PHOENIX

Emotions: experience: intensity: peace of mind. Can art possibly satisfy everything we are, do, say, think, and feel? Can we be complete through experience that we ourselves create? The contributors to this magazine feel something special about the things they have created. And because they feel this way, The Phoenix has been created to give these people a chance to have an outlet for their own creativity that they may have never before had.

A kf'v word when discussing art is discipline. The musician must discipline himself to be able to practice and perform. The actor must discipline not only himself, but his character as well if the production in which he is involved is to be as real as possible. Writers, painters, photographers have perhaps a more difficult time learning self-discipline. What exactly does an artist or a photographer see besides a physical image? What does he want others to see in his work? Is it possible for him to extend his own mind, his thoughts, with what he can create? Artist discipline often simply means that the artist can answer these questions and put together the pieces to shape and form his work.

But the writer has the worst problems of all. Often plagued by constant doubt as to the quality of ht5 work, the writer is never satisfied and must discipline himself to his own methods and thinking. What may make perfect sense to the author may

leave the reader dazed and confused. This is the problem the author faces.

Another key word in describing art is individuality. The individual is responsible to himself as well as to others but he shows his individuality through his tastes, likes, and dislikes. An artist may paint a picture that wi II be viewed by thousands, but each one of those thousands has an individual feeling about the artists' work. I n the same vein, the artist shows individuality by using self-crated styles and modes in his work.

There seems to be a point here and perhaps it is this: "All of our thoughts, impressions, knowledge, fears have been developing for millions of years. What we can relate to is our own past, our own life, our own history ... Hopefully, we should appreciate that given points in time are not so significant as the nature of what is impressed on the mind and how it is retained and used." - Jon Anderson.

The arts are a creation for and by man and have shaped man and man has shaped the arts. Only through our own interpretations can we conceive of what art really is and how it affects us. Art is man; it is part of his reality. It is a part of our reality.

. JONATHAN DAN I E L

front cover by rear cover by

JAMES BREEDEN MELISSA CLARK

EDITORS

EDITOR

Sandy Sneed

MANAGING EDITOR

Max Heine

NON·FICTION

Eric Forsbergh

FICTION

Wayne Minnich

POETRY

Robt. C. Walker

ART

Louie Mayes

PHOTOG RAPHY

Robert Stockdale Jonathan Daniel

EDITORIAL ASSISTANT

Mark Mitchum

RESIDENT NEUROTIC

Billy Ray Sims

(e) Copyright 1974 by the University of Tennessee Rights retained by the individual contributors .

2-4 OF ENMITY'S BRUISE Steve Reynolds 5 SPINNING Kathy Profitt 6 PHOTOG RAPH Ron Harr 7 TR IPTYCH John Job 8-9 GOING DOWN Harry Weill 10 PASTORAL Robert C. Walker 10 MA YAKOVSKI ADAPTED John Job 11 OUT FOR JAZZ IN KNOXVILLE Eric Forsbergh 12 STREETS THAT NEVER KNEW

THE NEGATIVE J. M. Killingsworth

13 UNTITLED Arthur Baxter 14 PORTFOLIO: ART Wade Lawrence 14 Shelly Doss 15 Ed Montgomery 16 PHOTOG RAMS Joanne Luongo 17 MANI LA Eric Forsbergh 17 SIGHTSEEING Eric Forsbergh 18 SYNTHESIZED MUSIC Max Heine 19 SCULPTURE Dennis Corun 20 THE LADY Anne Roney 21 THEN IT WAS NOVEMBER Anne Roney 22 PORTFOLIO: PHOTOGRAPHY Michael Carberry 22 Ron Harr 23 Jim Ewing 24 TH E DOWNTOWN HOTE L BLUES M. K. Jones 24 BREAKFAST Quentin Powers 25-27 THE PRICE OF A GOOD SUNTAN Mike Coleman 28 PHOTOG RAPH David Dulaney

CONTRIBUTORS

illustration by NOREENE BURNETT

2

fiction by STEVE REYNOLDS

Genesis 3: 15 "And I will put enmity between thee and the

woman; and between thy seed and her seed; it shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt bruise his heel. "

A fall day. She is seen springing from the white house on the grassy

hill-the house from far away looking like a small egg upon a green sea. She is heard calling after her white dog.

"Salvo," she cries, or sometimes it would sound like "Sal.. .. ho."

She walks slowly, sluggishly down the hill, but soon her steps gain confidence, and she is running toward the ditch -the ditch containing the creek- the sun-splashed creek in mid-afternoon, now bright, now glimmering. She follows her dog down the leafy bank and close to the water.

"Sal. ... do" The dog stops before the water, contemplating it. The little girl has on a blue and white vertically-striped dress

and small black shoes. Nestled in her blonde hair is a blue barrette.

She laughs at the tail wagging in front of her and gently grabs it. The dog responds, putting his paws on her front and licking her full in the mouth - a red tongue- his kiss sweet.

She picks up a soggy leaf, feeling its supple spine. The terrain below her feet is fluid, a half-dirt, half-water that sinks, seeking the creek.

The beast creeps first into the water. She stares after hi m and cannot remember why she must not get in.

The water is clear, the current swift and bubbling. The sun glances off of it, causing a thousand sparkling jewels to dance.

The little girl stares down and sees her image upon the water. She giggles, and there is clumsiness in her arms as they flap up and down slapping her sides. She steps into her

reflected face. The water is cool and she gives a shiver as it runs along her

bare flesh; how luscious is her flesh, how soft, how giving, reluctant!

Now she is splashing along behind her dog. She occasionally feels the cool drops on her face; and as her shoes smack down, the water is splashing on her dress.

Past the honeysuckle draping down the right bank they roam, past the yellow wildflowers on the left they go; around the bend, under the wooden bridge, around another bend into unknown waters they travel. The banks rise ten feet on either side, the banks of slick clay reflecting red and brown from the

brilliant sun.

The bed of the creek is firm, floored with many rounded rocks. Her steps are random vet sure. Because she has not yet learned fear, she giggles; her eyes are big, filled with wonder

The dog is sniffing the banks on each side, occasionally taking a paw and digging up the sod, sticking his nose into the dirt, then snorting out as if to sneeze; abandoning one find for another. His fur is wet up to his flanks. His step is light, rhythmical, sometimes happy. He occasionally stops, looking back at the little girl as if to check her progress; then he opens his mouth in a smile, turns his head, and continues to smell his way forward.

"Sal.. .. mo ." The ever present wind blows the trees, the grass all around

them. It blows parallel to the creek and down upon it, causing the water to rush a bit faster, causing the foliage to sway.

The little girl loves the wind. Fingers of trees reach out to her from the banks, seeking the quaint valley, a gentle trough between waves of earth.

The water is soft. Fallen blackberries dapple the banks. She steps into the undefiled ooze, into the slick land; but her steps fail and she falls back into the water, drenching her dress, coating her soft flesh.

She jumps up, her eyes welling; but since there is no one to see her cry, she refrains. Her dog stops, looks back and wal ks toward her. Her hand descends. to him. She dries her hand on his fur. He licks her legs.

They continue to a little waterfall. She discovers the white foam the water makes when it hits; she discovers the bubbles; she sees the leaves come up crinkled red and yellow.

"Salvo." They walk for a long time. As they go, the trees to the right

and left become thicker, their black-barked, cylindrical legs rising up, soon exploding above into huge dendritic-shaped hands- and on these hands are thousands of leaves, green and yellow, receiving the life-giving forces of sun and wlnd. And this life seems only to rise as she and the dog pass- behind them is silence, and yards ahead of them the trees are still; but

here the leaves and branches move with the rustling sound of acknowledgment.

As if in answer to the forces of wind and sun, scores of birds are as black smudges against the blue of sky- the birds having sprung from the trees' hands in one body, reeling up to a peak and suddenly dropping at ' the ditch, at the water, to the girl and to" the dog; as they begin to catch themselves from the fall, their mouths open, their voices loud.

And up, up again they climb with frantic wing-beat, filling again the higher air with life.

And everywhere there is lif e and the sounds of life and the ears of life.

They walk on. Small spider webs are threads of scarlet refiecting the sur ,

putting forth their ends from stem to stem, embroidering the dark fingers of a branch.

The hand of the water leads, draw~, sucks, beckons them forward past the waterfall into calmer regions. Here) past a

patch of overhanging trees, the wind changes, rising to the treetops, perpendicular to and above the creek. And upon the water are creeping th ings innumerable, tiny black dots, waterbugs dancint upon the water.

The dog bites at them, getting his nose wet. He cannot get them, and he looks funny twitching his frame hack and forth at the bugs.

The little girl laughs. She walks over to the bank, pulls down her panties and

squats, and when through} slowly pulls them up. The dog's legs dimple the water, and concentric circles

proceed out from his steps. She sees her face again, her face upon the water. As they proceed, the light begins to interplay with the

darkness of shadows. The light is blinding. "Sal. ... ho. " Both dog and little girl stare at a tree, a beautiful tree, its

red leaves basking in and reflecting the sun . Its trunk is shapely, curving, resembling a tall and slender woman; its leaves sprout red, blown only slightly by the mute wind,

the leaves waver quietly like thousands of flattering tongues. Every fiber of the earth now knows her, all seeing her. The little girl's head rises up, her eyes take in the sky. She

hardly hears the slight bustle of sound before the scream-the scream of her dog- and she hardly sees the slithering form , the serpent disappearing under a root at the base of the tree.

The dog limps to the left bank opposite the tree. He licks his wound. She reaches to touch him.

He turns snarling, snapping at her hand . She is puzzled as she stands and watches him fall into sleep,

his legs twitching as if he were dreaming of runn ing, his breath

blowing out in spurts, hesitant-

She approaches him cautiously. A strange drowsiness has come over her, and she curls beside the dog, soiling her dress.

As she sleeps, the day nears its end , the water's raiment of light becoming dimmer now. now more subtle.

Hours pass and she opens her eyes, but now there is no light; darkness is everywhere, and she is afraid.

She feels her stomach and starts to cry ; but her dog- suddenly she thinks of him - she wi ll wake him and he will lead her home.

Her hand reaches out to the ball of fur in front of her, but she stops, remembering that he bit her.

"SaL .. mo," she calls. "Sal.. .. no" Again and again she calls his name, but he does

not move. Her hand reaches for him, his body is cold. She grabs a leg

to shake him but he falls stiff into the water, the wetness splashing lightlv onto her soft skin.

She stares for awhile at her dog. Her eyes start to weI! again, and this time the tears flow freely down her cheeks and into her mouth tasting like sal i.

3

She turns to the right to head back, but everywhere there is darkness.

It is so dark that she cannot see the bottom of the water, so she must stick to the bank.

Before leaving she turns for one last look at her dog, utters a small cry, and runs from the spot where he had slept.

She makes her way along the bank. Thorns and thistles scratch her legs and cut her .

The bank is too steep for her to climb. She must stay close to the invisible water.

Everywhere there is darkness. Her face looks to the sky, where heads of trees heave up Ii ke

the heads of dragons. Now she remembers her mother and wants her, but she cannot see her.

Time and again she falls, once even in a puddle of mud. She cries in anger and fear but is not heard. There is only the darkness, its walls extending down from one side, three sides, all sides to the ditch.

"Sal. ... do." Only small lumps of the bank are revealed to her at a time.

She must go slowly so as not to fall. Her tears have stopped. A weak determination has come

over her. She travels against the current, and she hears it now,

gurgling slowly. There is no wind. Her legs fail her, and she bruises her ankle on a rock. She screams out in pain, but the darkness' ear does not hear. She calls for her mother, listens; but there are no footsteps

to be heard, nothing, only absence. All is black; there is no reflection off t he water. The land appears without for m-hideous, desolate, all laid waste.

Slowly she scratches, stumbles, remembers her way forward. How short the day seems now, and how long the night! Hoods and veils of shadows jut out from the trees,

darkening further patches of the ditch . Her legs become tired. The mud hardens on them, forming a

crust over her skin. She is tired but afraid to sleep. She thin ks of her mother,

but cannot see or imagine her; she feels only the flesh of the darkness.

She rounds a bend and then another. Occasionally she will stop, reaching down to touch the

water, but each time she does she thinks she will fall in. Her arms are tired. She rounds a corner and then another.

She sits on a flat part of the bank, feeling the wet on her

panties. She tal ks, not to herself, or to her mother, or to the darkness. She talks only to hear a voice, and when she stops there is nothing, only silence, absence.

4

She gets up, starts again.

Her legs begin to buckle, chilled, twitching spasmodicarty.

Her neck hurts. Her steps are slower.

She looks around, but can see no progress, no purpose to

her walking; for the darkness is the same, its sounds are the

same, its blood drenching every part of the air and the land. She falls on her stomach and rests, her arms feeling limp. She is weak, her joints are stiff. Across the plain of darkness ahead there is a dark streak

crossing the top of the ditch. It is the bridge, the wooden bridge. She feels her legs and moves forward.

Soon she reaches the place where she and her dog climbed in.

She ascends the bank with the agility of a boy, but she is weak. She starts to sleep before getting to the top, but she does not, and suddenly there it is ...... light, a small light stabbing an elongate path in the darkness. The light is above her, on the hill; it is her house.

The light sways, jumps, blurs, trembles. Her head and neck are fixed as if bolted. Her legs move independently of the neck and head. And still there is the light, still there are its white needles coming to her looking like illu mined rods.

She feels her legs as she leaves the ditch. She runs toward the light.

Once she almost falls, for at no time has she been this weak. The light grows neare r, brighter, and that is all that she sees, the light bouncing, blurring.

She feels as if the hill is moving up over her. She is sinking below the hill, its mound of darkness trying to rise above her; but her legs are moving still; and still the light grows.

Suddenly she sees the asphalt, its thousands of nostrils breathing forth white steam.

She cries. She is to the top , to the light.

Her hand barely reaches the doorbell; and almost before the sound of it comes, she is senseless in her mother's arms.

She does not feel the tears of her mother, nor does she hear her admonishments. There is only the warmth and softness of her breasts and darkness .

But now a cold seat rises beneath her bottom. It is the toilet seat. Her mother undresses her in the darkness and turns on the bath water.

The little girl sits naked on the toilet seat. Her mother rushes out to get something, and as she leaves turns on the

tlorescent light that before, in her excitement, she had forgotten.

The bulb flickers incessantly ... light ... dark ... light. .. dark ... light - the hard brown crust over the girl's flesh ... dark ... time distorted ... light ... the dried arteries of mud streaking her face .. . dark ... "Salvo ... " she says ... light. .. the green tiled bathtub ... dark. And in this intermittent darkness before the next burst of light, no one sees the little girl sitting on the toilet seat; no one sees her pink fingernails clawing at her leg, now her white knuckled fist pounding her leg, once, again, leaving red stre,!~s, pounding ..... again ..... again with new urgency, with new energy, with new anger.

Spinning

o And a pure gold baby Watches time A sort of celestial Grandfather Clock- look- stop I think I split a tick in two Blood clicks out Like little medallions The change, the change.

And is it time I hate? Or is it that I make A certain deranged calcu lation? a warp The harp's out of tune

out of time No syncopation and The Blood won't rhyme. o And a purely silver child Burns my hands like lime. They evaporate, they bomb the air, they embalm me with clouds and shrouds of tropical thyme. o and a sea clear child sings me to the end of dreaming, she sends me stream ing through the centuries. 0, And I have found a cleaner sort of healing. I would mend my ways, But panthers sleep in the daytime. They, like ch ildren, Forget to wear watches.

--Kathy Proffitt

5

photo by RON HAR R

6

Triptych

... so if I grew up in Roxbury when it was still Jewish, you could figure I'm at least twenty-one. We had one of the only genuinely old houses on Fischer Street, built in 1682, enlarged in 1740, burned to the ground and rebuilt on the same spot in 1796. My grandfather bought the house when he moved to Boston from Belgrade fifty years ago-

No, I take that back. Actually, my grandfather was the brother of J ames Agee's grandfather, so we, Rufus and I, are related somehow. I grew up on the other side of Knoxville from his house, and when he and his dad sat on a rock beside Forest Avenue and looked out at the night view of North Knoxville, I was sitting up too, staring back at them from my bedroom window. Knoxville was sad during those days, the air thick with coal haze and horse stench, but it was beautiful too, uncomplicated. I used to meet Rufus at the L&N train station. Every window was Tiffany stained glass and we went to trace the window patterns on an old pad of newsprint. Once we hid in a cattle car and hitched a ride up to Newport to watch the snake handler. We spent a lot of time together but then Rufus became James and went north to Harvard-

No, actually ... I grew up twenty miles west of Knoxville in a big family with a small house on a quiet street in an insipid town as all of Tennessee's towns are inevitably insipid But Oak Ridge was particulary so.

There seemed to be at least a hundred of everything there: Engi Ish men, Blacks, Indonesians, Germans, Jews, Russians, Californians ... And we always thought we were smarter than everyone else in the world because we I ived where the Bomb was made. At recess we read Lewis Carroll instead of playing baseball

because H. L. Mencken told us we had galloping carcinoma and we wanted to live up to our disease.

And my grandfather, he was born on a wharf in a dirty little town in Cornwall, if it makes any difference now. He lost his accent when he moved to Ohio except when he said, "Eh, pass the salt, mate!"

And I didn't read Agee until I went to Harvard.

-John Job

7

ARCHITECTURE

GOING DOWN

The Transportation Have you ever wondered what it wou ld be like if someone

dug a hole all the way through the center of the earth? And have you wondered if you would make it all the way to Ch ina when you jumped in?

This idea is the basic premise of Harry Weill's transportation system for his futuristic society.

Suppose you actually could bore a hole straight through the earth to the other side and then drop a rock into the hole. Also suppose there would be no friction with the sides of the hole or the air inside the hole.

The rock would accelerate 32 feet per second every second as it first entered the hole. The acceleration would decrease as it fell because there would be less mass pul ling it down and more mass above it to slow it up. However, its overa ll speed would keep increasing until it reached the center of the earth, at which point it would be zooming by at about five miles per second.

8

This shows a detailed model of a housing section represented by circle (4) in the diagram on the opposite page.

After it passes the cen ter, the rock wou Id start slowi ng down because there would be more mass of the earth behind it. By the time it reached the surface, its speed would be zero. The total time for the trip would be only about 42 minutes and the total energy required wou Id be zero.

Now suppose that the hole is a very wide tunnel and the rock is a transport veh icle carrying a big load of people or cargo. The trip would take the same amount of time and the energy cost would still be zero.

This is the theory behind Weill's transportation system. The tunnel is shown as the vertical tube in the photograph on the left. The theory is a bit idealistic, but Mother Earth is offering a lot of potential energy in the form of gravity and it would be worth a try to use it.

TIle Cities The transportation system described

on the opposite page will form the hub of Weill's model cities. He predicts that new city forms wi ll emerge as a result of increased migration from the rural areas and a growth in population.

These cities will fit into complex new patterns of international communications and technology. "Social allegiances and responsibilities would no longer be restrain ed wi thin the present physical, cu ltural, and geographical bounds if the new transportation systems were constructed," says Weill. In effect, the world would merge into one community, less influenced by politics than by scientific developments.

Weill points out that the city of today tends to evolve into a "multifunctional aggregate," that is, a

community performing any and all fu nctions that its peop Ie wi sh to undertake . lOTh is specific evo lution of cities has continued into the post-indu strial period and already shows sign s of grave instability and obsolescence," he continues.

As an alternative to the overloaded, multipurpose city, he proposes spec iali zed cities. He says a system of different cities would best su it the expansion of needs resu lting from the growth in population.

"The cities shou ld , of co urse, not be considered as mutually exc lusive forms, but as having various over lapp in g functions." Wei ll suggests 12 divisions for these functions: Sc ient ific/research; co m munication/information; agr i cu ltu ra l/f arming; indu strial/manufactur ing; commercial bus i ness; con ve n t ion /conference; museum /hi storica l; festival/arts; c ere m 0 n i a 1/ rei i gi 0 us; ed ucational/library;

This diagram shows the different functions of the city: 1) Transportation through the earth, 2) Common city services, 3) Sper.ialized city functions, 4) Housing, and lines of expansion indicated by arrows.

r ecreat ion /entertainment; and experimenta l/innovative.

The diagram represents the general layout for all the cities. Circle (1) is the transportation system through the center of the earth. Group (2) is the serv ices common to all cities (technical, political, economic, social, cultural, health and welfare).

Group (3) contains the major function areas for the specialty of each c ity . Weill has chosen the industrial/m anufacturing model, so the six areas in group (3) are used for storage of raw materials and waste; manufacturing and packaging; warehouses; research laboratories; management offices; and wholesale showrooms.

The circles designated by (4) are for housing. The arrows are lines of expansion above the tubes to outlying areas, while the solid black area represents green land.

photos by HARRY WEI LL

9

10

Pastoral

The moon grazes the snowfield And the mountains, deep in winter Echo the incantation of wind Through the valley.

The shepherd knows the music of the earth. The perfect voice of ice and snow The harmony of stone

The mountain climber Has spoken with angels, He carries the first breath Of the Universe gusting in his lungs.

The beauty of these mountains Is the mysterious vision. So see through the clarity of the infinite The moonlight on the ancient stone Glowing like the last ember of a star

-Robt. C. Walker

Mayakovski Adapted

Through a storm of repressions you carry your head on a platter your soul in a tea cup to the banquet of obi ivion. You are an unexpected tear down my bristly chin, tracing the bloody etchings of your fingernails in the wall where you fell and begged for forgiveness. The sky sweeps by unstrainedly, and a cloud wears a grimace on its small mouth, like a woman expecting a child who is given a doddering idiot. You tell secrets with words Ii ke moans in all the tongues of the world.

Vladimir, you adore the railway sleepers, kneel between the parallel lines, cross ties and the golden spike! Let the locomotive wheel embrace your neck. I will bear the head on a platter, your soul in a teacup,

to the banquet of oblivion

-John Job

OUT FOR JAZZ IN KNOXVILLE

article by ER Ie FORSBE RGH

The first reaction from someone who is to ld that there is jazz in Knoxville is either "What in Knoxvi lle?" or "Jazz in where?" But tenacious as the effort may be, jazz is here and has surfaced in a club called the Jazz Way on the lower end of Cumberland.

The club germinated through four jazz devotees- Tom Greer, Dave Smiley, Bob Adcock and Larry Pascal - all Knoxville natives. It originally began last September under the name of Sweet Rain, after eight years of no commercial jazz in Knoxville .

Since its New Year's Day opening on Cumberland, the club has had a change of audience. The previous location had been subject to the misgivings of neighbors accustomed only to the sweet taste of the dobro, not the charged taste of jazz. There the middle class rarely dared to step north of the interstate at 17th Street to drop in and listen, and only the tried and true jazz freaks hung out.

But jazz isn't specifically for the few who can si t for seven hours and be aware of ev~ry note. Now, with a new location, a real spectrum of Knoxvillians has been attracted. University students have come in and come back the next night. Hard rockola studs and babes have tripped in, looking for new voltage for the groin, and dug on it. Scrubbed and shining family couples have drifted in and report they experience the same feelings as the first time they saw, and liked, an expressionistic painting. Members of the black community have come to hear music which evolved out of their past culture. People of all persuasions have been turned on to jazz in the best way - live performance.

Jazz Way's band, still called Sweet Rain, is composed of four artists. Larry Pascal, the leader and guitarist, picked up on jazz as a high school student in Knoxville.

Stationed with the Air Force in New Orleans, he was unimpressed with that brand of jazz, and returned to UT to take a degree in psych ology.

He and Bob Adcock were the original nucleus of the band. They rounded out the group with bassist Harry Jacobson, who also plays first chair in the Knoxville Symphony, and Doug Kline on drums, who is a rock musician by previous trade.

Their style imitates a ll sty les of jazz, but the players say the ir major source has been Kenny Burrell, Charlie Parker and the incomparable John Coltrane. Although they do venture into the improvisational, they don't take it as a major trademark ..

Bob Adcock, who plays alto sax, has been in and out of the circuit longer than anyone else in the band. He recalls the fifties in the black community, with such clubs as "Le Cross," "Waiters and Porters" and "Rudy's." "From 1965 until now," Adcock says, "J azz was underground, the artists leaving their notes on living room and porch floors in the endless summer nights of the South."

"Even now," Adcock continues, "Some of the best musicians here are hiding out, satisfying only their own esthetic needs." He speaks of a superb jazz drummer named Johnny Robinson, who has lived in Greeneville, Tenn., for several years, playing for himself and fellow musicians. After having drummed through the forties with the renowned Charles Mingus and Charlie Parker at places like the Big Apple, he came to the South and for years did sets in a converted woodshed with passing friends and a permanent following of his own.

The members of Sweet Rain and the two other driving forces of the club, Tom Greer and Dave Smiley, all say they feel their music will attract many followers in Knoxville, especially from the University. "Individuals like Herbie Hancock and groups like Chicago are offering the necessary exposure to tune the public to jazz," says Adcock. " , Swing' jazz in particular is going to sweep up in a big way. '

The nation-wide move toward jazz is on."

11

Mr. Prater is loose in the streets as he knows them;

impossible' consequence, the mammoth circumference, the diameter out of control - }

I have control, but I could not resist speaking to you, to

long, slippery, turning not quite at right angles; he sometimes longed for the forty-five angle with a store shaped between a "V" as if there were no other rooms.

Well, you see, I'm not an old man yet and I'm surprised to meet you here in the streets that were wintered enough to see one's breath but not enough to make snow of the mist or ice of the

~rt-'f\~r

~IEVER ~<~IE'IV

that shade of lipstick, or that scent of musk ... French, like wet streets, like overcoats heavy with water on one's shoulders.

Mr. Prater wi II un load his <ijlest onto the streets, his guts open and laying there like an invitation to coffee; at home among other insides left here on these slippery

slippery mirror, the street. I was walking in the street

here and I happened to notice the reflection of you there in the shop window.

~r t-IE ~IEGf\~r'\/E

streets like emblems of p e 0 pie wa I kin g , like disappointments, or denials or

The drops of rain had distorted the face as if it were pock marked, and each mark was an extension of some former rain storm or street.

J.M. KILLINGSWORTH

Can you tell me the first time you ever thought about wal kin g on th is street

this boulevard, this wide open or split and spread-out cone unfurled so that someone like Mr. Prater could stare at its shiny, its private insides, the real street.

I live here, you know. I know at least, and have for some years, some street-I i ke years; that is, in their quality of openness, or being inside or simply noisy- as most streets are, especially in rainy times.

We haven't seen the sky in almost two weeks now. The rainy season, ha! Well, you look preoccup ied

by those th ings you must have read about in the papers, I would bet, over coffee. Black coffee, they always will drink it in rain. It is rainy weather, after all, the rainy season on a plain of slick

asphalt, concrete, and steel {steel, the shiny skeleton, the

12

No, I'm sorry, I must go home ... 1 t's

raining, you know;

some other time

some other time when the streets are bright with sun, non neon, reflections on the street; its belly is split and oozing slippery face mirrored as if they were advertisements on shop windown, pock-marked by raindrops, dirt, and denials.

transformed by the rain and by no force other. The streets are always as he knows

them without the thi'ef called rain, called mirrors by Mr. Prater; called "No" by the lady he never met. Can some one else call them by another name

walk between other buildings or wish for snow and ice as if they,

these perspectives, more stable. More like streets or ladies one never

meets who never knew "No ."

and

and

cradie

Untitled

bobbi

and

but no

u ought to marry that girl she has good hair and nice skin

yu kids will be tal l like her and

not short like your mother and i

where is solace

for u

(for that is only reserved for problem slim kids, they are

the only ones with problems)

to cuddle yu

problems

yu frustrations to sleep

goodbyes happy

ponder what such

to see u and come back again soon turn

to whispers that try

to

a nice girl like u beautiful talented

sweet with everything

going for u u

bite yu

nails

-Arthur Baxter

13

PORTFOLIO:

ART

WADE LAWRENCE

SHELLY DOSS

14

ED MONTGOMERY

15

16

PHOTOG RAMS Photograms are produced by placing

objects on light sensitive paper and directing light sources on them. The result is the creation of illusion of space as exemplified here.

The concept of the photogram was discovered early in the 20th century by Man-Ray, who stumbled upon the process when he dropped an exposed paper into developer. Moholy Nagy, a German affiliated wi th the Bahaus School, defined the process as "painting with light."

Time exposure constitutes the values in photograms, with all the work done in the dark. After exposure, they are developed Ii ke regular photographs. J 0

Ann Luongo, creator of the photograms here, says that the process is advanced and an exciting way to work. "You're working with obscure light pigments. You don't know what you've created until you've fin ished."

JO AN N LUONGO

Manila

(sa Bulacenako,

maganda ne maganda)

The rifles were stiff in the sun. The president spoke, waded ashore again through torn metal, called forth tons of rice. His words striking the secret hands of his people.

The bent woman caught in the nets of wrin kles, gripped at the gasping fish. Her sinews tightened in slipping the huge knife beh ind those glass eyes. Before independence, before the Japanese bayonets, before the first American horse commander was buried, his skin taut and yellow, she had worked with that knife. The satin gut popped weakly, and the etched flesh was given.

The Senate chambers are heavy with the trappings of Spain. The gilt glazes the vice-president's curled hands. In his eyes, the silver flecks drift, and sink like leaves. Karate men oil their hair; he will not peel up the blanket.

By early morning the buses are full past the windows, and the bay laps Ii ke cats on the mi I k sides of sh ips.

Children have come to watch me the whole length of th is street, their mouths shut tight. They know my nation; so vital this conventional warfare defense perimeter.

I was once Chinese, breeding into the sweetest women, and sucking at the Northern mountains for silver. I was once Spanish, packing the levies back for Iberia, clutching the crucifix before tattooed and amused Indians. In terror, they did kneel before the musket company.

The buses wobble in streets eaten out, and Manila, your brown hands grasp our body even harder

-Eric Forsbergh

Sightseeing

Tourists, slowly carrying the white bags leave half of the delicacy on the plates. They drop their eyeglasses. They stoop like cattle. They go to South America, the outrage of banners, students machine-gunned, and snap, snap, snap_ They love their faces.

-Eric Forsbergh

17

Synthetic Music article by MAX HE I NE

Seminar in music theory is a music class with no desks or windows, no tal k or scales or composition and not a single upright piano.

The classroom, a converted dressing room still showing the telltale mirrors and light sockets, is not much bigger than a dorm room .

I n the corner sits the music department's new electronic synthesizer, connected to four speakers spaced even Iy around the room. The synthesizer is not very big- it can easily fold up Ii ke a suitcase to be moved. The three-and-a-half octave keyboard rests at the base of a panel jammed with a multitude of dials, switches and inputs.

The lecture vocabulary is straight out of an electrical engineering or upper level physics course - modulation in de x - amplitude - carrier frequency - pitch - significant sidebands-energy spectrum.

Mark Warhol, teaching assistant to Dr. Donald Pederson, occasionally stops

18

MASTER CSCILLATOR

1.5"'\04.S~6D J .O 11J

o 1000 lO - 10 'OOD 1.5 'I , '2 to 1.2 I. ~ . -. " D' ~

C>.a A.v Lb

VCO No 1

WAVE SHAPER ----->

1.(:0 No.2

speaking technologese to demonstrate something. Pushing his hair behind his shoulders, he sets a dial, flips a switch or two, then bounces a finger down the keyboard, picking out maybe four or five notes with no apparent relation to each other.

The result is surreal - the notes blend together Ii ke a soap opera organ, except more eerie and detached, sometimes the sound is fuzzy reverberation, fading very slowly, until he twists a dial and throbing tones merge into a continuous discordant buzz.

As an instrument within itself, the syntehsizer offers a wide variation of tone, pitch and scale structure that is not available on other instruments. For instance, Warhol says "The Electro-Comp can be tuned much Ii ke you would tune a piano." It can be adjusted so that one octave has the range of three octaves; on the other hand it can be set where one

octave has a span of on Iy five keys as they

REVERB SW ITCH

would appear on a piano. Besides the synthesizer and four

speakers there is a two-track Teac recorder, four-track T eac recorder and a patch panel, which looks simply Ii ke a box with a maze of inputs. With all this equipment, several tracks can be combined on tape. More efficient and complex mixing can be done when the music department gets its new mixer to complement the system.

Even more basic than tuning the

synthesizer is the various connections between the synthesizer, the patch panel, the tape recorders and the speakers. Since none of this was at first particularly obvious to all the students, Warhol assigns the class to learn how to hook up a stereo system. Mark has a degree in electrical engineering, but the class is composed of undergraduate and graduate music majors, many of whom did not know AC from DC before the class began.

Electronics, tone, pitch - these are the types of things the class is primarily interested in. Rather than delve into electronic composition, the course sticks to the practical aspects of the synthesizer as a machine. Each student will probably do a one-minute piece for the course, and is allotted three hours a week to experiment with the equipment.

When the class ends at five till noon, a girl sits down in front of the synthesizer to take her turn. As the studen ts file out to the din of the hall, she fills the room with high-pitched tones that linger unusually long, reminiscent of sound effects for an old outer-space movie.

SCULPTURE DENNIS CORUN

"My work deals with the phenomenon of life and my relationship to it. Past experiences, present ci rcumstances, theoretical contemplations, and natural phenomena are interwoven into it. My sculpture is the embodiment of my emotion and therefore the fulfillment of my existence. I am driven to do it because I desire to do nothing else.

"When I conceive a piece of sculpture, it is as though a spirit possesses me and I must try to embody this inner turbulence in my work. I try to radiate emotions by creating rhythms through the relationships of form.

"These emotions, of course, vary in each individual in relation to their experiences, but the significance of this phenomenon is that it makes the pieces more meaningful to me. My sculpture, in this respect, is never fulfilled due to the fact that every time someone looks at it or speaks to me in relationship to it, they supply additional information to my book of thought."

photos by LOUIE MAYES

19

20

The lady

Under her hat It is always summer, Warm Southern Summer,

Puritan soils prespire, Victorian dews rise, Gothic vapors condense:

And the kudzu grows.

Under her hat It is always summer, White church and graveyard summer,

Baptist spiders, Methodist flies, worrisome bees of heresy:

Out of the ear, a trickle of kudzu.

Under her hat It is always summer, Frost-free and fecund summer,

under the rotten moon of romance, motherhood's sour sun, all the stinking stars of Eve:

Around the breasts, tentacles of kudzu.

Under her hat It is always summer, Gilded frontier summer,

Cherokee thunder, Negro clouds, Yankee lightning, Confederate rain:

Veils of kudzu down to her knees.

Under her hat It is always summer, Rank and immutable summer,

Christian shears disintegrate, Freudian herbicides fertilize, Adlerian fences sprout:

An irradicable mantle of kudzu.

Always summer! Always summer! And the kudzu grows.

Anoint it, then, with spray-on gold, Edge its leaves with dimestore lace, Frame it soft on oval velvet:

Death alone can bring the winter.

-Anne Roney

illustration by NOREENE BURNETT

Then It Was November

He was a man who understood nurture, Taking the characteristics of a plant as givens, Arranging external conditions To produce health, growth, and fruit.

At home in June he showed me New leaves on the candlestick trees, Once orphan'd by my fitful care, Thriving now for him.

He took the children down the hill to pull the first tomato, EXUlting in their firm young hands Around the firm young fruit.

With h is left hand he gripped my arm, Inscribing flourishes with his right, Marking the growth of a green young pine­Eighteen inches in two months!

Then it was November, and you and I Drove home through the darkness, The daylight revealing his death And the young pine tree no longer green.

Inside the storeroom, dampish smells- rose Food and stale sweat upon old clothes­Shrouded tools, trunks, and his inventions; I found his ax, graced with the patina of his care.

So I, whom he had loved, with the ax, Which he had polished, obliterated The traitorous brown-needled tre~, Intolerable evidence of nurture's failure.

-Anne Roney

21

MICHAEL CARBERRY PORTFOLIO:

PHOTOG RAPHY

RON HARR

22

23

24

The Downtown Hotel Blues

Crawled out to stare at the asphalt lot Made some instant coffee Lit an instant cigarette Tried to write some second-rate poetry About a first-rate lady And a third-rate guy who loved her

Hitch-h i ked cross-cou ntry Candy, cigarettes, and cokes Short rides, long rides, and no rides But I made it To hear her say "I don't think its going to work"

Felt Ii ke saying How about an arm

a leg

But I don't think a Van Gogh ear

She even wanted to listen

-M. K. Jones

Breakfast

Eating breakfast a sausage becomes my friend. Toast the only thing to laugh about, Eggs enough to make one sleep late.

I t is on ly breakfast and yet I t is another trial I must go through, This meal which despises me.

I t is kitchen in the morning And it is egg-light, Saggy things and bacon fire.

It is the beginning Which never has an end It is breakfast

And you are eoating Wheaties behind the paper, With rollers large enough for tunnels.

-Quentin Powers

fiction by MIKE COLEMAN

In some ways it was the most fr ightening thing he had ever been through.

His bathing suit was still damp ; and even though he had slung a towel over his shoulders before going inside, the air- conditioned office was uncomfortab le. He had been sitting in the hot July sun most of the afternoon , and still had a white glob of zinc oxide on his sunburned nose as he sat down befo re t he three directors, calmly placing the sunglasses down besi de him on the carpeted floor.

"Why the hell don 't you start?" he said to himself. The di rectors sat in a

THE

most of the organizing of camp activities up to the younger staff members while he drove kids around in golf carts all day , handed out Sugar Daddys and fi reballs, and led jeep t rips at night.

On the right was the sailing director, AI Singleton, a homely man with an oversized nose and a shiny bald head whose very appearance seemed to beg for disrespect. He was, quite unknowingly, the camp clown , and campers and counselors alike enjoyed making up new derogatory names for him. In fron t of the campers he was, of course, a paragon of camp virtue, yet

PR CE

charge, and then gone to bed himself and planned carefully how he would handle the situation which now confronted him.

"Yes, I smoked one t ime with them," John said , thus clearing the way for the

r est of hi s defense , an I - w i I I - b e - h 0 n es t - w it h - YO u­-if-yo u-wi II-gi ve-m e-a n o t h er-chance tactic.

"When was the last time you did this, John ?" Crew asked, turning to a clean page in his notebook and clicking his ballpo int pen .

"I t was, I believe, 3 weeks ago, during the fi rst session ," he said. "That was the

OFA

GOOD SUNTAN semi-circle facing him and as yet had said nothing. They had been shuffling papers around when the secretary had shown him into the office and they were still shuffling papers around.

"Let's get on with it," he thought, at the same time stopping his fingers, which had begun to tap on his bare knee.

Eliot Crew, the camp's personnel director, • sat on the left of the semi-circle; and as he wrote something down in the black looseleaf noteboo k beside him, he emanated that distinctive sunshine-nourished, vitamin-enriched good health that John found sometimes admirable and sometimes irritating.

I n the middle sat the head of the camp, Bryant Turner, the founder, the grandaddy, the figurehead whose job it was to act as symbol of the spirit and backbone which supposedly would rub off on the 700 boys who went through the camp sessions each summer. A fine man, thought John, with almost a Santa Claus job. In his early seventies, he left

one could visualize his downing Miller High-Life after Miller High-Life in his private quarters after hours.

Turner put a stack of papers in a folder and exchanged glances with Crew and Singleton. They likewise had finished their organizing of notes on the day's previous questioning. It was time to begin again.

"John," the personnel director said, "I guess by now you've heard what's been going on here the past few days. Well, we've been told that you were involved in all this too. So, and we want you to be honest with us now, have you, were you ever involved with this group that was caught smoking marijuana last night?"

Before answering, John gave a brief sigh of thanks that he had known a day beforehand that he was going to be questioned. When he fou nd out last night that one counselor had been fired, he had gone back to his cabin, done a quick devotional on group cooperation for the twelve fourteen-year-olds in his

only time and I've been offered it since then and have' t-tJrried it down."

"Well, that was good for you," Singleton offered. "That was the right thing to do."

At least he was priming them not to . be totally down on him, John thought. It was working. Then, inevitably, th~ directors went into the standard questioning- who was in the car when you smoked? We have a list here of names, was there anyone else?

And then John went into the entire answer which he had prepared last night while sweating lightly in the summer night .humidity. He spoke calmly, as calmly as possible considering his summer job was at stake and the summer wasn't even half over. He tried to convince them the incident wasn't such a crime after all, that it had happened three weeks ago and was a relatively pale incident compared to the vandalism which had occurred a few nights ago, the counselor's car that was searched and the dope that was found.

25

The night he had smoked was a harmless night off, a trip into town to do laundry and to see a movie. And,. his zinger ending: "Now I don't mean to be arrogant when I say this, but I think you have to consider that you did promote me after the fact, that two weeks after I smoked the grass you put me in charge of a cabin of fourteen-year-olds, and so this should show you that the grass had little effect on my work and my performance here at camp."

The directors bought it, and John commended himself silently for passing

the test. John had come to Camp Navigator

after a liberal year at college, where he had campaigned for local Democrats, picketed a Republican-alumni meeting once, wore his hair shoulder-length and smoked dope more often than he drank, which was frequently.

He had also gotten into the Protean Man theory, and this was the main reason he had accepted the Navigator job. He was at the camp on a dare-one which had been offered him by a Religious Studies professor who was also a good friend. "You can only go through life as one thing, as one image, one character," the professor had told him. "Leading various lives, taking on different lifestyles and wearing them like so many new hats is dangerous."

John had disagreed. He wanted to experience as many aspects of life as possible and had often thought he would be willing to give up certain elements of h is character to do so. Could it be done?

He wanted to try. He had his hair cut short, donned a grinning, hail-fellow-well-met countenance and travelled 600 miles to teach swimming, virtue and character to wealthy white Protestant children. He left his water pipe and his books on Zen Buddhism back at college in his roach-infested apartment. He wanted more than anything to prove to his teacher that he could fit another mold, that he could pull off the ruse, that he could change perspectives, and he had.

26

illustration by NOREENE BURNETT

He felt good about It. He had taken the job feeling as if there would be little to lose. He had made no other commitments for the summer and, what the heck, the money was fair and he'd be out in the sun and fresh air all day long. A nice summer. Now this.

Bryant Turner asked him to stay, to continue his good work with the cabin and at the lake. John said he wou Id. He said he appreciated the second chance and the fairness. Just when he began to

thin k it was all over, when he speculated they would probably ask him to pose with a smiling young camper for the cover of the camp yearbook, another question came up which he had not expected.

"Do you smoke grass at school?" Turner asked.

The relief and relaxation, the feeling that it was over, left as quickly as it had come. The butterflies moved in again and in a quick gesture he pushed both his palms down the tops of his legs from mid-thigh to knee to wipe off the dampness.

"Yes I have, occasionally, but not often," he said, and immediately he wished he hadn't. Now there wou Id be a mixing of his school-self with his summer-self and he knew he would have to compromise himself somewhere along the line. He cursed the blunder.

"Well, John," Turner continued, "we're going to have to ask you to sign a statement saying you won't do it again, even at school. We just don't want that type of person working at our camp and we don't want our employees to get mixed up with the wrong crowd after they leave here. Do you understand our point of view?"

In order to save his job, he agreed. He signed his full name, John Reynolds Eitman, to the contract, knowing full well he could not stand on it, knowing when he went back to school in the fall he would forget about his signature as quickly as it had taken him to write it.

E.verything was patched up then, all hunky-dory, for him anyway, even though five counselors and one camper were being sent home. He walked out of

the office into the hot pine-scented air, toward the lake 'lnd the remaining two hours of the afternoon's work.

When he climbed over the fence surrounding the lake, he saw to his dismay that the guards were doing a systematic drill, a search of the entire bottom area of the lake which was done once a week just for the guards to stay

in shape incase a real emergency arose. He quickly dumped his sunglasses and his towel in the shed and went out to the edge of the dock to join in the systematic.

As he passed Tim, the chief of the swim staff, he gave him a quick signal that everything was OK, that he'd be able to work for the remainder of the summer, then found his place in the line-up of seventeen guards ready to begin the drill.

"Ready ... Down," Ti m shouted, and at this signal the staff jumped into seven feet of water, the shaliowest part of the lake. Spaced three feet apart, they each swam three strokes along the bottom and then came up for air. They lined up evenly with the man who was farthest behind, then took another gulp of air to go down again. The lake had a sloping bottom and the guards would be going down fourteen feet to gluey mud and weeds before the drill was over.

"Ready ... Down," Tim called again, and John pushed his arms over his head and plunged downward until his feet hit weeds and then the solid bottom. He swam three strokes and thought how he hated to do this damn drill but after today's previous ordeal he could get through anything. His lungs tightened, he exhaled and pushed himself up quickly to the surface of the green water.

Line up again, then down deeper this time, where the water was darker and colder and he couldn't see the bottom now; he just pushed his hands and arms over leaves and mud that got progressively thicker.

"I wish I hadn't signed that damn contract," he thought while underwater, Clit puts a kink in everything. J didn't get away with the joke entirely. I feel

Ii ke I've sacrificed part of myself for something that just isn't worth it. "

He pushed off the bottom again and struggled to the surface, barely making

it to the top this time to inhale a deep breath of air.

IIOnce more and we'll be to the other side," he told the guard next to him. IIAlmost there."

II Ready . .. Down." And it was down to the depths this

time, the deepest part of the lake. What looked pleasing and coolon the surface was dank and cloudy underneath . John pushed himself all the way down, swam through clouds of loose mud, reached for the dock which had to be close by now.

Cli lost something. john Eitman did not make the play quite the way he had planned it. I took the dare, I've been pretty successful at this godawful YMCA camp, but was it worth the price?

II Professor Hodges is going to be basking in I-told-you-so wisdom when he finds out. OK. So he's right: you can't change your character. It just won't work out."

His outstretched hand finally touched the slippery side of the dock and he pushed himself up, grabbin~ through more and more water for that welcome, beautiful air. Finally. He gasped and swallowed the air sharply.

ClGod, it's over," one of the guards said. "I shou Idn 't have eaten that spaghetti for lunch. It feels like it's about to come up."

john, glad the systematic was over for at least another week, walked to the shed, got his jacket and went out to the far side of the dock to take his lifeguard chair for the general swim hour. Kids began coming down to the lake now, some running, some straggling. They shouted, rubbed lotion on their faces, and popped rolled beach towels at each other.

liThe day's almost over, and I'm still here," john said to himself, as he put on his sunglasses again and reached into his pocket for a handful of sunflower seed to munch on until the swim session was over.

27

photo by DAVID DULANEY

28

CONTRIBUTORS ARTHUR BAXTER is a junior at Knoxville College. He contributed poetry.

A junior in art, NOREENE BURNETT's art and illustrations have been used extensively in the Phoenix.

MICHAE L CARBE RRY, a graduate student in I ndustrial Planning, contributes photography.

MELISSA CLARK designed the back cover of this issue.

A senior in journalism, MIKE COLEMAN is currently editor of the Daily Beacon.

DENNIS CORUN is a graduate student in sculpture.

SHELL Y DOSS is an art major concentrating in drawing.

Freshman DAVID DULANEY won awards at the Southern Highlands Festival with his photography. His work appeared last quarter in the Phoenix

A freshman in journalism, JIM EWING is a photographer who studied at the School of Visual Arts in New York City, where he also served as an assistant art director.

ERIC FORSBERGH is a freshman pre-dental student and non-fiction editor of the Phoenix.

RON HARR, a sophomore in Communications, describes photography as "a modern art that takes something real, changes its impression, and controls the final print ."

Formerly editor of the ERATO at Georgia Tech, MAX HEINE is managing editor of the

Phoenix.

JOHN JOB is a poetry student at the Radcliffe Institute, a graduate division of Harvard University.

M.K. JONES is a 1972 graduate of UT. For him "poetry is a means of catharsis."

J.M. KILLINGSWORTH is a senior English major. He describes his intentions as "toward objectivity, toward understanding art as a social phenomona, toward a scope that is broadened beyond individual expression."

WADE LAWRENCE is a sophomore Fine Arts major. He describes his photography as "half realism and half distortion."

A graduate student in art, JOANNE LUONGO is presently involved in experimental uses of photog rams.

ED MONTGOM E RY, a graduate student in art, has been published numerous times in the Phoenix. He has also done illustrations for the magazine.

Formerly poetry editor of the Phoenix, QUENTIN POWERS is now a graduate student at L.S.U. and poetry editor of the literary magazine there.

KATHY PROFITT contributed poetry to this issue of the Phoenix .

STEVE REYNOLDS contributed fiction to this issue of the Phoenix.

Working on a doctorate in curriculum, ANNE RONEY adds to her poems published in

recent issues. She describes her poetry as "ultra-personal."

ROBERT WALKER, a sophomore in English, and poetry editor of the Phoenix. "My poetry is the maturing expression of my basic impulses."

HAR RY WEI LL, an architecture major, offers details of a world plan based on a futuristic transportation system.