x e n i t h
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o issue 10D (#41) o www.xenith.net x o
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o august 9, 2003 e o best of out-of-xenith issue o
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s i n c e j u l y 9 , 1 9 9 7 .
circulation : 4,000
Welcome to the second "best-of" issue of Xenith! This is the middle issue in a series of three celebrating Xenith's 6-year anniversary. The first issue contained the best writing from Xenith's regular issues, and the next issue will feature the best writing from Xenith's message boards.
This issue showcases the best poetry and prose from "An Out-of-Xenith Experience" on Xenith's website. Out-of-Xenith is a weekly (in theory) feature on Xenith's website about a third of the size of a regular issue. It's only on the site and doesn't get sent out like a normal issue would. So all you lazy AOLers get your asses over there and check it out already. There's always something new.
This issue features the purposefully offbeat (Summertime, Smells Too Dim, and Michael Stipe is a Bad Ass, Part IV: The Batting Cages), the gritty (Richard Edwards' two poems), the raw & emotional (Late Nights on the Bathroom Floor, Fly, and Megan) and two tributes--one to beat poet Allen Ginsberg and one from Prasenjit Maiti, a man living in India who pays tribute to his beloved city, Calcutta.
"Wherever they burn books, in the
end will also burn human beings."
-- Heinrich Heine
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why we held together ( ; ~ ' ` ! ` ] . * ( ` . / `` o o o o o out-of-xenith : may 4, 2003
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He had the gun
in my face, night stars by richard edwards
above the apartments dark (richardse4@earthlink.net)
and asleep, the four of us
alive and sliding around in the grass.
It's all I remember from my boyhood.
I was born
at the end of a clicking pistol, "I was born
and my friends were my killers, at the end of a clicking pistol..."
dancing a tribal dance,
drank vodka out of the bottle,
until I could not let you go,
like a brother hanging off a cliff.
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"Conscience and cowardice are really the same things.
Conscience is the trade-name of the firm. That is all."
-- Oscar Wilde
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summertime ` § `` + `` _ . ) . | . µ ' } , ' " ` ] o o o o o out-of-xenith : april 30, 2000
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One year, winter confused itself with
summer -- the old season being senile by carlton mellick, III
this late in her life -- so we spent that (Mellick1@aol.com)
winter in the heat.
"Why can't we wear our summer clothes?" Sister asked my mother, boiling up in her winter coat and gloves.
"Are you crazy?" she replied. "It's the middle of December!"
So every school day she bundled us up in electric scarves and bearskin coats, and sent us out in the summer-heated streets.
When Christmas came around, Mom made us go build a snowman for her while she was preparing Christmas dinner. So we made a snowman out of mud, using rocks for eyes, apples for the nose and mouth, and tumbleweed for hair.
Later that day, my older brother tried to go sledding down a rocky hill across the street. But instead of sliding, his sled only tumbled.
And when we came home all hot and sweaty, and dirty, and bloody, mom gave us hot cocoa and put us by the fire to warm up.
We loved our mother, even though she got confused sometimes. She wasn't crazy, just not very perceptive. She had no idea she was doing anything wrong when she tried to start a friendly snowball fight with our next door neighbor, Mrs. Beckley, leaving her body twitching and bloody underneath her miniature house-shaped mailbox.
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"It is a miracle that curiosity survives formal education."
-- Albert Einstein
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a diary × # ` . * > ` . ® ; ì ` ( ' æ . ¾ ` ; þ " o o o o o out-of-xenith : october 13, 2002
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I stole the diary from the garage
He never used it anyway by drew weste
I went there looking for money (murderousledge@hotmail.com)
for drugs, for cigarettes
I found nothing but the diary, empty pages
A cover of Egyptians, the pyramids
I used to write a journal
I used to lie in it
I wrap two rubber bands around this one "I mark my space
I mark my space with paranoia with paranoia...
I won't admit any of my sins on paper I won't admit any of
I write only of thoughts, of desires my sins on paper"
Nothing of the things that bring me to them
It is the ends without the means
The means are those which cannot be faced
Which must be hidden
Hidden for so long that they have
long since stopped being lies
They are truths now
I believe them like everyone else
I stole the diary from the garage
I write lies and desires in it
I hold it shut with two rubber bands
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"All great deeds and all great thoughts have a
ridiculous beginning. Great works are often born
on a street corner or in a restaurant's revolving door."
-- Albert Camus
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lakeside park ' § . ( ç ¤ , ë × ` å \ ð ! , » ¹ ] o o o o o out-of-xenith : april 21, 2002 .................................................................................................................
Just off Diamond Lake in Southport,
there's an amusement park, a rusty pile by lewis smith
of metal near the shore. The park is (lewissmith@gunmetalblack.co.uk)
closed now, being remodeled over the
winter, but a friend of mine on the construction crew let me in. I strolled around for a bit, lost in memory. On the shore, the fine white sand seemed to want to suck my Reeboks down into it as the gentle breeze rippled through my clothes. Here I had my first date with Michelle Lee eight years ago. Here I went through perhaps the most grueling night of my life, and the most satisfying.
On that balmy night in June, back in the summer of 1988, I was feeling giddy. School was out, and I had a date. Such a rare occurrence tended to bring that giddiness out in me. I wasn't attractive. I was a pudgy, greasy-haired, acne-riddled adolescent. In other words, just like all the rest. Needless to say, I didn't get many dates. I still don?t, but that?s another story.
But I had one tonight, with Michelle. No one got very many dates with Michelle. No one even asked her, as I recall. I had been the first person she had met at our junior high. I had just started the eighth grade and she and I were in the same homeroom. She seemed kind of shy, she kept looking at me kind of weird. Only later did I learn that she wanted my help with her locker. From there, she and I had gotten pretty close very quick. I had been there when someone stood her up at a school dance, back when that was a real social danger. We were both outsiders, but for different reasons.
I wasn?t entirely serious when I asked her out. Never in a million years did I think she would say yes. But I was as stubborn and I was loyal, and I kept the date, not expecting much.
But there she stood, in contempt of my expectations. She had evidently grabbed whatever was relatively clean to wear, and looked as though she had only recently gotten out of bed. Her black hair was played with and further tangled in the soft breeze. She wore a nondescript aqua shirt, and the briefest, tightest pair of cutoffs I had ever seen outside of my adolescent fantasies. Despite the hellish heat, I was too self-conscious to show my legs, so I sweat it out in jeans. We were no one's idea of the tux and tails crowd, but that was fine. To ourselves and everyone else we were rebels.
"You look great," I told her. In retrospect, this seemed an utterly asinine thing to say, but I was having difficulty thinking of anything that felt right. I could feel my tongue tying and my IQ dropping. What do you say in these situations? I wondered to myself. It wasn?t the first or last time I have had that particular thought.
"I don't think so," Michelle replied. She was actually more self-deprecating than I was. Which was no mean feat, considering my own level of negativity. That was the other reason we got along so well. Misery loves company. "I only woke up a little while ago."
I knew only a little about her life, but what I knew was a doozy. Her life was a fairly lonely one; a military brat, she had been moved from place to place, and where she was now wasn't happy. Her father was a frustrated writer on his off-hours who sometimes took his alcohol-fogged frustrations out on her. She hadn?t given me any details, but I knew it was bad because I once saw a line of bruises on the inside of her thighs. I never asked her where she got them, but I had an idea.
My home life was hell too, and that was another reason we related so well. Not a day went by that summer where my own parents didn?t read me the riot act about something. I could certainly relate to the idea of fiendish adults preying on the dreams of us kids. I would be lying if I said I wasn?t attracted to her. But I was afraid to make the first move.
"I didn't think you'd make it," I said.
"Don't you trust me?"
"No," I said honestly. The issue of trust was a running joke with us. Neither of us thought that it was worth the risk. The pain of abuse had taught us it was a bad idea, no matter what you thought of the person.
"Good," she smiled. "You're learning."
We walked the gaudy midway.
Even now I can remember the weird " 'Don't you trust me?'
smell of the air, the sweetness of 'No,' I said honestly.
cotton candy befouled by diesel 'Good,' she smiled.
fumes from the rides. Music too '...You're learning.' "
loud for any human being to enjoy
blared from most of the rides. The bass from the huge speakers rattled inside me, batting my innards around like a blade of grass in a hurricane. I tried to let the atmosphere take me away, but it didn't work. All I could think about was the nearness of her. And that thought was causing me to sweat profusely.
At the center of the park, then and now, was a huge Ferris wheel, stretching across the sky like a rotating rainbow. As long as I had been going to this park, I had been afraid of it. I liked rides that sent me to heights just fine, just as long as the experience was over quickly. This was a ride for people who liked heights for sustained periods, or who were otherwise occupied at the time. It was, in short, a makeout ride. And being as afraid of women as I was of heights, I was terrified.
"Hey," Michelle said. "Let's ride that."
To my absolute horror, she was pointing at the Ferris Wheel. I began to sweat so rapidly I felt like a sponge being wrung out. But I wasn't about to show her my fear. I was tough. I was a man. I was only slightly delusional. I could handle this.
"Okay," I said dryly. All reason had flown from my life.
The car we entered was a hideous blue plastic tub that lurched gently underfoot and creaked in a way I did not like. My stomach does flip-flops even thinking about it now. I kept reminding myself that I couldn't lose face, that I had to keep it together. I clung to this particular macho bullshit as long as I could because it kept my mind off my fear.
We entered the car, Michelle dragging me along. A white plastic bench protruded from either side of the car. Michelle got in the car with a graceful ease I could only envy. For one minute as the cars were loaded below us we would lurch forward and up, then stop abruptly, causing the car to wobble even more. Then it happened again, and again. I regretted the Big Mac I'd had before coming here as it fought its way up my esophagus. Michelle leaned out to look at the lake, in the process giving me a look at the one part of her that could only magnify my nervous condition. My eyes unconsciously traced up from her ankles to the edge of her cutoffs, I couldn?t help myself. It has a million names, but none do it any real justice. As scared as I was, my mind was taking in every detail, and feeling only a little guilty as I did so.
I noticed the slow curve of her waist, and how well-contoured her hips were. She had legs most models would kill for. Her back curved like it had all the time in the world. And I never remember her exercising once in all the time I had known her.
Like a fool, all I could do was think of how beautiful she was, how ugly I felt next to her. And for the millionth time, I wondered why she hung out with me. She could have any man she wanted. Did she want me? If so, why?
Could she read my mind? I wondered silently. Does she know what she's doing to me? Does she know how badly I want to pull her close, to touch her hair? How badly I want to make it all right for her?
"Isn't it great up here?" Michelle said, gazing out at the water. I could see the faraway look in her eyes. They were the eyes of a dreamer. "From this height, everything looks peaceful, huh?"
"I guess," I muttered weakly. I wanted to jump out. I wanted to reach out and put my hand on her shoulder. I wanted her to know she was driving me insane. I was afraid of her, of her father, of my parents, of the Ferris Wheel, of heights, of life itself. I felt trapped.
"A beautiful night," she said. The finality with which she said it immediately felt wrong. "Too bad it'll be one of my last here."
"What do you mean?" I asked, shaken from my reverie.
"My dad's been transferred. Again," she said with the weary tones of someone who had been through this dozens of times. "His C.O. found out that he didn't have coffee in his Thermos. We leave in about a month. I think it?s Hawaii this time."
"I?m sorry," I said. My chances were slipping through my fingers like fine white sand.
"It?s not your fault," she said. The undercurrent of anger in her voice told me whose fault it was.
She looked me in the eye with a flinty stare. I couldn't say anything, I was in the middle of a profound inner crisis. And being caught in her gaze like a deer in headlights didn?t help any. So I let the matter drop.
She looked away again. Before I realized it, my hand was halfway away from my side, heading for her back. I jerked it back as quickly as I could.
Michelle turned and looked at me again. Evidently, I wasn't fast enough. "Are you all right?" she asked. I noticed that the flinty light commonly seen in her brown eyes was gone, replaced by a light I would almost describe as warm.
"Y-yeah," I lied. I must have been pale as hell. I had sweat so much I felt like I had taken a shower with my clothes on. I felt weak. I was no longer in control of the situation.
"Scared of this, aren't you?" Michelle asked, almost patronizingly. "I saw it when we got on. That's part of the reason I wanted you to come up here with me. I want to know if you trust me. It?s a little extreme maybe, but I wanted to be sure."
"Why?"
"Because I trust you. I can't say that about anyone else. You're the only person I know who seems to care about me, really. You?re the only one I can feel comfortable with."
"And you're the one who tells me not to trust people," I replied coolly.
"I know," she said. She bit her bottom lip. "But I want things to be, I dunno, different with us," Michelle said deliberately. This was a quick change even for me. My hopes took flight. Maybe. . .
"I want us to be good friends. To hell with my moving. You're too much like me to keep at a distance."
Few things on this planet can cause more pain than the word "friend," especially if you feel deeper than "friend" about the person who said it. I turned away abruptly, as if slapped. I looked out at the crowds and the light on the midway and I hated it. I silently cursed her, this ride, and this blue car, which only scant seconds ago seemed like a floating bridge of dreams.
I felt my eyes well up. Damn it, I thought. It isn?t fair! I was so close! I let the thought trail off while simultaneously trying to keep from crying.
After the ride, we walked the length of the midway again, in silence once more. There's a park at the edge of the lake, quiet and further away from the midway. It wasn?t uncommon for the parents to drop their kids off at the midway and then go to the park to relax, read, or do whatever adults do when we don?t see them. It also wasn't uncommon to see lovers littering the benches, sand, and grass. As committed to my misery as I was, the last thing I wanted to see that night was a happy couple.
Trying to find a relatively private spot was difficult, but somehow we did. I can still remember how soft and fine the sand was and how bright everything seemed, even in the dark.
We sat on the sand, surrounded by people who were safe and secure in each other's arms. I was pretty sure that none of them were feeling what I was feeling. They were lucky. They didn?t get in situations like this. They knew what to say and do. The stars were coming out all above us, but because of the midway, only the brightest ones reached us. The midway?s insistent lights pulsed behind us. The music had congealed into an amorphous thrum.
"Michelle," I began. "Did you mean what you said? Do you trust me?" Neurotics like me are always asking for confirmations like that, I suppose. And as my ex-wives can attest, it grows annoying very quickly. But at that moment, everything seemed like a dream, and I wanted a pinch of reality, to make sure it was real.
"Yes," she said softly.
"I dunno," I said. "I have a hard time thinking of myself as a trustworthy person. Or as much of a friend."
"You are to me," she said. She took my damp hand in hers. I swallowed my tongue. "I can't explain it. I just have a connection with you, something that I don't have with anyone else. That?s why I?m gonna hate leaving. I wish I could take you."
I wish I could go, I thought. I?d send myself through the mail in a box if I could be like this with you.
I was evidently having an out-of-body experience about this time, because when I next became aware of her, she was a lot closer to me. I could feel her pulse. It was steady compared to mine. I put my arm around her. To my surprise, she didn't pull away.
She rested her head against my shoulder, but she wasn't asleep. One of her hands was propping her up. The other rested on my chest, above my heart. Slowly, my tension bled away. The turmoil in my mind was coalescing into...something. I look back on it now, and I think that?s what is meant when alcoholics have a "moment of clarity." There was only one thing to do, one way I could go, and damn the consequences.
So I did the only thing I could do. Well, except run for the hills. She looked away for a second, and then we looked at each other. I lifted her chin up, so that she could look at me. A million thoughts raced through my head, but I'll be damned if I can remember any of them now. Our faces moved closer. She closed her eyes.
As we kissed, everything went soft-focus, like in one of those incredibly silly romance novels that men know more about than the women they're intended for. You know, "As she kissed him, she felt every nerve in her body come alive,"-- or something like that. It lasted a minute, but in my memory, it goes on forever.
That moment is one of the few in my life I could describe as perfect. I have turned it over so often in my mind that it?s shiny and worn from use. Our relationship, for what it was worth, lasted a week. By that I mean, we kept denying that something was happening to us, but we always ended up kissing. We were falling in love whether we wanted to or not. We were slowly breaking through one another's defenses, and the more I was with her, the more I wanted to be with her. I didn't understand what made me so special to her, I still don't, but I learned to simply accept it. It was nice to be around someone who didn't need you to know everything.
Then she had to move. Our last rendezvous ended with both of us in tears. Whether they were tears of love for what we had or tears of frustration for a missed opportunity, I'll never know.
She wrote me a couple of letters from Hawaii. I still have them. I could feel in her words that she was pulling away from her feelings. Pulling away from me. With nothing to lose, I wrote her and told her what I should have before she left.
I told her that I loved her. That was the last letter I sent her. It was never answered. The silence was deafening. That day I began burying her and her memory in my heart.
Life moved on for me, as it probably did for her. I marched on to college, became a teacher, and made a living as a writer. In the process, I was also married twice, both of which ended acrimoniously. I guess I just wasn?t made for love after all.
And now I sit here on that same bit of sand, trying to recapture the spirit of that summer night. The park's being remodeled and they'll be paving most of it over soon for more convenient parking. This spot, which is priceless to me, will soon be claimed by asphalt. Southport's a big money town now--it started about the time they got a Wal-Mart. Now it?s a commercial paradise, and has no place for dreamers. But I remember that night, the lights, the dream, the feelings I felt, and Michelle. And I will remember that kiss forever.
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"When a true genius appears in this world,
you may know him by this sign, that the
dunces are all in confederacy against him."
-- Jonathan Swift
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you make me wanna beat ^ , { } . `` _ ) * > ` . ¡ o o o o o out-of-xenith : october 13, 2002
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oh allen, you make me want to get up and dance
feverishly swarming from joyous group by nicole
to ecstatic group (bathwaterbeat@yahoo.com)
to deep and dark intellectuals.
you make me want to stand naked on the beach
or sing.
to take a generation
make a generation
and bake it into special brownies.
I hear william blake but I see you "you make me want to...
I see you and your beautiful youth take a generation
your gorgeous age. make a generation
I was nine when you passed and bake it into special brownies"
too naive to understand
but it's never too late to experience.
you make me love america but then hate it
you make me howl but then silence.
as I sit in solemn silence
something you do triggers superior thoughts
higher emotion that transcends this bubble known as reality
and you I have to thank
so thank you
you're there when I speak
you're there when I listen
you're in my books in my brain and on my clash record
you're in my pen and on my paper on the tip of my tongue and the shelves of my bookcase.
you're in my poems:
the underdeveloped undeveloped lyrics of my mind,
merely negatives of true genius prints that long to be pictures of allen.
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"The evils of government are directly
proportional to the tolerance of the people."
-- Anonymous
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fly * , ü ` ( ) ^ _ + { } é | : " < - ` @ , _ ( ; ~ ' ` o o o o o out-of-xenith : november 17, 2002
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The coarse, grainy rice slid through
my fingers into the bathroom sink filled by madrianne wong
with my own tears. Shlopp, shlopp, the (jellybean77@hotmail.com)
white pellets fell into the salty puddle.
"One of these days I'm gonna fly...over those mountains." The lyrics of my favorite song resonated in my head over and over again. How I wish I could fly over mountains. Particularly the threatening mountains of my own ethnicity.
Was it the rice that began everything? Yes, perhaps it was. Our school code of conduct was a joke; I guess it was created by our teachers and staff to laugh at. Nobody followed the rules. There was not a day when you wouldn't see beatings or girls smoking in the restrooms. You could search out drugs within five minutes. It was only a matter of whether you wanted them or not. School regulation number sixty-seven stated that discrimination within the student body was not allowed. Was it obeyed? Oh yes, it was abided by just as often as any of the other rules.
When the tears ceased to flow and dripped slowly, I looked at my own reflection, contorted by ripples. My eyes drank in the monstrosity of the figure looking back at me. Hair as black as death itself. The thin lips of my father and slanted eyes of my own culture. A culture that I was very much ashamed of.
It was Wednesday and also the
day of my history presentation. We "How I wished I could fly over
were to cultivate our ethnic views by mountains. Particularly the
sharing a little bit about our racial threatening mountains of my
background or something somewhat own ethnicity."
related to topic. Many people shared
stories of how their family arrived in America amidst guffaws and rude comments. Others spoke about their religion, contradicting school regulation number fifty-three. They should have been silenced by the teacher, but were instead washed out by a wave of boorish remarks about how Hitler actually should have wiped out all the Jews. The teacher only waved on another student to present. I was soon to go--after a boy who talked about how his grandparents grew peanuts for a living, during which half the class made vulgar jokes.
I began my presentation by pulling out a tiny sack of rice and from there it plummeted. I realized that I had never understood cruelty and bitterness until that day. Later on, I found a puddle of urine near my locker along with a note that read, "It's almost as yellow as your skin." The putrid smell would haunt me for the rest of my life. It was not just that. Other things began to happen too. Soon it seemed like the world was against me. Maybe it really was.
Which was why I was in my bathroom. Usually to make myself feel better, I would go talk to my grandmother, burying my face in her arms. Her scent was soothing, and I would take in convulsed breaths of that jasmine tea smell. She would tell me to cry until I had no more tears, and I would, but they always managed to replenish the next day. After a while, I grew ashamed of her, no longer wanting her comfort. Instead I found solace in my bathroom.
I let the tears go down the drain, along with the rice and they slid down the pipes together easily, but not as easily as the last of the twenty seven aspirins I swallowed. I would no longer smell the rancid smell of urine.
Instead I would fly.
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"Destiny. A tyrant's authority for
crime and a fool's excuse for failure."
-- Ambrose Bierce
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