VOL 3 - Aqueous Magazine

AQUEOUS
Winter Solstice
2013
Volume Three
Late October
by Rob Ganson
I hate that the Autumn has become a personal metaphor,
that the red convertibles, the flamingos, even Dali’s giraffe
seem to laugh at the poet with a wheeze, cut free
of the trapeze, deaf to the interior calliope that used to keep
my clown feet dancing down the yellow brick road,
blind to the stories in the obsidian eyes of the toad
with the Buddha spirit, hate that “maturity” removed my
metaphorical redrubbernose.
Looking Down
by Johnny Rock
Like two mountains who want to make love send deer and foxes to mate on each other’s
hills, we’ve shed our costumes of burning pollen and smoke, forwarded like letters
from the crowds of trees, limb to limb, Ponderosa Pines drawing the wind and clouds
before the sun like a mask of rain – I’ve become rock and lichen the tint of flowering
tissue, primrose lips, and to carry you from mountaintop to mountaintop while buried
deep inside you and descend in the silken grass near a spring, butterflies like
winged horses drinking the salt from our bodies as we work toward some understanding
deep within. We are two mountains in love, putting the people who live on us to sleep
like children so we can groan beneath the starlight, and they can waken and say to
their lovers: “I had a dream your body was hard, like so amazingly hard, and I found
caves that were full of fabulous oceans and moons that sent great silver carpets
to my feet, and people who gathered and drank the moonlight in cups and sang to the
moon,” all through our cacophonous love, ragged ravens and morning cloak butterflies
with the frayed wing-edges of summer storms dance an invisible saddle of sky above
us in the wind and dripping pines of our breath, the moon hung in the antlers of
trees swaying from the great globe of our pounding, chaperone of the mountain lovers
sternly ornamenting our sweat with silver light. And suddenly, as the sun rises and
descends, I see the purple clouds dump rain on your distance, see you as yourself,
as a mountain that I’ve climbed, that I sent pollen to, that I’ve been the instrument
of the wind side by side, that I’ve shivered on cliffs wondering if I could ever go
down, that I’ve built fires and shelters out of your words, and understood solitude,
that every impossible moment on the way to the peak was nothing but two mountains
in love…
I hate that Ted Nugent is, that profits trump prophets,
that economy is an abstract dynamo extracting everyfuckingthing
from my momma’s belly, leaving her skin running with poison and shame, especially the puke in the boat called mine games you know the one, the one that bought the dame that took on
a Tiger with a golf club, attaining instant fame.
I hate that I view a clear-running stream with trepidation
in a nation of racketeers and damnliars, stoking the fires
of discontent with a greed that never relents, rising rents
and shrinking salaries, hate that I can’t see the daffodils
for all the smoke and soot, hate the way they break my mother’s heart with poisoned water, fill the holes with sand,
kill the deepest water, kill the very land.
I hate that I never made it to City Lights Books, to the nook
where Ginsy first read Howl, that the wonder of white cotton
mysteries is so distant, that there are three point five million
women I never saw in a garden, coy, pretending to be
unaware of what the morning light did to her sun-dress, that I acquiesced to the demands of economy to the detriment of chaos and wonder, that my innocence was torn asunder by wicked leaders and bottom feeders, that as the years drift by, my feet forget to dance.
My world was filled with rivers and streams, the gleam
of day’s end on still waters, forests and forests, gardens
and gardens, secret messages whispered by water,
propelled by gravity to leap across beloved stone, the drone of pollinating bees, the hush of a rainbow’s wealth of butterflies, a view of the world from an oak
stump throne, that particular calm that comes from being,
just being... alone in the nation of nature. Those were the years of paisley and lace, newborn love in a sacred place,
awash in a whiff, a hint of grace.
Late in October I hit the road, cruising through the rust belt,
down to endless farms, hearing that roadsong through the tires,
the sound of the seams, corn, beans, corn, beans, corn - Escape! Reset! Reboot, that’s the ticket, smaller roads - more cracks, staccato now, monsantomonsantomonsanto,
and before I know it, I’m on the Spoon River bank, where Edgar Lee wrote of history, and many ghosts sing,
the promised land, writing an epitaph for an angry old man.
“Garden of the Gods” Photo by LMCadotte
3
Table of Contents
Front Cover
“Mono Print”
by Sara A. Owen
Back Cover
“Big Bay Ice”
by Seri X. Demorest
Words:
Visuals:
2, 9 Johnny Rock
5 Mary Methven
7 Amy Lynn Clark
7, 11 Marlin Ledin
8, 22 Jack Beagan
9, 22 Sadie Buecksler
10 Leannah Smith
12 Ed Hartig
17, 23 Marissa Fish
19 Nick Nelson
20 Katelynn Naomi Monson
24 Bailey Davis
25 Eric Chandler
27 Kristen Sandstrom
28 Editor’s Note - Sara Owen
30, 31 Rob Ganson
AQUEOUS
Syllabification: (a·que·ous)
Pronunciation: /äkwēus
3 LMCadotte
5,11,16 Seri X. Demorest
8 Michael “Laughing Fox” Charette
13 Kelsey Rothe
14 Julie Stryker
18 The Chequamegan Review
19 Christel Sketch
21, 26 Madeline Brown
22 Sara A. Owen
24 Susan Lee
30 Bailey Davis
Volume Three... Continued thanks goes
Special thanks... to every one of you who believe in this
vision. We would also like to thank everyone for their patience while we continue to improve our editorial process. Thanks, once again, to Big Water Coffe Roasters & Cafe for the
working space and especially John Murphy Jr. for not kicking us out right
at 5pm (and for turning off the Christmas music. Shhh... We’ll never tell!).
Aqueous Claimer
This magazine claims no responsibility for the content of these pages, except
that which the editors themselves included, and of course we fully endorse the
craft of the poets and authors likewise herein contained, but not necessarily in
solidarity with their personal ethos or printed protagonists or their agendas,
and it would be disenfranchising for us not to mention our equal and complete
commitment to the photographers, sketchers, painters, sculptors, and other
visual artisans and their expressions, though we hold no liability for their
message, even if we are in total agreement and have their back 167%.
Marissa Fish Orbital Weaver
I have spent many years of my
life facilitating the movement of
electrons.That is a very practical
and tangible endeavor, but
facilitating the movement of
words is more enlightening.
4
Sara Owen Blind Alchemist
Swirling moths in snowflakes
silently taking the puzzle pieces
apart and putting them back
together.
Flakes and moths and patterns.
Puzzle pieces imagine and
dissolve. Figuring, re-figuring
time and silence trapped between
seasons.
You hold in your hands an Aqueous solution. Not your
country-chemist’s mixture of naturally abundant waters
and water soluble exchanges, nor some literal byproduct
of the geological processes of la aqua in action; these stapled contents and constituent parts, the myriad imaginings and implications of each individual art, are rather
the synthesis of the impossible formed into a tangible
quotient, and the earnest culmination of uncounted
hours of simply doing what we dreamt of. Huh? You may
be thinking. Well, let me give you the question, and perhaps that will better reveal the essence of our solution.
As artists, or more encompassing as Mid-West Coast artists, and we feel especially as writers, there has existed a
void in the local scene. That void is felt more acutely in
this digital age as the printed page is finding it harder
and harder to stay fed and on its feet, or perhaps even
read by those it reaches. Nevertheless for many there is a
glass ceiling of sorts that exists, giving credibility to those
who have the mark and none to those who haven’t. That
mark is the mark of publication, and the void is the void
of places to be published. Sure we can all get ourselves
out there on faceworld, or start bloggering, or perhaps
you can become a self-made spammer. Alas, that doesn’t
make you published, it just makes you part of the clutter
(be sure to check out our Facebook page and “Like” us
by the way). So, given the rich history of writers and
self-publishers throughout the region it should be no
surprise that after a long winter of late nights, excessive
free time, and the right conglomeration of naiveté and
consternation over wanting to see more of the incredibly unseen works abounding behind the scenes, Aqueous
was born. Or an idea, then an initiative, and finally that
funky name. A watery, moving intuition-driven force of
emotionally charged hydrophilic socio-visionary, swelling like a tsunami of change, settling like a deeper than
it looks puddle in wait, flowing growing dripping falling
running torrentially-soaked-and-swollen-with-bits-of-itall Solution.
An Aqueous solution. An answer to the void, a casting
call for those, known and yet unknown, to drop us a line.
~Nelson Moore
Kristen Sandstrom Verse Vixon
Always on time, watching
each little thing. Some may
say obsessive, but really it’s just
about getting it done right.
Learning all new forms of
patience and appreciation. She
could cook you a damn good
meal too, if she ever found the
time.
Nick Nelson Fractal Alchoasist
Was born at 3:31 in the morning
on a very cold night in a lonely,
rural hospital. If he ever has a
kid he would like it to be born
somewhere more exciting, warm,
and preferably at dusk in a south
facing beach home. This has
not helped during adoption
proceedings.
Photo by Seri X. Demorest
She was Such a Doll
by Mary Methven
She had looks to die for, with her unattainable hour glass figure, lanky legs, painted smile, fake eye lashes and topknot ponytail.
Her blue irises were startling beneath curved eyebrows. Her rosebud red lips were painted in a come hither expression seeming
to say “I can be yours.” She could so easily be bought.
Her solid, hard body had nary a flaw except for a tattoo on the hip of her lower back. No one is sure why she got the tattoo. It’s
rumored to be in the shape of a roman numeral, although it is unclear which one. It was later discovered that her body wasn’t as
solid as first suspected. Her insides were as hollow as her empty headed wit.
She switched her hair color as easily as some people spent money. Blond one day, brunette the next. At times, the color seemed
to change with the blink of an eye. She was willing to transform herself based on the whims and desires of her many admirers.
Her name was Barbra Millicent Roberts. She was born on March 9, 1959 to George and Margaret Roberts in Willows,
Wisconsin. Not much is known about her youth, even by me, except that she attended Willows High School, although some
insist it was Manhattan International High School in New York City. I know the truth, but I’m not telling. In either case, she
was immensely popular. Since birth, she seemed to know her purpose in life.
Thinking back, most people remember her in that black and white striped swimsuit. It seems dated now, in today’s fashions,
but at the time she was known to be a trend setter. She was always so vain about her appearance; always boastful, haughty,
egoistic, conceited. It’s hard for me to be sympathetic to her, even now.
In 1973, she donned an evening dress with a gold lame bodice and white nylon skirt. She placed a silver lace crown on her
head, wrapped herself in a red cape with ermine trim, and draped a Miss America sash across her chest. Even then she was
deluded. You won’t find her name in the Miss America records for that year.
5
She first made her mark as a teen fashion model and her popularity gave her the ability to influence a broad population of youth
and young adults. Her supporters today range in age from 4 to 80 years old, although I am not one of them.
It’s well known that she met Ken Carlson in 1961 while filming a commercial, and that they immediately became a pair.
Although she was seen in bridal gowns by leading fashion designers such as Vera Wang and Monique Lhuilier, she never made it
to the altar with Ken. After 43 years, in a public breakup at Toy Fair in February 2004, she dumped Ken for an Australian surfer
named Blaine. She never could be alone. She was so needy.
Her only friends were concocted by her agent. Fake friends if you ask me. Like Hispanic Teresa, Midge, African American
Christie, and Black Francis. Why were the majority of them non-Caucasian? That’s a point to ponder, don’t you think? And
it took her years to make those friends. She didn’t have any friends right out of the box. I always resented her. Everyone else
envied her. She had no “real” friends, as envy and resentment fosters friendships like oil mixes with water.
She had over 40 pets throughout the years, including cats and dogs, horses, a panda, a lion cub and a zebra. In my opinion, she
was an animal hoarder, and I’ve often contemplated reporting her to Animal Control. She claimed that she held a pilot’s license
and operated commercial airliners in addition to serving as a flight attendant. Here’s some advice: Never get on an airplane with
her. She’s a lunatic. She also claimed to be an astronaut, a doctor and a Nascar race car driver. What a crock.
In 2006, two years after their legendary breakup, Ken decided to have a makeover in an attempt to win her back. Ken’s new look
was all that it took to get them paired up again. Really, they’re both so superficial. In 2010, her agents got them choice roles in a
Pixar movie which was released by Disney to public acclaim. Although I auditioned for a part, I was not cast. I chose not to see
their stupid movie.
I was born in 1964. No one recalls the month, let alone the day. My existence has always been overshadowed by hers. I never
understood why I was even allowed to exist. Some say she needed a cute younger sibling to counteract her growing image as a
sex symbol. Others say my role in her life was in response to people that wanted her to have children. Her agents discouraged
her from marrying and becoming pregnant. They felt that would make her too domestic. Instead she could babysit me. Well,
isn’t that nice. I’ve always hated her. It’s hard to love an older sibling who’s always in the lime light, everybody wanting to own
her.
Her people did try to pull me into the game. In 1975, against my will, they altered my body so when you rotated my arm, I
would grow taller and small breasts would appear. Quite a gimmick, huh? I didn’t think so. They forced other changes on me
over the years. Since I was her younger sister, I was coerced into submitting to all of them. I want to state for public record: “I
was against all of the modifications her people inflicted on me.”
***********************
Now, 52 years after her creation, she lies discarded in a dark corner of the bedroom. One eye is missing, giving her a distorted
vision of the world. Her right arm dangles by strings like a marionette. Her beautiful blond hair, once her pride and joy, hacked
off with dull scissors found in any cheap dime store. Her missing blond curls, which will never grow back, bristle like stocks of
corn.
She lies naked, no swim suits or fancy ball gowns cover her creamy white skin now. Her body is still flawless, except for the
tattoo on the hip of her lower back. LII - her current age, although she still doesn’t look a day over 21. Beside her, on his back,
lies Ken, recently decapitated. “They’re not such a lovely pair anymore”, I think to myself, smiling.
Looking up, I glance around the room. The others are huddling together on the bed, clinging to sides of boxes or sitting lined
up on book shelves. They all stare at me. They saw what I did. I don’t care. I’m glad they know. I hear a faint whisper from
Pooh Bear as a tear soaks into his fur, “Unfortunately, deep in our hearts, we knew there was something not quite right about
Skipper.” Turning, I look straight into his button eyes, and smile.
6
Spent
by Marlin Ledin
All the lonely days,
spent worrying ‘bout money,
women.
Slumps unbeatable,
mistakes repeatable,
Low lows and no highs.
Bring me back,
to a summer I missed.
The Boat – People
(for Jess)
by Amy Lynn Clark
the boat people speak in single words
action verbs
come about and haul away
rough palms
on the lines
that link them
stand down
belay that
prepare to douse sail
the boat people keep
their hearts
in locked boxes
at the bottom of the sea
they put themselves in irons
on purpose
they read the wind
as well as
they read each other
and you –
fool that you are
in love with their windward ways,
have to learn the hard way
how to make fast
the loose ends
of your longing
7
Empty House
By Jack Beagan
A weed-choked rutted dusty drive
leads to the aged hulk.
A prairie relic barely erect
silhouetted against the watching sky
weathered clapboards gray cracked and worn
specks of white shyly hinting
a once proud majesty.
Eyeless windows with shredded curtains
slowly swaying with the chattering gusts
that steal and peel more and more.
Step through the door less doorway
dust littered semi darkness of broken toys
shattered glass scattered across soiled floors
a daisy bravely blooms amid the clutter
hollowness echoes the faded joys
house ghosts wander room to room
alone and lost forever cold.
8
“Conversations With Spirits Who Get Swallowed by the Moon” Photo by Michael “Laughing Fox” Charette
To My “Bandito”
by Sadie Buecksler
crumpled and curled like a wad of unwanted paper
sand and unknown grit tucked in eye-corners
fingers through hair stop, tangled
clenching muscles tight, flip to release
a groan - for the stopped dreamworld
a heavy sigh - for a too-early rainy morning
all morning motions echoed in you,
in complete agreement that we should not rise
convince ourselves with silly things
things dreamworld finds superfluous
stomach rumbles and responsibilities
we stand to a sunless morning,
dripping trees and toast.
Soliloquy
by Johnny Rock
To be like a Bittern
beak to sky and become cattail and sedge
Or a Morning Cloak butterfly
dancing the bark edge of a tiny Noh stage
rotting into forest duff
only to spread its wings and lift
like a piece of dark sunset born into another shape
In Chicago an art show about plants
with a glowing tapestry of sundried tomatoes
and Inky Cap mushrooms dissolved into white paper
like brushpaintings
the security ladies looking at the paintings all day
rocking back and forth
one lady said to me: “You know, I been looking at this one a little bit,
and you know, I actually think there’s something goin on there, “ with a grin
To have the skill of a Aspen leaf rocking down and attaching itself
to a Sumac branch
as if it had always been there
then laughing off back up
into sky
9
Life and Love’s Refrain
by Leannah Smith
The carnations on the windowsill died slowly over the course of two melancholy weeks. Cloudy days stunted the hope of their
revival, until at last she removed them from the vase and set them up to dry. Brown petals curled in upon themselves like the
daylight receded in the evenings. In the blink of an eye, they were gone.
She’d found herself fascinated of late with how quickly things change. Her own energy fluctuated in such unnatural intervals
she could barely stand to think. One moment life was easy – perfectly boring, in fact. The next, she was a beetle set atop a
pin, a pebble tossed by the tide, drowning in an atmosphere thicker than silt and darker than soot. While her doctor called it
depression, she only called it unfair. Her carnations might agree, had they time to trifle with human affairs; and yet, she did
not blame them.
Two weeks is a considerable amount of time for any rootless flower to live. Roses wilt within a few days if they are not fawnedover. Daisies droop in complete dejection, sometimes, within a day. Indeed, she preferred carnations because of their stamina.
They were the only flowers she allowed John to bring home for eleven years, and the only life she’d observed more closely than
her own since the time of his death. She communicated her loneliness only to them, and they kept it much better than she
did. The days of her youth had been carefree, although the florist may never have guessed.
Her family often wondered why she never bought potted plants. They feared reoccurring death like she feared living without
it. “It’s unhealthy,” they whispered, “she needs closure,” they frowned. But she knew whispers to fade in their own time, too,
and paid them little mind. The next morning she wrapped the remnants of her wilted secret-keepers in pale tissue paper, and
stepped out into the crisp, autumn air. Warmly colored leaves swirled across the slanting sidewalks of the town; tall pines
creaked in the wind of winter’s approach on the footpath to the cemetery; finally, within sight, rested her relief – nostalgia as
potent as a childhood memory, wistfulness as tangible, yet elusive, as song.
John’s stone, still cold from the night, absorbed sunlight thankfully, like a flower. The cool breeze rustled the leaves where
she knelt and laid her offering down. For a moment, even her mind was quiet. The stems she’d left from visits past had
molded almost entirely into the earth, their nutrients passing down through the soil. In all of her fascination, she’d grown to
recognize that energy, while ever changing, travels in cycles – that life could sweep over even the coldest hearts on its way to
reincarnation. Therefore, love if anything was a carnation, and life if anything was love. For the first time in two weeks, she
smiled.
In loving memory of Jim Hudson
10
Becoming Invincible
by Marlin Ledin
I’m losing my pride.
I’m losing my shame.
I’m becoming invincible.
“Spooky Santa” Photo by Seri X. Demorest
11
SYMPHONY CACOPHONY
(an epic of quotidian questers)
Valentine Overture (In three parts)
admissions? How’s about we introduce our white brethren to our
black brothers and sisters?”
I sat there, right in the middle of this impromptu goal-setting
meeting, silent, watching, listening, thinking: wasn’t that a
by Ed Hartig
convenient moment for Paul to raise the question? Was Hartig’s
Part 2
answer epiphanic? Look at the rapt attention of these students—I
The La Crosse region, I should make explicit, was truly
thought not on this campus! Something was happening. This
conservative, and people did not like what was happening in the
outer world. The fathers and mothers of these young people raised was the time of the spread of the Vietnam/Civil Rights protests
corn, soy beans, hay, cattle, pigs, sheep, even tobacco. These were everywhere in the country, and I, aware, was witnessing first hand
an imminence of an actual social movement in an otherwise
descendants of Irish, English, Scottish, Germans, Scandinavians,
Russians, Poles, Serbs. Their ancestors had come in the nineteenth passive environment. I was surprised and highly skeptical. A
century because European governments were repressive, autocratic, plan laid behind this sequence of coincidence, of which I was
not a party—merely an observer. Solberg positioned himself so
and the great American experiment offered freedom, equality. I
know, I know, this is all very corny, but this phenomena was being that everyone coming in must pass him; Hartig arrived obviously
knowing his destination; a crowd began to assemble including
expressed not by words but by ideas in action, and yet, many of
another faculty person such that they became if not an obstruction
the guys were on student deferments, here because their parents
then certainly an attention-getter; the obvious question was asked
did not want them to go to Nam, even though these kids never
intended to go to or prepared for the university. This culture was by his colleague; and he almost whimsically had an answer for
entirely WWII, but with heavy, serious, reservations and the facts what was an otherwise rhetorical question. But what was the
motive? Ego-gratification? Manipulation of young, vulnerable
of the draft and more war.
minds? Or was there something more devious, perhaps even
sinister underlying this charade? Were they using Solberg, he only
In answer to the persistent why-did-you-do-it, he said, “All right,
nineteen, having lived his entire life in La Crosse, a good Catholic,
it’s really simple. There are two parts: one, most of you guys are
of a large family, his father an established surveyor, his mother a
here to stay out of the military, right? Well, if you’re going to
serious volunteer in the perish? Like Hartig, Paul exuded physical
do that you’d better think your ideas through. You need to do
strength. Both must have been union members in whatever it
the work for a course or you’ll flunk and, voila, (he sang the rest)
was they once engaged before going to university. Hadn’t J Edgar
you’re in the army now. Two, imagine my surprise last year in
Hoover, Mr. FBI, declared that people working on behalf of M.
several classes when I heard young white guys and gals openly
L. King were communists. Communists? In this university?
declare their hatred for ‘niggers,’ how they ought to be sent back
Formerly a State Teachers College?
to Africa, etc. I got pissed with these stupid acts and notions. I
talked with other faculty who told me my obligations were to
All right, all right, maybe I needed to calm down. My antennae,
teach my classes of English, period. I didn’t accept that view
nevertheless, were up. So, if not communists what did he mean
simply because I wouldn’t be able to teach in a climate of dumb
by thank God for LBJ or the brethren, or absolute responsibility?
thinking without saying anything about it. At the time Solberg,
Was he a religionist? What was this business as Solberg reported
your present student paper editor, was in one of my classes and
of black costumes while teaching “Sinners in the hands of an
since he showed real wit and leadership I asked him what he
Angry God”? Was he some demagogic religious nut working a
thought and was there a remedy, something we could do. We
“congregation”? This turf of young people could be easy-pickings.
mulled this problem through the summer and in September
Leaving home for the first time, most of them quickly floundered
’66 Steve suggested the dorm talks. Thus began our circus.
in the beer parties (at this time beer drinking was legal at eighteen
Accountability sessions we called them. The first two didn’t get
everyone’s attention, but Steve propagated, challenged, organized, in Wisconsin) and the basic ideas offered in philosophy, history,
literature, psychology, anthropology, sociology, economics,
and kept me going.”
physics, biology, math. Their underpinnings were being ripped
out of their brains. Many felt intermittently despondent and
Paul asked something I had begun to consider. “Yeah, but what
exhilarated, the bi-polar wrenching out of the womb and into the
happens when the novelty wears off? One or two more of these
great chasm, from palpable reality into an unreal, an illusionary,
will weaken the enthusiasm and we’re right back where we were:
slippery slope—a whole new set of clichés without the attached
apathy.”
brakes of their homes and families.
Hartig’s cockiness knew no bounds. He laughed, lit a cigarette,
and did the theatrical, pause. By now he was grandstanding with
as far as I could see an audience of at least fifty. “Thank you, LBJ”,
he guffawed. Of course we were at a point in history when people
were truly beginning to despise our Vietnam behavior, for which
LBJ was held totally responsible. He asked, “Isn’t there something
also out there about civil rights, the great society, and open
12
At this moment I was jostled out of my meditations when the
wholesome, athletic, blonde, tall female, clearly Scandinavian,
asked, “What are you saying, Mr. Hartig? How on this campus
can we bring the white and black brethren together?”
“I’m glad you asked,” he put forth, as his eyes glistened soundly,
exactly like some nineteenth century villain in a Hardy novel, sans
black moustaches and the “my dear”.
“Again, let us all give thanks for the other LBJ, not the warrior,
but the social activist, the politically astute democrat,” Hartig
boomed, “or should I say the demagogue. It doesn’t matter. Let’s
give thanks.”
I hadn’t experienced him the night before. I had heard Solberg’s
effusions on the occasion, but now I saw and heard him begin an
explosion, right there before fifty people and more (everyone in
the union hall heard him, even if they didn’t know the context).
Note, however, that no blaring music was being played, just low
rumbles of voices and chairs moving, and gusts of cold air blowing
in intermittently from the entrance doorway. The voice, the bass,
no, the bass/baritone now came forward, reverberated as if in a
Russian opera, “Kovanshcina,” a boyar’s booming voice, using
dramatic pauses and whirls, while sitting, sitting, mind you, not
even standing, slouched in his
chair, one leg hanging over an
armrest, his right arm hanging
over the other armrest,
hanging basically limp and
yet creating an impression of
an action-filled drama. I was
becoming confused, but what
followed absolutely floored
me.
“We, that is, the students
of this university, organize
and go to high schools in
Minneapolis, Milwaukee,
Chicago, St. Louis, recruit
graduating young black
people to come here and
enroll, become part of this
campus, get educations, and
graduate. This is the era of open admissions and grants—thank
you LBJ. We help them through the whole process. We pool our
money, bring them here, help them apply, create tutorials where
needed, find employers willing to give them part-time jobs, cause
social interactions, let them come into our worlds and get us into
theirs. Discover how we are human beings in common. Corny,
huh? I’ve listened to some guy here on radio who signs off every
Saturday with his warning, ‘Wake up America,’ implying that
there are communists under every pebble. Well, let’s wake up, not
as this guy means, but as human beings and Americans. Let’s can
hate and live up to the gospel of love, to the Constitution and Bill
of Rights. Let’s do something real.”
He’d just given a fundamental policy statement that surely would
hang him. A white guy using the university to advocate a social/
political program? North, south, east, west, no university grants a
junior faculty member, untenured, the right to form policy. Such
power belongs to and is the prerogative of the State Legislature,
the administration, the faculty Senate. However, we were already
in the era of protests, social activism in America. But I wasn’t
ready for this. I thought I’d do my degree, have my union card,
my sheepskin, and I could go on with my life, unimpaired and not
having to give regard to any social issues, the Vietnam War, Civil
Rights, whatever. I was thinking ah, this isn’t going to happen,
until Paul followed up, “It makes sense to me. Be a hell of a lot
of work. It can be done. But that means we have to organize. I’m
for it.”
The place went abuzz. Everyone was talking to the center and in
all directions. I could hear remarks from “this is crazy” to “yeah,
it can happen”. These were rural kids who, like me, figured to live
in one small city or another near where they were raised and went
to church after they had finished school and now weren’t sure that
his idea could be carried out or even what the proposal involved.
Hartig was besieged by questions and arguments. Solberg was
laughing and walking around commenting to everyone. Others
outside the circle had come over
to investigate what the hubbub
was about, even other faculty. If
I could put a general tone to it
all, it had a smile and a look of
deep consternation shaping their
faces. These were Christian kids,
most of whom had never had
any direct contact with anyone
outside their safe walls. And
now they were being urged,
introduced to a possibility of
going into big inner-city schools.
They were being asked to sell
eighteen year old black kids to
come join them at the provincial
State U. Corny. Phenomenally
CORNY. Cocky. Outrageous.
Impossible!
This “adult,” Hartig, was manic, not in control, delusional, hyper,
intense. And yet, I was sitting there hearing, seeing, feeling the
electricity sparkling, crackling through the crowd now swelled
to nearly two hundred people milling, gawking, laughing,
arguing, engaging among themselves in ways I hadn’t experienced
at all since I first arrived in the Mississippi River town where
Mark Twain stopped on his trip up the northern reaches of the
river. I concluded on the spot that he was either demented or a
demagogue. I smiled as I mused, my eyes focused on him. He’d
stand, sit, move among, drinking coffee as he incessantly chainsmoked. His face would take on masks of laughter, frown, smile,
smirk. His voice continued to boom intermittently, alternately
with expressions and questions from eighteen and nineteen
year old farm kids excited to a newness that until this man had
begun his dormitory talks had nothing more to expect from this
place than studies, beer weekends on Second St., a few first time
quickie sex experiences, hunting, fishing, skiing, the men taking
gentlemen’s B’s or C’s or D’s, hoping all the time that Vietnam
would be ended before they graduated, the women mostly at this
“Winter” Zentangle Drawing by Kelsey Rothe
13
time expecting eventually to teach or work as nurses or secretaries or at other designated female occupations, and of course, both
seeking perhaps a mate from among the other sex.
These people were no aristocrats or patricians. They were the more recent descendants of all those people from everywhere in
Europe who came to carve a continent, to partake in a government conceived in liberty, and now he was inspiring them without
making any reference to their immigrant ancestors’ very same sense of idealism that had possessed and driven those early Irish,
English, Scots, Welsh, French, Germans, Poles, Italians, Russians, Scandinavians, Spaniards, Serbs, Greeks. They were all bundled
up for winter because they came from these winter climes when, as today, blizzards threatened and overcast skies endlessly depleted a
bright outlook – gloom was everywhere at times (a major reason why I moved to California a few years later). Most of these young
males and females had witnessed animal births and deaths. One fellow had worked with his father on a 300 cow dairy farm since
he was six, learning about records, sanitation, processing. Another had been in logging since he was eight, and also knew plowing,
seeding, fertilizing, harvesting. These were hard-working descendants of their forbearers.
They soon began to disperse in order to attend their next classes; others at the same time filtered in surprised and curious about this
congregation there in the middle and at the entrance of this busy but otherwise somnolent student union. Only sports matters
could usually awaken enthusiasm. The newcomers engaged those who were leaving; they looked expectantly inward to Hartig.
So, an essentially all white campus was to seek out, recruit, and bring black kids here, kids who may have been born in Georgia,
South Carolina, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, poor black kids, kids whose reading abilities might not be comparable to the less
than stunning abilities of the white kids. I had written news stories, editorialized on contemporary issues. Did I have a story?
Of course, a rhetorical question. However, I myself had never first hand seen or heard a demagogue in the middle of an action.
Manter was an extremely good instructor, articulate, fresh, insightful, and according to the street word a student actually learned to
write under him. I knew only that information and that he was no physical wimp himself. His blondish hair topped a rugged face
Photo by Julie Stryker
14
tanned by winter suns and wind and his clothes suggested he hadn’t a clue of fashions or didn’t care. He participated boldly and
clearly, but he wasn’t the central heartbeat. The icon, without Paul and his explicit support for the ideas, would not have been able
to pull off this scam. Even so, the junior colleague’s heart pounded and tolled throughout this room, flashed blue within a glowing
red aura, over, under, and through the whole place.
I didn’t know at the moment but I would spend many years observing him, finding out his mind, knowing his blind spots and
flaws, experiencing his passions, realizing what an indefatigable spirit is – against all odds and overwhelming forces in not merely
this contemporary action, but in more harrowing downright dangerous situations. In a sense, therefore, I guess, I was en route to
being ordained his biographer. I watched him grow and expand within but also, how he allowed exigencies and chance to play their
roles in his circumstances.
So, I would put my skepticism on the back burner, and go for the ride. I wasn’t married, I attended classes, worked the evening
shift as D.J., first playing pop stuff, and later in my shift classical. I could manipulate my schedules when I needed to join him in
his further dorm talks. In fact the very next one came two days later on Thursday at another dorm; he would eventually talk to
over 4000 students in about ten situations before the organization was fully formed, organized, and prepared to go into the field – a
matter of a few months.
At this next get together, his fourth by this time, once again without sound system, he reiterated the main theme, the recruitment
proposal, and then slipped back into his larger ideas – they were absolutely responsible for their world. He’d give anecdotes, quote
philosphers, ask questions, moving around as he did, urging speakers to stand and speak to all, which they did, nervous at first, but
encouraged by him, to say their minds. He challenged them, at one point, “Tell me true, raise your hands if you have the courage,
you really hate blacks, right?” Of course, hands pop up, male and female, maybe two thirds of the crowd, acknowledging without
shame that the sit-ins and marches down south, in the northern cities, on campuses pissed them off. All right, he’d say, let’s examine
that – as though they were in a university class or Bible catechism study. He was dutifully patient or he exploded with rage or
humor. He walked right up to someone’s face or he’d distance himself. He used all the tricks in manipulating a crowd, just like any
evangelist, but he wasn’t religious. They’d ask if he believed in a god and he’d say no and they would say that he was therefore an
atheist, or at least an agnostic and he’d say no and they’d say “well, what then?” He’d cat and mouse them.
“I believe the whole question of a god is irrelevant. All that stuff about heaven and hell and the supernatural are fairy tales. I am
absolutely for my existence. And I won’t allow the religionists to use their words in labeling me,” he said repeatedly now and at all
the ensuing get-togethers, “Look, organized religion as I see it is fundamentally evil; I don’t quarrel with your own belief or wish to
dissuade you from holding a personal belief. I do challenge religionists, however, who promote the them-against-us-routine – the
my-god-and-my-religion-are-better-than-yours people.”
On Vietnam, he talked about the obligations of living in a democracy and working to know what the issues are in order to decide
what they would have to do. Already, the questions of conscientious objection and Canada were raising the stakes for these
kids.
By the end of his opening series of talks over the next three weeks, they had led to the establishment of a student/faculty group of
forty-five students and five faculty. They in turn created a program intended explicitly to recruit black kids to the campus. They
made him the president of the organization which they called The Opportunities Association. They also made a list of inner city
schools where they went in teams following contacts to the high school administrators who mostly welcomed the idea and the
visits. They worked out two calendars: one, for talking at the schools; two for arranging visitations to the campus (they hired buses,
worked out sleeping and eating and touring and counseling and applying regimes). A remarkable fact was that because the idea
became so expensive, he became more symbol than actual artificer of the details. All the others formed groups to focus on different
elements. Together the mind power was staggering.
The whole process took from January to mid-April, ’67. I had begun as a skeptic and became a participant helping to write
promotional material and policy matters. I admit I was dazzled increasingly, moving from his voice and ideas to actual fruition
caused in fact by many individuals. It was almost as if he had given birth from his own head to a hydra. He seemed to have willed
himself to will this enterprise. In private conversations at bars, in his office, at his home, my place, even the radio studio and
Solberg’s newspaper office. I probed him. I wanted to know how someone his age, I guessed he was twenty-six or seven, could be
so single minded, obstinate, while he revealed in every other way a human face, a real passion, a heart, and even a soul.
To be continued...
15
“Hugo Dock” Photo by Seri X. Demorest
16
Emerging
by Marissa Fish
He had forgotten that his eyes were open, until a drop of water landed in the left one. He blinked a few times, but didn’t bother
to lift a hand to rub the moisture out. It actually felt good. It was sensation, something to think about for a while. Later on, he
could think back on it and remember the moment water had fallen in his eye. It was a time marker. But when another one fell,
and then one more, panic began to stir in him. He thought about how long he had been lying there, how many months he had
spent in these endless caverns of limestone. What if the limestone had begun to settle in his brain? What if pieces of his mind were
permineralizing, being replaced with the calcite that made up his shelter? What if the water seeped through his eye and into his
brain, and began to cut channels in it, like it did in the limestone these caves were made of? Another drop fell, and he jumped to
his feet.
“Kyle?” his wife asked. It was the first time she spoke in days.
He didn’t answer, just got back down on the ground, on his hands and knees, searching in the blackness for his camping pack. He
could hear water drops hitting the cave floor.
“Kyle, is that you?”
“Of course it’s me, Val,” he said as a drop landed in his hair. He found the backpack and opened it, dug around for one of the
flashlights that he rarely used, pulled it out, and turned it on. The light was shocking. He saw his wife, Valerie, squint her eyes shut
and bring her hands to her face, shielding the light. In the brief moment the light shone on her, he saw a droplet fall in her red,
tangled hair and a memory flashed in his mind of how her hair used to look and smell when she got out of the bath. The memory
faded as his eyes rebelled against the disturbance of the dark. He squinted and blinked. He peeked one eye open while the other
stayed clamped shut. He opened and closed them together, at intervals of increasing length until they finally adjusted and he could
look around. His brain began to fight off the fossilization that had been creeping into it and he recognized where they were.
Kyle had once been a guide in these caves, when they had been Mammoth Cave National Park. When the world began to go hot
and dry and hungry, when people began panicking and stockpiling food and buying guns, Kyle started hauling supplies into the
caves. He tried to think of everything-water, canned food, dried food, kitchenware, toilet paper, buckets, propane tanks, batteries,
a couple guns, books, paper and pens and pencils, blankets, pillows, cards, games, lighters, matches, candles, radios. It took him
months to carry everything deep into the caves. He hid supplies in several different places. If one stash was found by somebody
else, they would have others to rely on. Nobody ever found their supplies, though. He went much deeper than anyone else dared to
go. Nobody knew the caves like he did.
The first months they spent in the caves, sounds of other people could be heard when they went for walks to try and get fresh air.
Kyle had stopped trying to keep track of time anymore, but he knew it had been a very long time since they heard or saw signs of
other people. Val used to wonder about the other people. She used to wonder if they would be interesting dinner guests or writers
of poetry or good at charades, but she didn’t wonder anymore. She had stopped wondering about anything some time ago.
As the drops continued to fall, Kyle thought of the sun and clouds and rivers and grass. He packed more supplies into his bag,
grabbed his gun and said, “Get your bag Val. We’re going outside. I think it rained.”
“Okay, Kyle,” answered the ghost of his wife’s voice.
17
Like the amorphous boundaries of the great Lake Superior, life flows in from all directions, constantly flooding over and breaking dams of human constraints. People come, and our cultures spill out, each time taking new courses, sometimes reclaiming old
pathways. Such is the case in the short history of written language here. A multitude of ideas, talents, and intentions have formed
and gone, their pages often barely remembered or only hinted at in coffee shop corners, yet this magazine certainly would not be
so prepared and well received had not so many come before us. The following is an excerpted page from the Chequamegon Review,
a periodical from 1994-1996. David Hopkins self-published approximately 18 editions as editor/creator, and distributed them
throughout the Chequamegon bay area. This is a tiny taste of what we hope will be an exciting endeavor to dig up and return to
the light the marvelous creations that once colored our lives.
18
Pan’s Daughter
by Nick Nelson
Death waited in the heat of this distant place, stalked hungrily, stared eyeing gore-ish, marked the earth and those it took
indifferent, trampled silently like a stampeding unseen mirage that burned your irises in mid-air. In a few weeks’ time I would
watch a goat desiccate beneath that glare, like a rite of passage, an ancient ritual of demi-god mortality playing out in a splendor of
banal insignificance; Apollo and black sheep surrendering the stolen coat of life, the cloak of individuality.
Waking daily alongside the copper sun, bathing in the dawn’s teal sea, I would march up and away from the coast, a pilgrimage
to nowhere, only seeking, seeking without knowing. On one unremarkable morning an ink-smudged goat with yellow box eyes
laid staring desperately from the ditch; gasping agonal breaths, motioning for release from a spectacle offering to the merciless hot
temper just breaching the hillside. I watched the sun cross the road and meet her eyes; her dark, thick coat shimmering with sweat,
her soiled hooves kicking sideways at the wet sand about her figure. A shadow of life along an abandoned highway. She was a
straggling migrant on my commute through a countryside of nothing-ever-happens-here. This, though, was something. Not that it
mattered; it would matter to no one else, but the dead.
I thought of dragging her to the gnarly pine shade across the thin gravel road, saw the trail of her weight wavering over the
sunbaked sand-dust, leaving curled sour hairs, seeping fluids beading in the thirsty attraction of fine dirt particulates, the scrawl of
hooves limply following, all stripping the surface naked like a single heavy brush stroke made by a clot of wool scrubbing harshly at
the surface of a lifeless road that goes on forever unnoticed. It wouldn’t make a sound. Nothing that would last. Even the hooves
embedded in the ditches from passing herds and forgotten rains would outlive that final gesture. So, I did something better. I did
nothing; let her keep the space her fate had chosen. I sat myself in that arid shade, waiting and watching for death’s permanent
approach. Stoic, antediluvian, and void.
It didn’t take long, in a few hours’ time she was bloated dead, eyes sunk in, soul retreated, her coat as full of life as ever, still frilled
and grimly black enough to capture all the light the sun could hurl upon it. For a week I would walk, or run, or stumble retching,
then finally walking once again, past the sinking corpse of the hot smutty fleece till the bones were faithfully scattered about. It
only took nine days. Nine days to burn an ignorance right out of me and brand a vision on my ethereal flesh. Nine days to
initiate me, squared-eyed and fleeced as that dark daughter of Pan, kindred to an ancient world ignored into earthly extinction,
reinvigorated with the brisk thrill of death.
“Worn Down” Photo by Christel Sketch
19
13 August 1990
by Katelynn Naomi Monson
For Cecelia Payne who discovered hydrogen.
For my mother who carried me.
For water who sustains me.
People’s advice is always to guard myself.
To clothe my body,
protect my thoughts,
not to cry.
I wonder if someday soon,
I will wake without a body
of my own care and making,
a hollow body with dry eyes,
no water for tears.
Longing,
I already feel without a body.
She is so necessary
and still forgotten.
She is longing as she teaches.
The universe is a womb made of hydrogen,
and we emerged from our mothers
made of broken things
and silence.
We hear their secrets,
whispered into kitchen telephones,
as they cradle our bodies
inside their bodies.
When death comes
no one wishes for one less orgasm,
although half the population
wishes they hadn’t faked so many,
and drank another glass of wine
and bought one size bigger jeans
because numbers begin
to matter differently
as broken women
gather them.
20
And the soil is alive,
so upon the land we would dance
rippling the groundwater within.
If only we realized
the light which shines above
flickers inside
sparked by the same fire as the stars.
And advice to split
atoms, men and women, to dualise
nature and culture, to be afraid
of the dark and never alone
has caused our rupture.
We are guarded by the people
I want to run from.
Running like a river, through the night,
reflecting the stars and the moon,
not stopping with the sun
until a damn—I am reminded.
We are all vessels
floating in the salt water waves
of our mother’s wombs.
To be guarded is to be
sunk on our maiden voyage to life.
To be guarded is to be
fracked and mined, to say yes to a job
which breaks us,
afraid of the dark, to stay inside
to speak in whispers,
doubting this advice yet following
ideals seeped so unnoticed
like toxic chemicals in afternoon tea
because someone, thing,
knows best, better.
To be guarded happens at birth
with three words, “It’s a girl.”
I’m a girl,
and I refuse to listen.
“Luna” Photo by Madeline Brown
21
Ferns
Sadie Buecksler
I wanted to pull over
to grab a bouquet of ferns
as an autumn arrangement
but on second thought I didn’t
their splendor was in their setting
time of day and position of the sun
the brilliant green of grass
contrasting with their rusty bright
orange-yellow-brown-slowly-dying
magnificence.
I thought of you
but the ferns were for me.
Shadow Moon
by Jack Beagan
I watch the bright white
winter moon’s majestic rise
casting shadows long and dark.
I turn,
see my own alone and still
starkly etched on silver snow.
In penetrating silence we wait
as wispy swirls of wayward
flakes adrift on a whispering wind
dance with ghostly grace and twirl away.
I turn again and walk toward the light.
22
“Feed Dish in Webs” Photo by Sara A. Owen
Keeping Up the Kentucky Blue
by Marissa Fish
The neighbor is mowing my lawn again.
I was going to do it tomorrow night,
or maybe Sunday,
or maybe someday when I feel like
there is nothing better to do with my time
than play a relentless game that
nobody can win except winter.
The sound of his favor is shaking the soup
in our bowls, stirring the smell of
spent gasoline into our supper.
I remind myself that this is a kindness
and think that next spring,
or maybe the spring after,
when I have time to repay a favor,
I’ll slink into my neighbor’s yard
at 3 a.m., under a full moon
and strip the sod off his lawn
with my silent square-nosed shovel.
Then I’ll plant squash and tomatoes,
turning the earth into something more
than another sheared-off reflection
of false grasslands
that provide my neighbor,
my father,
my grandfather,
another opportunity for duty.
23
Ceramics
by Bailey Davis
“We kiss our cups multiple times a day.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Whatever you want,” I say. I smooth the sand beneath my toes into a slab of silenced nuances. The sensation of wet sand sends
a reverberation of shivers down my legs and naked forearms. I wish I had a sweater, my red and blue striped one. I am also glad I
don’t have my favorite sweater, so I can be free to the cold and to whatever happens next.
My gaze opens up to the sea’s horizon surrounding us. The setting sun has left a lingering meadow of trickling reds, spawning
purples and foggy blues. I can see The Island across the Bay.
I try to be as still as I can as he talks to me about little impressions, musings and his life. I like how he speaks to me, not too loud
or too soft.
I wonder if I am brave enough to tell him what is on my mind.
I know that I am curious about everything he does.
I listen.
Nigel asks me more than a few questions.
I tell him about a few of my latest dreams. I giggle and chortle a bit because I know this is important to me and I don’t want to
be anywhere else on this mainland. I could care less if I never wore my favorite sweater again.
I feel as if my friend and I are the only breathing minds on the mainland. We are alone, as we may have been before, on a secret
beach between a public trail and trespassing. We teeter upon tread that is always morphing into something else. Even this moment will never happen again.
Nigel reaches out to the tail of my white dress and points to a faint hesitation of the sky: the big dipper. As I follow his hand I
feel my back lean into Nigel’s chest enough that I close my eyes.
“I can’t see,” I hear myself say.
Nigel pulls my body gently enough that I let him. He relaxes my tense mind as we take a huge step back from our lives.
This is not a figment of my imagination.
This is not half made up and one third magic.
His forearms hug my petite chest as my neck recedes into his collarbone. I feel as if we are creating a frame of infinite regression,
a parallel of two lines intersecting as arrows.
I stop thinking for awhile.
“Voyageur Cats” Drawing by Susan Lee
24
Youth
by Eric Chandler
You have a face that does its best to
show emotion.
But you haven’t had your heart ripped
out of your chest.
You don’t really believe that there’s evil
in the world.
You still think that the lady screaming
unashamed
at her kid in the checkout line at Walmart
is just a bad parent and not actually the manifestation of
something
much
much
worse.
I Won’t Remember
by Eric Chandler
I won’t remember this late spring pre-dawn run. Record snows melting in the ditches. The deer tracks in the snow. The harsh call of a red-winged blackbird. The flight of two honking Canada geese. The familiar awakening of my limbs as I pass two
miles. I walk across the surface of an untracked field of snow
and the entire slab settles with a whoomp. There’s nothing remarkable about the full moon
as it sets to make room for the rising sun. So, I won’t remember this morning in North Dakota.
It’s likely that,
at some point,
I won’t remember anything at all. 25
26
“Feral Bloom” Photo by Madeline Brown
Red
This is an ekphrastic story inspired by the painting “Seated Lady in Chair” by Fritz Scholder
by Kristen Sandstrom
Opening her eyes, she yawned. It was that blissful moment when reality hadn’t sunk in yet. Touching the void next to her, she
forgot for a moment where he was. She gazed over at his red papasan chair and immediately crawled from bed and into the chair,
she felt at home curled up there. It was a hot humid day. She tried desperately to hear him.
She could hear him turn on the shower. The curtain rings made that familiar scraping sound against the rod. Barely audible
humming crept out from under the door. She could feel the steam from the shower and smell his eucalyptus soap. Running her
fingers through her sweat-ridden hair, she stood up. The sweat from her body created a darker, ominous stain of red on the chair.
Pieces of her were refusing to leave.
She explored his spacious bedroom. Touching the stained glass window over his bed. Smelling the remains of their sex on the
sheets. Feeling the rough, worn wood floorboards beneath her feet. Her breasts swayed with every step as she sauntered towards the
bathroom. She could hear him humming his usual tune – One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer – by John Lee Hooker. Sitting
down on the toilet, she grinned, remembering his off-key singing. She rested her hands on her belly, wondering if maybe this time
there may be life inside. Wondering if that life would have his graceful smile and welcoming eyes. Wondering if she could do this.
The whistling teakettle broke into her thoughts. While her tea steeped, she peered through the window over the kitchen sink. The
summer sunlight was blinding. The high bush cranberries knocked on the window as hot blood droplets. She hadn’t realized she
was crying until she felt the tears running down her chin dropping on her naked breasts.
She burned her tongue on the tea as she walked over to the bookshelves. Running her fingers over the spines of the old used books
she felt his breath on the nape of her neck. Desperately hoping he would touch her, she reached up, piling her long hair up on top
of her head, arching her back, leaning her head back. She turned around, but he wasn’t there. The smells of his soap and sweat the perfect aphrodisiac – were gone.
Remembering what the day held, she returned to the bedroom. The sounds from the bathroom were gone. The humming
had stopped. Looking down, she realized she was still wandering around his deserted space in nothing but a pair of black lace
underwear. Crawling under the sheets, the salty, sweet smell of his sex mixing with hers was slowly dissipating. The bathroom door
was open, but no one was there. The hot breeze blew through the doorway and took her back to the last time they were together as
man and woman.
She had been wearing the same underwear. They had been fighting. She so wished she could remember what the fight was about.
His desperation had turned to surrender and for the first time he turned away. He walked away and sat down in his red chair. A
rare silence had taken over and she knew he had given up. She climbed on top of him, straddling him, devouring him, loving him.
Her frustration and anger were obvious in their lovemaking, but the love was equally present. He placed his hands on her hips as
she controlled their actions. He placed his face between her breasts and inhaled. She moved with furious purpose.
She recalled wondering if her love for him would ever be enough.
The wind blew the open door against the wall; she snapped back to the present. She rose from the bed and walked over to that
blessed red chair and sat down. She sat on the edge with a hesitancy she had never felt. The red fabric was cool and moist from her
body’s sweat. Something took over and she sprawled back as he loved her to. Opening her arms, her legs, her soul, and her body.
Presenting herself to the world like this was a rebirth. Spreading her legs wide, so the breeze would cool between her thighs. She
removed her hair from its clasp and that same wind blew her long locks off her neck. For one fleeting moment she could see that
sideways grin showing his pleasure from looking at her open body. He called it home. She opened herself one last time for him,
and him alone.
There was a knock at the door. It was time. She forced her warm body into a black dress that would be worn only once. Unable to
say goodbye, she touched the red chair as she walked out.
27
AQUEOUS MAGAZINE
The How, the Why and the What Now
Sara A. Owen
First of all let’s clear up one thing. Aqu-what? The name was already 98% decided when I was asked to join this group. When Nick,
Marissa and Kristen presented it at our first “official” meeting on May 13th of this year I was skeptical. It means “fluid” they said,
“of the water.”
How will it become a popular magazine if the name is difficult to pronounce? After a week it was rolling off my tongue. For those
who may still hesitate please grant me this short tutorial. Begin with a sigh. Ahhh. Follow with the “qu” in question and add a joyous
weee. End with an easy “us” and you’ve got it. Ahh-quweee-us. Simple now that you know right? Regardless of pronunciation, we
have something here and it seems to want to stay. It’s time to bring our readers, submitters and supporters into the fold. It’s time for
a plan.
This is not to say that we were simply testing the waters at first. Aqueous has been a serious endeavor from the beginning but every
“market” must be confirmed. We know there are vast numbers of artists in the region. Most are producing work that exists in
isolation. Objects are stowed away in dark boxes, poems and stories creased and stuck in paper folders or trapped in computer files.
The very nature of this area provides fewer opportunities than a metropolis. There are personal websites, blogs, occasional gallery
shows, spoken word or writers’ reads, but nothing that puts it all together in one place, a physical page-turning place.
I often ask myself, does art really exist if no one sees it? I am convinced the answer is yes, but the potency of that work increases
when it is shared. It is rewarding to view your art in physical relation to others. It is easier to see the “next step” and more art
is created. Artists and writers become inspired by each other. Readers and viewers spark conversations and fresh thoughts are
created. Simply put, when shared, Art makes more Art. Literature and visual art is a vital component and stimulus in creating and
maintaining healthy forward-moving communities. This magazine is a catalyst. A physical publication exclusively dedicated to
combining and connecting the artistic talent in the Lake Superior region.
To date the number and quality of submissions has overwhelmed and humbled us. At the third volume mark we have received a
total of 145 writing submissions and 136 art submissions. Of these we have been able to publish the work of 73 individuals. Note
that I am not counting the work of the editors because that is just silly. Subject matter ranges from the traditional to the provocative.
We hope each volume is a snapshot of that spectrum appealing to a broad range of individuals.
As with most new endeavors our primary challenge is financial. Now that our niche has been tested we are in the process of writing
our strategic business plan. We need to secure the funds necessary to maintain and expand project Aqueous. How have we been
managing thus far? Let’s talk nuts and bolts.
Aqueous Magazine consists of a four member volunteer staff. They are Marissa Fish of Washburn, Kristen Sandstrom of Bayfield
and Sara Owen and Nick Nelson of La Pointe. It is prudent to acknowledge that the “Bio” listings for editors in our volumes have
been cryptic at best -- creative, maybe, but informative, no. We promise to list “real” bios on the website shortly. (In the meantime
all you need to know is that we can vouch for Nick.) Collectively the editors have logged a conservative estimate of 426 hours thus
far and have used personal funds to help with publishing, transportation and mailing. We average seven meetings for each issue and
put in a good deal of time outside the meetings reading, editing, promoting, writing, handling email correspondence and working on
layout.
We print 750 copies of each volume. They are distributed at various locations in Cornucopia, Iron River, Superior and Duluth. We
also distribute consistently in the Chequamegon Bay area (until our supply is exhausted) at locations in Ashland, Washburn, Bayfield
and La Pointe. A complete listing of distribution sites can be found on the aqueousmagazine.org website. One short term goal is to
increase distribution to include Iron River, Hayward, Drummond and Cable. Within the next year we hope to reach Two Harbors,
MN and Marquette, MI.
What can you do to help us move forward? There are three crucial challenges before us – submissions, income and exposure.
Aqueous will not continue to thrive without content. Yes, we have been overwhelmed and fortunate with the number of
submissions so far but at 750 per edition we know we are not reaching as many individuals as we would like. We need foot soldiers.
Everyone knows at least one person who writes, draws, paints, sculpts, sews or makes some kind of art. Grab a few extra copies and
have them on hand to encourage those individuals to submit.
Subscriptions are also important. They not only bring in money but help to show granting organizations and larger donors the
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number of people that are willing to support us. The current count stands at 28 and rising which is a fair start at the 6 month mark.
In three years we hope to have the majority of our costs covered through subscriptions. We would be honored to have you help us get
there. The rate had previously been set at $50.00 for four issues. $12.50 is a fair price for a literary and visual arts magazine but we have
realized that it is not affordable for everyone. For that reason we have introduced subscription levels starting at $30.00. It is a bit like
donating to a cause, those who can give more are able to do so.
This leads directly to the fact that the lion’s share of Aqueous income has been made possible by a hand full of like-minded donors. At
just under $2,000.00 to operate and publish each 32-page volume our existence has been carried on their shoulders. We are exceedingly
grateful to all of them for making it possible for us to reach this point. Without this beginning we wouldn’t have much to write a
business plan about!
A good plan is one that demonstrates concrete experience in order to show what the future can bring. If you have deeper pockets (or
know someone who does) please consider making a larger donation to Aqueous Magazine. A local nonprofit, Live Art! Workshop, Inc.
has agreed to be our fiscal receiver in order to provide a tax exempt option for contributions. This is listed on the subscription form.
If you have any questions or would like to chat with us in person feel free to send a message to our email aqueousmagazine@gmail.
com.
This magazine is a valuable tool that connects readers, writers and artists in a meaningful way across communities. We will continue to
keep you informed on our progress in future volumes, through our facebook page and on our website. It is exciting to have so many
people becoming a part of our momentum.
We need your submissions!
We are now taking submissions for the next volume of Aqueous, and every one after that too.
Here are the deadlines for the 2014 volumes, but we are happy to take your submissions anytime.
Vernal Equinox 2014 - January 31st
Summer Solstice 2014 - April 30th
Autumnal Equinox 2014 - July 31st
Winter Solstice 2014 - October 31st
Aqueous Magazine
PO Box 261
La Pointe, WI 54850
www.aqueousmagazine.org
aqueousmagazine@gmail.com
facebook.com/aqueousmagazine
SUBSCRIBE TO AQUEOUS MAGAZINE
Name(s): _______________________________________________________________________________
Address: _______________________________________________________________________________
Winter Address (if different): _______________________________________________________________
Phone: ___________________________________ Email: _______________________________________
Subscription Levels:
□ $30.00
□ $50.00
□ $75.00
Additional Donation $ ___________
Mail form and a check or money order to: Aqueous Magazine: P.O. Box 261 La Pointe, WI 54850
Tax exempt option: Make check to: Live Art! Workshop, Inc. – write “Aqueous” in the memo.
Local nonprofit Live Art! Workshop, Inc. has agreed to be our fiscal agent for tax deductible donations. Receipts are automatically mailed for
amounts of $250.00 or greater.
Thanks, we appreciate your support! - Aqueous editors: Nick, Marissa, Kristen & Sara
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A Penokee Primer
by Rob Ganson
When I walk in the Penokees, I am walking on water. Temporary seasonal streams, majestic rivers, waterfalls, wetlands from hat
sized to beaver ponds and lakes, are everywhere. That water bubbles forth in my town of Washburn, in the bodies of everyone for
miles around. Water from the Penokees forms 70% of my body - and those of my grandchildren. The air of the Penokees, carrying
eagles, the scents and voices of one of the last great wilderness areas of the lower 48, wafts across an emerald sea of maple, ferns, of
mystery and history, across paths walked by feet hundreds of years ago. The water feeds those dancing streams, rivers, the greatest,
most verdant estuary remaining on the great lakes, and finally, Mother Superior, 20% of the planet’s clean fresh water.
All over the world, indigenous peoples, the first nations, have been gradually forced onto diminishing outposts, corners, the last
wild places. As the wave of exploitation and extraction, the shift from mother earth to product earth reaches those last corners, it is
those people who lead the fight to save the planet as a viable home. Here, in our beloved Lake Superior basin, it is no different; it is
the Aniishinabe who lead the battle. They also have the most to lose the soonest, as the sovereign nation of Bad River lies but a few
miles downstream.
Twice, a distant king bought a cadre of legislators, hired them to push through legislation tailor made to let him poison those hills,
blow them into oblivion, poison the waters, the very air. On the second attempt, enough racketeers existed in the majority to pass
AB/SB 1, ending a Wisconsin tradition of environmental protection. Measure after measure was passed to dismantle protection for
our water and our people, and to silence our voices as democracy itself was dismantled to centralize power in the governor’s office.
Just as sustainable agriculture, tourism, value-added product manufacturing, centered around sustainably harvested products from
our forests and fields, a myriad of sustainable practices
come into prominence, based on an understanding that we
owe coming generations a decent home, an understanding
taught to “us” by the Aniishinabe, Chris Cline wants to
blow it all to hell.
When the citizens of the area, the forests and fields,
opposed this attempt to poison us, martial law was
imposed illegally. In July, when I guided four others up
the ridge to document some of the early environmental
atrocities, on land open to public hiking and other
recreation, we were met by mercenaries in odd camo
uniforms, with military rifles, fingers on their triggers.
When our pictures of that meeting, and videotape taken
the next day by Paul DeMain of Indian Country TV
were seen around the world, the resulting outcry sent the
mercenaries packing, for now…
A new rainbow family has been formed in and around
those sacred and verdant hills, composed of tribal leaders,
environmental activists, farmers, hunters, fishermen,
democrats, republicans, artists, citizen journalists,
scientists, ordinary folk like me, rooted like trees to protect
those hills, waters, the air, from out of state corporations
and the racketeers who rode waves of out of state money
into public office in Wisconsin. We don’t need their
temporary jobs, their mercury, acid, etc in the rivers, their
asbestos in the air, in our children or theirs, their cancer
clusters, their giant reeking and noxious pit in place of
flowing hills, don’t need their plans to ruin our finest
lands.
Their aggression will not stand.
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“No Mine” Photo by Bailey Davis