welcome to volume 26 (September 2005) of

down in the dirt
internet issn 1554-9666
(for the print issn 1554-9623) Alexandira Rand, Editor
http://scars.tv - click on down in the dirt

Don’t Tell Stanley M Noah Trees want to leave their roots and run away like young lovers behind closed doors. The Crying Girl Michelle Greenblatt A girl in one of my endless English classes was crying in one of the endless corridors normally I keep to myself this time I asked her what’s wrong she told me she saw the man who raped her when she 13 she didn’t know anyone who was raped she had no one she could talk to who could relate so I told her I was raped many times as a child she stared at me then said I didn’t look like the kinda girl who could get raped she kept staring I’m pretty small I don’t weigh much she said maybe it’s the way I hold myself and my combat boots always looking like they can kick some ass but I have never kicked anyone’s ass except my own I laughed bitterly and wondered what the kind of girl who looked like she could get raped looked like Sliding to Tomorrow Gary Beck I walk down rubbled streets, Beirut, Bombay, and Baghdad, hated by young and old, Black, White, Hispanic, poor, alike in resentment for my brief visit to the museum of squalor, a display of suffering, an exhibition of shame, a show that will continue until spectation ends. But then I suddenly realize this is not a third world nightmare, we’re in America, declining to decay, since no one knows enough to stop the fall. Man With Guitar Douglas Holder And when he riffed his girth was no obstacle. He rose like beckoned from above. His head craned like a meaty swan following the music like some driven Egyptian hieroglyphic-- face twitching as if it was synchronized. His eyes tightly locked on the singers. And all I could see were his agile, manic fingers. Disney Dad Aldo Green He loves his boy From sun up Until something else Pisses him off Or he thinks To himself Too much of the loss He lost So many years ago He’s the dad That plays ball But tires easily With boredom Loves to go biking But only to the Park The kind of dad that loves Only if it suits himself And the folks looking on To the naked eye He is all that I am not Perfect and considerate Kind and respectful Disney dads take pride In fooling everyone Especially themselves Believing they are Dads Of great stature and grace Forgetting the times They are drunk, high Mad or abusive Disney dads are the first To point out faults Of others that they see Blindly in themselves Then recommend medicine They wouldn’t take In a hundred years And yet a Disney Dad is still Better than an Oprah Mom Freaking out over skinned Knees and broken promises Trying to get to the truth Of being free Just like your father The Picture Laine Hissett-Bonard The ungodly loud ringing of the phone not two inches from my head roused me with a start from a pleasant half-doze, and I barely resisted pitching the damn thing across the room; my temper was short at the best of times, but even worse when I was rudely awakened. The number on the caller ID was my bass player’s, and I grumbled a good-natured curse as I fumbled the phone to my ear, squinting against the sunshine pouring through the window, its intensity only worsened by the London smog. “What the fuck do you want?” I tried to start every conversation on a congenial note. “Well, that’s nice, Brian,” Scott replied crossly. “What’s got your panties in a twist?” Pushing myself into a reluctant sitting position, I rubbed my eyes with one hand, yawning. “You woke me.” “I don’t know any other thirty-three-year-old man who’d be sleeping at three in the afternoon on a Sunday,” came Scott’s retort, and I laughed in spite of myself. “Do you know any other thirty-three-year-old man who might actually be wearing panties to get into a twist?” I teased. “A few,” Scott replied, “but none as bitchy as you, darling.” “You don’t usually ring me during the day,” I said curiously, stumbling a little as I stood, but quickly righting myself and making my way to the kitchen for a glass of water. My afternoon nap did wonders for the hangover I’d woken up with that morning; last night’s vodka consumption felt fantastic at the time, but nine o’clock in the morning found me with a different opinion. “I saw Mik today,” Scott said, and already, I didn’t like the accusatory tone in his voice. “So?” I replied warily. Scott released a heavy sigh into the phone, his patented, world-weary “I’ve had enough of Brian’s bullshit” sigh. “Don’t play coy, Brian,” he said. “You fucked him last night, didn’t you?” “He told you that?” I blurted, surprised. While I was an incurable loudmouth in regard to my sexual exploits, Mikael was the polar opposite, never giving us so much as a single juicy detail. “No; you just did,” Scott said, and I scowled. “Shit.” “Well, I already knew anyway,” Scott said. “I can always tell when you and Mik have shagged, just by getting one look at his face.” “Why — is his eye bloodshot again?” I asked, and as I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the wall mirror, my face was a mask of concern. As proud as I had been to bring Mikael to that intense an orgasm, a recurrence might indicate some kind of medical condition. “No,” Scott replied, then groaned. “Oh, Jesus, I thought that was just caused by too much vodka. Is that what happened to him?” “Come on, Scott, get to the point,” I said impatiently. “What are you trying to say?” “I can always tell Mik spent the night with you,” Scott said, his voice taking on that Papa Bear sternness that I had come to expect from him when he lectured me. The problem was, I couldn’t fathom what I had done to deserve a lecture. “He never says a word about it, but the way he looks is enough to tell the whole story. I stopped by his place today, and when he opened the door, Brian...” He paused for a moment, just long enough to drive me crazy with the suspense, before continuing. “He looked like he’s been crying all day.” My throat tightened, my breath catching mid-inhale. “He... what?” I managed to choke out, my fingers gripping the phone tighter against my ear. “I... I didn’t force him to do anything, Scott; I swear it. He —” “It’s not that,” Scott interrupted. “You’ve just got to stop using him like this. You must have broken up with what’s-his-name, did you?” “Yes,” I sputter, “but — using him? How am I using him? Mikki’s a big boy — if he doesn’t want to fuck me, he doesn’t have to. How —” Scott interrupts me again, this time with a note of impatience in his voice. “You can’t keep running to Mik for that kind of twisted consolation every time you break up with somebody, Brian. It’s not fair to him.” “First of all, I didn’t ‘run to him,’” I said icily. “He showed up on my doorstep on his own. Second, what the fuck are you talking about, ‘fair to him’?” Scott, you’re not being logical. So Mikael gets himself laid whenever Brian gets dumped. So what?” Scott let out a low growl of frustration in my ear, only slightly tinny through the phone. “Christ Almighty, mate, are you daft? You fucking sod, can’t you tell he’s in fucking love with you?” I actually laughed out loud; the idea struck me as that preposterous. “He isn’t,” I replied, now positive that Scott was pulling my leg. “You had me going for a minute there, but —” “Brian,” Scott said slowly, and this time more gently. “Listen to me. Stop being so self-absorbed for just a minute and really listen to me. Mikael loves you. I don’t know how you’ve missed it all these years, because I could see it from the very day I joined the band, but he does... and you treat him like shit.” I didn’t recall ever in my life having so much to say, yet at the same time being so completely speechless. Instead of trying to collect my thoughts to speak, I sat down at the kitchen table with my glass of water and lit a cigarette with numb, fumbling fingers. My first drag was shaky, the cigarette trembling between my lips. “I know you’re still there; I can hear you smoking,” Scott said after a moment. “Yes, I’m here,” I replied hollowly. “I’m just thinking about what a dick I am.” “I won’t argue with you,” Scott said. “I don’t know how you could be oblivious to this... he’s hurting so much, and you just keep adding to it — stomping on his heart every time you let him into your bed, chuck your muck, and then act like it never happened.” “I...” Trailing off, I had to bite back an automatically cutting retort in my own defense. The truth was, I had no defense; it was simply my kill-or-be-killed nature that made me itch to respond with an equally hurtful comment. The difference was, however, that Scott didn’t deserve an attack; I did. The thought that I could be responsible for causing Mikael, possibly the closest person in the world to my heart, pain for any reason made me feel sick to my stomach, and I stubbed out my half-smoked cigarette, grimacing at the sour taste it left in my mouth. “What are you going to do?” Scott asked finally — always the man who needed a plan, unlike myself. “A lot of thinking,” I replied honestly, feeling tears pricking my eyes and hearing them in my voice, as well. “Scott... I honestly didn’t know.” “I know,” he said softly, “but that doesn’t change the fact that Mik’s hurting, and you need to make some decisions. All right?” “Yes.” Such a small voice rarely issued from my throat. “And... I’m sorry.” “Don’t tell me,” Scott said. “I’m not angry with you, Brian... and neither is Mik, I’m sure, but you do need to cut him loose and let him live his life. He’s just hanging onto a fantasy. Haven’t you noticed that he hasn’t had a boyfriend in ages?” Although he couldn’t see me, I shook my head miserably. The truth was, I hadn’t noticed. I had just assumed that Mikael preferred spending his time dating casually rather than getting involved in a serious relationship... the reason behind that never even occurred to me. How could it have? I would never have imagined that the reason could be me. “I didn’t think about it.” “You haven’t thought about a lot of things,” Scott said, and although his voice was gentle, his remark still cut deep, making me wince. “I think it’s time you did... and when you’re done, you need to ring Mik up.” “I will.” A tear slipped from beneath my lashes and spilled onto the back of my hand where it rested limply on the tabletop, and I stifled a sob as I hung up the phone. How could I have been so selfish all of these years? I must have broken up with a hundred people in the time I’d known Mikael, and after each relationship ended, I sought comfort, acceptance, and unconditional love from the one person I knew I could trust to provide it: Mikael. Mikael... my drummer, my best friend, my confidant, my voice of reason. The one who tamed the savage beast in me, the one who kept me grounded. Sometimes my mommy, sometimes my psychotherapist, sometimes my lover... always my soul mate. But how could I have known that he actually loved me? How could I have known that he was always so willing to open his arms to me at those times because those were the only times I would ever fall into them? “Well, if you’d opened your eyes, you selfish twat, and thought about someone aside from yourself, you might have gotten a clue,” I said aloud, my voice breaking. I couldn’t possibly count all of the times Mikael and I had replayed the same scene over and over again: Enter Brian, stage left. Brian tells his sad story, whines about how unsexy and undesirable he must be, all but begs for reassurance. Mikael verbally worships Brian, strokes his ego, tells him he’s beautiful and sexy and the other person was crazy not to want him. They fall into bed. Fade to next morning; Brian pretends nothing happened between them, ignoring the hurt in Mikael’s eyes. End scene. I had spent a lot of years hating myself, but I doubted at that moment that I had ever in my life harbored this much animosity toward the notoriously self-centered, sometimes heartless bastard that I knew most other people saw when they looked at me. I’d always known I could be thoughtless and egocentric — hell, if I wanted to be totally honest, egomaniacal was a better word — but this simply went above and beyond. I’d hurt many people in my day with my self-serving ways, but never... never someone about whom I cared so deeply and so all-consumingly. Mikael... God, I had known him since I was a child. He had seen me through my worst years, stayed by my side through my least attractive periods, held my hand through depression and anorexia and even suicidal ideations... And somehow, despite all of that, the man still loved me. He was still willing, despite my idiosyncrasies and my childish behavior and my temper tantrums, to take what he could get, remaining essentially single in hopes that — what? That one of these times, I might just decide that one night with him wasn’t enough? “God, I’m such a waste!” I exclaimed, slapping my palm down on the tabletop hard enough to sting and rising abruptly to my feet to pace the room. Scott was right; how could I have missed the signals? It wasn’t as if Mikael hid his emotions; one of the many things I’d always adored about him was the way he wore his heart on his sleeve. For being able to read his emotions as well as I’d always thought I could, I had to wonder now how gifted I really was at reading what went on behind his eyes. Obviously, I’d either ignored or somehow missed the signs... or maybe Mikael hid them so well that I simply didn’t pick up on them. Somehow, I couldn’t believe that possibility, though; after all, Scott had seen it, so it wasn’t as if Mikael had concealed it well. No, the problem lay in my own ignorance, my selfish loyalty to number one above all others, and the fact that as long as my own needs were being met, all else was secondary... if that. I really hated myself at that moment. Shedding my clothing as I made my way down the hall, I was naked by the time I reached the bathroom, so I stepped into the tub and turned on the shower while standing under the faucet, gasping at the initial blast of cold water that struck me in the face and chest, but holding my ground; if anything, the shock provided a much needed wake-up. Eventually, the water grew warm, and I turned my back to it, allowing the deluge to stream over my slumped shoulders for several minutes while my exhausted mind attempted to grasp the gravity of what I’d learned. It all made perfect sense to me, too; all of the pieces fit. Why else would Mikael always be so ready, willing, and, above all, available to spend the night with me when I needed him to? Why else did he unfailingly blush to the roots of his hair when I told him I loved him? Why else did he always lay awake, staring at the ceiling, long after he thought I had fallen asleep, with an achingly desolate expression on his face? And how could I have not pieced this together before? Stepping out of the shower, I wiped a clear spot on the steam-fogged mirror, regarding my naked-faced reflection with its scornful glare directed back at me. “You’re a self-centered prick,” I said aloud, watching my mirror twin mouth the words back at me, upper lip curling in disdain. “You don’t deserve his love.” The melancholy in the eyes of my reflection confirmed that I knew that was true, and I turned away from the mirror, wrapping a towel around my waist before I stepped out into the cooler air of the hallway. In my bedroom, I set out to dress, opening my closet to scan through the racks of clothing, but I ended up instead sinking onto the bed with my head in my hands, filled with a great, gut-wrenching confusion. “What the hell am I supposed to do now?” I mumbled, swiping a hand over my face. I knew I had to talk to Mikael... but what was I going to say? Look, I know you’re in love with me, so I can’t shag you anymore. Was I kidding myself? It was probably just the selfish child in me, but I didn’t think I’d be able to give that up. My nights with Mikael were more to me than just in-fucking-credible lays... he made me feel safe... wanted... needed. He made me feel comfortable just being myself, when, around everyone else, I felt the need to wear a mask, to hide the fuck-up I knew I truly was. Around Mikael, I needed no camouflage; he accepted me for what I was... all of me... unconditionally. Isn’t that what love is? my brain whispered, and I chuckled a little, dryly. How would I know? It had been so long since I was actually in love that I didn’t know if I’d remember the feeling. I’d been searching for so long for it that I probably wouldn’t recognize it if it bit me in the ass. I did know that I was well beyond needing a new partner every night, though; as long as I was regularly getting laid, I certainly didn’t mind bedding down with the same person night after night. I got over that little hang-up right around the same time I noticed the first line on my face where there had never been a line before. Dragging myself up from the bed, I distractedly managed to dress myself, then stood in front of my vanity mirror to apply makeup, sticking out my tongue at the boyish, bare-faced reflection I cast. It was a far cry from the pretty, painted visage I normally presented, as evidenced by several of the photographs tucked into the mirror’s frame... most of which, I realized with a sudden, inexplicable flush, prominently featured me and Mikael. There we were on a beach in Mexico, where we had gone on holiday together, this one showing Mikael swinging me around after I leapt into his arms; there was one from a photo shoot for a local music mag with me in Mikael’s lap, my head tucked under his chin and his arms wrapped securely and possessively around me. Oh, and there was a good one — me trying to stick my tongue in Mikael’s mouth. Scott had taken that one at my last New Year’s Eve party. My intentions of putting on makeup forgotten, I plucked one of the photos from its place on the mirror’s edge and examined it; this one was my favorite, a shot of Mikael from the night I had taken him out for his thirtieth birthday. As he stood in front of the mirror, spiking his short, bleach-blond hair, I had snuck up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder, and when he glanced back at me, my trusty Polaroid captured his expression of innocent surprise — a deer in the headlights face if I ever saw one — tinged with his ever-present, charming good humor, wide-eyed and guileless and absolutely gorgeous in his own unique, uncalculated way. He was wearing eyeliner and that sparkly red shirt I so loved on him, the one that showed off his leanly muscled arms and just a hint of bare chest. As I examined every minute detail of the photo, from his deep black pupils, dilated from the flash, to the faint shadows cast by the backlighting, from the irrepressible shimmer of his shirt to the soft fullness of his lips, I was struck by a sudden, unexpected epiphany, one that was both shocking and somehow perfectly plausible at the same time: I didn’t need random, brainless pretty-boys like the one who’d broken up with me by telephone the day before... not when I had a familiar, much loved, beautiful, quirky drummer right here who was — and, I realized now, always had been — willing to provide me with all of the love I would ever need, who accepted me for all I was and who didn’t give a damn if I got old and bald. The thought occurred to me then, too, that I should have seen this coming; ever since we were classmates in primary school, we’d been virtually inseparable, always touching and kissing and professing our love for one another, and everyone who saw us together for the first time assumed that we were lovers based solely on the way we behaved together. I had always assumed that Mikael and I simply had a friendship more open and passionate than most, possibly due to our similar sexual leanings, but, examined now in the cold light of day — much as I now examined this familiar picture — it became clear to me that all of these years, through bullshit and victories and disappointments and laughter, we’d really been meant for each other all along. Grinning widely, I carefully tucked the photograph back under the mirror’s frame and reached for my mascara, but something Mikael had said to me only a couple of weeks ago resurfaced in my mind, giving me pause. I had invited “my boyfriends,” as I sometimes liked to call Mikael and Scott, over to my flat for the evening to gorge ourselves on gossip and junk food; Scott had gracefully bowed out, claiming “family obligations,” although Mikael cracked on the phone that Scott probably just didn’t want to deal with the cattiness of a pair of old queens like us. When I answered the door that evening to find Mikael standing there, he gave me a good-natured frown and asked me why I was wearing makeup. “I didn’t want to be ugly for you, darling,” I teased, batting my mascara-heavy lashes, but Mikael gently took me by the arm and led me to the bathroom, where he flicked on the light and positioned us in front of the mirror. “You’re not ugly,” he said, wrapping one long, slender arm around my chest from behind and kissing me softly on the temple. “Look at yourself. You’re beautiful. I don’t want you in makeup; you don’t need it. You don’t need to hide yourself from me, because I love you just the way you are.” God, how those words took on a different ring as I replayed them in my head now... and the thoughts that filled my mind caused a flush that began to build, spreading from the fireball in the pit of my stomach, until every part of me was tingling pleasantly. Dropping my tube of mascara on the dresser, I grabbed my knit cap instead, settling it on my head and leaving my flat with nothing more than some cash in my pocket, thoughts of the future in my head, and a deep, penetrating, fuzzy warmth in my chest. On the cab ride to Mikael’s place, I stared out the window at the sights of London passing me by, wondering exactly what I was going to say to Mikael when I arrived. What could I say? Of course, it would have to be delivered with my patented candor in order to sweep Mikael off his feet. “Mikael, I love you.” That was true, of course, but I said it all the time; it wouldn’t have nearly the desired punch if it wasn’t accompanied by something more definitive, more me. “Mikael, I want you for more than just your cock.” Well, that was a start. “Mikael, if I was a woman, I would bear your children.” That one made me smirk a little; it sounded just like me: shocking, bold, and more than a little queer. The ride was short, and, after tossing a few extra pounds the driver’s way, I nearly ran up the sidewalk to the front door of Mikael’s building. I slipped in behind a carpet-muncher with a buzz cut and camouflage pants, nodding politely although she glared suspiciously at me as I ignored the lift and bolted for the stairs. Perhaps, without my makeup, I appeared butch enough to pose as her competition. Rapping briskly on Mikael’s door, I fidgeted nervously as I waited for him to answer, my breath quick from my dash up the four flights and my heart pounding from something much more than simple exertion, and my breath caught in my throat as I heard him shuffling around inside the flat, the chain rattling inside the door. “It’s me, Mikki,” I called before he even had a chance to speak, and I hated the mousy, helium-infused timbre of my voice, but at least it would leave him with no question of my authenticity. “Let me in.” “Brian?” I heard the chain fall a second before he pulled the door open, and I felt the breath being sucked from my lungs at the sight of him. Yes, his lovely brown eyes were red-rimmed and over-bright, it was true... but he was still a vision, even barefoot in sweat pants and a ridiculously ancient Tina Turner t-shirt, his hair, now cropped close and back to his natural brown, bearing the unmistakable mark of a recent, extended meeting with his pillow. “What are you doing here?” “We need to talk,” I said softly, and as he stepped aside to admit me, I still had no idea what I was going to say to him... but somewhere deep inside my fragile, trembling soul, I knew that no matter what I said, his arms would open wide to allow me to fall into them again... And this time, for good. alone and watching robert paul cesaretti A man sitting by the window, the street below people passing, traffic, a city alone and watching, knowing his thing limits, of what he can do, should do, should not do to contain himself, watching himself that’s the deal, the people who passed below, what he desired The Black Belt Chorus Cheryl Lynn Moyer One day Rosa Parks was just too tired Of accepting that’s how things are Martin Luther King had a prophetic vision He wouldn’t live to see the mountaintop Sweltering heat, poverty, racism and despair Still claim all the breathing space Between the catfish ponds and the cottonfields The blind, the crippled, the poor, the elderly Bundle up in layers hugging their own warmth To sleep at night... staring at falling stars Through their cracked and rusty sky Children nibble a mouldy potato Abandoned cars, corpulent vultures Loveless dogs walking nowhere Claim these back rural dusty roads Raw sewage pours into the open grass The sun bakes it all hard and crusty You can clean motel rooms for a dollar each Walk four miles to wash a white woman’s clothes Beg a ride to the grocery store Mothers sing their Baptist prayers For your children’s sake you stay alive College educated students have escaped Rewarded with real jobs, real pay, real benefits In the cities and way up north Their mothers used a switch with loving hands To help them find their blackbird wings But once they’ve tasted Respect, human dignity, a life worth living They can’t go home again They can’t sleep there There’s no peace in their souls Only fear, anger, defiance And the god damned bloody tears Direct Line Ken Dean Alan Beretti had arrived early to work that fateful day, around seven AM. He passed the usual security personnel and service workers who were just coming on shift as he headed for the elevator. There were some items he wanted to get an early start on. Legal contracts needed to be finished today if he wanted to continue to succeed and move up in the prestigious law firm where he was presently employed. He pressed the one-hundreth floor button after entering one of the South Tower elevators. The elevator didn’t stop at any other floors since the bustle of the daytime activity hadn’t begun yet. He exited the elevator and headed for his office. As he walked down the hallway on the way to his office he passed Lucy Pavorini in her secretarial cubicle. Wow...didn’t realize she came in this early! Luckily he had landed an office space with a window facing east which let him see some of the city and the water beyond. A great view like that sometimes helped put things in perspective. Alan unlocked the office door and proceeded to set his satchel by his desk and shed his overcoat, placing it on the chair in the corner. He was just about to get out the work that required immediate attention when his cell phone rang. It was in his overcoat pocket, and he had to rush over to grab it out. Flipping it open automatically answered the call. “Hello”, Alan said, “Who is this?” He hadn’t checked the caller ID before answering. “Get out, Alan”, the voice on the phone said. “You have to get out quickly.” “Get out? Who is this? And how do you know my name?” Alan answered in a puzzled tone. “All I can tell you is that you have less than two hours to get out of that building or you will die. I know it for a fact. You only have time to grab your laptop and satchel on the floor by your desk. Then get out quickly...in fact, get on the subway and get out of Manhattan altogether...you live far enough away to be safe.” Alan was getting chilled now...how had the stranger on the phone known those details? “How can I trust you?” Alan asked. “This could be a crank call.” There was something peculiar about the voice on the phone. He could hear a strange background hiss along with a slight echo...as if both speakers were at opposing ends of a tunnel made of tin. “I’ll give you one minute to verify that I know what I’m talking about. I know a secret about you that only you know...you’ve shared it with no one else.” The voice shared the secret to Alan. Alan suddenly felt faint...no one else could have possibly known what the stranger had shared! “You see Alan...I’m you...no one else could have known what I just told you. I’m you calling from about six months in the future.” “Don’t faint Alan...I felt the same way when I received this very same phone call six months ago.” The voice on the phone continued. “After the turmoil of that day was over, I started to wonder...how exactly do communication transmissions work? Is it possible that they may cross over to another dimension, time, or existence? So I tried to call my own cell phone number at 7AM every morning, but wasn’t able to make a connection until now. I knew that I would eventually get through...because I am still alive today in the future. I’m not sure if it will ever be possible again. But I will keep trying. I may be able to reach you again.” “I’ve spent too much time talking!” the future Alan said, “Get out and away now!!” Alan flipped the phone closed. He was shaking. If all this was true and it really was himself on the phone...then he must move quickly. He left everything as it was except for grabbing his satchel, overcoat, and of course, his cell phone. He left the office, walking hurriedly down the hallway past Lucy’s cube...Wait!! “Lucy!” Alan tried to keep calm as to not cause her to be overly nervous. “You have to get out of the building and as far away as possible now! It’s not safe!” “Why?” Lucy asked. “Everything seems OK.” But he had to try to get her out! “Could have sworn I heard a fire alarm.” Alan lied. Hopefully she took his advice. “No Alan, I’m not going to leave! Maybe you’re having a panic attack about work or something.” OK...Alan thought. I guess there was no convincing her. Alan hurried into the elevator and punched for the ground level. He rushed out into the lobby walking as fast as he could while trying to warn everyone he encountered that the building wasn’t safe and they should get out now. Looking at his watch, he realized that fifteen minutes had passed! He hurriedly found the nearest subway entrance and boarded a subway car heading towards his apartment near Atlantic Ave. in Brooklyn. After arriving home, he quickly found a vantage point and used his binoculars to watch towards the World Trade Center. He watched in horror as the planes exploded into the two buildings and their ultimate collapse. He had averted disaster thanks to his future self. But he was deeply saddened at the loss of life in the attacks. Some of the people he had warned must have survived to tell the tale of the strange man warning of disaster, for he was eventually questioned and cleared by the FBI. He had no ties to any terrorist organizations. Lucy Pavorini was never heard from again...she was counted among the missing. How he wished she would have left also. Alan should have been a hero and forced her out. He didn’t know if the future Alan Beretti would ever be able to reach him again. But from that day forward he always made a point to try his own cell phone number occasionally...especially at seven AM. Words of wisdom can come down from the future. Alan made it a point to always check his voicemail. RAGE Mel Waldman My father shoved the knife in my hand and screamed: “Kill me!” I dropped the knife and ran out of the kitchen. Since then, I’ve been running for almost 50 years, even after his death, afraid of the terror, rage, hatred, helplessness, and despair in him and me. He died 17 years ago. And in the last decade of his life, he suffered two deaths. Clutched by Alzheimer’s, he lost his mind before he passed away. His third wife forced him out of his Beverly Hills, Florida home, claiming he had threatened to kill her. And although we seemed connected only by rage and mutual hatred, I took him in. He stayed with me for three months. At first, we raged against each other. Yet buried beneath our rage, I believe, was a crazy, wild, sad love we could not express directly to each other. I think Dad was terrified of such intimacy. I know I was. He left when we were starting to know each other. It was our beginning. Yet he never let it develop. A beautiful potentiality was not fulfilled. It was our end. He had a dark rendezvous to keep. When he returned to Florida, his wife made him sign some legal forms and quickly placed him in a nursing home. Protected by a slick lawyer, she seized and got all his possessions. Inside the nursing home, he deteriorated rapidly. The first death swept across his shrinking mind and vanishing identity. And before the second death came, he had lost his rage too. I’m told he used to sit quietly in the dayroom. Yet from time to time, he grew a big fat grin, revealing a gold tooth and an instinct for survival. Once a raging bull, he had become a “sweet, old man.” In the end, he possessed only two words-“yes” and “no” and nothing more. The memories of his son, daughter, and brother were deleted from his mind, lost in a microscopic chasm between synapses, falling far into the abyss of oblivion. And his mind, almost nonexistent, was severed from his body. Unaware of his raging past and oblivious of his current surroundings, one day the little man slumped over in his chair after lunch and died of a heart attack. His last exit was a silent secret unnoticed by staff hypnotized by the long-lasting soap opera AS THE WORLD TURNS. His body was shipped back to Brooklyn for the funeral. Then he was buried in a Long Island cemetery next to my mother who died many years ago. Finally, he was home, beside the woman he truly loved, bereft of the rage that had fueled his violent existence. But he left me behind, not knowing how to feel about him. Before he returned to Florida, I forgave him. I mean, I thought I did. I had this grand catharsis and let go of my rage, and struggled to love this powerful little man, five-four with a thin moustache and large cataract glasses, whom I had dreamed of killing all my life. My rage was a snowstorm that had buried my love in a deep snow. Yet still, my hidden love emerged after the windswept rain ripped through the icy walls of hatred and destroyed the antediluvian fortress that separated us. Letting go of my rage was the most frightening event of my adult life. (And ironically, in the end, without your rage, Dad, you became a victim of the woman who betrayed you. She sent you away to die. And you went quietly, mindlessly.) And it seems I’ve had to rage again, from time to time, to feel alive in the old primitive way, before I forgive again. I could have killed you many times throughout the years. But I chose to love you secretly instead. It was the buried secret I kept from you and me. POSTSCRIPT 1 I have this recurrent nightmare. I wake up in the middle of the night and go into the bathroom. I look in the mirror. You stare back at me, smiling sardonically, knowing you have swallowed my soul. I scream a long soulless scream and die. POSTSCRIPT 2 Awake, I ask the dark silent questions: Is it contagious? Is it inherited? Will I look in the mirror one day and not know I am there? Will I die before I die? A Is For... Raud Kennedy I enjoy talking about people in the third person who’re seated next to me. They could be geniuses, but I’d still sound superior as I tread on their insecurities with my hand of friendship on their knee. NIGHTS DARKEST Philip W. Perna It’s on nights darkest That I want a cigarette, A painted woman on my knee, And one-hundred beers All lined up like Uncle Sam’s Not-yet-dead soldiers (We Want You!), Waiting to be knocked back, One after another, With their twist-off helmets And bodies studded with sweat. It’s on nights darkest That I want to be a madman With my words. But I hold out for better, Something to impress them with— Like juggling Or catchy phrases In Zimbabwean. Because I know full well That the pink-bellied dawn Is just aching To catch me in some misdeed, Some foul-feathered lark Of calamitous proportions. A momentary lapse into being me All over again. The creeping sun— That imp’s eye! That Mother Hen!— Will eat up the night, But never the longing It will undoubtedly Leave behind Like something venereal And not wholly unpleasant. the state of the nation Janet Kuypers my phone rang earlier today and I picked it up and said “hello” and a man on the other end said, Is this Janet Kuypers? and I said, “Yes, it is, may I ask who is calling?” and he said, Yeah, hi, this is George Washington, and I’m sitting here with Jefferson and we wanted to tell you a few things. And I said “Why me?” And he said Excuse me, I believe I said I was the one that wanted to do the talking. God, that’s the problem with Americans nowadays. They’re so damn rude. And I said, “You know, you really didn’t have to use language like that,” and he said, Oh, I’m sorry, it’s just I’ve been dead so long, I lose all control of my manners. Well, anyway, we just wanted to tell you some stuff. Now, you know that we really didn’t have much of an idea of what we were doing when we were starting up this country here, we didn’t have much experience in creating bodies of power, so I could understand how our Constitution could be misconstrued and then he put in a dramatic pause and said, but when we said people had a right to bear arms we meant to protect themselves from a government gone wrong and not so you could kill and innocent person for twenty dollars cash and when we said freedom of religion we included the separation of church and state because freedom of religion could also mean freedom from religion and when we said freedom of speech we had no idea you’d be burning a flag or painting pictures of Christ doused in urine or photographing people with whips up their respective anatomies but hell, I guess we’ve got to grin and bear it because if we ban that the next thing they’ll ban is books and we can’t have that and I said, “But there are schools that have books banned, George.” And he said Oh. Janet asked if we could include this in an issues of Down in the Dirt, because her husband read the following passage from the book the Language Police. Because we’ve never published anything from the editor of the magazine we started as a supplement to, we thought we’d let her poem The State of the Nation have some space here, so we could share what she learned about how different groups of people historically have had problems and wanted to ban classis books. (from The Languyage Police, chaoted 5, Censorship from the Right, by Diane Ravitch, about banned and challenged books) Many book-banning incidents were never challenged by the courts. ... Parents, teachers, and students sued the local school board and the superindendent to prevent the book banning. ...During the 1980s and 19980, and after, there were numerous challenges to book by parents and organized groups. ... The thirty Òmost frequently attackedÓ books from 1969 to the early 1980s some that offended adultsfrom different ends of the political spectrum. The list included: The Adventures of Hucleberry Finn by Mark Twain Brave New World by Aldous Huxley The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger Deliverance by James Dickey A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemmingway (I actually had to read this for my high school english class...) The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck Lord of the Flies by William Golding (this is another one I had to read for class, and it was a good book, and the original movie for this was also very good...) 1984 by George Orwell (yeah. this one too, I read it in junior high school, in 1984, and loved it...) Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey (if you’ve seen the movie, can you really say that this should be banned?) The Scarlett Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegur To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee SUICIDE – THE HEALTHIEST CHOICE Kenneth C. Eng When most people hear of suicide, they typically think of depressed losers, misfortune, injustice and other negative things. What most people don’t realize is that suicide is not necessarily something unfavorable. In fact, it can be a useful tool. Look at it this way – most people spend about 90% of their time working (I am not a statistician, but I think it is still safe to say that it’s about 90%). The vast majority of jobs out there involve tasks that people hate – administrative duties, burger flipping, stocking shelves, etc. Obviously, most people are not rich and never get rich for as long as they live. In fact, most people on the planet probably hate their lives. Why then, don’t they commit suicide? If they’re just working to sustain themselves, then they’re pretty much existing to postpone death. This is as silly as having a battery that exists to change its own batteries. Does it really matter if they die at age 20 rather than age 80 if they don’t really get to do what they want in life anyway? I’m not trying to be cynical here; nor am I ranting. I am simply trying to elucidate a point I have made in many of my books – a life without a mission is one not worth living. I say if you’re going to be alive, do what you really want to do, and if you lose, shoot yourself. It’s better than hanging onto existence for no reason other than to exist. But you might be thinking – if that was really a positive mantra, why don’t more people do it? The answer is that society is in the habit of discouraging suicide. They make people take suicide education courses in school, they show commercials making self-destruction look bad; Eventually, this effects the weak-minded majority at a subconscious level, and they automatically view suicide as a negative act. Keep in mind, the morale and efficiency of one’s civilization depends on the survival of its peons, and if peons keep killing themselves, then society as a whole suffers. One must ask himself, however, how important it is to keep the people in charge (people who won at life) happy. Is it so important that you want to make yourself suffer for another few decades? The purpose of this essay is not really malignant. It is actually benign. I think if people have the option of committing suicide, then that gives them more freedom to fight for what they really want (With suicide as a choice, one does not have to worry about damaging his long-term interests). It makes me sad to hear 50-year-old people complain that all they do is “work to eat and eat to work”. Hopefully, this piece will encourage people to improve their perspective on life – and how overrated it is.

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

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.

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

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