I would cry. I kept it up.

The pain I felt was too great to keep to myself, and I wanted to share it. I wanted other people to hurt, so I would throw things - hoping they would break. I would slam doors, clear shelves of their contents, kick boxes, punch walls, but my favorite tantrum activity was to throw. I was reaching out for help, and my toys were my beacon - my flare. Maybe someone would see it fly by and come to ask me what was wrong. Maybe I would hit somebody. If I hit Mom, maybe she would come pay attention to me. She might yell if it hurt badly enough and she might not. It was a risk I had to take. If I hit one of my brothers, he would chase me and I could hide behind Mom. She would protect me. I would be safe -- in her arms, and back at the center of her universe. I didn’t like making Mom upset. When I threw a tantrum, my little belly would tense up, wondering whom the projectile would hit, and how they would react. My tantrums only hurt Mom, so I needed to stop.

Have you ever carried something so heavy it made your whole body quake, only to find there’s nowhere to put it? You want so bad just to drop it where you stand or to put it where it belongs. You can’t, though, so you stand there holding it while your legs turn to Jell-O. You know that once you put it down you won’t be able to pick it back up again. The world doesn’t make a lot of sense when you carry a burden so great; eventually you just have to drop it. When I held in my tears it was the same. I could no longer reach out for attention. I would stand there hoping for someone to come, but if nobody did, I would begin to cry. I cried a lot over the years, until the tears dried up. I decided this activity was too painful. I wanted to feel good.

When a junkie is cornered, at risk of being caught, he has to get rid of his stash. When he has no toilet down which he can flush it, the next logical step is for him to swallow it. He destroyed the evidence so he could continue suffering in silence. Maybe he even caught a buzz in doing so. It is a win-win situation. I was cornered, shouldering my burden with nowhere to put it. My knees were beyond quaking. I couldn’t handle it, so I swallowed every bad thing I could to lighten my load.

Every time a pet died, I would swallow the memory and I would grow fatter. I swallowed every dirty look I ever received. At lunch, I would walk through the cafeteria with a pizza and I heard people talking. &quot;I heard he ate 10 pizzas last night didn’t you Scott?&quot; &quot;There goes the Defective Human.&quot; &quot;Hey, Fat Scott. Hey, hey!&quot; It came from all sides. I felt the shame hit me and start to pile up. My legs grew weak and my back would ache so badly tears began to form. I kept on walking until I found a table away from their sneers and their jokes. I opened up my individual Pizza Hut pizza, sprinkled the hot peppers on and bite by bite I swallowed all of the mocking. I choked the tears back and swallowed them and I swallowed the fact that I was sitting alone in a booth in my high school cafeteria, eating my individual pizza.

That was how I lived my life. Every day was another day to be mocked. When the insults stopped coming, I grew afraid. If the insults stopped, the pain might stop and I would have been left with nothing to swallow. In high school, nobody is afraid to tell you what they think. After graduation, they all develop tact. Tact means you think it but don’t say it to someone’s face. So I began to look in people’s eyes. When someone looked at me, he or she would quickly look away. Sometimes I could catch a guy nudging his friend and pointing at me. It was often the case that I would frighten people. One time a pretty woman was walking towards me but wasn’t paying attention. She turned and saw me in front of her. I smiled and she jumped back. &quot;HOLY SHIT!&quot; she turned her eyes away and started laughing. She shook her head a few times to knock loose the memory of what had happened, but I never could. I could only swallow it, and grow bigger.

Nobody ever told me what was wrong with me. Everyone around me said I was just a depressed boy, eating because I was unhappy and unhappy because I ate. I didn’t have willpower, and I didn’t have self-esteem. I hated myself and didn’t care how I looked. I was slowly killing myself but nobody ever told me. I was just that kid. I was the kid who couldn’t sit in certain chairs because my aunt was afraid I would break them. I was the kid who, when upset, was easily quieted with two - yes, two - large burritos. I did not get hugs; I got two large burritos.

Last summer, a friend and I were talking. I was whining about being lonely. I told him I was too fat to find a girlfriend. He scratched his head.

&quot;You don’t care what you look like. You have no reason to be depressed.&quot; I replied that what he said was bullshit. I did care. He laughed, &quot;Dude, no you don’t. If you did, you would do something about it.&quot;

I argued with him for what seemed like hours. He wouldn’t listen to me, so I got pissed. I stopped talking to him. I knew he was right and I couldn’t face the truth. I knew exactly who I was and who I am. I am an attention whore. I have a large, hungry, fragile ego. I like being the center of attention, and I am vain. I am so vain that in high school I used to pray to a God I didn’t believe in every night. I prayed to be pretty.

&quot;God,&quot; I would whine in my most desperate voice, &quot;If you help me through this I swear I will believe in you.&quot;

If you have ever tried getting a child to take a pill, you know the best way is to mix it up in applesauce. I was that child. Life had injured me and I needed a remedy, so I swallowed. I would shoulder other people’s burdens when my own pain wasn’t great enough. I would always &quot;be there&quot; for people and share their grief. I would tell them everything was all right and eventually they would drag me down with them. I would get depressed because I couldn’t help someone else and I would swallow that pain. When the boys in high school stopped insulting me, I got paranoid and decided that every reaction that was made toward me was out of fear or disgust. I wanted them to hate me and to pity me so that I could swallow the hatred and pity. I was addicted to swallowing and it prevented me from moving on.

When my friend and I had our argument, I tried to think of ways to excuse myself. I was in pain, I was depressed, I was too fat to change. I had nothing to change for. But I knew I was better than the excuses that kept me fat. I knew that if I wanted to be liked, I could make people like me. If I wanted attention, I could get it, and it didn’t have to be negative. I knew also that I was at the center of someone’s universe. I have a nephew, my godson, who is reaching school age. He is starting Tee ball, Basketball and Soccer and he needs me. He needs me now and fifteen years from now and I have no reason not to be there for him.

So here I am, 150 pounds lighter. My body has rejected all of the excuses I had once accepted. I can no longer stomach the bitter pill, no matter how much food I eat with it. When my life is full of stressors and I feel I can’t handle it, I want to eat. Sometimes I do overeat and sometimes I don’t. I feel myself slipping, and that’s okay. I can slip a little bit, as long as I remember what I am doing and why. Life may be difficult and it will only get worse, but I am prepared. The little boy inside of me has finally grown up, and all the things that little boy used to swallow? I chew them up and spit them out.</body>
       <category>
         12715
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 26 Nov 2007 14:41:48 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>The Visitation</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Gladys Mambo</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/the-visitation.html</link>
       <guid>99538</guid>
       <body>Age Eleven. A shrub. A long avenue. A parade. She appears. Just the way I remember her; she has not changed. I recognize the innocence. An outstretched hand. A crooked smile.

&quot;Come with me,&quot; she invites.

&quot;I can’t,&quot; shivering from sheer shock at seeing her.

&quot;Please come. I am happy there. You would be too if you came.&quot;

&quot;No, I can’t. If I do, they’ll be looking for me like they’ve been looking for you for years. You did not say where you were going and everyone has been looking for you since. I can’t do that too.&quot;

The crooked smile again, except this time it is more intense. She is still very shy as she lowers her sad eyes to the ground near my feet. Her innocence and what seems to be a little sun radiate around her head. The brightness astounds me. She is wearing the short black skirt and schoolgirl white shirt I last remember her in. Little has changed.

&quot;I cannot come. I want to but I can’t. Where are you now, anyway?&quot;

&quot;I’ll tell you all about it if you just come with me.&quot; She never moves her feet. She’s leaning against the shrub, her hands fidgeting with its greens. The parade continues. We both go unnoticed. It’s a different world... She cocks her head to one side but I am not mistaken - she fills up the space and I struggle to be.

&quot;Come now. Please come, come. I came to take you to where I am and then you can tell them.&quot; She reaches for me and gently but relentlessly pulls my arm.

&quot;I can’t. I can’t. I can’t...&quot; and my voice echoes and eventually is fading...

The bell goes and again, I am alone in my pajamas. I am still on the upper bunk and my blanket is halfway to the ground, leaving my flustered face without a shield against her brightness. I hug myself and reach for the suspending blanket. The dormitory extends in the looming darkness as the fifty or so girls travel silently through their counterparts’ snores. Some are presently freeing their saturated bladders onto their thin mattresses as they dream that they’re squatting on a cistern. The flowerbed outside the window has ghost hairs in its shadows reflected on the walls of Fatima House. I look away from the glass panes and dreadful flowerbed shadows. I ignore the sounds from the visiting owls in Fatima, staring instead at the empty ceiling above my head. Too close for comfort, it feels like the ceiling is caving in on me. Upper bunk. The Virgin stares at me with sad eyes, her hands stretched forth to all her lost daughters wallowing in their greed and lusts. Christ looks straight ahead from the heights of his carved wood, hands above a bleeding head of thorns, into the pitch darkness of the long dormitory. I’ve had a visitor. Quite a strange guest but one nonetheless.

***

Age Eight. We are at it again. Up early in the morning and daring each other to run to the veranda and look. We’re excited. Our parents are still asleep and we know they should never catch us here. I open the door wide enough to peer outside. There is just the empty space between four curious eyes and IT. The block of cement brick is still lying there. It is comfortable in the February sun. The harmattan wind rages on and our lips quiver from the cold that defies the sun. It will all change by noon though. It will get really hot and dry, my bottom lip will crack due to the dryness and I will lick my own blood. Every time I open my mouth to speak or eat, it will hurt and bring forth more blood, which I will again consume generously.

We make a run for it, stay there for five seconds and run back into the house. We live on the third floor so our view of IT is clear. IT is starting to welcome the sun, swelling to acknowledge that. Today is Tuesday and it has been six days. The red and white of the torn shirt are still there although it is getting damp. The deep brownness is, however, turning to a high yellow. IT yearns for the sun further and continues to grow towards it. My eyes travel the entire course of IT, disregarding the scolding or possible whooping I will be offered without choice if Mummy or Daddy catches me.

I do not look outside my window at night. The dusty football stadium is still there, although the runners and football players have ceased to come for their daily practices or runs. Our primary school is only a five minute walk away from home and from IT. The other pupils admire our courage in dealing with IT and although we brag about our success, after this number of days my patience is beginning to wear out. The adults never wanted it there - an omen of evil. But for us kids, it was fun - for a while... and then it began invading our play, lives and our dreams. These days, no one shows up at the field - IT fills up the entire space, all of it and we hate such crisp silence.

It is Friday morning. I wake up and shower with cold water as usual. I get into my beautiful knee-length blue school dress. The trimmings around the neck and arms are white. I put on my polished black shoes and ask the others to hurry. Boys! You can never get them to do anything on time.

Today is a strange day. It’s been nine days since IT arrived, but today is the only day that I am not excited about seeing IT. The novelty of ITS presence on the side street in front of our home has worn off, although the smell is still pungent. After all these days, it just booms - it’s no longer just a smell, it is a presence, a vacuum that denies filling, a question, a fear, reality even. It assails our clothes, our shoes, our hair and our food. We children have rejected our meals on several occasions, although the kitchen faces a completely opposite direction from IT. Today, the smell is even stronger. The brown is now the highest yellow it has ever been and the protrusion is quite close, in my eight-year-old opinion, to bursting point. I can almost see through the stretches, the wiry strings underneath the thinning surface.

We leave for school and because IT has made it impossible for us to cut through the field to get to school, we have invented a new but longer way to school. I am unhappy about that. Today, some vagabond children muster the nerve to come closer to the cement block where they perceive on it a colored patch - in red. These same bold loafers come even closer to IT and lift... Two deep holes where there shouldn’t be any. I am horrified. Today is indeed an unusual day - even the sun says that. It’s burning hot at 7:30 a.m.

The last nine days, I have made my own stories about how IT got there. I ignore all the adults’ speculations. I don’t want to share my stories - I am greedy and I don’t want someone to tell them and claim ownership. I just change the plot when I feel like it and shed a tear when my story demands it. In my world, IT is alive in ITS present form, and mine to do with as I please.

It is soon 3:00 p.m. and the school day ends. We head home and then we hear. Rumors. IT is gone... Gone? Gone where? I hurry towards the field and sure enough, my IT is gone. I am happy. Hereafter, I can stare out my window without worrying about the stretching contours of the body lying undisturbed on the cold, hard concrete. The smell lingers however, stronger than ever. It is extremely hot, and the street side that this murdered boy’s corpse inhabits has quenched its own thirst from his juices. The street seeps in just enough to leave a clear trace of where he has been laying these nine days.

At the time of the good news, we clap. We all shout and celebrate. IT no longer fills our days and nights, our meals and outings, our trips to school and lunch breaks. IT no longer fills our conversations and imaginations. IT no longer invades our deadened consciences - consciences that allow a man to murder another for a mere ten thousand francs, without raising a finger. We are satisfied to have it gone from the comfort of our homes and neighborhoods, leaving behind relieved but haunted people. In a way, I am happy that IT was most kind not to have given in to the greedy sun’s demand. IT stretched far out enough to call and get help. But IT never gave in! The prisoners came in the nick of time to whisk away the disintegrating body already returning to its natural biblical form.

I stare at the image in the ground. It will be there for a few more years, despite the rain and shine. No one touches the cement block - no one has the nerve to. But a mother’s memory is etched there, among us, strangers to her and her own. A father’s pride is on the colored patch of a lone cement block. A future is lying there, having quenched the thirst of an insatiable tarred street which, like its mother earth that incessantly swallows bodies, never satisfies. I am eight and frightened. Some days, IT visits me in that place where I am not I but a voyeur, peering through a screen into my own life.

Three years later IT doesn’t visit but IT sends a most beloved emissary, although it would be another three years before her arrival. The smell of IT was pungent and evoked from deep within all things terribly disgusting and best forgotten. But when she comes, I am eleven and sleeping in an upper bunk in Rosary House. She smells of cypress - the wreaths! the wreaths! I put one of those on her wooden box back in 1987. She also smells of cypress, the kind of trees that enclose the yard into which she and grandma have relocated. But it’s her and not the cypress that almost engulfs me. I am losing grip and ready to go but oh! the morning bell saves... it saves...</body>
       <category>
         12715
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 26 Nov 2007 14:40:28 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Pretending</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Kirstin Smith</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/pretending.html</link>
       <guid>99537</guid>
       <body>I am lying on the floor with a pillow in the front of my shirt, pretending to be pregnant. I am 5. The orange carpet presses through my shirt and prickles my bare legs. I turn and look at the new furniture in the corner of my room. Actually it is old furniture – a scarred wooden crib full of fluffy pink and yellow, and a dingy white wicker changing table, bursting with cloth diapers and blankets and sheets, all in muted pastels and covered with ducks and chicks and lion cubs. In the corner of the bottom shelf something catches my attention. It is lime green and lemon yellow and checkered. It looks like my favorite dress that I can’t wear anymore but I don’t remember why not. I roll onto one side and get up the way I have seen Mom get up and waddle to the changing table with my hands on my lower back. It is my favorite dress with the matching underpants. I pull off my clothes and set the pillow aside. Something feels funny when I pull the dress over my head, but I ignore it and step into the underpants. They don’t go all the way up, but that is okay with me because I need room for my pillow baby anyway. Plus, they make the waddling easier.

I am standing in front of the mirror in my bedroom with a pillow in the front of my shirt, pretending to be pregnant. I am 12. I throw the pillow across the room and pull up my shirt, sticking my stomach out as far as I can. I turn left and right, looking for lumps – the layers of fat that took over Mom’s body after Erin was born. I hunch down and try to make my belly hang over the top of my pants. I stick my tongue out at myself. &quot;I’m never having babies,&quot; I whisper.

I am lying on my back, looking at the shiny pink skin on the top of his head, thinking, &quot;Did he use a condom this time?&quot; I am 17, he is 36. He is my mother’s best friend. I turn my head to watch the TV by his bed. Seinfeld. It’s the episode where Elaine can’t buy soup. I am still wearing my shirt, red and white striped long-underwear from The Gap. He is still wearing pants. My overalls are on the floor, but I think my foot is still in one of the legs. I will panic until I bleed again, terrified that someone will find out about &quot;our little secret.&quot; I can’t be pregnant.

I am lying on my bed looking up at my lover, grateful that her x-chromosomes can’t fertilize mine. I am 19. I believe that most people who have babies are environmentally irresponsible sheep who only procreate to ease the stifling boredom of their lives. I am wholly in favor of mandatory sterilization for anyone who has more than two children. I am rabid about safe sex and encourage people to use condoms, even in committed relationships. I tell them about the woman that I worked with who got AIDS from her husband of 23 years. You never know who you can trust. I tell people that I can’t have children, that not eating throughout high school damaged my ovaries. It could be true.

I am lying on the couch with a cool washcloth over my eyes, suffering from the side-effects of the morning-after pill. I am 21. He is one of my best friends. I’m not sure why I did it. Maybe I was lonely. Maybe I was drunk. Maybe I thought that if I could be with any man, it would be him. Maybe it is true that we only make friends with people we want to have sex with. He is gorgeous, smart and fun, and, I think, in love with me. I am now absolutely certain that I am gay. He didn’t cum, but he also didn’t use a condom and I don’t trust those sperm. They are tricky.

I am sitting on the couch next to my good friend Molly. I am 24. She is pregnant. My hand is on her belly. It is round and smooth and surprisingly firm. A warm shiver runs up my arm and courses through my blood-stream settling, not uncomfortably, in my womb. It lingers there for weeks, months. I have dreams starring a beautiful, sandy-haired boy and wake sobbing because I remember that he is not real. I pick a fight with Christy about circumcision, which gets heated and dangerous until she reminds me that I don’t want children. My dreams change. They begin to feature accidental pregnancies; my baby is always taken from me for some sin that I have unintentionally committed.

I am lying on an examining table with my legs splayed, my feet in the metal stirrups. I imagine myself at 29 or 30 or 35. Will Christy be in here with me? Will we have an anonymous donor, or a friend? Will we tell our parents before or after we get pregnant? We talk about it all of the time. We pick out first names and middle names. Lilly Kai. Or Finn. We fight over things like mandatory music lessons, make-up, college. We fight about what we will do if it is born a hermaphrodite. We agree on punishments and rewards and sports and school and fighting (or not) in front of our child. We agree that I should be the one to get pregnant because I am younger and stronger and ache for a child in a way that she does not. There is box in our garage full of cloth diapers, flannel blankets in soft pastels covered in elephants and ducks and clowns, a green and yellow serge sundress with matching underpants.

I am lying on my living room floor with a pillow in the front of my shirt, pretending to be pregnant. I am 26. I can feel the coarse fibers of the area rug through my shirt. I turn my head to the side and smell the rug: five years of living, of dog hair and carpet cleaner and coffee spills and bare feet have given it a musty, homey smell – not unpleasant, but stronger than I would have expected. After a minute I get up, throw the pillow back on the couch and get the vacuum.</body>
       <category>
         12715
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 26 Nov 2007 14:39:18 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Harvest</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Rhea Davidson</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/harvest.html</link>
       <guid>99534</guid>
       <body>The rows of corn moved as though they were not driven by the wind but as if they generated it. Up close, the stalks smelled of butter and sheaves of new paper. Hanna tugged a stalk down and gripped a cob of corn. Teasing back the leaves, she rubbed a finger over the kernels, feeling their plastic resistance. She walked further from the edge of the row and the nearby highway, and the hum of passing cars faded.

Green stalks obliterated the tan chrome of her Ford as she moved away from where she’d parked it in the field approach. She had been driving past Gramma’s farmhouse on the way to her mother’s when her eyes fell on the waves of corn moving in the sunlight, and she felt compelled to stop.

Now, moving into the field, her feet found the wide path created by the John Deere and followed it. Her legs protested faintly, reminding her she had been driving for hours. As she traced the wide swath of the tractor, she felt as if only a part of her was present. The other part, the part that was familiar and ordinary, was still back at her apartment in Detroit, sitting at the kitchen table. That part of her hadn’t yet picked up the phone, and didn’t know Wally was dead.

She continued on into the field. Her feet sank slightly in the days-old wheel ruts, but they were already filling with earth. She walked until the path stopped at the north corner of the field, just shy of the highway. She took in the massive John Deere before her, mud-spattered and wearied. It sat on its haunches like an abandoned beast, surrounded by growing rows of August corn on three sides, a trail of black country soil stretching behind it. Mentally, she retraced the path she’d walked in her mind, looking for a pattern, some meaning. There was none.

She reached out to touch the grimy green paint, then clambered up to the cab. Opening the door, she sat on the dusty vinyl seat. Her hands clenched in frustration and she became aware of the slightly acidic scent of her sweat breathing through her tank top. The heat seemed to roll just beneath the surface of the soil, baking her as she walked. She’d forgotten how warm Minnesota summers could be.

She eased the door back open and hopped down, landing awkwardly in the soil. Her twenty-seven year-old frame lacked the grace and energy she’d had as a child. She ran her hands down the back of her shorts to brush away the soil. Pausing, she glanced back up at the tractor. She wanted to know about the man who had driven it, steering it haphazardly into wind and rain to slice a trail through the cornfields he made his living on. She wanted to know what Wally had been thinking. She needed to know something more about the man whose childhood features were imprinted into her memory with fear.

The sun that had circled her as she traversed the field, following the John Deere’s footsteps, was sinking. A familiar, uncomfortable sensation seeped into her. Gazing at the end of the row, she could just make out the corner of Gramma’s house. With the sunset partially blinding her, she couldn’t make out the scars and rigors of weather on the house’s siding. It looked just as it had when she’d been a child, coming over for get-togethers with her family and her mother’s brothers and sisters and their families. In her mind, she was transported to her childhood.

She was running through the rows, tripping over broken stalks and zigzagging around rain puddles. Stopping for a breath, she grabbed the end of a corn stalk. A half-mile from Gramma’s house, she could see gray clouds in the west and smell rain in the air. She wondered if she’d made a mistake. She’d seen Wally eyeing her while they were playing a game of kick-the-can. Her first thought had been to hide.

Wally wasn’t like the rest of her cousins. He was loud and was always picking on her and his other little cousins. Usually, he’d just give them a shove when the grownups weren’t around or call them some dirty words. Hanna didn’t even know what he was talking about all the time, just that he said &quot;sex&quot; a lot, and he kept putting his hands in his shorts. The way she’d caught him looking at her made her feel like he wanted to put his hands on her, too.

Hanna hadn’t stuck around to see. She ran into the cornfields. She was the third fastest runner in her second-grade class, and she thought maybe she’d go so fast he wouldn’t even see her. There would be just a blur, and she’d be gone.

Still, she was scared. Wally was three years older and a lot bigger. Now, she tried to keep still while she waited to see if he’d followed her. Her breath came quick, but she tried to hold it and be quiet.

A hand dropped down behind her, on her left shoulder. Turning, she looked up at Wally. He was smiling, but he didn’t look friendly. &quot;Hiding, Hanna?&quot; he asked.

&quot;No,&quot; she responded. &quot;I’m just sick of playing, that’s all.&quot; She tried to shake his hand off. She remembered where it had been.

Wally’s fingers didn’t loosen. She felt as though his fingerprints were marking her skin. &quot;I knew I’d find you.&quot; Already, his other hand was moving, running down her back to her rear end, where it stayed. His fingers pinched. One arm held her in place, while the other moved around her body.

She put her arms out to push at him, but she knew it wasn’t working. She thought maybe if she said something, he’d stop, but his eyes looked like he wasn’t even there. He was all red and excited and didn’t seem to hear her yelling. She was still wiggling away when Wally’s fingers found the edge of her jeans and pushed their way inside her cotton butterfly underwear.

Hanna gripped a couple of stalks of corn, leaning on them for support, reminding herself she was an adult, not a child. She had known when she decided to come for Wally’s funeral that she would be forced to remember what had happened to her. The incident in her mind had been the first time Wally attacked her.

Taking deep breaths like her therapist recommended, Hanna refocused her thoughts. Seldom a day passed when she didn’t think of Wally. She realized now that what continued to churn in her was not the shame of the actual abuse, not the loneliness of carrying her secret, and not the anxiety she suffered. She had looked to her faith in God and He had healed her gradually. What hurt now was the thought that, as impacted as she was by Wally’s abuse, he hadn’t seemed affected. He didn’t seem to give another thought to her other than when he was molesting her. To think that he was utterly unchanged by her pain frustrated her attempts to move on.

Sighing, she turned. She prayed softly, asking God to give her understanding, to give her peace.

At her mother’s house, she took in the familiar front porch and the country-style welcome mat as she hugged the woman before her. Her mother seemed smaller than the last time she’d been home to visit her. Then, she’d been filled with the nervous energy of grief. She’d run Hanna through the arrangements for Gramma’s funeral, made Hanna dinner and gossiped about the farm family down the road, all at the same time.

Now, she was more subdued, careful. Her blue eyes had softened to gray, and tiny lines accompanied her smile. She pulled Hanna inside. &quot;You must be hungry,&quot; she murmured. Seating Hanna at a table that was already set out with coffee for two and a plate of sticky buns, she took the chair opposite Hanna’s and sat. &quot;So,&quot; she said, &quot;how’re you holding up?&quot;

Hanna thought it an odd choice of words. Her mother made it sound as though she was grieving for Wally. What she felt was more complex than that. She was grieving, but for the little girl she had been. She was also feeling hurt, angry and, if she had to admit it, relieved.

&quot;I’ll manage,&quot; she said.

Her mother tried again. &quot;Now, Hanna, I know we’ve been over this before, but with Wally’s dying and all, I’ve been wondering…&quot; Her words trailed off. She started again, &quot;When you came back from college and told me what Wally did to you all those years ago, I thought I’d be sick. I felt terrible, being your mother and not even knowing.&quot; Her fingers clasped and unclasped the handle of the coffee mug. &quot;Well, I guess what I’m trying to say is, can I do anything? I mean-&quot;

&quot;It’s okay, Mom. I’m okay.&quot; Her mother looked up from her mug to meet Hanna’s eyes and see if she was telling the truth. Hanna reflected that there was a time when her mother’s words would have been like bread to her, when she was a child, not knowing how to say something so humiliating, or when she was a teenager, struggling with insecurity and confusion. Still, since she’d told her, her mother had been making an effort to support Hanna. Her words, though late, were welcome.

&quot;But how are you, Mom?&quot; she asked.

As always, her mother deflected the question. &quot;Oh, fine,&quot; she responded. &quot;But poor Ben and Harriet, they’re taking it pretty hard, Wally being their only son. Still, with the kind of life Wally led, it wasn’t such a shock.&quot; Her words were matter-of-fact, but not unfeeling. &quot;Plus, they’re all stirred up about the land. Wally did a fine job of working the farm. After all he put into it after Gramma gave it to him before she passed away, well, they just hate to see it go unused now.&quot; She caught Hanna’s questioning expression.

&quot;Don’t you know what I’m talking about?&quot; she asked. &quot;Well, I’d have thought that lawyer would have gotten a hold of you by now. Well, I’d have called and told you myself-&quot;

Hanna gently grasped her mother’s hands. &quot;Mom, what are you talking about?&quot;

&quot;It’s yours, honey,&quot; she responded. &quot;He put it in a will.&quot;

Hanna was uncomprehending.

&quot;Wally left the land to you in his will. It’s all yours now,&quot; her mother said.

Hanna couldn’t seem to grasp what she wanted to say. She felt simultaneously as though she would never know the man Wally had been and as though she understood him to his core.

The next morning, she waited at the edge of the hill outside of town. The minister was solemn, his words spent already. Waves of flowers lined both sides of the grave. She watched the minister drop the first clump of dirt on the coffin. His wrist, jutting out from his sleeve, seemed somehow vulnerable: white and raw-looking. Murmurs wafted back to her where she stood, at the back of the crowd, with her mother. Her mother’s gray head was bent quietly, her frame leaning into Hanna.

Hanna realized heads were turning back toward her, feigning casual glances. She knew they were watching her. Their eyes weren’t hostile, though, merely small town curious. She realized it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling to be recognized after years of anonymity, living in a big city.

She turned her attention to the new gravesite. Hanna knew from her mother that stories were circulating about the man who had driven his tractor through the fields on a drunken whim, then died of a heart attack behind the wheel. Hanna could bet that the farmer who had discovered the tractor still wandering at dawn would have his story mastered by now.

Hymns began to fill the hillside. The sky was mostly clear, the sun faltering on a few wisps of clouds. She thought she might not see a Minnesota sunrise again when she’d left for college at age eighteen. Now, she was admiring the way the light touched the tops of the trees, the rows of corn, as it rose. She could feel something within her shifting and turning.

Unconsciously, one hand squeezed and released her mother’s hand. Her eyes went over the hills of rolling corn and alfalfa surrounding the cemetery and little church. Hers. It felt as though something moved into place inside her.

She lifted her voice to join the other singers. &quot;Thank you Father,&quot; they sang, the hymn moving lullingly through the trees. Hanna rested her head against her mother’s and looked into her fields. In her mind, the seasons turned. The stalks fell and were gathered to the earth, where they slept and then grew. Slept and then grew.</body>
       <category>
         12714
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 26 Nov 2007 14:30:58 -0600</pubDate>
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      <item>
       
       <title>Thick Snow Was Falling</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Aaron Perkins</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/thick-snow-was-falling.html</link>
       <guid>99533</guid>
       <body>She remembers watching him the night before she left for West Point. He’s putting all his pills in their proper places in little blue compartments that snap shut. MTWThF is listed above and morning, noon, and night, are listed to the left. Of the pills there are blues shaped like mini spaceships. Capsules filled with powder are chalky and leave a residue on his fingers. He notices Anna and tells her about the purposes of the whites, the clear ambers, the purple squares. The names and the purposes lose any meaning as she watches him. He jots down notes on a pad. Guests have gone home after the going-away party and Charlene is outside picking up paper plates.

This is the last time Anna sees her father before she leaves for school. He is writing notes to himself about whether or not he should take food with the purple, how much water he should take with the white, that he has to take the blue in the morning before eating anything. She watches over his shoulder. He writes on a yellow pad, Just two glasses of water with spaceships. Anna walks to the back of his chair. He says something like &quot;I really want to get it right this time,? then smiles weakly, oblivious to Anna’s own trepidation concerning her first year at the academy. Anna is struck by this memory. She wants to throw her bag down the hall, thunder down the stairway, bust out the door, steal the car and drive to the airport by herself, without looking over her shoulder to see her mother’s hurt and her father’s confusion.

Anna is walking near the Hudson at sunset. She is alone. At West Point you are rarely alone. Music from one of the Victorian mansions trails out through the screened porch and down toward the river. There is a party at a superior’s bungalow up the road. Women in red carry martinis. Booming male voices compete against one another to the soundtrack of 1940’s jazz music. A civilian walking through the campus tonight or at anytime would think that everyone was a member of a large extended family. Everyone makes eye contact, cheerful expressions exchange and quick conversation begins and ends within a couple pulses. One swarm of people was deriving great pleasure out of a camp fire beyond the patio. The beer made for coziness. Backs patted, butts slapped, arms around shoulders, and they gathered in a semi-circle around the glow. At a clink of glasses Anna left.

HE HID THE TRUCK BEHIND A COUPLE OF PINE TREES NEAR A CLEARING.

Anna’s calls her mother to discuss Christmas vacation plans. Her mother tells her to take the train through New York to her Uncle’s at the lake. They will talk about everything when she gets there.

&quot;Andy and Margaret and their boys are here, and the hospital gave your Dad a leave of absence, so he is here. They are all out now, in the woods, the boys went for a Christmas tree, Dad and Andy are out there too.&quot;

Anna says, &quot;Dad doesn’t like to stay at the cabin because Andy always says things to him like ‘when are you going to support your family, Peter?’&quot; A moment elapses.

UNCLE ANDY AND THEM CAME BACK FROM CHOPPING WOOD TO EAT DINNER.

&quot;We bought some groceries, have your bed ready, rented a couple movies, you know... so, uh... we’ll have a nice relaxing time, we can just laze about all day if you like.

&quot;How are you doing?&quot; Anna asks.

&quot;You know... It’s hard to wake up in the morning...&quot;

&quot;Is he still going through shock therapy?&quot;

&quot;Yes, yes he is.&quot;

Anna suddenly increases the volume of her voice. &quot;I don’t really see the point of that Mom, you know it’s like sticking your finger in a light bulb socket!&quot; She still hears the music from the mansion, laughing out into the night.

&quot;Anna, the doctors know more than we do about what was best for your father, we cannot change anything.&quot; The sound of Charlene’s cigarette lighter is heard through the phone, she inhales and her voice cracks in a lower register, &quot;He’s sick and it is not my responsibility.&quot;

MUST HAVE GONE TO BUY CIGARETTES, WE THOUGHT.

&quot;Honey you must have some packing to do,&quot; Charlene inserts, &quot;I won’t keep you on the phone all night.&quot;

&quot;All right Mom, I’ll see you tomorrow, tell Dad hi.&quot;

&quot;Anna,&quot; Charlene hesitates, &quot;Goodbye.&quot;

Her fingers are stiff from squeezing the phone too hard. The tension is released and she looks at them. They have changed. When she sees her mother she will compare. Anna’s hands have always been so similar to her mother’s thin and light blue saucer palms, dishwater soft. The light filters through the trees and the Hudson flickers through the frosted window, allowing Anna’s focus to disintegrate into a whirring blur.

At the next stop four musicians step on the train and begin to play &quot;Joy to the World&quot; loudly. Soon the train glides above Bronx apartments without decks, kids building snowmen on basketball courts. Anna rests her eyes back into her lap on a letter from her father. Anna asked to go to the hospital to see her father when she was home over Thanksgiving. Charlene told her that he could not have visitors because he just started a new treatment, then she handed Anna a letter. Anna knew that he would be incapable of writing something like this. With so much feeling, so interested. She recites by memory the last paragraph:

I believe in you Anna. You continue to show your mother and I that any fences complicating your way, you tear down. You are not like me. Your mind is clear. It will never betray you. You are talented, intelligent, and enthusiastic. You are my lovely girl and I am so proud of you. Dad.

LATE IN THE AFTERNOON THE NEXT DAY THEY FOUND HIM.

Anna read her Father’s letter over and over and imagined him in a moment of great lucidity reciting this poetry to her. She had made herself believe that he would love her in such terms because she needed him to. She was attending an institution where everyone was concerned about one thing... making it through, surviving. This letter from her father was vivid, and he was real. He was concerned about her making it through. She had wanted to read it out loud to the people of her company. It was a manifesto of a father’s belief in a daughter’s strength. Anna opens her journal to the middle and finds the letter. It is worn and has muddy water stains.

ICE COVERED HIS FACE.

But she always thought it was easier to believe in her father when someone else was speaking for him. There were many people who would offer explanations for him. Sometimes defending, often condemning. Anna grew up alongside his fabulous shopping sprees, late night fast-food fixes, ten-hour movie marathons, and 50 mph flights over railroad tracks. Hospital visits, sleeping for days, stone-faced stupors, falling tears without explanation, and suicidal thoughts replaced the antecedent excitement.

HALF BOTTLES OF HIS MEDICATION WERE STREWN AT HIS FEET, A BOTTLE OF GIN IN HIS POCKET.

The brakes release and the train staggers to a stop deep underground. The lights flicker as if there were two giant wings suspended in front of the florescent panels. The quartet continues to play &quot;Jingle Bells&quot; until someone screams &quot;We’ve stopped!&quot; The heater shuts off and a fluttering chill moves across Anna’s ankles and legs. While an hour elapses, a shuffle of feet moves through to the front of the train. In the dark stillness the echoes of shrieking people and children reverberate down the subway. Their shadows melt into ghosts or shadows of shadows. Anna is left alone in the dark, unmoving, paralyzed. If she tried to move, she couldn’t. Her body feels like the weight of the city of New York is upon it: the skyscrapers, the rush hour traffic, thousands of wandering people. Steam from her breath rises and she closes her eyes.

HE WAS FROZEN, BACK AGAINST A BIRCH, LOOKING OUT OVER THE WHITE BOG.</body>
       <category>
         12714
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 26 Nov 2007 14:29:56 -0600</pubDate>
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      <item>
       
       <title>Fried Chicken &amp; Oatmeal Cookies</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Teri Carter</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/fried-chicken-oatmeal-cookies.html</link>
       <guid>99532</guid>
       <body>The oppressive Indian summer heat held us captive in the kitchen of our rented farmhouse. A starless black sky threatened rain. We’d long since finished our supper of fried liver and onions, but the pungent smell smothered us. Grandma and I wilted over the sink, washing and drying the last of the dishes.

It was the fourth night in a row that this week’s Food Giant special, calves’ liver, served as our main course. Our entire house smelled like a sweaty dog that had ventured too close to an angry skunk.

My 11-year-old mind wandered. I gazed transfixed into each newly bathed dish. Like our family, they were a mismatched set. Grandma handed me the last plate, and I stared at the deep purple scar separating her lower lip from her chin. Once the prettiest girl in Burnt Prairie, Illinois, an almost-fatal car accident 40 years ago had rammed her teeth up into her face and left her lower lip hanging by a thread. She was lucky to be alive. But Grandpa made sure that she never thought of herself as lucky and she had developed the temperament of a defeated and angry woman.

The clatter plates and a distant clap of thunder brought me back to the present, back to the nauseating odor of the kitchen. I gagged. Grandma glared at me. I clamored for something to say.

&quot;I need something sweet. Are there any cookies?&quot; I asked.

&quot;You eat too many sweets. And there aren’t any cookies. Kids today. You can’t get ‘em to eat a good meal, but they want a treat every five minutes. You get on to bed. Your mom went up over an hour ago,&quot; Grandma barked, shooing me away as if I were a pesky fly.

I didn’t normally go to bed at nine o’clock on a Friday night, but I was getting up early the next day. Our landlord, Mrs. Bahn, was paying me to help unpack her newly built home just up the road. I needed to be there by eight a.m.

As I ran up the stairs, Grandma’s gravelly voice thundered behind me. &quot;Teri Lynn, you stop your running this instant! The whole house is gonna fall down.&quot; And then, under her breath, &quot;That damn kid. Driving me crazy.&quot;

&quot;Sorry,&quot; I tossed over my shoulder as I tiptoed like a ballerina past my mother’s room. Surely she was fast asleep, having just put in a 12-hour shift at the hosiery factory. Mom was always looking for ways to make ends meet and overtime pay came in handy. That’s why, three months back, we had moved into the broken-down old farmhouse with Grandma and mom’s brother, Uncle Joe. They were struggling as much as we were and we thought sharing expenses would help us all get ahead. It was hard living with extended family, but we were all willing to make the necessary sacrifices to save a buck.

Another clap of thunder crashed as rain pounded the tin roof above my attic bedroom like a herd of stampeding horses heading for the barn. I fell onto my hard featherbed, the rusty bedsprings squeaking under my slender frame. My stomach gave a lion-like roar. Lightening flashed and crackled. I tossed and turned, fantasizing about cookies and milk. Then I heard the kitchen screen door fling itself shut. Uncle Joe was home from work.

Unable to sleep, I eased out of bed and slithered to the top of the stairway until I reached my favorite eavesdropping position. If they went to bed soon, I thought, I could go in search of a snack. Be invisible, I thought. Nothing made Grandma angrier than catching me listening to her conversations. Every time I came near she said the same thing.

&quot;You get out of here, Teri Lynn, and find something to do,&quot; she would scold. &quot;Grown-up talk ain’t for kids’ ears.&quot;

After ten minutes or so of their mindless chatter, I decided to abort my mission. Uncle Joe droned on about his day at the Phillips 66. How boring, I thought, rolling my eyes.

I turned back toward my room when I heard the sizzling of a frying pan. What was she cooking at this hour? More liver and onions? Pretty soon even my dreams would start smelling and tasting like liver.

Then I caught a whiff of a wonderful aroma. Fried chicken? It wasn’t possible. Then I remembered Mom telling Grandma that, one night soon, we would have ‘that chicken.’ Mom had purchased a chicken two weeks ago to save for my upcoming birthday.

I crept like an alley cat down the staircase. My heart pounded. I stopped breathing. I peeked ever so carefully around the corner. Grandma and Uncle Joe were eating my birthday chicken! My mouth watered and my stomach turned over as I watched them savor every bite.

&quot;She’ll be pissed when she finds out we ate her chicken,&quot; Uncle Joe scoffed.

&quot;It’s not ‘her chicken.’ She’ll get over it. We’ve been eating liver and onions for a week just so she can save this chicken for her brat’s birthday. Save it, my ass. Judy and her perfect kid are driving me nuts.&quot;

&quot;No shit. Just the other day, I caught the kid using my toothpaste. Don’t they even have their own goddamned toothpaste?!&quot;

They leaned back in their chairs like two fat cats, stretching and yawning. Then Grandma opened a nearby cupboard and reached far into the back to ferret out her well-hidden stash of oatmeal cookies. A choke caught in my throat. My stomach growled. I turned up the stairs, not caring any longer about being invisible as the stairway creaked louder with each step.

Rain hammered the roof and shook the windowpanes as I made my way back to my room. I eased my door shut, and then crawled like a wounded animal into my bed. I pulled my threadbare bedspread up tight under my chin. Their blatant meanness strangled my heart, but I refused to cry. I needed to be tough. Mom was desperate for us all to get along. After all, it was just a chicken, wasn’t it? My mind poured over what I could have done to them. Did I eat too many of her cookies? Had I used Uncle Joe’s toothpaste? I couldn’t recall. I was trying so hard to be on my best behavior. I fought to let it go and get to sleep. Grandma was right. Grown-up talk wasn’t for kids.

I was still wounded when I awoke the next morning. I dressed with purpose and made my way down the stairs. Grandma was sitting alone in her standard pose at the kitchen table, wearing a shabby lime-green and orange housecoat. A Marlboro Light dangled from the corner of her mouth as she dipped a forefinger into a jar of Vick’s VapoRub and shoved a little up each nostril. We exchanged an icy glance. She knew I’d been witness to last night’s feast. Neither of us uttered a single word. I breezed past her, drawn toward the back door like it was the gate to heaven.

The screen door rattled and slammed behind me as I bounded off the stairs and ran like a horse heading for the barn all the way to Mrs. Bahn’s house. The sun shone bright in a cloudless blue sky. Last night’s storm had chased away the stifling heat, and there was the slightest nip in the wind.

Mrs. Bahn greeted me instantly at her front door. &quot;We’ve got a lot of work to do today, Miss Teri. First, my husband’s study. His collection of books will take the longest to unpack, dust and put away. You might be here all day.&quot;

The idea that I could be there all day made me smile. I grabbed a tattered dust rag and some furniture polish and got right to work. The dark mahogany bookshelves enveloped me like a chocolate cocoon as I inhaled the lingering fragrance of Dr. Bahn’s pipe.

Before I knew it, noon arrived and I heard Mrs. Bahn calling to me from the kitchen. &quot;Miss Teri, are you ready for some lunch?&quot;

I strolled toward the kitchen and instantly caught my breath. On the granite countertop bar was a thick turkey sandwich with lettuce and tomato on whole wheat bread, sliced in half to make two perfect triangles, alongside a mountain of potato chips. All of it sat elegantly atop a sunflower-yellow place mat with a matching napkin.

I augured into a heavy wooden chair, acting like I belonged in the cozy kitchen. I admired the newly varnished cabinets and elegant window dressings while I savored every bite of my decadent lunch. Then I washed my glass and plate and called out a &quot;thank you&quot; to Mrs. Bahn.

&quot;Anytime, honey. I’m just glad you’re here,&quot; she replied.

She’s glad I’m here, I thought. I felt like I’d won the lottery. I worked extra hard for the rest of the day but, when the clock struck five, I decided I should be getting home. Mom would be home from work and I didn’t want to overstay my welcome. Mrs. Bahn handed me a crisp $20 bill.

&quot;Are you available tomorrow?&quot; she asked.

&quot;Yes ma’am,&quot; I answered too quickly. &quot;Same time?&quot;

&quot;Same time. See you then.&quot;

I meandered back to my house, enjoying the quiet solitude of the country road. It was going to be difficult to live with Grandma and Uncle Joe for a whole year. I wished I could live with Mrs. Bahn. What a wonderful grandmother she would be. I imagined living in her house, having cookies and milk after school, wearing pretty new clothes, and sleeping soundly in a queen-sized bed with a fluffy pink quilt.

Then, from a distance, I saw Grandma sitting on the broken down front porch swing of our farmhouse, a glass of iced tea in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Her permanent scowl was perfectly in place. She was nothing like Mrs. Bahn. But then, she and Mrs. Bahn had led very different lives.

Grandma hadn’t enjoyed her life. Grandpa was dead now, but the car accident from so many years ago provided him a way to hold her hostage. He didn’t allow the plastic surgery that would repair her face. The doctors quickly sewed her lip back on, fitted her with false teeth and sent her home. No one ever again thought of her as the prettiest girl in Burnt Prairie.

She jolted as gravel crunched under my footsteps. Like this morning, our eyes met. But this time she looked away instantly.

&quot;Hey, is Mom home?&quot; I asked.

&quot;She’s making supper,&quot; Grandma answered, cigarette smoke obscuring her face.

I left her alone on the porch and found Mom next to the kitchen sink, dipping something into white flour on the blue-speckled Formica countertop and dropping it into a frying pan. It was the same sizzling sound from the night before.

&quot;Are you making fried chicken?&quot; I asked, wondering how that could be possible.

&quot;Yes, ma’am. I know it’s not really your birthday yet, but I just found out that I could pick up an overtime shift on your birthday. And you know we need the money. So I hope you don’t mind if we celebrate a few days early,&quot; Mom answered.

I was dumbfounded. If this was my birthday chicken, where had last night’s chicken come from? Grandma and Uncle Joe must have made an emergency trip to the Food Giant.

&quot;What’s on your mind? Did Mrs. Bahn work you too hard?&quot; Mom asked. When I didn’t answer right away, she probed further. &quot;Are you sure you don’t mind doing this tonight?&quot;

&quot;No, it’s fine, really. I was just thinking about how great that chicken is going to taste after all the liver we’ve had this week.&quot;

&quot;You got that right,&quot; Mom laughed.

I was ready to tell her about last night’s activities when Grandma sauntered into the kitchen to refill her iced tea glass. Did I want to be a tattletale or did I want to get along with her? I needed to make a grown-up decision. We were all going to be living together in this house for at least another ten months. I was never going to live my dream as Mrs. Bahn’s granddaughter. I needed to make the best of it. Then I saw the jar of oatmeal cookies sitting out on the counter.

&quot;Well, don’t just stare at ‘em,&quot; Grandma snapped. &quot;Hell, if you want one have one.&quot; And with that, she turned on her heel and headed back to the front porch.

So that’s her way of making peace with me, I thought. Her prized cookies had made their way out into the open. I lifted the lid just enough to grab one cookie, gently balancing it between two fingers before I put it back. Maybe we could all have cookies after dinner.</body>
       <category>
         12714
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 26 Nov 2007 14:29:03 -0600</pubDate>
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      <item>
       
       <title>Red Angel</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Jake Sarnowski</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/red-angel.html</link>
       <guid>99531</guid>
       <body>He was always faster. I could never really believe how fast. I would run until I couldn’t breathe and he would still pass me, leaving me staring at the soles of his shoes as they effortlessly flipped up from the pavement at a speed that seemed to defy reality. I was always second best. And honestly, second best was not a bad place to be, not behind someone like Alec. If anything, it made me work that much harder, trying to match his pace, his style, trying desperately to outrun him just once.

Baking under the hot sun, my feet feeling like they were melting into the track, I began to focus on the run before me. Today’s practice was important, our final one before heading off to the Nationals. On the football field that our track surrounded, the cheerleading team was having their own practice.

It was always odd to watch them practice, to hear Haley Cosgrove bark orders at the rest of the squad, to see them hate her, and then at our meets, the black bands around their left arms, all smiling that same plastic smile which will be forever preserved on a Barbie doll in a time capsule somewhere. That smile will outlive us all.

Alec took his place in the center lane as we waited for the coach to give the signal. I cleared my head of all sound and smell. There was only Alec, me, and the track. I saw his leg muscles tighten and I took off, forcing my eyes ahead, sure that this time I would never see Alec come from the side and leave me behind him. But sure enough, in a moment he was in front of me. He was nothing short of majestic and I wondered for a moment if he wasn’t something else. It seemed as if he floated off the ground, like his feet were too good to touch it. I was nothing more than a common road runner, and he was a hawk, soaring beyond all of us.

Alec never really spoke much with the rest of the team, never came to the parties or joined people for food after practice. Yet we never thought of him as arrogant, just private. He seemed a simple man laden with a million worries he insisted on carrying himself. I remember when Claudia died last semester just before the season began again. The whole team was at the funeral service for her, and tough as I tried to be even I let out a tear or two. But among the sobbing cheerleaders and misty eyed men, Alec remained exactly as he always was. I looked over at him when they began to lower her coffin into the ground and I saw nothing. He was there and gone. He was detachment personified. There had been rumors about Alec and Claudia, but we didn’t believe them. Alec seemed beyond dating, and if Claudia had been dating one of the best runners in the nation, then why did she shoot herself? She was found naked in her bathtub, most of her head on the wall behind her. No one had seen that coming.

Somehow the black bands on the arms of a few cheerleaders were supposed to make everything okay. I hated the constant reminder of things that should be left in the past. Most of the girls kept their bands on their bags when they weren’t performing, and I found myself staring at Jenny Heagle’s bag while we began emptying the bus to the hotel. I dragged myself to my room, not looking forward to sharing a room with Alec. He normally had his own room, an undisclosed perk of being the best runner at a college with a deep history in track and field. But due to the crowds coming, probably to see him run, the hotel was just too packed for him to have his own, and I was sacrificed. Normally these trips were a blast. Rooms full of runners, sneaking cheerleaders in after hours for drinks and cards. I highly doubted Alec would consent to anything like that.

I picked up my key but couldn’t bring myself to go into my room yet, so I spent an hour or two in Greg’s room for some euchre. Deciding it was time to pack my stuff away, and hoping to find Alec gone, or asleep, or just in a corner, I took myself to our room. I tried to be as loud as I could coming in, scared to find him watching the skin channel, but I still disturbed him from something. His back was to me, his face buried in some white cloth, and as soon as I closed the door he threw it to the ground, under the bed.

&quot;Get out.&quot;

I dropped my bag and mumbled something about being back a little bit later. Thirty minutes later I came back to the room and he was gone. He didn’t return until late that night, and he only crawled into bed.

The next morning he awoke much earlier than I and went for a short run. Somehow he could run in the morning and win races all afternoon. While he was out I decided to get a jump on the day, do some stretches, get myself in the mindset. In the dark I opened his drawer instead of mine and searched around for a t-shirt. I felt one crumpled, and with an odd texture. Turning on the lamp on top of the dresser I could only see the bottom half, sticking out. I could clearly read the print near the bottom- &quot;01 State Champs!&quot;. It was one of the shirts I so often saw the cheerleaders wearing at practice. What does he have this for? Then I recognized it as the cloth Alec had buried his face in the night before. Maybe those rumors about him and Claudia were true after all. What a gossip jackpot. I pulled it out, intending to smell it myself and see what the fuss was. I grabbed it by the sleeves and spread it open against the light, and staring back at me, was a red figure. The blood formed what looked like a man, his neck stopping at the shirt’s own neckline, his angel wings spread out and turned down. I crumpled it up and threw it back in the drawer, making it to the bathroom just in time to throw up. Claudia must have been wearing it the night she killed herself. Oh fuck.

I avoided Alec and everyone else the remainder of the morning before the race. All I could see was the angel, the wings downturned, and I wondered whose head went on those shoulders. Was it Alec’s, his face a solemn stone as it always was? Or Claudia’s, her hair frizzing out in the back where the skull came through? Or was it mine, my head lowered...

We got on the line, Alec and I and members from other teams throughout the nation. For the first time, I looked not at his body or his legs, awaiting a sign, but at his face. I was petrified to see him staring back at mine. In that single moment, he knew. His dead eyes all-wise and all-knowing. But as we lowered to take our marks, I saw his eyes melt from stone and harden again, filled with rage. He shut his eyes for a moment and when he opened them they were on the track. I was so scared I couldn’t block out the sound, the smell, and instead my vision began to blur. All I wanted was to get away from him, to be anywhere in the world but on that track.

Bang.

I ran faster than ever before. My vision went white, and there was only the sound of my heart pumping, my breath coming fast. I could hear his feet above the track, flying after me, the hawk hunting its prey. I pushed harder and red clots filled the white.

I ran harder and harder, faster and faster, and the clots came into focus and the angel was there before me. Its wings opened upward and then around me, and red was the only thing left. A million miles away my face hit the track, a runner’s legs kicked my body and fell over me. I heard the crowd release its breath of shock. The red parted again as the angel opened its wings and began to fly away. A headless figure flying out of sight, the soles of its feet marked with runner’s tread.</body>
       <category>
         12714
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 26 Nov 2007 14:28:16 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Dervish</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Jake Sarnowski</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/dervish.html</link>
       <guid>99530</guid>
       <body>Angelina stared at her Aunt, spinning effortlessly again and again, her dress blooming out around her, the gentle folds blowing the dust off the ground into small clouds around her feet. Angelina’s father was beyond her, strumming his guitar with such fervor that the strings were in danger of breaking beneath his hand. His face was a deep red, the drenching sweat giving his rough, pock-marked face a smooth and shiny appearance. Angelina wanted to spin like her Aunt. She wanted to see the world pass by her, a single blur, and know that all the eyes were transfixed on her.

As her eyes followed her Aunt, Angelina started to turn in place, bringing her head around as fast as she could and holding it to the last possible second so she wouldn’t miss a moment of her Aunt’s magnificent dervish. Then she felt her mother’s heavy hands on her shoulders, forcing Angelina’s own twirls to a stand-still.

&quot;Mama, I want to dance.&quot; Angelina looked up at her mother, whose eyes were straight ahead.

&quot;It’s not proper. No es correcto, mi niña.&quot; Angelina followed her mother’s eyes across the floor to her father. He was smiling broadly as another member of the band took a long trumpet solo. His smile was for her Aunt, who never stopped spinning.

Asking for a refill on her water, Angelina took another Dramamine and placed it on her tongue, feeling the bitter taste. The sharp distaste usually helped to keep the nausea at bay, and by closing her eyes with a deep breath the room would feel stable again. The bartender brought her another glass and she gulped it down quickly, anxious for the pill to take affect. Won’t they play something faster?

She held the bottle of Dramamine in her hand and noticed how light it was getting. She’d have to get more before the end of the week. She absently let her eyes and mind wander when it came back at her again, the dizziness. Every object in the bar came at her at once. Picture frames, glasses, tables, people, bottles, even the band- they all attacked her with their individuality. She shut her eyes quickly, taking a deep heavy breath and fighting the sickness. There was just too much, too many lines, too many shapes, too many things in this place to take in.

She finally heard the band begin to play something for her. Stumbling off her stool, she nearly pushed her way through a couple who assumed she was drunk. She found her way to the floor’s center and stood, waiting for the intro to finish and the tempo to take its course. She felt the beat, felt every rhythm of the room and began to dance. The couple she practically knocked over now stared in awe at this woman dancing like a whirlwind in the middle of the floor.

As she spun to the music the world around Angelina blurred into a sea of color, a haze where nothing was definite, nothing demanded anything from her. The dizziness sank away to the bottoms of her feet and was flung away. The sound of the lead singer came from all around her, wrapped about her like a blanket and repeated in her head. Volare</body>
       <category>
         12714
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 26 Nov 2007 14:27:13 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Instinctively</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Jessica Barwick</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/instinctively.html</link>
       <guid>99521</guid>
       <body>The ceramic tiles beneath my naked body are cold, hard, and uncomfortable. But I can’t physically peel myself off the bathroom floor yet. My cheery yellow bathmat cradles my head and I worry about all the stray hairs accumulating there. I haven’t cleaned in a week, my sheets smell like anxious sleep, my cat’s litter box smells rude, and I can see an orange coating of film forming on the bottom of my toilet while I am heaving into it. I stare ahead from my fetal position on the floor. The tiles behind the toilet still look like new, they are not worn and cracked like the ones in front of the sink and shower. Behind the toilet the lines of caulk that the tiny blue squares sit in are still pristine white. I can’t, for the life of me, even with a toothbrush, get the mildew stains out of the caulk matrix over the rest of the bathroom floor. The plunger and the toilet-brush rest up against one another with nothing better to do. I blink. So is this what they call rock bottom?

Nausea tempts and teases me, keeping me still except for the blinking, on the cool bathroom floor. It is some time before I am able to make it back to the reality of my bedroom. Finally, on my bed, I am able to think again. My room is so familiar to me. There are pictures of me smiling everywhere. My mom’s wedding last summer when my two sisters and I are drinking out of a huge cosmo glass with &quot;the bride.&quot; My face hurt from smiling that day, the same way my abdomen hurts today from retching and sobbing. Another picture of me smiling, holding a sweaty bottle of Corona. He has his arm across my sunburned shoulders, and he’s smiling like he’ll never leave me.

I sob so hard my mouth opens and nothing but drool comes out. My hands instinctively cover my uterus and I attempt to tell myself that we will be okay. We will be… Wait! We! Wait! Instinctively! Maternal instincts and I am only nine weeks! Can that be possible? I mean, I have heard about the miracles of pregnancy, but I thought so many of those tales were myths to sweeten up the awful processes involved in child bearing. The morning sickness (that one is for sure real), the awful heartburn, the constant peeing, the lower back pain, and the leaking breasts, all dolled up and called maternal instincts.

I crawl into my bed and wait for this wave to pass. Pain comes in waves you know, kinda like my nausea. It gets really bad, where I actually feel my heart aching and I become consumed by my sobs. And then eventually a calm will reside over me for a few minutes, I will concentrate on my breathing, worrying only about my next inhale-exhale. Then, sure enough, I remember that I am pregnant and that he’s left me, just in time for the next wave to wash over me.

After I told my mom she replied that she expected something like this out of both of my other sisters, but not me. Jamie, my twin, is the rebel of the family, and Lindsay, my younger sister, is completely irresponsible. I reasoned with her, I am twenty-two, it’s not like I am sixteen and still living at home. I am on birth control, I swear. I never meant for this to happen. She wanted to know why he left me. I told her and she told me she’d be here as fast as her car could drive.

That is how my mom found me, curled up in the fetal position, naked again on the bathroom floor, staring behind the toilet. She brought my younger sister, Lindsay, along so she could bitch to someone for the entire five-hour drive that it takes to get here. My sweet sister touched me first, and once again a wave washed over me. My mom went to get me a t-shirt, and once they got it over my head they both cradled me and we rocked together on my yellow bathroom mat. Suddenly I wished I was sixteen and still living at home.

Later, after we all get a good cry in, my mom decides that we need to get out of this sad apartment. She tells me to take a shower and &quot;put my face on.&quot; They tidy up my place while I stand in the shower and sob. Water courses down my face following the tracks of my tears. I do not recognize my own face through the condensation on the mirror above the sink. The girl looking back at me does not look like there is life growing inside of her. Her expression is empty and hollow.

My mom’s biggest concern is not my situation as I come out of the bathroom. It is my sheets, &quot;Paris-pink satin and worth every penny.&quot; She has &quot;no idea how the streaks of mascara are ever going come out of the satin pillowcases.&quot; I tell her that pillowcases are the least of my worries, but she huffs anyways as she puts them into a bag to take to the drycleaners.

We go to seek the only form of therapy our family knows: shopping. Nothing a few new pairs of shoes can’t fix! My mom always says stuff like that. I adore the new purse, love the new outfits, and appreciate the expensive make-up, but when we get home I am still pregnant and he is still gone. I check my messages. Of course he didn’t call. Why would he? He doesn’t even know that I am carrying his baby yet.

My mom and sister sleep next to me in my bed that night. Lindsay snores and my mom breathes on my face. I don’t sleep really well, but just the sound of their bodies close to mine makes me feel safe. I listen to their noises and talk silently to my baby. I make it promises that I will never leave it like its daddy has left me. I promise it that we will be okay, and that I will try to be strong enough for the both of us in the meantime.

The next few days are a swirl of morning sickness, tears, my mother’s wacky pick-me-ups (grape soda floats, chocolate chip pancakes, Aretha Franklin and Cher), and my sister’s sweet hugs. My mom comes with me to the clinic, and while we are waiting for the doctor to come in she holds my hand and tells me that she knows that &quot;everything really does happen for a reason.&quot; She should know, with one abortion, two failed marriages, and a miscarriage all hiding in her closet. She promises me that we will be okay, mothers must all promise their children this. She tells me that God must want me to have a baby, or else he wouldn’t have given me one.

The doctor comes in, my OB/GYN. She is older, but I am comfortable with her. She has seen more of my vagina than I have. She shakes my mom’s hand and thanks her for coming. I stare at the stethoscope draped around her neck and think about how that cold, metal circle leaves a burning mark on my left breast whenever she checks my lungs.

She begins by telling me that her calculations were correct, nine weeks along, putting time of conception around the second week of July. My mom’s wedding was July twelfth. He was with me, we danced to their wedding song and smiled for a hundred pictures that day. If her notes are right I was treated about that time for a little cold that we thought I caught in Mexico over the forth of July while I was there on the vacation with him. The antibiotics prescribed had weakened my birth control pills; I vaguely remember my pharmacist saying that was a possibility. That explains the mishap. All very clinical, no miracle, no strike of lightening.

What she tells me next will take me weeks to understand, comprehend, and swallow. I cannot keep the baby. No matter how badly I want to. I will refuse an abortion, I tell her. I don’t believe in abortion. Abortion is for irresponsible teenagers, white-trash whores, and crack heads, not me. Then she tells me I am not even eligible for an abortion. My condition is much too serious. Serious? I am healthy. I don’t drink much, I’ve never even smoked a cigarette, and I’ve certainly never tried drugs. But my condition has nothing to do with any of that. It couldn’t be prevented. My uterus is lined with growing cysts and legions that prevent the uterus from expanding. My embryo won’t have enough room to grow. It isn’t a baby yet, she explains. It is just an embryo, about the size of a pea. There are other options she informs me. A pill from Germany, after swallowed, &quot;naturally&quot; aborts the child, in the comfort of your own home. I imagine my baby’s fetus covered in blood in my own toilet. I retch.

I can’t breathe. I scream and gulp for air. My eyes are stinging from a week of solid tears. I clutch my stomach, cradling my embryo. Why would God give me a baby if he was just going to turn around and take it away? I slide out of my chair onto the clinic’s floor. No, this is rock bottom.

The doctor’s hands are cold as she pushes the needle into my arm. My mom is holding my head and the fluorescent lights make the white ceiling look urine yellow. The medicine coursing through my veins is cold. My mouth tastes like metal. A tear rolls off the side of my face onto my mother’s hand. She wipes it onto my hair as she attempts to soothe me.

The doctor leans over me and hands my mom a bottle of horse pills and says to give me one whenever I have an outburst. I can see the name of the medication as I stare blankly ahead. Valium. A friend of mine was given Valium after her boyfriend died in an accident. She came to the funeral all doped up and to this day remembers nothing of the service. My embryo’s funeral will be a flush of the toilet. There will be no service to remember.

My mom makes the appointment for two weeks from now with the nurse at the desk. They talk about me as is if I am not sitting in a wheelchair two feet away. I am not there really, my mind is back in Mexico. We are swimming way out in the ocean, his arms are around me and we are bobbing up and down between sets of waves. His mouth tastes like salt. I see a big wave crashing our way, I am scared and tell him not to let go of me. He promises he won’t. My mom wheels me out to the car and helps me into the front seat. I dry heave into a shoebox the entire way home.

My mom and younger sister leave, they will be back in a couple of weeks for &quot;it.&quot; I lay in bed for three days deciding how to tell him. Finally one morning, after a breakfast of two Valium, I call him. He won’t agree to meet me, so I tell him over the phone. It takes him a few minutes to respond. He tells me that he isn’t ready to be a father, that he is only twenty-six years old, then he tells me that I can’t keep it. I scream/yell/sob/choke into the phone. I already knew that! And I tell him that I can’t carry our child. He sighs and I know that it is with relief.

He tells me then that he will be gone for the next two weeks. Remember, to the Caribbean? Of course I remember, I was supposed to be going with him. He tells me that we will talk about it when he gets back. He’s just going to leave me and make me go through this alone. He is sorry, but they have their tickets already. They… Oh, you’re taking her. He grunts into the phone, yes she is going with. He tells me he will do anything but go to the clinic with me. Bastard. He asks me if I need any money. He is that kind of guy, he thinks that he can buy his way out of this. He pays to have his house cleaned, his clothes washed, his Corvette detailed. Why can’t he pay to have this mess cleaned up for him too? He says he will call in two weeks to see how I am doing, to see how &quot;it&quot; goes. Then he says goodbye, and warns me not to do anything crazy or irrational while he is gone. He hangs up before he hears any of my hurt.

Minutes slip by painfully. I continue to talk to my embryo and tell it how loved it is. As insane as it seems, talking to my little embryo eases some of the aching. Lying in my cool satin sheets at night I don’t feel so alone knowing it is there living inside of me. During daylight my friends stop by and hug me tenderly, as if I am dying or something. No, it is not me who is dying, it is my embryo, you idiots! I don’t feel like talking about it so I ask them questions about their non-pregnant lives. I pretend to be interested in what happened at the bar last Saturday night. I try to smile for the entire time there is company. When my twin sister sees me she tells me that my smile looks deranged and my eyes look void. Then she curls up next to me, puts her cheek on my shoulder and tells me that it is okay to be sad. She says it is okay to cry. I imagine us in our mother’s womb together, tiny embryo hands and feet intertwined, her cheek against mine. My tears drip quietly onto her hair.

My dreams are haunted. He chases me down the beach and we tumble onto the warm sand. We sip piña coladas and nibble on slices of pineapple and lick the sweet, dripping juice off each other’s bodies. He picks me up and carries me into the water, his mouth tastes like salt again as he carries me farther and farther away from shore. I giggle and squirm in the warm water. I see a big wave pushing towards us. I make him promise he won’t leave me, I tell him I am scared. He smiles and holds me tighter, then covers my lips with his. The wave rushes over me, I can’t breathe. I gulp for air and choke. I wake up soaked, and of course, he is not there.

The day arrives unannounced. The sun is shining just to spite me. For some reason, I think it will be easier to do this if it was raining. Lindsay is the one my family has elected to come with me. Both my twin and my mother admit they can’t be there without crying. My younger sister is the strong one, she works with mentally handicapped children, and she promises not to cry. They attempt to get me ready, putting me in my &quot;It’s Not Easy Being A Princess&quot; pajamas, and pink fuzzy slippers. My mom puts my long brown hair in a lumpy ponytail, like she did when I was in kindergarten. My twin hugs me and turns away quickly so I can’t see her red eyes. I hug my mom as if I am a zombie and walk towards the car. Wait, wait, wait! My mom yells from the front door. For a split second I think that God has changed his mind and miraculously given me a new healthy uterus for my little embryo. My mother runs barefoot across the lawn to where I am standing, a little gift box in her hand. Can a new uterus fit in that tiny box, I wonder? But there isn’t a new uterus inside. There is a sparkling diamond winking at me from inside the box. My mom puts the delicate gold chain around my neck. She hugs me, and this time I feel it. See, she tells me, now you can carry your embryo with you everywhere, right there, close to your heart.

The air in the clinic smells stale and disinfected. As they roll me to my death chamber I feel like everyone is staring at me. Maybe the doctors told the other patients that I would be killing my embryo today and that is why they are staring at me like I am a murderer already. The nurse checks my blood pressure and little sister fidgets with her watch. I swear I can feel my embryo swimming inside of me. It is doing summersaults and cartwheels. No one told it that it was going to die today.

The doctor comes in and gives me a chilly hug with her bony arms. Her stethoscope presses against my shirt. She asks me if I am ready. I nod and grab my sister’s hand. The doctor explains what will happen, I hope my sister is paying attention because I am too busy bidding farewell to my embryo to listen. I am to take two pills, twenty minutes apart in her presence. The first one will be a pill to prepare my body for a traumatic shock. The second pill will be the killer. That is all I am able to understand.

The first pill is red. I take it with a gulp of stale water from a Dixie cup like the ones we drank juice from in kindergarten. I pray that the pill will put my body into traumatic shock instead of just prepare me for it. But it doesn’t. I feel the same, empty, for the next twenty minutes.

The doctor tells me it’s time. I pick up the pill. It is bigger than I expected, and shaped like a triangle. I bring it close to my face stare at it. I silently tell it how badly I despise it. I glare at it for a few long moments. My sister touches my shoulder, and the doctor nods me along. I put the pill in my mouth and reach for the Dixie cup of old water. The pill tastes like death. My hand shakes and I nearly spill the water as I bring it to my lips. I close my eyes and pretend him and I are swimming in the ocean again. I drink and swallow. Then I sink beneath the waves of pain, to the rock bottom.

I wear a diaper for the next five to seven days. I suck on ice chips and taste chicken broth twice. I don’t look when I go to the bathroom and I say a prayer each time I flush. He comes to see me once, Caribbean tanned, sporting a new watch and a relaxed look in his eyes. He looks at me as if he feels sorry for me. Sorry for me because I cared about our embryo, and he never even got to meet it. He asks me again if I need any money from him. I shake my head and ask him how she enjoyed my trip. He shifts from one foot from the other and doesn’t look me in the eye. Instead he changes the subject. He tells me that he likes my new necklace. Instinctively my hand covers my tiny diamond, protecting it from him. I say thank you, and then ask him to leave us alone. </body>
       <category>
         12714
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 26 Nov 2007 14:07:13 -0600</pubDate>
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      <item>
       
       <title>The Caretaker</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>By Teri Carter</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/the-caretaker.html</link>
       <guid>99518</guid>
       <body>&quot;If God exists, I hope she’s a woman,&quot; Mom jokes while the young male nurse fumbles to adjust her oxygen levels.

Frustrated at his incompetence, I push him aside to do it myself. &quot;I’ll keep my fingers crossed about God,&quot; I say, reaching over cold stainless steel bed rails to make the necessary adjustments.

Mom’s eyes smile as she gasps for each breath of disinfected hospital air. I force myself to smile back, caught off guard at her ability to maintain a sense of humor while her oxygen-starved body shakes like an unbalanced washing machine.

In less than a minute, her violent shaking is reduced to a slight tremor. The nurse makes a quick getaway back to his station.

&quot;Oh, be nice to him. He’s trying,&quot; Mom wheezes. &quot;And you don’t have to do everything yourself.&quot;

&quot;Since when?&quot; I ask, one eyebrow raised.

Mom closes her eyes and waves the back of her hand toward me like she’s shooing away a pesky fly. I turn toward the window on my left to escape the pale green room, medical equipment and worn furnishings, disappointed to notice that the once-blue noonday sky has turned a dismal gray. Charcoal gray clouds tumble end over end at the edge of the horizon and I can see the rain making its path toward me.

When Mom’s labored breathing settles into a pattern of soft snores, I reach up to turn off the overhead light. A welcome, night-like darkness descends. Taking a deep breath, I pull a chair over to the window and drop into it as I gaze out over the half empty parking lot. Her lung cancer is progressing fast now.

Staring past the rain rattling the windowpane, I wonder what I’ll do when she’s gone, when she doesn’t need me to look after her anymore. And my heart races at the thought of losing the role I’ve played for most of my life – that of her guardian, her protector, her replacement for a husband.

* * * * *

Mom grew up in a generation of American women who believed they needed a husband to survive. Every time a man left her, she clamored to latch onto the next one who just might save her.

I remember when I realized that she needed me to take care of her more than the other way around. I’d just started second grade and she was in the middle of her second divorce. Butch was only a slight improvement over her first husband, my father, who left her a month before I was born. That is to say he held a respectable job and occasionally slept at home. But Butch had a weakness for whiskey and Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. He would stumble in the door most nights fresh from happy hour, reeking of cigarette smoke and stale beer, kicking my toys out of his path and demanding that dinner find its way instantly to the table.

No matter what Mom did, dinner was never good enough for Butch. It was always too plain, too cold, too spicy, too &quot;something.&quot; My heart ached for her as she plastered on her best Donna Reed smile and turned cartwheels to please him. I, on the other hand, gave him the silent treatment and slowly picked at my food until he left her alone and focused his anger on me. He would inevitably sentence me to time in the darkest corner of the kitchen, where I was to stand until I ate my potatoes and pork chops, or until bedtime, whichever came first.

Mom was devastated when Butch left. I was relieved. Even at seven, I knew she deserved better. But she was ashamed to be divorced for the second time and remained hell-bent on finding the man who would take care of her the way her mother had promised.

Butch’s moving truck was barely out of the driveway when Mom met her next prospect. Late one sunny Saturday, we drove to a secluded area in the back of the local park. When another car pulled in behind us, she turned off the engine.

&quot;Just listen to the radio while I’m gone. I’ll only be a few minutes,&quot; Mom explained, giddy as a schoolgirl. &quot;Charlie and I need a little privacy.&quot;

She took one last, long drag off her cigarette, then re-applied her cherry red lipstick in the rearview mirror. Smacking her lips loudly to even out the color, she eased out the driver’s side door, pulling at the hem of her too-short skirt and swinging her ample hips toward the back of our car.

When she finally plopped back onto the seat next to me, she was smoothing her freshly dyed red hair and breathing so heavy I felt like I needed to breathe for her.

&quot;Are you okay?&quot; I asked, trying to hide the sarcasm in my voice.

&quot;I’m having my friend over late tonight,&quot; she said, wiping away smudged lipstick and saving me from making small talk. &quot;So you need to make sure you’re in bed by ten. Charlie and I need some time alone to get to know each other.&quot;

Mom and Charlie spent the next five years getting to know each other late at night in the privacy of our one-bedroom apartment. I spent those years letting her cry on my shoulder while she waited for Charlie to leave his wife. But he left Mom instead and, after a respectable week of mourning, she continued on her quest for the husband and savior who would never materialize.

When I became an adult, I swore I would never be like her. I would never marry a drunk, never smoke, never get a divorce, never date a married man, and certainly never depend on a man for my happiness. Well, my ex-husband wasn’t a drunk and I don’t smoke.

* * * * *

The rustle of bedcovers draws my attention away from my reflection, away from the rain-splattered window, and I see that Mom is awake. She looks rested, peaceful. I wish I felt the same.

&quot;What’s a woman got to do to get some service around here? I’m dying ... of thirst,&quot; she says, laughing at her bad joke.

I pick up the pink plastic cup on her bedside table and bend the straw as I put it to her lips. &quot;That’s not funny, Mom.&quot;

&quot;Oh, you need to lighten up a little,&quot; she scoffs, taking a long drink and looking side to side. &quot;Hey, where’s that deck of cards we played with the other day?&quot;

&quot;That cute boy nurse of yours probably lost them,&quot; I answer.

&quot;See, that was good. That’s what I mean,&quot; she says, proud of my attempt to humor her. She reaches into her bedside table, pulling out a red deck of playing cards and holding them high in the air.

We play several games of gin rummy until her breathing becomes noticeably strained and I can tell she’s starting to lose interest.

&quot;Okay, that’s enough for today,&quot; I say, gathering up the cards from the stiff white hospital sheets.

&quot;But I was winning,&quot; she says, laying her head back in defeat. &quot;You’ve always been a sore loser. And you certainly didn’t get that from me.&quot;

&quot;No, I didn’t. You’re an unnaturally happy loser.&quot;

&quot;No, I’m just realistic.&quot;

I don’t respond because I know this conversation can go on forever. We’ve had it many times over. So I change the subject back to something safe.

&quot;Well, it looks like the sun wants to come back out,&quot; I say, turning my back to her and walking toward the window.

&quot;You should argue with me while you have the chance. I won’t be around forever, you know,&quot; Mom announces.

Ignoring her last comment, I walk to the door. &quot;I’m going to see if I can find that inept nurse you love so much. It’s almost time for your meds.&quot;

&quot;Oh, be nice to him,&quot; Mom instructs. &quot;He may be the last man who’ll ever take care of me.&quot;

&quot;We can only hope,&quot; I answer.

She smiles like a woman with a delicious secret. &quot;No, it’s for sure,&quot; she says, resolute. &quot;I talked to God while I was taking my nap. She can’t wait to see me.&quot;

With a big sigh, I walk toward the door. &quot;I’ll go find that cute nurse.&quot;

Mom gives me her most winning smile. And when I turn the corner and she can’t see me, I smile too.</body>
       <category>
         12714
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 26 Nov 2007 13:54:43 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       <enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/believer.jpg" length="17372" type="image/jpeg" />
       <title>Believer</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/believer.jpg" alt="Believer">by Angie Myhre (<a href="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/pdf/Believer4x5.33.pdf">PDF</a>).</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/believer.html</link>
       <guid>98833</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12730
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2007 14:11:10 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       <enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/desertFloraFauna.jpg" length="22334" type="image/jpeg" />
       <title>Desert Flora and Fauna</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/desertFloraFauna.jpg" alt="Desert Flora and Fauna">by Dan Fontana (<a href="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/pdf/desertFloraFauna.pdf">PDF</a>).</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/desert-flora-and-fauna.html</link>
       <guid>98832</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12730
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2007 14:09:54 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       <enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/venetianRooftops.jpg" length="24636" type="image/jpeg" />
       <title>Venetian Rooftops</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/venetianRooftops.jpg" alt="Venetian Rooftops">by Dan Fontana (<a href="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/pdf/venetianRooftops.pdf">PDF</a>).</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/venetian-rooftops.html</link>
       <guid>98829</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12730
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2007 14:06:25 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       <enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/clarity.jpg" length="20487" type="image/jpeg" />
       <title>Clarity</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/clarity.jpg" alt="Clarity">by Molly Tolzmann (<a href="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/pdf/Clarity4x6.pdf">PDF</a>).</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/clarity.html</link>
       <guid>98827</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12730
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2007 14:05:30 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       <enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/downUptown.jpg" length="21302" type="image/jpeg" />
       <title>Down in Uptown</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/downUptown.jpg" alt="Down in Uptown">by Yolanda LaMar (<a href="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/pdf/downInUptown.pdf">PDF</a>).</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/down-in-uptown.html</link>
       <guid>98825</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12730
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2007 14:03:42 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       <enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/madAtDad.jpg" length="21754" type="image/jpeg" />
       <title>I&apos;m Mad at Your Dad</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/madAtDad.jpg" alt="I'm Mad At Your Dad">by Aberdeen Sather (<a href="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/pdf/Madatyourdad43x6.pdf">PDF</a>).</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/im-mad-at-your-dad.html</link>
       <guid>98824</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12730
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2007 14:02:15 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       <enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/unnaturalBirth.jpg" length="14268" type="image/jpeg" />
       <title>Unnatural Birth</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/unnaturalBirth.jpg" alt="Unnatural Birth">by Yolanda LaMar (<a href="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/pdf/unnaturalBirth.pdf">PDF</a>).</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/unnatural-birth.html</link>
       <guid>98822</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12730
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2007 14:00:57 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       <enclosure url="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/myThings.jpg" length="11947" type="image/jpeg" />
       <title>Self Portrait - My Things</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p><img src="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/img/artThumbs/myThings.jpg" alt="Self Portrait - My Things">by Brittany du'Monceaux (<a href="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/pdf/selfPortraitMyThings.pdf">PDF</a>).</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/self-portrait-my-things.html</link>
       <guid>98821</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12730
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2007 13:59:23 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Convergences and Crossings</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Erica Niemiec (<a href="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/pdf/convergencesCrossings.pdf">PDF</a>).</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/convergences-and-crossings.html</link>
       <guid>98812</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12733
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2007 13:39:35 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>The Quiet Splendor of Falling Out of Love</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Jeremy Keller (<a href="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/pdf/quietSplendor.pdf">PDF</a>).</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/the-quiet-splendor-of-falling.html</link>
       <guid>98811</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12733
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2007 13:38:32 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>To Reaffirm a Warmth</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Max Schmetterer (<a href="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/pdf/toReaffirmWarmth.pdf">PDF</a>).</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/to-reaffirm-a-warmth.html</link>
       <guid>98810</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12733
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2007 13:37:11 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Natural Disaster</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Diana Heim (<a href="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/pdf/naturalDisaster.pdf">PDF</a>).</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/natural-disaster.html</link>
       <guid>98809</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12733
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2007 13:36:22 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Two Grandchildren</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Kari Volkmann (<a href="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/pdf/twoGrandchildren.pdf">PDF</a>).</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/two-grandchildren.html</link>
       <guid>98807</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12733
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2007 13:35:29 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Urban</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Julia Christianson (<a href="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/pdf/Urban.pdf">PDF</a>).</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/urban.html</link>
       <guid>98806</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12733
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2007 13:34:37 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Small Deaths</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Caitlin Thompson (<a href="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/pdf/smallDeaths.pdf">PDF</a>).</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/small-deaths.html</link>
       <guid>98805</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12733
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2007 13:33:41 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Peace Across the Northside</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Jasmine Omorogbe (<a href="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/pdf/peaceAcrossNorthsdie.pdf">PDF</a>).</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/peace-across-the-northside.html</link>
       <guid>98804</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12733
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2007 13:32:33 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>La Ville-lumière</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Chloe Bade (<a href="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/pdf/laVilleLumiere.pdf">PDF</a>).</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/la-villelumiere.html</link>
       <guid>98802</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12733
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2007 13:31:31 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Uncle Richie</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Diana Heim (<a href="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/pdf/uncleRichie.pdf">PDF</a>).</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/uncle-richie.html</link>
       <guid>98801</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12733
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2007 13:30:26 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Melee</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Marlene Moxness (<a href="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/pdf/Melee.pdf">PDF</a>).</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/melee.html</link>
       <guid>98799</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12733
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2007 13:29:37 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Untitled</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by David DiPasquale (<a href="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/pdf/Untitled-poem.pdf">PDF</a>).</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/untitled.html</link>
       <guid>98798</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12733
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2007 13:28:41 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Advice</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Diana Heim (<a href="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/pdf/advice.pdf">PDF</a>).</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/advice.html</link>
       <guid>98797</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12733
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2007 13:27:47 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>History of a Lake at Night</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Luci Kandler (<a href="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/pdf/historyLakeNight.pdf">PDF</a>).</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/history-of-a-lake-at-night.html</link>
       <guid>98796</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12732
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2007 13:25:22 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>The Heat of Our Hands</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Bridget Haeg (<a href="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/pdf/HeatOfOurHands.pdf">PDF</a>).</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/the-heat-of-our-hands.html</link>
       <guid>98794</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12732
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2007 13:24:17 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>I Climbed a Tree to Write This</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Sarah Peterson (<a href="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/pdf/climbedTree.pdf">PDF</a>).</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/i-climbed-a-tree-to-write-this.html</link>
       <guid>98793</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12732
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2007 13:21:49 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Poetry 2007</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>Test.</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/poetry-2007.html</link>
       <guid>98781</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12733
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2007 13:02:55 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>When I Paint My Masterpiece</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Alexander Varner (<a href="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/pdf/paintMyMasterpiece.pdf">PDF</a>).</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/when-i-paint-my-masterpiece.html</link>
       <guid>98776</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12731
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2007 12:56:41 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Cocoa Season</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Becky Lang (<a href="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/pdf/cocoaSeason.pdf">PDF</a>).</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/cocoa-season.html</link>
       <guid>98775</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12731
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2007 12:55:46 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Watch Our Pride Blister</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Jacob Steinbauer (<a href="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/pdf/prideBlister.pdf">PDF</a>).</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/watch-our-pride-blister.html</link>
       <guid>98774</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12731
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2007 12:54:00 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
      <item>
       
       <title>Grandma&apos;s Hairy Upper Lip</title>
       <description><![CDATA[<p>by Jason Zabel (<a href="http://ivorytower.umn.edu/assets/pdf/grandmaLip.pdf">PDF</a>)</p>]]></description>
       <link>http://blog.lib.umn.edu/english/ivorytower/2007/11/grandmas-hairy-upper-lip.html</link>
       <guid>98770</guid>
       <body></body>
       <category>
         12731
       </category>
       <pubDate>Mon, 19 Nov 2007 12:48:08 -0600</pubDate>
     </item>
   
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