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Rational

Subtext

ModernglyphixModernglyphix is to serve as a collaborative enterprise between unique points of human expression. There has always been an innate human drive to record and respond to history. Through any available medium, we aim to continue this tradition by making manifest in this world the products of our own consciousness, without fear of judgment or retribution. This practice is to serve as a social and artistic commentary while participating in the evolving tide of events against the suppression of our mental faculties.

Copyright © 2013

Ian Darrenkamp, Rory Heslin,

D. Rapp, Aaron Slagle,

Brian Slagle, and Evan Slagle.

All rights reserved

printed in Lancaster, PA

CONTENTS6Once Over

14Modern-lyrix

16Planetary

22Woman Full of Trouble

26Double Take

40Ghost of Me

42Canvas

48Dualist Theory

54Between A Gun, Me

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6 Lens | modernglyphix.com

I don’t remember when it was first mentioned to me, but I recall being confused when someone said how a scanner could also be used as a camera. I didn’t understand at first what that meant. I have only ever used a scanner for books and documents that I needed for my various classes. But after looking through some projects on the photography blogs that I am a religious follower of, I came to a better understanding of what a photograph really is: a way of rendering an image. After that, there was the evening that I was supposed to go out to a concert, but instead I wound up home sick with a fever. I eyed my scanner sitting in the corner. Could I possibly make a project of scanned images? What would I even scan? As I was asking myself this, I remembered a quote of photographer Garry Winogrand’s, “I don’t have anything to say in any picture. My only interest in photography is to see what something looks like as a photograph. I have no preconceptions.” I never liked that quote, but that night, it struck a chord with me.

So late, one sick evening, I decided to give it a shot. I didn’t necessarily know what I was trying to accomplish, I was just scanning a million things out of curiosity since I never really did a scanning experiment before.

Before I knew it, I had scanned over 40 different things that were all over my room, and I realized that there was a cohesiveness to it just as a result of that: this is my room, these are my surroundings, these are the things that I see or use or come into contact with on a daily basis. Once I saw it as that, it made more sense to me, and the editing process became much easier.

These are my tools. These are my decorations. But, when it comes down to it, these are just things, just like the very scanner that was used to record all of these images. The scanner was able to render these in a way no camera set-up could, and was an exercise in seeing the things that surround you in a different way, whether they be shoes, your hands, or tools of your trade.

Once Over

by Ian Darrenkamp

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14 Glyphix | modernglyphix.com

by Rory Heslin and Aaron Slagle | illustration by Evan Slagle

ModernlyrixSkeleton Key by Rory Heslin Infinite Sorrow by Aaron Slagle

If I groove out of timeIf I step out of lineRun a bead on me Be my skeleton key

Hide your fears behind the freakOr will you leave that up to me?At the Wailing Wall, down on one kneeNow turn me loose I’ll be your skeleton key

The time it takes to find somewhereThe time of which you do not careMay be the best of allI make my plea Be my skeleton key

In this vast room that you seeThere are secrets hidden easilyReach out and touch themBut how could that be? You’d be my skeleton key

Wandering eyes off their leashCan’t ever be tied downNow I’m grooving out of timeRun a bead on me Be my skeleton key

It can happen to anyone, so, why me?Slit my wrists; change my nameTransverse like creditsEnter the abyss

I can’t find my way withoutWhere were you?The rope disappeared before the fallNobody was really there

Here we are with hand and heartOne stabbing the other with no remorseJust a corpseFood to ash, love to gnash

Don’t loll in tricksMaybe you love ghouls and witchI ain’t holy, no saint, no shamanFind yourself a savior, I ain’t him

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Heaven came down on me (And I begged it to stay)Heaven came down on me (Then it pulled away) The Rover was asking meIf I, I would stay (‘Till my judgment day)Calling from a roomWhere, as a child, I would stay (Then I turned away)

Smile, sure I do,When it suits you(Who remembers well)The heavy games we playedIn the lazy fields (Beautiful decay)

Long days cast a wakeIn the memory poolOf an Ozark lake They threw a jubileeTo present giftsThat are not for you to take (Then we turned away)

White mountains in the fallDrawing shadows long and tallThis time of year, you can paint pictures in the airHad a story to tell the faces moving amongst the trees (But then I turned away)

Holy ghost roamingThe dog’s mouth foaming (I haven’t gotten scared)

Magnified steps in the leavesOf the tall birch trees (Brooding creature must beware)

Tearing through the leaves in a wide grove of treesComes the innocent shot belaidenCarries with it a thousand debtsBut cares not what currency it’s paid in

Heaven Nor Hell by Rory Heslin Ragged Soul by Rory Heslin

Aspen leaves shimmer and shakeAs Portland waves peak and break.Down to the sea with minds of vengeanceThey’ll have their way tonightScanning the land he watches his preyOnly one will he choose to take Keeping up with the JonesesWho wants to take their turn?The father builds a personal dream…Tells his son he has much to learn

Docile creatures fill the coastSet about making the most…Of the life they’ve been givenSoon they’ll face an angry sea,To which they’ll break their only key…To the doors they were promised

Jesus Christ, it’s gone too farDigging deep, they found the jar…Our entire world was sealed away inLeaving early will buy us timeBut should the universe align…Huge debts we’ll be payin’ A ragged soul goes striding byYes, the water gets that high…Always in the hard timesThe shrine is set for its creationBut being bereft of all protection…One can always hear the wind chimes

16 Lens | modernglyphix.com

The great irony of this project is that it was born in the very way I am trying to rebel against.

You see, people get caught up in their own little worlds. You see people wrapped up in their iPods on their entire commutes to work on the subway, or talking with someone on their phones while going through the checkout line at their local grocery store, or sitting on their laptop at a local cafe while trying to get some work done.

It’s become increasingly rare that you see someone simply being. Mindful and present without any sort of “distractions.” For example, a person at a coffee shop simply sitting there and observing the world around him or her. Why is it that when I go to leave the house, I feel compelled to grab my headphones and drown the noise of the world out with my choice of music? Why do I spend hours on end sitting on my computer, aimlessly meandering the vast abyss that is the internet when I could be doing other, more productive, things with the precious time I have on this planet?

So I came across these “little planet” photographs online somewhere in my random adventures. It struck me, and I wanted to go about doing it myself. Luckily for me, this project had a tutorial on how to do them yourself if you were so inclined. That’s when I began to realize how wasteful life on the internet can be. For every useful article that teaches you something new, there’s ten-million articles related to cats or puppies or sports or entertainment that, when you read them, provide no sort of substance to your life at all. I’ve not once read a sports article and came away from it thinking, “Man, where would I be had I not read that?”

But it’s so easy to get wrapped up into this little world. We’ve been conditioned to do just that. It’s a coping mechanism in a way. But this project in particular, visually representing these little worlds, is what made me realize that you have to go after what really inspires you and disregard whatever does nothing for you, regardless of how cathartic it may be.

Planetaryby Ian Darrenkamp

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Planet Red TreePhiladelphia, PA

2012

18 Lens | Planetary | modernglyphix.com

Planet EvanMillersville, PA2012

Planet Grain TerminalBrooklyn, NY

2011

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20 Lens | Planetary | modernglyphix.com

Planet WatertowerMillersville, PA2012

Planet GraveyardPhiladelphia, PA

2012

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Without a taste of its product or knowledge of its history, you would have a hard time distinguishing ‘Dock Street’ from its neoteric pub competition. Its shell—an old firehouse perched on the plaza intersection of 50th and Baltimore in West Philadelphia—is unimposing. Its petite owner, likewise, unassuming. But, both the brewery’s physical space and the stature of its shepherd belie their importance. In a world dominated by masculine images of beer and entrenched drinking habits, Rosemarie has stood undaunted, using her creative energy to improve her deteriorating community and the taste of consumers according to her own terms. Dock Street’s mother is an iconoclast; standing for the proposition that “what is” is not “what ought”—and choosing the third of two options is the path to self-fulfillment.

I meld into the crowd after drifting across the unfinished concrete floor. In my head, the room dilates. I slide backwards. The bar, a soda fountain for adults. Tap handles devolve to aeronautical stainless malt blenders and fuzz back. Frost-lined chest freezers oscillate with the wood-fired pizza oven behind the left bulge of the bar. Stacks of hardwood lining the back wall rise and melt, returning from tin-plate Coke advertisements. Amidst the change, the giddy spirit that unflinchingly transforms loose change into a drink remains.

An Inspirational Conversation With Rosemarie Certo, Owner and Founder of Dock Street Brewing Company.

Woman Full of Trouble

by Brian Slagle

The early Tuesday evening is host to a young mother with two children coming to enjoy the city-favorite fare; a wallflower couple tucked in conversation over snifters of a Belgian seasonal; a local upper-twenties guy sharing laughs and a porter with the bartenders; and a roundtable of engineering students siphoning happy-hour rounds. I drop onto the benched perimeter of the one room operation by the front windows, holding a vantage point of the staff and the woman who I’ve only seen in dated Google image result thumbnails. The high ceiling and hard surfaces imbibe a spirit more dense than the patrons.

Rosemarie arrives exasperated from a brewery tour. “I apologize, you’ve caught me at such a busy time…” The words are mechanical, imparting normalcy, even on this low traffic day. Her short, dark, ruby hair and scarf stand in contrast to the minimalist decoration and the volume of tattoos moving around the room on the arms of her servers. She uses our stunted exchange of preliminary stories to catch her breath but abruptly interrupts herself. She turns, and with a half wave tries to make eye contact with one of her bartenders. “I’m sorry,” she pauses, “I’m trying to get someone’s attention. I’m trying to teach them something and I want them to do it on their own.” After another minute of ineffective transmissions she walks behind the bar to reduce the volume of the “Smells Like

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Teen Spirit” intruding into our conversation. She returns, and after many more apologies, dives into the first days of the business.

Conceived in 1985, a year after the current hegemon of the American craft brewing market, The Boston Beer Company (Sam Adams), Rosemarie faced the challenge of changing generations of bred-in-the-bone drinking habits and creating an industry. From the time it was founded, Dock Street’s mission was to “elevate the status of beer.” In Beer Advocate schtick she quips, “At the time no one respected beer.” In the mid-1980’s, beer purchases were binary. Consumers either bought the adjunct-laden swill of the domestic giants or opted for foreign imports. As she mused, “We created an industry… we were part of the people who set the basis. We started washing bottles in our bathtub…. We were out to convince people one by one. We were indefatigable.”

Through 1990 Dock Street owned no commercial brewing equipment. Unusual today, the beer was contract brewed through the same New York firm as the now-ubiquitous Boston Lager. I stop her. I ask the question everyone always asks who is an outsider to business, confused at how the idea came into physical existence. I struggle to make such a blunt idea more pointed. “How did you make

the conscious jump into the wild of the business world? She laughs, parrying the question. “I think ignorance is what propels us. That and passion. You need to believe in something so strongly that you will throw caution into the wind. Your whole life becomes what you’re going to do. It’s not a job- it becomes part of who you are. Then, you do whatever it takes to make that work.”

Rosemarie attributed her passion to her family business in Sicily making wine and olive oil. She cultivated her Italian cooking practices while at Moore College of Art. Between a non-starter as a philosophy professor and briefly entertaining stint as an industrial photographer, the roots pushed through. Her cooking led to hosting friends for parties. These friends energized her with the encouragement that she could market her beer, which was created with the help of her future ex-partner and ex-husband- a fellow Moore student. She saw the evolution of her occupation as a continual improvement. “We say winemakers are farmers, and brewers are scientists. I further say [brewing]’s like alchemy. You’re basically changing malt and hops into liquid gold.”

The seeds of her first challenge were sown after soliciting $80,000 in start-up capital. Faced with resistance from naysayer distributors akin to consumers, she labored

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to secure a $30,000 agreement (later to be matched by a second distributor) which required her to forego a significant portion of the royalties for each case sold. The remaining $20,000 came from friends and family. Described as the “the best thing we ever did,” Rosemarie and her partner dropped $50,000 on a white table-cloth, George-Pierrer-led hospitality release party at the seaport museum at Penn’s Landing. The media presence put them on the map and started their real roots in Center City. The birth of the physical brew-pub coincided with the birth of their first daughter. The interests of the two were one in the same. Rosemarie recalled that when the initial capital was running out they did not have enough money to pay for their diaper service. Being a product of the 70s, she did not believe in plastic diapers and used hand towels and anything that was sanitary. “That’s what it takes to start a business. You have to really believe in something.”

Yet, as their production volume increased, so did the problems. As she recalled, “When there is money to be made, that’s when the problems start. If you’re not making money no one cares what you’re doing.” In 1995 the investors attempted a “hostile takeover.” At the time, Dock Street’s annual sales topped 3.5 million on the back of its three flagship beers- the Amber Ale, Bohemian Pilsner, and Illuminator Bock. Knowing the stakes, she secured counsel to navigate partnership law and what offerings had to be made to her investors. Though she prevailed in all of the challenges, the troubles were too much for her partner whose creative energy couldn’t outlast the onslaught of business and politics. Where he recoiled, she attacked, testifying before Congress on fair-trade issues involving import and export duties to expand her market. She protested, inverting her labels until her cases ceased costing sixty-five dollars at their destination in Paris.

Against her wishes, the business was sold in 1999 to a well-known operator of the Philadelphia Brewing Company. Having felt like she lost a child, she watched the new owner mangle what she had built. Slipping quality shrank output from 28,000 barrels a year to 2,000. For three years she watched the demise, keeping her entrepreneurial spirit alive on the sidelines by opening a specialty Sicilian pizza restaurant. Previously eager to recount the entire progression of the business without interruption, she paused, somberly. “I was lost without the business. Without Dock Street, it was as if someone had died.” The parallels to Jim Koch and the Boston Beer Company were too prevalent to ignore. “If I had done it on my own, it could have been that big.” She blinks. After a moment of reconsideration, she adds, “I also didn’t want that. I loved what we were doing and I love what I’m doing now.” Talking to Jim Koch about how much she missed the beer industry after she had sold the business, he failed to console her stating, “It gets in your blood and you can’t get rid of it.”

She elaborates on Jim. “He would kill his mother for his company. I might kill anybody except my kids. My mother is not alive, so I don’t have to worry about that one.” Her laugh is quick and smug, lingering with a stiff smile. She then struggled to flesh out the relationship with her own business. When on vacation, she is always available for calls. Her head is always with the brewery. She eventually concludes, “It’s a different thing. It’s not a job. Maybe it is who I am. To me, that is the nice part of it. I always compare it to others working- they wait ‘til the end of the day before they start their lives because they can’t integrate their own persona into what someone else is dictating… most people I know hate their jobs, that’s the beginning and the end of it. Sometime I work 8 hours a day, sometimes I work less, sometimes I work 10. I think we decided how we wanted to live the rest of our lives. Did we want to work for someone else or derive where we were going to go, what we were going to do?”

Still owing money to Rosemarie, the new owner defaulted, allowing her to force a sheriff’s sale in 2002. The brewpub is still on a relative recovery from its status in the late 1990s. She juggled the sale of her other business while looking for a location to host the resurrected Dock Street brand, recently described as a “small artisanal brewery” by the New York Times. In 2007 the current location was opened. As to the future, she remains guarded of her child. “I’m not ready to talk about it, but I will tell you I’m not interested in developing the restaurant side, I’m interested in going back to the cases…”

Our conversation ends as it began, somewhat abruptly. She punctuates her exit with more managing, instructing a server to rearrange the last row of tables. She leaves our table to talk to another guest with equal energy. She offers the space to help with a local community scholarship effort and is planning this year’s gathering.

Before getting me a complimentary beer, I get to ask one last question. With the prospectus admittedly rosy, I interject, prompting for an explanation of how she managed to retain her success. The uniqueness of her own experience was not lost upon her. “People now, younger people do business in totally different ways. I don’t know how to put my pulse on it, but a lot about statistics and surveys, and what is going to work and buying into what the corporate world dictates, as opposed to a start-up business. Some people are able to skip all that like the way we started, like a grassroots, fundamental business. I still think of doing it from the ground up, to build a solid foundation and not grow too fast.”

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26 Lens |modernglyphix.com

When Evan and I decided to do a photography project together, we had a hard time coming up with a concept. We wanted something that would simultaneously show each of our visions while working in harmony together. That’s when I decided to take a calculated risk: attempting a random multiple exposure photography project.

The premise was simple: go out and take a bunch of shots and whittle it down to 24 of our favorites and randomize them in any given order. Then, go through and match each one of ours number for number. So first to first, second to second, so on and so forth. We wanted to create something as true to the experience of sharing a roll of film with someone without actually having to use a roll of film. Maybe that will be a project for another day.

We both went out shooting with the intention of creating a multiple exposure photography project, but the fun of it was not knowing how it was going to line up with the other’s photographs. I went out and tried to focus on mostly textures or a strong sense of a single subject, as those usually lend themselves well to multiple exposures.

But what I found was that there are things you can’t plan for, and that it sometimes works out even better than if you had tried to plan it otherwise. It was sheer fate that somehow lined up my shot of my mothers statue of St. Francis in Lancaster to Evan’s shot of a cross in Northern Liberties Philadelphia, or that a huge ship in the sky floats mysteriously towards an unassuming pedestrian in another shot. Or, perhaps most impressively, a sunset filled with blown-out lanterns adorning a festive Rittenhouse Square on a dark December night..

Each shot follows the same formula as shown on the opposite page. Evan’s shot is the thumbnail on top (or the left), my shot is the thumbnail on the bottom (or the right), and the larger image is the composite of both together. Some worked, some did not. But that’s the beauty of randomness. You don’t even know what you’re going for until it’s presented right in front of you.

Double Take

Text by Ian Darrenkamp | Images by Evan Slagle and Ian Darrenkamp

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28 Lens | Double Take | modernglyphix.com

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People say ghosts haunt us because they have unfinished business to attend to before they move on. There’s a need to resolve some matter before the spirit passes on to the peaceful after. The untimely end tends to leave moments that were not fulfilled, hopes, wishes, regrets not taken care of before one left the state they were in. Ghosts serve a purpose to those they haunt, bringing truths to light, in order to have the spirit be at peace with what happened. I never knew who these people were who had such insight on ghosts, but I’ve found out they’re right.

The end came and stopped my breath instantly. My heart that beat with its assured rhythm ceased to beat as it had before. Comfort turned to panic, a misunderstanding of what was happening to the core of my being. Vision cloaked with a grey haze, I fell into darkness. The ending came quicker than I realized. Perception only works as well as we allow ourselves to believe it and though all the indications were there, I didn’t see it coming.

Drifting through, I no longer knew restful sleep. It was merely the ominous repetition of anxiousness. As soon as I would drift into calm, the same dim shadow would creep over me and I would remember. The darkness would manifest everywhere, outside windows, behind doors, at the foot of my bed, hovering. Voices would grow louder, yet I couldn’t decipher the conversations. What are they trying to tell me? Unable to move, unable to breathe. The inability to talk would build into a struggle to scream.

Ghost of Meshort story by D. Rapp | illustration by Ian Darrenkamp

“Wake up!” I could hear repeating in my mind. “Please just wake up and this will all be ok.” But as much as I attempted to will it so, I stayed asleep and the dismal shadow loomed.

I knew everything was far from alright. That I wouldn’t wake up. That I had left you and there was nothing to do to go back. I should have told you more often how I felt, when I still had the opportunity. So many unfulfilled promises, not given a chance to be kept. Adventures we would never take, even though we planned the minute details from the comfort of our bed. There would be miles of road traveled, windows gazed out, walls painted and gardens tended, moans of ecstasy, tears of anguish, pregnant bellies and sweet lullabies in the night, gray hairs and photographs faded. But it was all stolen from us. Blindsided. How could I have seen this coming?

Time presses on, though I’m unsure how long. Mourning doesn’t last long with you. Your sadness turns to smiles quicker than I would have expected. And I’m still in my obscure haze. I realize I’m trapped, restless, alone. Somewhere in the darkness I long for you to sense me, see me, hear me. A small glimmer of something forgotten. I briefly hear a melody carry on the breeze as a door creaks open, but there it is again – the dark shadow, the panic, the stopped heartbeat.

Purgatory’s timepiece is broken. The days blur together. I see a clock and the second hand is stuck on the same click,

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but the hour hand spins like a 45 record. I keep thinking I can finally decipher the message in the conversations that carry on the wind. But much like talking underwater, I’m only able to make out harsh sounds and incapable of figuring out the subtle intricacies of the words.

The hazy panic eventually turns into a blinding anger, the dark shadow now a red rage. How long will I be stuck here? What’s the point? The struggle to scream becomes constant until the voice in my head turns raspy and worn, barely a whisper, like the mornings after a night of too many cigarettes and rounds of whiskey. I want to smash things, to shatter glass so that you know I’m here and want, no, need to be heard. All those promises, unfulfilled. What a fucking waste. I have a sense you’ve forgotten the sound of my voice by now, and I’m doubtful it would inflict the feeling it once did. I should have seen this coming.

I’m still stuck, breathless and at a standstill. I think I remember the woman who used to be me. She used to laugh until her sides hurt, smile like she knew the best secrets. Now the laughs turned to sighs of exhaustion, the smiles to gradient shadows of somber gray. I’m unsure, in the depths of my soul, when I will feel the brightness and warmth of light again. But I know that I want to find that woman again.

The faceless shadows about me swirl, mumbling and muttering their messages but I can barely make out the

consonants and vowels. Hardly a whisper, I hear it. Finally a piece of the conversation catches the wind and my synapses fire in the correct order to make it out.

“Hooooope.”

The long drawn out ooooo sounds more like a sigh than a word. The message still carries along on the wind as it strays across one single ray of sunlight. The dark haze seems to curl back from the solitary ray in shame.It is the struggle through the darkness that has been the message, gleaning the truth each agonizing moment. The indistinguishable words meant little; it was the feelings of bitter solitude and frustration that taught the most. The obscurity clouded my judgment. Perception is only what we choose to believe. All this time, my mind has been playing tricks on me, a cruel misconception, and my insight has been tainted with the pain of how it all ended.

I finally realize it is not me that’s been lost. I’ve been here all along, hidden from myself. A funhouse mirror illusion, a mean trick of deception and delusion. You’re the one that’s gone. And I have accepted that you will never see me or hear from me again. I’m giving up the ghost and moving into the light so that I might sleep peacefully once again.

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My art has traditionally been a reactionary process fueled by both outward realities as well as unconscious, subtextual influences that find a need to come to the surface. This particular period of my life has been particularly challenging because of the lack of time I have been able to devote to any single project. As a result, much of what I have produced lacks cohesion, save for a few pieces which were finished as complete ideas from single, di-rect influences. Ultimately there has been a general theme of fragmentation, inner tur-moil and personal change which has manifested itself in unforeseen ways. I have tried to view this as a creative opportunity rather than a restraint, and allow this to drive my work.

Artwork by Evan Slagle

Fragmented Mind

42 Canvas | modernglyphix.com

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44 Canvas | Fragmented Mind | modernglyphix.com

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46 Canvas | Fragmented Mind | modernglyphix.com

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48 Lens |modernglyphix.com

I’ve always struggled with the phrase, “Seeing things in black and white.” I find it very limiting. It took me a long time to figure out that things aren’t just in black and white, but there are many shades of grey, as well. I was content with that when I realized that that, too, was also limiting. From the years I spent studying photography, it was very much an attitude of “Black and White vs. Color photography,” a view that is, with pun totally intended, a bit too “black and white” for me. Is it possible to create captivating images that are black and white as well as color?

I wanted to explore the different possibilities. I wanted to break the mold of black and white vs color and I think I was able to figure out a process which combines the best of both worlds thanks to multiple-exposure photography. What I decided to do was set my camera up on a tripod and take multiple shots of a scene without moving the camera. I took two frames that were right next to each other, edited one to be a color shot, and edited the other as a black and white photo. I went even further and inverted the colors of the black and white version and blended them in with the color version of the same scene.

What I discovered was fascinating. The color and black and white images mutually enhance each other, with the colors standing out more as a result of the black and white parts of the image while the black and white parts of the images stand out in stark contrast to the color. They both stand out, thus they both blend in. They work together to create something bigger than itself.

Motion was integral to these photos. The passing of time and the colors working together are what truly makes each image unique and as dynamic as they are. As I was creating these images, what it made me realize is that there is no such thing as dualism. It’s not this or that, or this be-cause of that. It is, and always will be, this and that. Opposing ideals can make things appear to be black and white, or something exists because of the other. Love exists because of hate. Light because of darkness. Let’s try to look at it as light and dark. Love and hate. Color and lack of color. A different scope for the same thing.

Dualist Theory

by Ian Darrenkamp

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The night was Tuesday, November 27th.

I wanted to meet up with Nicole to work on some homework together. I had my magazine due in a couple of days and I was working on starting to lay it all out. It was a daunting task, but something I knew that I was capable of doing. We decided to meet up at The Last Drop Café, this place at 13th and Pine Streets. I would always bike past it on the way to school, and Nicole said that they had a really cool basement, so we both agreed to meet up there at around 6:00.

The reason I wanted to do work at a café was because I didn’t want to be cooped up in my room all day doing work. I know that isn’t good for the psyche, and that it’s good to keep the bedroom as a sacred place for relaxing and therapeutic exercises. Whatever.

I get to the café before she does and proceed to stake out a table on the main floor. I didn’t want to go straight to the basement and risk her standing outside waiting for me wondering where I was at since I wasn’t anywhere to be seen on the main floor. I decided to go with a hot chocolate instead of my usual coffee since I had just purchased a personal french press a couple of hours earlier at the OCF Coffee House. I didn’t want to have too much caffeine for one day, ya know? Even though hot chocolate has just as much caffeine probably… but that’s not the point. I digress.

I’m learning that fake ellipses aren’t cool. Like, if I don’t actually pause when I’m writing out an ellipses… it is ingenuine. The one I just did was real, but the one prior was not. I always pride myself on writing the way I think (which is apparently pretty unique, although it doesn’t capture my killer accent), so I needed to say that to remind myself that I must remain vigilant in… just being real.

In any case, so Nicole gets there after I finished one of the best hot chocolates of my entire life (seriously), and she decided she wanted to sit next to me to see what I’m working on since it interested her. So we’re sitting there for a while.

I forgot to mention that when I first got there, the table I sat at was by two young black males. About my age, maybe older. I remember thinking, “They seem out of place.” They were really quiet. Only one of them actually had a drink (a small tea that he spent 10 minutes preparing at the sugar station). It just seemed odd to me. Maybe it’s me being racist. They appeared stand-offish. Not really happy to be there or in each other’s company.

I disregarded that notion. Wrote it off to pure racism. I stuffed my nose into my work and started to make some progress. I was getting the table of contents page pretty well laid out when I looked up and the two men I sat by were walking into the shop with guns in their hands.

A Stream-of-Consciousness Recount of Being Robbed at Gunpoint

by Ian Darrenkamp

Between A Gun, Me

Modernglyphix 55

“This is a robbery,” the one man said. “Nobody move.” I remember seeing the gun and hearing him say that and thinking, “Ha! Okay! This isn’t real.” He sounded so meek, so unsure of what he was trying to do. The gun looked so small in his hand, as though it wasn’t even real or he didn’t even know what he was doing with it. I don’t know how size of gun and knowing what one is doing with it correlate, but it does in this case maybe.

It turned out he wasn’t kidding at all. They walked around the coffee house demanding people’s electronics. The guy in the puffy blue coat brushed aside Nicole’s wallet in order to grab her iPhone. I didn’t know what I was thinking at the time, but looking back, that is so strange to me. Why didn’t he grab her wallet?

And then puffy blue coat directed his attention to me. He wanted my phone. I, being the idiot I am, had my full spread of my phone and computer out (minus my camera, thank God), and didn’t know what to do. I told him no, that he couldn’t have my phone. I clutched it in my left hand. He wanted my computer. I told him no, that I was working on my graduation project and that he couldn’t take my computer because I would fail. “Fail what?” he asked. “My class, college, life in general.” He shook his head with a sort of grimace and half-yelled, “Man!” I got the impression that he thought I didn’t know how hard life could be. He turned his attention back to my phone. He reached over the table and Nicole and got a hold of it, but he couldn’t rip it from

my grip. He stepped back, pointed the gun at me, and demanded again that I give him my phone. I told him, yet again, “No.” He appeared visibly frustrated at this point.

Thinking back, I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t know why I was so defiant. A part of me knew that they weren’t going to fire their guns. They were two of the dumbest individuals I have ever witnessed, but I knew they weren’t dumb enough to fire shots in a crowded café in center city at 7:00 at night. That’s just asking for all sorts of trouble that they weren’t looking for. I remember trying to talk to the guy. Asking him, “What’s the problem here? What do you REALLY want?” The obvious answer to that is all of our electronics. As it became increasingly clear things weren’t going as smoothly as they wanted to, they made their exit. Puffy blue jacket man swiped my computer before I knew what happened as they fled the scene. I immediately collapsed onto the table. Glasses and mugs were thrown and water was spilled during their flee. I was soaked and so was my notebook and magazines.

I remember laying there with my head buried under my hands, wet, shaking uncontrollably, breathing heavily. My mind was racing. I don’t know how long I stayed there for. I couldn’t comprehend (I still can’t comprehend) what had just happened. Nicole rubbed my back. I continued to shake. I don’t remember what the first thing I said was. I want to say it was me eventually lifting my head up and asking Nicole if she was okay. I forget though. I was

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that just robbed the café. They did nothing to deserve the hassle they were subjected to. But what the hell can we do? Needless to say, it was just an emotional night. Long, stressful. I didn’t realize what kind of effect it would have on me until days later.

I got home and walked in to a dark house. “Great,” I thought. “No one here even is going to be up for me to talk to them.” But lo and behold, Evan was asleep on the couch waiting for me to get home. It was after midnight at this point, and he specifically went to bed on the couch for me so we could talk when I got home. I never was so happy to have Evan as a roommate. Especially after the first words that came out of his mouth. The very last thing I wanted him to say was, “Tell me what happened!” or something to that affect, because I was just having to talk about what happened all night and I really didn’t want to have to keep that going. Instead, I was relieved and overjoyed (wrong word), when he asked, “So what do you make of all of this?”

This is the question that I’m still struggling with. I can’t comprehend why someone would put someone through such trauma. That an electronic device is worth threatening a life over (even ending a life in other instances). I wanted to know what the problem really was. Were they in dire straits? Did they just need the cash for family purposes? Drug purposes? Education purposes? Did they want the gadgets for the gadgets themselves and to re-gift them? What did they want? What did they REALLY

too wrecked. I could not believe that I had just become another statistic in Philadelphia’s crime reports.

I don’t think I need to get into the rest of the night. The next four hours were spent dealing with police, getting our interviews. Everyone that was there kind of bonded and became a little family. A girl had a gun pointed to her head and got her laptop taken from her. I can’t imagine what went through her mind. But she was cooperative. I got off lucky. She and I had to sit in a squad car for like 45 minutes in the freezing cold while an officer worked on paperwork. It was a blast. She was a med student in town for the first time ever. She was literally in town for four hours. She had a residency interview at Penn the next morning. She said she probably wasn’t going to attend Penn even if she was accepted. Great first impression, Philadelphia! You make me proud!

I remember feeling so stupid throughout the night. I felt like an idiot giving the police officers the description of the suspects. “Young black males, tall, skinny.” That’s hardly a help. And then I felt even worse when we went around in a cruiser trying to identify people. Cops in plain clothes were all over South Street, holding street-corners of kids in a row for us to parade by and check out. It’s such a vicious cycle. I felt so genuinely upset for each person the cops apprehended for us to look at. Sure, the description gave them little to work on, but the kids they had aside... they were so young, so impressionable, so NOT the people

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56 Glyphix | Between Me and a Gun | modernglyphix.com

But that’s what makes humans, well, human. We aren’t all alike. We can try to spread our thoughts out to those who are willing and eager to listen. Others either aren’t as fortunate to have access to these thoughts and ideas or they choose to remain ignorant. Rather, they may not even know their ignorant, so they don’t even make that choice: they just ARE.

When you have a gun pointed at you, and the threat of death seems like an actual possibility but you live to see another day, it really makes you think things through. This is what I’ve been dealing with the most. What would I have done differently if I re-lived the situation? I keep thinking that I could have done more. That I could have disarmed the man. Disarm him and get them to leave. But then I think about how I could get into a standoff then. And that things would have escalated. What if I had just fought the man like the awesome bald foreigner who smashed a mug over the other guy’s head? What if I had resisted even more than I already did? Would I have been met with a bullet to the head? But I have to keep reminding myself that it’s futile to go over it again and again. That’s what I would do the most the days right after it. Reliving it again and again and again. But there’s nothing I could do about it. There’s still nothing I can do about it, and there will never be something I can do about it. I need to let it go.

want? And how could they do what they did with no sort of… indication that they give a shit about other people.

Let me rephrase that… how could any reasonable person be able to live with themselves after causing harm and distress to people the way that they did? I know that I would never be able to do something like that because I would feel like such a shitty human being. I feel bad doing stuff way tamer than that, such as trying to tell someone something they don’t want to hear, but instead of just telling them, I avoid it. So by my trying to avoid being a bad person by not telling them something they don’t want to hear, it makes me an even WORSE person because I avoid it altogether and nothing ever gets addressed. It’s even more sickening that I know this and I do nothing about it.

But I digress, what I need to come to terms with is that there ARE unreasonable people in the world. What I need to come to terms with is that maybe I’m not crazy that other people don’t think about the things that I do, because it’s very clear that people don’t. That doesn’t necessarily make me crazy, but I’m just super aware and I care way too much. No, I just care. Caring “too much” gives it a bad stigma. Caring should have no stigma whatsoever. It should be encouraged. Empathy. Compassion. Understanding. Respect. I know that this wouldn’t have happened if they had the experiences I have had, or rather, the education and the understanding and the lessons I have learned and abiding by my morals.

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Not just that, but it also makes one (hopefully) re-evaluate their life and the decisions they have made that has brought them to that point. Would I have been happy being killed? Let me rephrase that: if I were killed, would I have been at peace with what I was leaving behind?

And the answer to that is a definite, “No.” While I have made some strides in the past… lifetime, I have not become the person I know I am capable of being. Or at least, I think I am capable of being. There’s a lot of loose ends that I need to tie up. I would want to have talked to my parents or grandparents one last time. So what does that mean I need to do? I can’t realistically expect to call my grandparents and parents every day to converse with them. I don’t know. I need to figure it out. Maybe write to them every day. Whatever, I’ll figure it out.

So for the sake of trying to wrap this up, seeing as how it’s now effectively after 4 in the morning, what is the big takeaway from this? One is the fact that I got this all written down. That’s huge for me. Also, it makes me aware that, even if it feels silly to do so, just share what you can. Just because it could have been worse doesn’t make my feelings any less valid or the lessons learned less valuable. I feel a little guilty for how much this has affected me, but I need to get over that. This is what’s happening. This is how I’m reacting. This is how I’m dealing with it. I realize that I need to be patient with myself and not write my problems/

concerns off as nothing, regardless of what I may think of them. I’m thankful every day that everyone came out of it okay. That’s what really matters.

Disregard what others say (or don’t say), but rather, just be happy that you’re at least attempting to make some sort of difference. Ideas are worth spreading. I like to think that my ideas, or rather, my ideals, aren’t bad. I don’t have bad intentions (but then again, who does?). I have much to learn, as does everyone else, and the only way we can learn anything is to 1. admit we know nothing and 2. have someone else try to teach and share with us. Education, among other things, is something that we can recycle for more than it is worth.

To quote from The Catcher in the Rye, “Among other things, you’ll find that you’re not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior. You’re by no means alone on that score, you’ll be excited and stimulated to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You’ll learn from them - if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It’s a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn’t education. It’s history. It’s poetry.” v

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58 Glyphix | Between Me and a Gun | modernglyphix.com

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