Nick DiSpoldo, Small Press Review (on Children, Churches and Daddies, April 1997) Children, Churches and Daddies is eclectic, alive and is as contemporary as tomorrow’s news.

Children, Churches and Daddies

Volume 23

The Unreligious, Non-Family-Oriented Literary and Art Magazine

ISSN 1068-5154

Black and White Woman Admitting the Tropical Storm, Christiansted, St. Croix, Virgin Islands Still Life 1954, by Alan Catlin Night in the harbor, three masted sailboats trussed each to each, anchor ropes and chains slapping against painted hulls stung by hot needlepoints of rain that drives stray dogs under torn canvas canopies, inside porous wooden huts, their eyes wide, terror striken as the first thunder claps and the lightning rips down from the storm to the ocean. Moving inland, whole black clouds are alive with electricity, are pushed by the wind, ripping palm leaves from trees, pushing the nightbirds further inland squealing as they come. Inside the thunder and the heat, a woman’s hand unfastens heavy wooden storm shutters, drags deeply on an unfiltered Camel cigarette admitting the wind and the rain. In the far corner of the room, a child pretends to sleep, struck dumb, terrorized by images of fleeing fruit bats, the living dream creatures forming an extra layer on his skin, rows of large sweat boils and hives, inside of each, a vein is being struck by forced heat; outside, the low black clouds envelop the harbor. her eyes flash, channeling the storm out toward the tips of her fingers pointing out the swirling heart of night. Rain kills her cigarette, cools the room, come morning she’ll wake up talking to the clouds of insects gathered in the corners of the wall in broken street Spanish, the sun will divide the broken furniture into rooms, the biggest room will be filled with seagulls spreading their wings, searching broken glasses, tidal pools for food, surrounding the forgotten boy who sees nothing now, not even the stars inside his skin. Whose breath maintains our beautiful America? (narrated by a young girl refugee in Iraqi mountains), by David Castleman In our holiest mosque in Basra my sisters and my mama and I prayed while Papa shooed away the dragons outside. From richly fruited plains an American dragon so smart it knew just how to behave flew through the doors and vaporized the altar with heat unspeakable. In an instant every candle celebrating light and a thousand worshippers became dust. We’d been late because our baby disappeared and when the dragon moved within that holy place we spun and ran, anticipating heat. Everybody’s papa was dead as we ran out and my sister who was left and I ran out and traipsed among the caravans of refugees. In these cold mountains the cold is bitter cold and Basra was so hot among the dragons I yearn for temperatures more moderate. BRAZIL, by gabriel monteleone neruda It was toward the end of the rainy season of 1949 that my employers sent me to investigate some business in southern Brazil. I was commissioned by Hills Brothers, Folgers, and JB, to search out some new coffees that might suit their individual blends, and I was to arrange to have those coffees shipped to them. I was seeking many millions of dollars in beans. A new coffee producing area was coming into the world market from the Brazilian state of Parana, and according to all of our sources these new beans were of inexplicably fine quality. Clearly the trees had been planted and tended properly, and the beans had been harvested in a manner superior to that which we had come to expect from the Portuguese Brazilians. I flew out of Sao Paulo to Curitiba, in the state of Parana, and ventured by horse and by jeep to the town of Londrina, and thence by horse and by mule and, sometimes, by jeep, to a new and wild town called Arapongas. This town of Arapongas was far from civilization and from law. Arapongas was a town of men, and the men carried guns and knives, except for the blacks and the half-breeds, who carried machetes. Arapongas had dirt streets lined with tents. One stone building housed the bank. Several shacks were constructed of small logs and canvas, and a few rooms were available in these shacks. Each room had a hole in a corner of the floor, and chickens and pigs fought for whatever dropped through that hole. A small board and a stone covered the hole most of the time. Sometimes a mule train arrived from Londrina, bearing supplies. Some of the local farms sold food in an outdoor market. Near the town was what was billed as the biggest tree in the world, and I went there and it was big, very big, and the mules rode around it slowly. Farther from the town, nazis had constructed a formidable coffee plantation with large houses of logs and canvas, with stables and outbuildings for the storage of beans and the quartering of servants. These nazis were they I had been seeking, they who had done such a job of the beans. Their current project was the cutting and the piling and the burning of miles and miles of heavy forest. They had large crews of peasants in camps, guarded as slaves must be guarded. these peasant workers were, I noticed, very heavily fed, for the labor was indeed arduous. From the big houses to the nearest unsullied woods was about 500 yards. In these immediately adjacent woods was a great canyon that made it impractical to cut and to burn those woods, and numerous were the Indians who lived beyond the verge of that wooded canyon. Commanded by the Germans, servants during the day would deploy baubles along the verge of the woods, baubles such as beads and the links of broken chains, shards of pottery and glass, shell casings. And in the early dusk the nazis would toss back their schnapps as they sat on their huge porches and used the incoming Indians for a target practice. The Indians didn’t ever quite understand what was occurring, for they wandered childlike and enchantedly among the precious baubles in the clearing. There were several such forward camps of Germans, and the same sport was enjoyed in each camp I attended. Once when I returned to our office in Londrina I was informed that one of these outposts had been discovered with its inhabitants brutally murdered, and that small arrows had been found fledging the unclean bodies, and spears. Those Europeans who told me of this atrocity were in deep sorrow among themselves, mournfully pondering the subhuman savagery among which our honorable white races must serve. As I gazed from face to face in our offices, and as I realized the bitter outrage which was struggling to the surface in each personality, I must confess that I very nearly giggled. I was very young. nothing more, by C. C Russel Fogged car windows in a cemetary, snow, and too many faces to remember. Learning rape is not an easy word to yell among friends. be for real, by C Ra McGuirt nihilist girl, hurt me nice. tough punk girl, i’ll reduce you to tears, & use them as ink for my poems. any left over, i’ll drink them. what was it you wanted from me, exactly? “I wouldn’t want one of them around my kids!” A POPULAR MISCONCEPTION, by George Spelvin “Jews are different. Communists are different. Therefore, Jews are Communists.” Most people see the above syllogism as fallacious. So one might expect most people to see this. one as fallacious: “Homosexuals are different. Molesters are different. Therefore, homosexuals are molesters.” Yet in 1974, 75% of the respondents in the Levitt & Klassen poll said that “homosexuals are dangerous as teachers or youth leaders because they try to get sexually involved with children.” In caveman days, when there was less heterogeneity within tribes than there is now, anyone different posed a threat. When an enemy tribe invaded, there was no time to ponder over how people who differed from oneself differed from each other. Civilization has changed since then, but our inner brains haven’t, so we all must make a deliberate effort to see individuals as individuals. In fairness, not all people who equate homosexuals with molesters arrive at this conclusion through the above syllogism. Paul Cameron of the Institute for the Scientific Investigation of Sexuality has an altogether different argument: although there are more girl-lovers than boy-lovers, the boy-lover:girl-lover ratio is g reater than the man-lover:woman-lover ratio. After a session of mathematicking, he concludes that “teachers who practice homosexual acts are between 90 to 100 times more apt to involve themselves sexually with pupils than teachers who confine themselves to heterosexual acts.” Cameron somehow missed reading the research findings that preference for boys and preference for men are two distinct preferences. In fact, both boy-lovers and girl-lovers prefer women over men. This has been clearly indicated in a study in 1978 by Groth & Birnbaum and in another study in 1983 by Wilson & Cox. If you have a girl and are worried about her being placed in the care of the wrong adult, you should probably prefer a man who likes men even over a man who likes women. Several studies by the Clarke Institute of Psychiatry in Toronto, Ontario have shown manlovers like girls less than do woman-lovers. In fact, man-lovers like boys less than woman-lovers like girls. Research findings do not mean that there is no overlap at all between boy-lovers and man-lovers. In a Doctoral study at the University of Wisconsin, Charles H. McCaghy found a few subjects who liked both. At this point, some readers might say, “You can’t make any blanket statements about woman-lovers, man-lovers, girl-lovers, or boy-lovers. People are people.” I can’t argue with that. my love for you will stay the same, a song by Janet Kuypers everybody’s dreaming everybody’s screaming everybody’s looking for some shelter from the storm and everybody’s looking for someone to keep them warm but I don’t wanna play if you’re a temporary game my love for you will stay the same my love for you will stay the same (my love for you) now the tide is turning the fire embers burning everybody wants to find a way to shed the shame everybody wants to find a way to share the blame but you can put me through the heartache, I can take the pain my love for you will stay the same my love for you will stay the same (my love for you) the rhythm in your fingers the memory still lingers listen to your flowers now, the petals scream out loud and all these seasons come and go without a single sound i can hear the flower petals calling out your name my love for you will stay the same my love for you will stay the same (my love for you) Looking Down Holes, by Mary Winters The last, best places to hide: Street corner excavation at night. A show from a child’s toy box - “Workers Who Keep Our City Working - manhole open beneath a sunny yellow canopy lit by flare from a wind-up generator. You climb down a tiny red ladder past layers of cobblestone, wires, earth, then bedrock; far below, jazz music on a radio left behind - you with a thermos of wine studying the secret code to the city. Burned-out house, tip of spit, Yarmouthport, Cape Cod. Basement filled with chest-high pines, blasted beams gone iridescent; old well comes out in China; abandoned privy protected still by smell. Back in the city: muggy pit at bottom of apartment building’s elevator shaft. Water-over-pebbles sound of elevator-lofting chain coiling and uncoiling you crouched low among four giant springs, dodging sparks. If you were smaller: sump pump shaft in Grandfather’s basement; burping, bubbling clamholes washed by tide. i married young the first time, by Cheryl Townsend the bruises all healed and the blood dried all the cuts scabbed up but left scars no where near as severe as the ones no one will ever see driving by his house, by Janet Kuypers I know it’s pretty pathetic of me, I don’t know what I’m trying to prove. I don’t even want to see him again. I don’t want to have to think about him, I don’t want to think about his big eyebrows or the fact that he hunched over a little when he walked or that he hurt me so much. I know it’s pretty pathetic of me, but sometimes when I’m driving I’ll take a little detour and drive by his house. I’ll just drive by, I won’t slow down, I won’t stop by, I won’t say hello, I won’t beat his head in, I won’t even cry. I’ll just drive by, see a few cars in the driveway, see no signs of life through the windows, and then I’ll just keep driving. I don’t know why I do it. He never sees me, and I never see him, although I thought I didn’t want to see him anyway. When I first met him I wasn’t afraid of him. Now I’m so afraid that I have to drive by his house every once in a while, just to remind myself of the fear. We all like the taste of fear, you know, the thought that there’s something out there stronger than us. The thought that there’s something out there we can beat, even if we have to fight to the death. But that can’t be it, no, it just can’t be, I don’t like this fear, I don’t like it. I don’t want to drive by, I want to be able to just go on with my life, to not think about it. I want to be strong again . I want to be strong. So today I did it again, I haven’t done it for a while, drive by his house, but I did it again today. When I turned on to his street I put on my sunglasses so that in case he saw me he couldn’t tell that I was looking. And then I picked up my car phone and acted like I was talking to someone. And I drove by, holding my car phone, talking to my imaginary friend, trying to unobviously glance at the house on my left. There’s a lamppost at the end of his driveway. I always noticed it, the lampshade was a huge glass ball, I always thought it was ugly. This time three cars were there. One of those could have been his. Through the front window, no people, no lights. I drive around a corner, take a turn and get back on the road I was supposed to be on. One day, when I’m driving by and I get that feeling again, that feeling like death, well then, I just might do it again. ugly house, or how a place holds a feeling, by Janet Kuypers This is an ugly house. I hate the wallpaper in the spare room. Those stupid miniature rooms on the shelves in the spare room, stupid ugly miniature rooms she made, why would anyone want a box of a miniature room anyway? She takes up all the space in there, gets mad at me when I put a flower arrangement in there. I’m sleeping in the room, let me at least put something in there so I don’t feel like I’m sleeping in a hotel that chose a decorator with no taste. Why does she have so much stuff anyway?? She’s got a third of her jewelry and half of her clothes there, and I’m the one who sleeps in the room. I hate the multi-colored carpet in the living room, the barrel chairs with turquoise and melon vinyl coverings. The ugly statues mom is drawn to. A statue has to be inherently ugly for her to like it, I think. The lights hanging from above the bar, the lamp shades are Harvery’s Bristol Cream canisters. That mural of the 5 kids above the couch. I’m at the bottom. I look ugly. It was when I was subordinate and meek and stupid and helpless. Like now. I hate the stained glass hangings in the kitchen windowsill. And you can see the black paint chipping off the refrigerator door so you know mom tried to cover up the turquoise. Silk flowers that look really crappy. The kitchen flowers are the worst. I hate the wood-branch-tree she decorates for any pagan season she thinks of, even if it’s not pagan, let’s decorate the tree anyway, no one will know the wiser. Or the fact that there are nice things in the house, like two Dali prints, but they look ugly here. Art even looks like trash in this place. I hate the lamps hanging in front of those ugly melon colored front doors. And that wind chime hanging from the lamp in the front hallway. That rock garden in the front hallway, it used to have a working fountain in it, but I was too little when it worked, but that’s okay, because I think it would be even more frightening with water running down it. And I hate the playroom, the room i’m sitting in now, look at how cluttered it is, all the jewelry she’ll never get around to selling, all the fabric for clothes she’ll never make, all the exersice equipment that collects dust because she feels she can WALK her way to a perfect body. You know, she doesn’t like me using the treadmill because she thinks I’ll wear out the motor. What difference does it make? Books she’s collected because I collect books. She wants this of mine, I owe her this, I adopted this from her... She’s so petty, and no subtle hint I make makes a difference. She slams on any idea I ever have. She makes me feel I can never be creative, because it won’t work out. And she wonders why I’m insecure. Don’t you get it? You made me this way, I hate what you’ve done to me, I hate what you’ve become, and now I have to sit here and live with you, in this ugly house. And when I move out I’m going to still have to live with myself, with all this insecurity, with all this anger. And I’ll still have the memory of this house in my mind. Whose eyes reflect our American experiment? (narrated by a young girl refugee in Iraqi mountains), by David Castleman After bombing when we woke into the morning we watched the streets of Basra where they stood below the rubble and beyond, spattered brown, I supposed, by blood from those lifeless buzzing vaguely human shapes which covered them in original new designs. I found a little doll dropped on the ground and snuggled the little doll through the caravans and now we sit on these cold mountains. On the broken road from Basra my little doll wept ceaselessly but such a sin is easily forgiven. She blamed the men who fly the planes but women fly the planes now, too, I told her and men cannot be blamed for everything. In the night when the bombs explode on Basra and when the mountains dance farther up the sky her stone face bears the wisdom of the gods. Black and White Punk Rockette on the Schenectady to Albany Bus 1984, by Alan Catlin Her dyed black hair i s a nightmare mix of railroad spikes and razor cuts leaving her ears exposed: the left one is a mortification of the flesh, perpetually raw in all seven places where the safety pins pierce the skin. the right one is for Captain Midnight: a plastic six inch dangling earring of Old Mr. Bones himself, whose painted ribs click together every time she turns her head to look out the window or to closely examine the words written on coffin tops in blood on the album covers of her favorite punk rock group: Necros, Live! Her paint blackened eye sockets are intent amidst pounds of pallorous white facial powder, are as dark as the thick black leather studded collars and wrist bands that define her body, hiding the scars she caresses like a lover in the night. Sitting still is for others not hot wired into the spliced neural circuits between stars, they who cannot hear the dead singing, scratching their long maroon painted nails on glass, each of ten ringed fingers a momento mori whose red eyes are always glowing in the dark. the world’s on fire, by John Binns Time dissolves, Capsules swim, And the world revolves About a song, The world’s on fire And motes float Everywhere there is A Thanksgiving And the world’s At peace i remember that, by Cheryl Townsend I was 10 when his 18 pinned me smothering in my own bed football hero groping all that was left of a small town I cried against his dis- regarding lips packing budding breasts like raw hamburg in his quarterback hands his laugh satanical where the hell was everyone I twisted resistance to the lifting of my girl Scout uniform trying to bite arms too far to reach I wanted my mommie small hips lift with tear of panties why is he putting his finger in there I tried not to pee in my bed he called me bald pussy and pulled it out was ready to rip but I couldn’t hold it any more pissed all over him and my lilac and white bed spread that my grandmother made for me he called me more names after slapping me zipped himself back away and left me to cry over stains that will never ever wash away circumstantial evidence, by C Ra McGuirt you said they said that you were selfish & manipulative (as if you deserved a medal for enduring such vituperation) but i noticed you always left me just as soon as you were drunk & full of pizza. huh. it must have been my imagination... road closed, by Larry Blazek I love the old roads where no one goes no one moves a branch if it falls no one plows if it snows they go to places that used to be there’re better ways to go or nothing left to see except the Mother Gosddesses’ subtle recovery my footsteps trace the pavement dear no one else will follow me here down the old road where no one goes

Nick DiSpoldo, Small Press Review (on “Children, Churches and Daddies,” April 1997) Kuypers is the widely-published poet of particular perspectives and not a little existential rage, but she does not impose her personal or artistic agenda on her magazine. CC+D is a provocative potpourri of news stories, poetry, humor, art and the “dirty underwear” of politics. One piece in this issue is “Crazy,” an interview Kuypers conducted with “Madeline,” a murderess who was found insane, and is confined to West Virginia’s Arronsville Correctional Center. Madeline, whose elevator definitely doesn’t go to the top, killed her boyfriend during sex with an ice pick and a chef’s knife, far surpassing the butchery of Elena Bobbitt. Madeline, herself covered with blood, sat beside her lover’s remains for three days, talking to herself, and that is how the police found her. For effect, Kuypers publishes Madeline’s monologue in different-sized type, and the result is something between a sense of Dali’s surrealism and Kafka-like craziness.

Debra Purdy Kong, writer, British Columbia, Canada
I like the magazine a lot. I like the spacious lay-out and the different coloured pages and the variety of writer’s styles. Too many literary magazines read as if everyone graduated from the same course. We need to collect more voices like these and send them everywhere.

Ed Hamilton, writer #85 (of Children, Churches and Daddies) turned out well. I really enjoyed the humor section, especially the test score answers. And, the cup-holder story is hilarious. I’m not a big fan of poetry - since much of it is so hard to decipher - but I was impressed by the work here, which tends toward the straightforward and unpretentious. As for the fiction, the piece by Anderson is quite perceptive: I liked the way the self-deluding situation of the character is gradually, subtly revealed. (Kuypers’) story is good too: the way it switches narrative perspective via the letter device is a nice touch.

Children, Churches and Daddies.
It speaks for itself.
Write to Scars Publications to submit poetry, prose and artwork to Children, Churches and Daddies literary magazine, or to inquire about having your own chapbook, and maybe a few reviews like these.

Jim Maddocks, GLASGOW, via the Internet I’ll be totally honest, of the material in Issue (either 83 or 86 of Children, Churches and Daddies) the only ones I really took to were Kuypers’. TRYING was so simple but most truths are, aren’t they?

what is veganism?
A vegan (VEE-gun) is someone who does not consume any animal products. While vegetarians avoid flesh foods, vegans don’t consume dairy or egg products, as well as animal products in clothing and other sources.

why veganism?
This cruelty-free lifestyle provides many benefits, to animals, the environment and to ourselves. The meat and dairy industry abuses billions of animals. Animal agriculture takes an enormous toll on the land. Consumtion of animal products has been linked to heart disease, colon and breast cancer, osteoporosis, diabetes and a host of other conditions.

so what is vegan action?
We can succeed in shifting agriculture away from factory farming, saving millions, or even billions of chickens, cows, pigs, sheep turkeys and other animals from cruelty.
We can free up land to restore to wilderness, pollute less water and air, reduce topsoil reosion, and prevent desertification.
We can improve the health and happiness of millions by preventing numerous occurrences od breast and prostate cancer, osteoporosis, and heart attacks, among other major health problems.

A vegan, cruelty-free lifestyle may be the most important step a person can take towards creatin a more just and compassionate society. Contact us for membership information, t-shirt sales or donations.

vegan action
po box 4353, berkeley, ca 94707-0353
510/704-4444

C Ra McGuirt, Editor, The Penny Dreadful Review (on Children, Churches and Daddies) CC&D is obviously a labor of love ... I just have to smile when I go through it. (Janet Kuypers) uses her space and her poets to best effect, and the illos attest to her skill as a graphic artist. I really like (“Writing Your Name”). It’s one of those kind of things where your eye isn’t exactly pulled along, but falls effortlessly down the poem. I liked “knowledge” for its mix of disgust and acceptance. Janet Kuypers does good little movies, by which I mean her stuff provokes moving imagery for me. Color, no dialogue; the voice of the poem is the narrator over the film.

Children, Churches and Daddies no longer distributes free contributor’s copies of issues. In order to receive issues of Children, Churches and Daddies, contact Janet Kuypers at the cc&d e-mail addres. Free electronic subscriptions are available via email. All you need to do is email ccandd@scars.tv... and ask to be added to the free cc+d electronic subscription mailing list. And you can still see issues every month at the Children, Churches and Daddies website, located at http://scars.tv

Mark Blickley, writer The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book.

MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)

functions:
* To show the MIT Food Service that there is a large community of vegetarians at MIT (and other health-conscious people) whom they are alienating with current menus, and to give positive suggestions for change.
* To exchange recipes and names of Boston area veg restaurants
* To provide a resource to people seeking communal vegetarian cooking
* To provide an option for vegetarian freshmen

We also have a discussion group for all issues related to vegetarianism, which currently has about 150 members, many of whom are outside the Boston area. The group is focusing more toward outreach and evolving from what it has been in years past. We welcome new members, as well as the opportunity to inform people about the benefits of vegetarianism, to our health, the environment, animal welfare, and a variety of other issues.

Gary, Editor, The Road Out of Town (on the Children, Churches and Daddies Web Site) I just checked out the site. It looks great.

Dusty Dog Reviews: These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding.

John Sweet, writer (on chapbook designs) Visuals were awesome. They’ve got a nice enigmatic quality to them. Front cover reminds me of the Roman sculptures of angels from way back when. Loved the staggered tire lettering, too. Way cool. (on “Hope Chest in the Attic”) Some excellent writing in “Hope Chest in the Attic.” I thought “Children, Churches and Daddies” and “The Room of the Rape” were particularly powerful pieces.

C Ra McGuirt, Editor, The Penny Dreadful Review: CC&D is obviously a labor of love ... I just have to smile when I go through it. (Janet Kuypers) uses her space and her poets to best effect, and the illos attest to her skill as a graphic artist.

Cheryl Townsend, Editor, Impetus (on Children, Churches and Daddies) The new CC&D looks absolutely amazing. It’s a wonderful lay-out, looks really professional - all you need is the glossy pages. Truly impressive AND the calendar, too. Can’t wait to actually start reading all the stuff inside.. Wanted to just say, it looks good so far!!!

Dusty Dog Reviews: She opens with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, “Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment.” Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers’ very personal layering of her poem across the page.

Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA
Indeed, there’s a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there’s a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship.

Mark Blickley, writer
The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book.

You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.

Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book or chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers. We’re only an e-mail away. Write to us.

Brian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) I passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies’) obvious dedication along this line admirable.

The Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology
The Solar Energy Research & Education Foundation (SEREF), a non-profit organization based in Washington, D.C., established on Earth Day 1993 the Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology (CREST) as its central project. CREST’s three principal projects are to provide:
* on-site training and education workshops on the sustainable development interconnections of energy, economics and environment;
* on-line distance learning/training resources on CREST’s SOLSTICE computer, available from 144 countries through email and the Internet;
* on-disc training and educational resources through the use of interactive multimedia applications on CD-ROM computer discs - showcasing current achievements and future opportunities in sustainable energy development.
The CREST staff also does “on the road” presentations, demonstrations, and workshops showcasing its activities and available resources.
For More Information Please Contact: Deborah Anderson
dja@crest.org or (202) 289-0061

Brian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) I passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies’) obvious dedication along this line admirable.

Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA
“Hope Chest in the Attic” captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family.
“Chain Smoking” depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. “The room of the rape” is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation.

want a review like this? contact scars about getting your own book published.

Paul Weinman, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) Wonderful new direction (Children, Churches and Daddies has) taken - great articles, etc. (especially those on AIDS). Great stories - all sorts of hot info!

The magazine Children Churches and Daddies is Copyright � through Scars Publications and Design. The rights of the individual pieces remain with the authors. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Okay, nilla wafer. Listen up and listen good. How to save your life. Submit, or I’ll have to kill you.
Okay, it’s this simple: send me published or unpublished poetry, prose or art work (do not send originals), along with a bio, to us - then sit around and wait... Pretty soon you’ll hear from the happy people at cc&d that says (a) Your work sucks, or (b) This is fancy crap, and we’re gonna print it. It’s that simple!

Okay, butt-munch. Tough guy. This is how to win the editors over.
Hope Chest in the Attic is a 200 page, perfect-bound book of 13 years of poetry, prose and art by Janet Kuypers. It’s a really classy thing, if you know what I mean. We also have a few extra sopies of the 1999 book “Rinse and Repeat”, the 2001 book “Survive and Thrive”, the 2001 books “Torture and Triumph” and “(no so) Warm and Fuzzy”, which all have issues of cc&d crammed into one book. And you can have either one of these things at just five bucks a pop if you just contact us and tell us you saw this ad space. It’s an offer you can’t refuse...

Carlton Press, New York, NY: HOPE CHEST IN THE ATTIC is a collection of well-fashioned, often elegant poems and short prose that deals in many instances, with the most mysterious and awesome of human experiences: love... Janet Kuypers draws from a vast range of experiences and transforms thoughts into lyrical and succinct verse... Recommended as poetic fare that will titillate the palate in its imagery and imaginative creations.
Mark Blickley, writer: The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing the book.

You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.
Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book and chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers - you can write for yourself or you can write for an audience. It’s your call...

Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA: “Hope Chest in the Attic” captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family. “Chain Smoking” depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. “The room of the rape” is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation.

Dusty Dog Reviews, CA (on knife): These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding. Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself.

Dusty Dog Reviews (on Without You): She open with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, “Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment.” Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers’ very personal layering of her poem across the page.
Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself.

Debra Purdy Kong, writer, British Columbia, Canada (on Children, Churches and Daddies): I like the magazine a lot. I like the spacious lay-out and the different coloured pages and the variety of writer’s styles. Too many literary magazines read as if everyone graduated from the same course. We need to collect more voices like these and send them everywhere.
Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA: Indeed, there’s a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there’s a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship.

Children, Churches and Daddies the unreligious, non-family oriented literary and art magazine Scars Publications and Design ccandd96@scars.tv http://scars.tv Publishers/Designers Of Children, Churches and Daddies magazine cc+d Ezines The Burning mini poem books God Eyes mini poem books The Poetry Wall Calendar The Poetry Box The Poetry Sampler Mom’s Favorite Vase Newsletters Reverberate Music Magazine Down In The Dirt magazine Freedom and Strength Press forum plus assorted chapbooks and books music, poery compact discs live performances of songs and readings Sponsors Of past editions: Poetry Chapbook Contest, Poetry Book Contest Prose Chapbook Contest, Prose Book Contest Poetry Calendar Contest current editions: Editor’s Choice Award (writing and web sites) Collection Volumes Children, Churches and Daddies (founded 1993) has been written and researched by political groups and writers from the United States, Canada, England, India, Italy, Malta, Norway and Turkey. Regular features provide coverage of environmental, political and social issues (via news and philosophy) as well as fiction and poetry, and act as an information and education source. Children, Churches and Daddies is the leading magazine for this combination of information, education and entertainment. Children, Churches and Daddies (ISSN 1068-5154) is published quarterly by Scars Publications and Design. Contact us via e-mail (ccandd96@scars.tv) for subscription rates or prices for annual collection books. To contributors: No racist, sexist or blatantly homophobic material. No originals; if mailed, include SASE & bio. Work sent on disks or through e-mail preferred. Previously published work accepted. Authors always retain rights to their own work. All magazine rights reserved. Reproduction of Children, Churches and Daddies without publisher permission is forbidden. Children, Churches and Daddies copyright through Scars Publications and Design, Children, Churches and Daddies, Janet Kuypers. All rights remain with the authors of the individual pieces. No material may be reprinted without express permission.