motif - concordia university chicago · xenia. the greek notion of . xenia —hospitality—is...
TRANSCRIPT
7400 Augusta Street River Forest, IL 60305-1499 708.771.8300www.CUChicago.edu
Motif Vol. 41 | 2019The Creative Arts Journal of Concordia University Chicago
Editor: David Rogner
Assistant Editor: Andrew Pederson
Art Consultants: Nikkole Huss and BettyAnn Mocek
Music Consultant: Jonathan Stahlke
Graphic Designer: Maria Gedroc
Cover Artists:
Mark Mangiaracina, Angel in the Architecture, Photograph (front cover)
Anastasiya Camp, Frost, Photograph (back cover)
Concordia University Chicago 7400 Augusta Street, River Forest, IL 60305-1499
www.CUChicago.edu
© 2019 All Rights Reserved. MOTIF is published once each spring
by Concordia University Chicago, River Forest
Motif Vol. 41 I 2019
The Creative Arts Journal of Concordia University Chicago
Table of Contents
Award Winner All Things Are Better in Due Measure: Examining the Performatory Function of Hospitality in Homer’s Odyssey, Mya Ramsey ................................................................1Award Winner Passing On, Anneliese Ayers .......................................................................................6Zulu Schoolgirls at Play: Pongolo Valley, South Africa, Eden Schultz, Photograph ......................6Soy Yo, Joseline y Mena, Mosaic ..............................................................................................................7Contract Pending, Viviana Mendoza ......................................................................................................8My Fair Maid, Paul Springer and Jack Hook ...........................................................................................9Just Inside, Emily Pratt, Drypoint Print ..............................................................................................10My World, Chad Abbadessa, Linoleum Print ......................................................................................10How to Kidnap a Theater, Jasmine Luther ...........................................................................................11Self Portrait, Kimberly Wittstock, Colored Pencil ................................................................................12Real Death, Eamon Gonzales ..................................................................................................................13Still Life, Lauren Kuras, Pen Drawing .................................................................................................15Taraxacum, Hannah Anglea ...................................................................................................................16Velvet, Reina E. Triplett, Photograph ...................................................................................................16A Place Far Away, Julian Dorsey ...........................................................................................................17Post, Anastasiya Camp, Photograph ......................................................................................................18Ink Still Life, Kristen Landon, Marker Pen ..........................................................................................19Rap, Ike Strauch .......................................................................................................................................20I Couldn’t Buy Wine at Trader Joe’s Because of My Temporary Paper License, Angela Matera ......20The Power of the Cross, Joshua Teggatz ...............................................................................................21Higher Staircase, Maria Gedroc, Painting ...........................................................................................22A Homily for the Feast of St. Michael and All Angels, Rev. Dr. Patrick Bayens ...........................23Diaphanous, Tina Louise Ewers, Oil on Artist Board ........................................................................24You Saints of God, Glad Voices Raise, Jonathan Kohrs and David Rogner ......................................25The Silent Fiddle, Jasmine Luther ..........................................................................................................26Ode to Man Ray, Mark Mangiaracina, Photograph ............................................................................26June, Alexander Ogden ............................................................................................................................27Gone for Now, Jennil Libo-on, Linoleum Print ...................................................................................28Serene and Calm, Jennil Libo-on, Print ................................................................................................28Still Life with a Lemon Wedge II, Molly Miklosz, Colored Pencil ..................................................29Pillars, Katelyn Church, Photograph ....................................................................................................30Focused on the Past, Mark Mangiaracina, Photograph .....................................................................30Neighbors, Lucas P. Dutil ......................................................................................................................31Claustrophobic, Sydney Patterson, Graphic Design ...........................................................................36On Seeing the Gulf of the Poets, David Rogner .................................................................................37South African Sunset, Eden Schultz, Photograph ..............................................................................37Figure 2, Molly Miklosz, Charcoal Drawing .......................................................................................38Stricken, Smitten, Sam Marquart ..........................................................................................................39Frozen Beach, Alexander Ogden ............................................................................................................41Green Heron, Andrew Steinmann, Photograph ..................................................................................42Girl Removed, Rachael Ann Nuckles, Drypoint Print ........................................................................43Distance, Jason Kohm ..............................................................................................................................44Double Moon, Anastasiya Camp, Photograph .....................................................................................44Night Owls, Leroy Kucia, Graphite, Ink and Wax Pencil on Paper ................................................45
Motif2019
All Things Are Better in Due Measure: Examining the Performatory Function of Hospitality in Homer’s OdysseyMya Ramsey
1
Radke/Sorenson Prizes for Writing
The English Department and the editors of Motif are proud to include in the 2019 issue the winners of the eighth annual Radke/Sorenson Prizes for Writing. These $250 prizes, endowed by an anonymous donor, recognize an outstanding poem and essay written by a junior or senior English major. This year the English Department is pleased to award the essay prize to Mya Ramsey for her essay “All Things Are Better in Due Measure: Examining the Performatory Function of Hospitality in Homer’s Odyssey.” Mya is a senior liberal arts English major from Aurora, IL. The poetry prize for 2019 is awarded to Anneliese Ayers for her poem “Passing On.” Anneliese is a senior liberal arts English major from Lakewood, CA. The awards are named for two distinguished former members of the English Department, Dr. Merle Radke and Prof. Karl Sorenson. Dr. Radke, who specialized in American realist and naturalist fiction, taught English at Concordia from 1957 to 1987. He served for many years as department chair and was also the editor of Lutheran Education. He passed away in 2017 at the age of 95. Prof. Karl Sorenson, who served in the English Department from at 1965 to 1999, taught a variety of courses in British literature and drama. He also directed and acted in many plays, both at Concordia and in local community theaters. Prof. Sorenson passed away in 2004. We also gratefully acknowledge the Dr. Merle and Ruth Radke Endowment Fund, which helps to fund the annual publication of Motif. The endowment was established in 2017 to honor Dr. Radke’s service to the Concordia English Department.
In the scope of the Western canon, the genre of epic poetry holds especial esteem as both cultural artifact and literary leviathan; such is the work of the Odyssey by Homer. Dealing largely with the careful blending of mythology, theism, and heroic journey, the Odyssey offers insight into ancient Greek moral valuations and customs, perhaps most eruditely with the concept of xenia. The Greek notion of xenia—hospitality—is explored prolifically throughout the trials of Odysseus, King of Ithaca, and his crew. It is import-ant both in understanding the cultural significance of being hospitable in a world believed to be walked among by cloaked gods and also as an implement of enculturation for listeners of the epic. Homer demonstrates throughout the Odyssey the consequences of ill-performed hospitality, whether this be the refusal to adhere to the cultural mores that extol generosity towards the weary wanderer, disrespect for a generous host or,
2018 Motif
2
conversely, overly-hospitable hosts whose zeal for keeping a guest extends much further than the guest’s acquiescence with staying.
The recurrent thread of hospitality linked with goodness and, nearly so often the lack thereof, reaffirm the importance of xenia. It is crucial to note the critical role hospi-tality serves in the daily lives of the Greeks as a complex performance of religious, social, and cultural functions. At its most basic sociological function, hospitality exists as a transactional exchange, with certain and specific expectations of appropriate per-formance. Critics Colin Sheringham and Pheroza Daruwalla explore this notion of social economics in their comparative assessment of the links between hospitality and gas-tronomy--that hospitality is fixed in a position of influence that is at its core “not an act of unconditional giving but is measured in its scope and extensiveness” and markedly limited by the same criteria that constructs its meaning. Moreover, “it is not just the giving that defines it but equally the reluctance to share, the holding back” that has a direct impact on the dynamics of the host-guest relationship (Sheringham and Daruwalla 34). The nature of Odysseus’ travels back to his beloved Ithaca marks him as a perpetual wanderer and, much in the same vein, reliant on the hospitality of those whom he encounters on his pilgrimage. On his way, he encounters many variations of the complex host-guest relationship, a symbiosis of appropriate social performance with many moving parts.
As critic Kevin O’Gorman articulates, the boundary separating the divine from the mortal was negligible in the ancient world as “it was not known if the stranger knock-ing at the door was going to be hostile or hospitable, whether he was a God disguised, or watching from above and passing judgement,” and this idea directed behavior accordingly (20). By treating guests well and in turn being well-behaved guests, O’Gordman argues, people use hospitality as a means of facilitating and participating in civilized society (20). Therein lies a deeper connection that conflates the Greek performance of hospitality with both economic prosperity and civility; that is to say that engendering the specific roles of “host” and “guest” is representative of their manner of ascension to a higher class.
This is made immediately apparent in the opening scene of Book I, which finds Telemachus, the sole son of Odysseus and his wife Penelope, left to deal with the band of suitors clamoring for the kingdom in the absence of their king. No longer the small boy from when his father left to fight the Trojan War, Telemachus has grown to be a strong and respectable young man, despite growing up without the paternal connection he desperately craves. It is clear even without the mentorship of his father that Telemachus is aware of and respectful to the expectations of hospitality. When Telemachus sees Athena, although her identity is obscured in her glamour of the youth Mentes, he is shaken with palpable indignation to discover that she as a guest in his home has “been made to wait so long” on the porch (I.131), without being relieved of her affects or offered a comfortable sitting place.
Motif2019
3
While taking her golden spear from the youth, he implores her to have dinner first, then divulge the business that brings the stranger to Ithaca, in a show of humbling hos-pitality (I.132-3). Telemachus goes through the pains to move their seats far away from the suitors “in their noisy and uncouth company” so as not to disturb the guest with their ill manners (I.145), the comfort of the guest being the utmost concern of a hospita-ble host. Telemachus engages in displays of hospitality and piety that simultaneously mark him as both god-fearing and well-mannered, and which are indicative, in part perhaps, by his elevated moral and societal position as the prince of Ithaca.
A compassionate and generous host is only one part of the complex host-guest rela-tionship expected in facilitating hospitality; the guests represent the antithesis to the hosts and are equally able to displease the gods for their less than exemplary behaviors. Contrasted to Athena-Mentes, the suitors are contemptuous house guests, living essen-tially as squatters who have taken up residence without permission in Odysseus’ home, trying to marry his wife while they eat up his stores of food and wine, copulate with the maids, and plot to murder the young heir Telemachus for his father’s throne (I.160-1.269). They have no respect for behaving hospitably; it ultimately has no bearing on how they view themselves or others, nor does it direct the course of their behaviors. The suitors seek to find their end by any means, and if that means camping out in Odysseus’ home and slaughtering all his chattel over the course of his absence, then so be it. Their selfish and impious behavior only aid in their inevitable destruction by the return of Odysseus in Books XXII and XXIII, which culminate in the bloody retribution of a host reclaiming his home.
In conversation with scholar and culinary anthropologist Margaret Visser, Sheringham and Daruwalla remark on the criterion that implores adherence to guide-lines for successful performance, so far as to “not treat people as though they were swine or oxen slaughtered for the feast [...as] we do not get the guests mixed up with the dishes,” or rather should not, although it is necessary to note this is not the case with Polyphemus (Visser 34-35). With an irreverent and cannibalistic glee, he eats several of Odysseus’ men raw and without remorse, denigrating their status from revered guest to meal.
As well, as Visser notes, one of the most egregious crimes within several Greek and Roman folkloric tales, of which the Odyssey is included, is the murder of a guest who, in their vulnerability, is ultimately betrayed by those who are responsible for their protec-tion. This sentiment is integral to understanding the transaction between Polyphemus and Odysseus; the former withholds all means of shared hospitality from the suppliant and instead leverages abuses. Even before exiting the ship and coming ashore on the land of the Cyclopes, Odysseus assembles his crew to outline their plans—intending to go to the Cyclopes’ island for reconnaissance and to “find out what those men are like,”
All Things Are Better in Due Measure: Mya Ramsey
2018 Motif
4
although he has some idea that they are merely “[w]ild savages with no sense of right or wrong,” which serves as a foreshadowing of the encounter to come with Polyphemus, who is both savaged and uncultured (IX. 169-171).
Antisocial and ill-tempered, Polyphemus attends to the idea of hospitality with mockery and derision—it is simply something he does not value. It does not appear to be of particular reverence on the island of the Cyclopes as a whole, as they tend to themselves and their families, far removed from any real sense of communion. Moreover, he condemns Odysseus and the gods when Odysseus asks him for mercy, “hoping [he] will be generous to [them] / and give [them] the gifts that are due to strangers” (IX. 259-260). While this savagery could be absolved as ignorance on the fault of Polyphemus, not knowing the manners and customs associated with Ithacan or even larger Grecian ideal and patronage to the gods, this is disproven with his sardonic remarks to Odysseus. The monstrous Cyclops scorns them, and adding insult to injury, questions the intelligence of Odysseus for thinking he should care about “Zeus or his aegis / Or the blessed gods, since [Cyclops] are much stronger” (IX.267-268). He certainly makes a compelling case for this argument as he goes on to devour the Ithacan crew with little resistance.
Because Polyphemus does not respect the nature of hospitality and the customs associated with it, he is denied aid for the punishment given by Odysseus, who lodges the burning stake into his singular eye. His status as an inhospitable host is without contest, although it should be noted that Odysseus and his men are also less than gra-cious guests; scholar Rick Newton acknowledges this ironic parallel of the suitors in Odysseus’ own home and his subsequent actions as Odysseus is the instigator of this violation of xenia. He enters the dwelling place of Polyphemus without invitation and steals his food to eat yet expects warm welcome in return upon the arrival of its previ-ously absent master (Newton 40), which may be one of the reasons Zeus, King of Gods and with especial dominion over xenia and travelers, allows Poseidon to redirect his course home once again. Odysseus and his men are not guiltless in this perversion of hospitality amongst strangers and are forced to face the disastrous consequences for it.
Nearly as bad as being hostile to a suppliant guest is the overzealous host who is excessive in their friendship and disrespectful of the wishes of the guest to leave. Both Circe and Calypso are guilty of these transgressions of hospitality as they seek to claim Odysseus as their own husbands, despite his vocalized desire to return home to his own wife in Ithaca. Circe, the sorceress, turns Odysseus’ men into swine by giving them poisoned food, which also betrays the nature of the host and guest relationship. She implores Odysseus to lie with her after he uncovers her deceits, which he refuses. Similarly, Calypso detains Odysseus on her island for a significant amount of time, promising him whatever he may want in exchange for becoming her husband, but he again does not concede. Although neither woman could be construed as malicious or not generous enough in their hospitality, they are poor hosts. Instead of listening to
Motif2019
5
Works Cited
Homer. The Odyssey. Norton Anthology of World Literature, vol. A, 3rd. edition, edited by Martin Puchner, et. al. W.W. Norton Company, 2012.
Newton, Rick M. “Assembly and Hospitality in the ‘Cyclôpeia.’” College Literature, vol. 35, no. 4, Fall 2008, pp. 1–44.
O’Gordman, Kevin D. “Dimensions of Hospitality: Exploring Ancient and Classical Origins.” Hospitality: A Social Lens, edited by Conrad Lashley, Paul Lynch & Alison J. Morrison. Elsevier, 2007, pp. 20-30.
Sheringham, Colin, and Pheroza Daruwalla. “Transgressing Hospitality: Polarities and Disordered Relationships.” Hospitality: A Social Lens, edited by Conrad Lashley, Paul Lynch & Alison J. Morrison. Elsevier, 2007, pp. 35-42.
their guest’s wishes to recuse himself, they essentially take to holding him hostage, which is inherently bad form as host. This places excessive hospitality in a similar light as hostility to the needs of a travelling stranger.
The tale of Odysseus and his hard-won return home is certainly not without its les-sons and losses, tragic as they are. The harrowing experiences of Odysseus and his men, of whom there are none remaining by the time he returns to Ithaca, ascribe mortal and material consequences to the performance of xenia and to the Greek understanding of life and social economics. Moreover, a myriad of encounters plague the characters of the poem in a revelation of the pervasive nature of hospitality, showing how resistance to it is both futile and often deadly.
All Things Are Better in Due Measure: Mya Ramsey
2018 Motif
6
Passing OnAnneliese Ayers
I hope I can hold the “close” buttonSo the elevator doesn’t stop on the way up
I hope I won’t have to buy a parking permitI prefer driving to floating
I hope I get to see all the characters that died in moviesI know they had more to say
I hope the dumplings have eighteen foldsEven though I wouldn’t notice the difference
I hope there are still rusty pipes I won’t stop liking industrial chic
Not that I’m picky or anythingAs long as there’s something
Zulu Schoolgirls at Play: Pongolo Valley, South AfricaEden Schultz, Photograph
Motif2019
7
Soy YoJoseline y Mena, Mosaic
2018 Motif
8
Contract PendingViviana Mendoza
You see,
the thing is that most girls grow up being told that their body is a temple,
that it is home to the greatest things.
It is home to a happiness and joy that is like no other.
But the thing is,
I feel more like a house.
It is a house;
I am a house,
with paper thin walls that are easily broken; a boy’s words have torn them down before.
I am a house with broken windows,
a leaky faucet,
a flickering light in the closet,
and a wobbly table.
I am a house with no natural lighting; it’s all artificial.
I am a house with ugly, yellow, dusty, dirty stained carpeting.
I am house that did not come like this;
this is all damage caused by previous residents.
So when I tell you that I love you,
know that I have taken all of the pieces of myself, water damage and all,
and repaired them just for you.
It is because of you that I have taken a needle and sewn up the deepest holes on the
couch that lives in my body, just so you can lie in it.
For I have taken the darkest bedrooms that live inside of me and filled them with
the sunshine that is your smile.
Know that without you I’d be nothing more than broken windows and hollow bedrooms.
It is because of you that I am no longer a house for a boy who refuses to pay rent.
It is because of you that I am now a home,
Where your love is the greatest mortgage payment of them all.
Motif2019
9
F‹ C‹
My
F‹
fair maid left
C‹
one day, her sword
D¨
up on- her hip.
C‹
She left
F‹
with out- a word
C‹
to me or a
q = 111
A
kiss
B¨‹
up on- my lip.
C‹
Have
F‹
you seen
B¨‹/D¨
a mai
C‹
den- fair? She stands
F‹
at six
B¨‹/D¨
foot three,
C‹
with
C‹/E¨
eyes
F‹
like fie
B¨‹/D¨
ry,-
B8
fie
C‹/E¨
ry- coals
F‹
and strong
B¨
arms like an old tree.
C7
My
F‹
fair maid went far
B¨‹
a way;- she fought
F‹
in ma
E¨
ny- a war,
C‹/G
but
C15
still
F‹
she ne ver- came
E¨
in sight, and so
D¨
I'll search
E¨
some more.
C‹
Have
F‹
you seen
B¨‹/D¨
a mai
C‹
den- fair? She stands
F‹
at six
B¨‹/D¨
foot
D22
three,
C‹
with
C‹/E¨
eyes
F‹
like fie
B¨‹/D¨
ry,- fie
C‹/E¨
ry- coals
F‹
and strong
B¨
arms like an old tree.
C7C7
Then
F‹
one day I found
C‹
her,
E29
slumped
D¨
be neath- a tree,
C‹
a sword
F‹
jammed in side
B¨‹
- her. "I've
µ
fina lly- lost," said
F‹
she.
C5/G
Have
F‹
you seen
B¨‹/D¨
a
F36
mai
C‹
den- fair? She stands
F‹
at six
B¨‹/D¨
foot three,
C‹
with
C‹/E¨
eyes
F‹
like fie
B¨‹/D¨
ry,- fie
C‹/E¨
ry- coals
F‹
and strong
B¨
arms like an old tree.
C7C7
The
43
sun
F‹
set; I sat
C‹
be side- and held
B¨‹
her rough hand
C‹
in mine. I drew
Gº
my dag ger- and cut
A¨
my wrist, and I
F‹
told her
C‹
we'd
G50
be
B¨‹
just fine.
D¨
Have
F‹
you seen
B¨‹/D¨
a mai
C‹
den- dead? She rests
F‹
be neath
B¨‹/D¨
- the ground.
C‹
For
H57
I
F‹
in deed
B¨‹/D¨
- have found
C‹
her, and I share
F‹
her bur
C‹7
ial- mound.
F‹62
4
4&
‹
bb
bb
Jack HookPaul Springer
My Fair Maid
&
‹
bb
bb
&
‹
bb
bb
&
‹
bb
bb
&
‹
bb
bb
&
‹
bb
bb
&
‹
bb
bb
&
‹
bb
bb
&
‹
bb
bb
&
‹
bb
bb
Ó Ó œ œ˙ œ œ œ œ
œ œ œ œ ˙ Œ ‰ œ
J
œ ™œ
j
œ ™ œ
j
œ œ œœ œ
œ ™ œ
J
œ
J
œ ™˙ Ó
œ œ
œ ™ œ
J
œ
J
œ ™ œ ™ œ
J œ œ
œ œ ˙ ™ œ
œ œ
œ
J
œ ™
œ
J
œ ™ œ
œœ
J
œ ™ œ œ œ ˙Ó œ œ
œ œ œ
J
œ ™ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ ˙ Œ œ
œœ œ
j
œ ™ œ
J
œ ™ œ œ œœ
œœ ˙ Ó
œ œ
œ ™ œ
J
œ
J
œ ™ œ ™ œ
J œ œ
œ œ
˙ ™ œ
œ œ
œ
J
œ ™œ
J
œ ™ œ
œœ
J
œ ™ œ œ œ ˙Ó œ
œ œ œ œ œ ˙ ™
œ œ œœ œ
˙
‰œ
j˙ œ ™ œ
j
œ
J
œ ™ œ ™ œ
J
œ
j
œ ™ œœ
˙Ó
œ œ
œ ™ œ
J
œ
J
œ ™ œ ™ œ
J œ œ
œ œ ˙ ™ œ
œ œ
œ
J
œ ™œ
J
œ ™ œ
œœ
J
œ ™ œ œ œ ˙Œ œ
œ
J
œ ™ œ œ œ œ
J
œ ™ œ œ œ ˙ œ ™ œ
J
œ ‰œ
j
œ œ œ
J
œ œ
J
œ œ œ ™
œ
j
œ œ œ œ
œœ ˙
œ œ
œ ™ œ
J
œ
J
œ ™ œ ™ œ
J œ œ
œ œ ˙ ™ œ
œ œœ
œ œ
J
œ ™ ˙ Œœ œ œ œ œ œ w
My Fair MaidPaul Springer and Jack Hook
2018 Motif
10
Just InsideEmily Pratt, Drypoint Print
My WorldChad Abbadessa, Linoleum Print
Motif2019
11
How to Kidnap a TheaterJasmine Luther
If you’ve ever been like me,and seen your lease run its courselike the ceaseless Thames, only to haveyour surly landlord refuse to renew it,you have my sympathy.I hope, in your case, your crabby landlordwas not so cruel as to deny you accessto the very theater in which you had invested every timber, every bench, every plank of stage.If you have shared in my misfortune,and lost the rights to the very earthupon which your theater sits, do not despair. You have but one choice:to kidnap your theater.
Here is what I advise:gather your company of players, who are doubtless as mischievous as mine, and assembleat the darkest hour of a holiday night. Bring along the master-builder who first raised up your theater.Under the blanket of night, steal onto said forbidden lands,where he shall direct the dismantling of your theateras though directing an opera. Then you and your company must simply cart away said pieces of theater,float them down river to its new residence.
I suggest Bankside; there you shall be free from the Lord Mayor of London’s frustrating habitof passing laws against playing within the city.Pay your architect handsomely,buy your players a round of drinks for their efforts,and give your ‘new’ theater a new, grander name,as though you intended this move all along.William insists we must call ours the Globe,a ridiculous name for a theater, I’m sure you’ll agree.
2018 Motif
12
Self PortraitKimberly Wittstock, Colored Pencil
Motif2019
13
Real Death Eamon Gonzales
Forest walks are a favorite of mine. They relieve stress, they’re good exercise, and they really spice up boring summer days. The forest preserve is one of the only spots that you can really be alone in a city as dense as Chicago. I like to treat them as little expeditions in my life. I stuff my pack and make mental maps of twisting trails and bubbling rivers and then tell my friends about “how well I know these woods” as if I were trading furs in the Wild Colorado. It’s my frontier.
So I guess what I’m really trying to say is that I like playing make-believe in the woods.
Sometimes I find interesting things while I’m exploring my frontier. Strange symbols carved into trees, remnants of vagrant camps, or piles of bone-white golf balls from the neighboring course’s less skilled patrons. I’m fairly convinced that I almost ended up the “never-seen-or-heard-of-again” in an urban legend after stumbling on a shrine dressed with trinkets, candles, and a drum. After I skittered away from it, I found a glass doll floating in the river I was following. In a crashing wave of smarticles on my part I did not choose to investigate that any further.
A couple of summers ago, I had my own Great Age of Exploration. I trekked through all of the forest preserves that I could find. Repeating my process of charting and exploring, a particular unconquered hinterland caught my eye. Not a very far walk from my house, but far enough that I could feel like I had really journeyed somewhere. The river here ran all the way to the border of Wisconsin. I had no intention of follow-ing it that far, but just knowing that I could—if I wanted to—sold it for me. So off I went, swimming in the thick humidity of summer. North past the park behind my house, then northeast after you pass the 16th district police station, continuing for a mile or two until you see the great bridge that begins the North Branch River Trail path. But, like any worthwhile adventure, this has nothing at all to do with the path.
I followed the sidewalk another quarter mile or so until I reached a parking lot—a lollipop-shaped thing with a long stretch before opening into a circular lot. There were only two other cars: one an empty sedan and the other a van whose owner was practic-ing light hula-hooping outside of his car. This was a strange experience for the both of us. As the saying goes, the scariest thing to find in the woods is another person.
My target was to get deep in. I intended to search for a nice quiet place to read my book—the kind of place that makes you spiritually fulfilled for reading a book there. The lot served as the landing of a hill that probably had a hundred and twenty degree incline down to the forest bed. I was confident that I could slide down, but I didn’t quite know how I was going to get back up. I figured that would be part of the whole fun of the day. So down I went.
The forest floor was carpeted in clovers and twigs. The trees were sparsely leafed and far enough apart that they didn’t provide any shade from the sun. The muddy, mired river only lay twenty or thirty feet ahead of me. And of course, you always follow the river. So I headed east along its path for probably twenty minutes. I took pictures
2018 Motif
14
here and there, crossed over to small islands made available by fallen tree trunks, and probably fed a couple generations worth of mosquitoes.
Of course Nature loves to throw a few curve-balls every now and again to keep the game interesting.
I reached a rusted, iron bridge, decorated with years’ worth of colorful, bubble- lettered graffiti. It was here that the river flooded over the path. I had no desire to drench my shoes and socks in whatever that “only-technically-water” liquid was. There was no way around, though. The incline up to the tracks was lined with thin rocks that shifted under your feet and sounded like a box of brand new chalk as you slid back to where you started. My only options were north or south. I looked north and saw a busy intersection where the train would pass, and I counted it as a no-go. So I went south, now following the train tracks instead of the river.
I was able to pull myself up onto a jutting slab of concrete that stuck out from the hill that led up to the train tracks. I took a short break here. While I was sitting, I heard a train approaching. I was maybe ten feet away from the tracks when it passed. A Metra, probably speeding off to get people somewhere air-conditioned on this hellishly hot day. But as it passed, I felt it. I felt the wind from its speed, and I heard a scream as the iron of track and wheel ground against each other. I could feel how close I was to it. How all it would take was one loose track to send it barreling over on top of me. Or one rock lying on the rail to be squeezed and launched into my head at a high velocity. I hadn’t even told anyone where I was. It all passed in about three seconds and I moved on.
I had now gone far enough south that I had caught the river on a loop back around to where it started. I now followed the river on my right and the train tracks on my left. It was getting into mid-afternoon, and the day glow was mesmerizing against the surface of the water. In fact, everything looked incredible. The lush foliage, the water, the shadows, everything. I just wandered forward, taking in everything that I could. Then I nearly tripped over a blackened log. At least I thought it was a log. I stopped in my tracks and my sole focus became the object in front of me. My eyes didn’t register anything right away. But over the course of a couple of seconds (frankly an eternity in brain computation time) I understood exactly what I was looking at.
It was a deer carcass.
As if it hadn’t existed until I became aware of it, my senses started to wake up. I saw it. Black and rotted. Its legs were thin and chewed away by scavengers. The torso still held its size, but its abdomen had long since decomposed. The entrails were spilling out of it, a gray and purple mass, overflowing with writhing maggots. The skull was stretched over with thin, blackened skin and worn down to yellowed bone at the mouth and nose.
Then I smelled it. Like death and rot. Which is exactly what it was. I gagged. After everything had processed, my heart nearly jumped through my chest. It was startling to see this thing. But then after a bit, I realized that I just couldn’t stop looking at it. It was fascinating. I took a seat on a rock to my side and just stared. I realized that I had never seen anything that dead before. I had seen dead humans. Drained and refilled with
Motif2019
15
Still LifeLauren Kuras, Pen Drawing
preservatives to keep them looking presentable. Dressed in their Sunday best, at a prayer service, while everyone around somberly eats Jewel cake, cut by someone determined to feed each and every one of the hundred visitors with a single 9x13 sheet.
But this deer … this deer was dead. Not delicately placed into a pine box with satin pillows and all their prized possessions.
Dead.
Not memorialized with an ornate headstone, carved into the shape of an angel, with a stanza of “Do not go gentle into that good night” etched into it.
Dead.
Not “in a better place.”
Real death. Nature’s death. Rotting where it died. Feeding the scavengers that came to find it. Sinking deeper and deeper into the earth every day and eventually disappearing.
I left soon after that. I had a long walk home and it was getting dark. I had explored enough for one day, found enough for one day. I even got a great story out of it. Even today, I could take you to the exact spot that I found that deer. But it’s probably overgrown now. Covered with a couple years’ worth of mud and water. Maybe now a patch of clover or some fledgling plants straining to reach up towards the warm light of the sun.
Real Death, Eamon Gonzales, Continued
2018 Motif
16
Velvet Reina E. Triplett, Photograph
TaraxacumHannah Anglea
I want to be a weed.
Daffodils and daisies are pleasing to the eye,
but why stay where you are planted?
I want to be the one dandelion that creates a sea of yellow.
Or be a red seed that blows in the wind,
exploring where destiny takes me.
I do not want to be plucked to become a herbarium
when I can be a weed,
the weed to break the epidermis of the world
and flourish where the wind blows.
Motif2019
17
A Place Far AwayJulian Dorsey
What more is there to say?You are ghostly and still,In a place far away.
Where the sky is cold and grey,Lonely on top the hill,What more is there to say?
You walk about day by day,Soulless as a creeping brill,In a place far away.
You remind me of ruin and decay,As shallow as a Krill,What more is there to say?
Like a poor man’s screenplay,Empty and mundane like winter from yesterday,In a place far away.
Like empty halls and decay,You stand still.What more is there to say,In a place far away?
2018 Motif
18
PostAnastasiya Camp, Photograph
Motif2019
19
Ink Still LifeKristen Landon, Marker Pen
2018 Motif
20
RapIke Strauch
It’s called rhythm and poetry
Poetry doesn’t need to rhyme
But add rhyme and you got a flow
Once you pick up the flow just go
And you got a rap
But I’m a writer
My voice might suck
And throat is dead
But when I write
My voice is louder
Louder than yours will ever be
And that’s just fine, just fine with me.
I Couldn’t Buy Wine at Trader Joe’s Because of My Temporary Paper License Angela Matera
After spending too much time looking for the cheapest wine with the coolest picture, I chose the one with the photo of a convict and decided that was the one for me. The chocolate bar near the register with the pirate ship also caught my eye and found my hand. I walked over to the checkout and placed my items on the counter. The cashier looked at the wine, looked at me, and rang the bell twice. A manager was being summoned. I took out my paper license, crumpled from being jammed into my wallet. The manager told me, not unkindly, that temporary paper licenses weren’t accepted. I watched the convict disappear; at least he was free. He winked at me as he made his escape.I still bought the chocolate though.
Motif2019
21
The Power of the CrossJoshua Teggatz
Silence.I come in and approach that most gracious instrument,
kneeling in its shadow as that tempter whispers and reminds meof my sin,my shame,my doubt,my envy,
my idolatry,my faults,
my failures,myself.
The cross.I look up and there You are, hung upon Your wooden throne,
arms outstretched in such a scandalous love that takesour sin,
our suffering,our punishment,
our flesh,our whip,
our thorns,our cross,our death.
Light.As I leave this most holy place, I am reminded that my identity
is defined only by this grace that burns forever within me,a realityas simpleas a babelying in
a manger,and as powerful
as Christon the cross.
2018 Motif
22
Higher StaircaseMaria Gedroc, Painting
Motif2019
23
A Homily for the Feast of St. Michael and All AngelsRev. Dr. Patrick Bayens
“He will give his angels charge of you to guard you in all your ways.” “Bless the Lord, O you his angels, you mighty ones who do his word.” John was entranced by the Spirit on the Lord’s Day, and he looked, and he heard the sound of a vast number of angels surrounding the throne—myriads of myriads and thousands of thousands— saying with a great voice, “Blessing and honor and glory and power be to the One sitting on the throne, and to the Lamb!” An anonymous New Testament seer wrote, “You have come to Mount Zion, the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and to innumerable angels in festal gathering.” Now, I know a few of you think that some-thing starts to happen in here when Dr. Wente begins his prelude. Others of you think that something starts when Pastor Leininger goes shhhh on a Focus Friday. Some of you think it all begins when he says, “The Lord be with you.” And for the rest of you, I suppose, it doesn’t start until he turns to the altar and throws the words of your baptism back on God. But I tell, you, the moment you walk in here you are walking into a liturgy that has already commenced; that has been going on for millennia, and has never stopped; a celestial liturgy that began when the morning stars sang together and all the angels shouted for joy, and was then renewed over the plains of Bethlehem, for an ancient oracle had said, “Let all God’s angels worship him,” and they did. Baby Jesus asleep on the hay, the slaughtered Son, obediently enduring the scandal of the cross: “No angel in the sky can fully bear that sight, but downward bend their wondering eyes at mysteries so bright.”
Today is the Feast of Saint Michael and All Angels: a feast wherein we let John and Paul and the rest pull back the curtain for us and remind us that we are not alone. There is a Third Heaven, from which angels ascend and descend on the Son of Man. And on us. We have angels with us. In here, when we leave, when we rise, when we sleep. For unlike that stone cold angel snoring behind Kretzmann, the real ones never take a nap. For they are “ministering spirits sent to serve those who will inherit salvation.” And if they aren’t serving, then they’re on call, ready to be sent at a moment’s notice. For “he made his angels winds, his servants flames of fire.” And God gave you one of them as a baptismal gift, a personal bodyguard, so you don’t dash your foot against a stone. Or shout some obscenity if you do. Now, I don’t know if you have the same guardian angel your whole life long. I suspect mine put in for a transfer quite some time ago. But God has plenty of reserves, and they’ve all worked out just fine. They’ve got God’s ear for me, as yours does for you.
For if angels ministered to Jesus while he was being tempted by the devil, and again when he was agonizing with bloody sweat over the prospect of drinking the cup of God’s poison, well then God’s got angelic reinforcements ready for you—so that like holy Jesus you can say, “Not my will, but Thine be done.” Ready for you too in all those times when unrequited love weighs down and wounds refuse to heal. He’s got a
2018 Motif
24
Raphael for you, no less, one of those Angels of the Presence, who will be sent to remove film from your eyes, so that you can have clarity and trust God’s bigger will for you; why, he’ll even find a spouse for you if that’s what you need, and keep the demons at bay. Why else do you pray, “Let your holy angel be with me, that the evil foe may have no power over me”? It’s all there in the book of Tobit, should anyone care to read it. And if you need a word from God that says, “Your prayer has been heard!” or simply, “the Lord is with you,” or if you’re standing in some furnace, heated seven times more than is wont, there is a Gabriel to stand beside you, and either bring you out unsinged, or deliver you to the noble army of martyrs who are before the throne of God and serve Him day and night. And if your past always haunts you, and Satan and his willing accomplices keep rubbing it in your face, then He’s got a Michael for you, always ready to tell the devil where he can go, even when you’re not so bold. For when John wanted to describe what was really going on outside Jerusalem on that Holy Friday we call Good, he could find no better image than this: a picture of Holy Michael, the Archangel, outfitted in full battle gear, waging war against—and utterly defeating—a giant red dragon with seven heads and ten horns and seven royal tiaras on its heads: the naked, humiliated, bloodied Jesus, shutting the devil’s mouth with His innocent suffering and death. That love covers a multitude of sins. And gives you a clear conscience, in spite of your past. You really are in good hands. Now and always. For the promise still stands: “He will give his angels charge of you to guard you in all your ways.”
DiaphanousTina Louise Ewers, Oil on Artist Board
Motif2019
25
4 You3 You2 You1 You
saintssaintssaintssaints
ofofofof
God,God,God,God,
liftgivere -
glad
upthanks
callvoic -
yourthis
a -es
hearts,daynewraise
Re -For
WhatIn
joicefam -giftsshouts
in'ly,Heof
yourfriend,
isloud
sal -andbe -
thanks -
va -neigh -stow -giv -
tion,bor,ing:ing
ForForTheFor
mer -lovedfruit -
health
cyonesfuland
Godnearearth,home
inandtheand
Christfar
goodpeace -
im -a -
andful
partsway,true,days,
ToForTheFor
ev -thosedepthsev -
'rycalled
of'ry
gen -home
hu -joy
er -frommanof
a -la -
know -liv -
tion.bor.ing.ing:
LetIn
WhatFor
grat -testworkswork
i -orof
and
tudetri -
beau -rest,
yourumph,
ty,the
ban -joyart,ban -
neror
andquet
be,pain,grace,
spread,
ForLet
WhatThe
you,thank -mir -feast
onceful -a -of
slaves,nesscleslove,
areyourofthe
nowsongtimedai -
setre -
andly
freemain,spacebread
ThatA -Se -To
Godboundcurebe
istoin
His
ev -o -
Christ,new
erver -
yourcre -
giv -flow -Sav -a -
ing.ing!ior.tion.
You Saints of God, Glad Voices Raise
Text: David Rogner, b. 1960Music: Jonathan Kohrs, b. 1963
SHOUTS OF THANSKGIVING87 87 887
Text: © 2018 David RognerMusic: © 2018 Jonathan Kohrs
You Saints of God, Glad Voices RaiseJonathan Kohrs and David Rogner
Commissioned by Ginny Ungrodt Masengarb ’69, in memory of David Masengarb ’69.
2018 Motif
26
The Silent FiddleJasmine Luther
Ode to Man RayMark Mangiaracina, Photograph
A fiddle can tell no lie,leak no secret;it lacks a silver tongueto spin fantastic tales.For a fiddle has no voice;four strings, strong and silent,four strands unable to sing,stretched in tense stillness.
A bow can whisper no note,wail no woe;it has no opposing stringsto tease out epic sagas.For a slender bow has no cords,no ticklish strands to bend,and breathes no soundwhen sawing only air.
Motif2019
27
June Alexander Ogden
I imagine June as a woman,neither young nor old,with the type of face that offers some solaceafter spring showers.Her face is soft,and her words are delicate and sparse.She is not gaunt like January,but not as warm as July,that boisterous boy.Some days she wears a rain coatto shield herself from her own storms.She is kind,but she is the type of woman whose beauty is fleetingand can only be seen in quick,peripheral looks.Some nights she is immensely cold.Other days her heat is worse thanthe deepest bowels of hell.She only stays around a little while;she doesn’t overstay her welcomelike March or April do.And I wish, I wish I could work up the nerve to ask herto stay a little while longer,so that July doesn’t break me with his blistering heat.June,won’t you stay just a little bit longer?My lovely month.
2018 Motif
28
Serene and CalmJennil Libo-on, Print
Gone for NowJennil Libo-on, Linoleum Print
Motif2019
29
Still Life with a Lemon Wedge IIMolly Miklosz, Colored Pencil
2018 Motif
30
PillarsKatelyn Church, Photograph
Focused on the Past Mark Mangiaracina, Photograph
Motif2019
31
NeighborsLucas P. Dutil
No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent. – John Donne
The road had the lonely times, but I kept myself busy. – Buck Owens
I The low rumble of the tires grating against the hot, sticky pavement under the scorch-ing New Mexico sun kept his mind at ease. It was the consistency of it that eased his troubled mind. Thomas Seals didn’t like loud noises; he didn’t like surprises either. This was year number six of his new job. He liked it. His work was dependable, no extra hours, a minimum amount of communication with other sad souls – the kind of place where he could think without distractions. He hated distractions almost as much as he hated sur-prises. These were the things that made his blood pressure rise, causing that loathsome red hum to echo in his mind. It was the sound of madness, of this he was sure, and he needed to keep that hum to a whisper. That was getting more difficult these days. Thomas was in the middle of his twenties, but others may guess he was much older. He had blue eyes, cold and pale, a contrast to the desert heat if there ever was one. His hair was dark, and he was always clean-shaven. He shaved every morning and every night, and he always brushed his teeth afterwards. He would brush his teeth for three minutes every instance, but no longer. He would continue this routine by showering for twelve minutes, but no shorter. Twelve was a multiple of three, and he liked threes. They felt safe for him, predictable even. The few times Thomas’s coworkers tried to interact with him (this was at the beginning of his employment) they had found him strange, mechanical even. It felt more like talking to some robot at Disney World than to another human. Humans have souls; they weren’t sure about Thomas. He liked it better that way. Work was monotonous, a good quality. Monotony is what leads to repetition, and repetition is always the predecessor of routine; Thomas liked routine. The job was at the Oil & Engineering Plant outside of Otero. He was something of a machinist, moving metal from one place to another, pressing buttons when they needed pressing, starting and stopping conveyor belts. It was 48 hours one week followed by 36 hours the next, always twelve-hour shifts. Nothing less, but nothing more.
The factory was outside the city by a stretch of 35 miles. The commute was quiet. Thomas looked in his rear-view mirror and saw no one. He turned on his blinker and listened. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
The blinker continued to sing its one-note melody. Click. Click. Click. Thomas found the repetition peaceful. He had long ago given up the radio. He hated the talk show hosts, with their bad jokes, their hate speech, and their politics. He found the music in between to be no relief, so when no one was around he would turn on his blinker – always to the right, and he listened as it brought a rhythm to his thoughts and a cadence to his breath-ing. It quieted the voices. He continued the commute in relative silence, stoical and rigid, both in thought and body.
II So much daylight. Impossible. Jeremy’s eyes screamed open as he frantically rolled to his right, simultaneously throwing off his bed sheets. The small alarm clock read 9:37, and Jeremy was going to be late again. “Aaaaaggh.” He moaned as he jumped out of bed, running for the bathroom. As
2018 Motif
32
someone who was chronically late, he had learned how to adapt. A chameleon can change its colors, but could it piss and brush its teeth at the same time? Jeremy thought this was unlikely. He finished this dance and pulled on his pants one leg at a time. He looked in the mirror. His eyes were a deep blue, the color of the Pacific, his girlfriend had once told him. He wasn’t sure if that were true. New Mexico didn’t have much in the arena of oceans, but if it kept her coming back, he was happy to keep staring. He had a shadow of a beard (he almost always did, it seemed), a perpetual five o’clock shadow. His friends thought this was intentional; he thought it was easy. He grabbed a Pop-tart off his night-stand, a half-finished water bottle off the floor, and he ran out the door.
When Jeremy arrived, the clock had just struck 10:15; he was one hour and 15 minutes late for a coffee-date with his girlfriend. The small café had large open windows in the front with stools that allowed patrons to watch the busy main street. It was through this looking-glass that Jeremy was now peeking. If she was angry, it may be better that he have a moment to prepare. Wasn’t it the Bible that said it would be better to die in the desert than to be with a fretful woman? Or was it Shakespeare? It didn’t matter now. As he glanced, he saw her sitting at a small table in the back of the restaurant. No red flags. The beautiful lady appeared yet still beautiful, and, more importantly, unperturbed. Jeremy entered the café and approached the table with a wide toothy grin.
“And there she is. Sunny as an egg in August,” Jeremy quipped as he pulled the chair adjacent to the lady and set down.
“You understand time isn’t relative?” she said, pushing her chair back from the table. Looks can be deceiving, it seemed. Unperturbed may not have been accurate.
“I have places to be, and a list full of things I need to do today. This can’t keep happening. Do you even care that – “
“Stop. I know. My alarm clock didn’t go off. I don’t know what happened.”
“Clearly, but you never do anymore. When I do see you, which is close to never, you are preoccupied with something else it seems. Or maybe someone else.”
At this, she grit her teeth, and her eyes spoke of her increasing distrust and annoy-ance, more than her words.
“Good bye, Jeremy.” She stood up, remained where she was for one extended moment, long brown hair falling to her shoulders, and there appeared a flash of uncertainty across her face. But this was quickly replaced by something more resolute. She grabbed her small purse, her half-finished coffee, and she left.
As he watched her leave, a small headache pulsed in the back of Jeremy’s head. Just a pang of sharp throbbing, and it, like she, was gone.
III Thomas sat alone at lunch. He pulled out his bologna and American cheese sandwich and the small metallic knife that he had also packed. He cut the sandwich into perfect triangles and briefly admired its symmetry, its exactness. He reached into his bag to bring out his metallic water bottle. He didn’t trust the public water, more so because of the pub-lic than because of the water. Too many crazies in this day of age. He had installed a high-end water purifier at his apartment several years back, and he drank only from its well. As he took his first bite into the sandwich, he heard someone call his name from behind his back.
Motif2019
33
“Tommy boy, I know that was you I saw this weekend. How come you didn’t wave back? Afraid one of your old work comrades might embarrass you or something? Is that it?”
This was Sloan. Sloan O’Brian. A man in his mid-forties with large calloused hands, and equally as large stains under his armpits. If he smelled better than he looked, that would be one positive, Thomas thought to himself simply, but he didn’t. He smelled worse. It wasn’t uncommon for someone at the factory to try to play jokes like this on Thomas.
“Hello, Sloan.” Succinct, matter of fact. “I do not know what you are talking about.”
“Bull. You looked right at me, and steered your pretty girlfriend away,” the older man bellowed. At this, a couple of the other gentlemen close by snickered. Probably at the thought of Thomas having a girlfriend, especially one that fit the description that Sloan seemed to be implying.
Thomas squinted, remained seated, and felt the red hum explode in his head. It was no longer a hum but a chorus of voices. He needed to pull it together – whatever it was.
“Please leave me alone to eat my lunch,” he remarked, quietly.
“Come again, Tommy. I couldn’t hear you.”
The voices in his head screamed in unison. It felt as if their singing had started a fire deep in his throat, and this fire was now filling his head with smoke. It made it difficult to think.
“LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE.” Louder this time, something in his expression must have sent the message he was hoping for because Sloan caught it, loud and clear.
“Tommy, no reason to get all bent outta shape for . . .” His voice trailing as he slinked back to his table.
Thomas looked down into his hand and realized that he had been squeezing the small knife with both of his hands, but not only squeezing, also twisting, as one might wring out a towel, and there were small drops of blood dripping below through his clenched fingers. The voices were calming. He got up to walk to the bathroom so that he could rinse and bandage his hand.
IV Jeremy pulled his ’99 Honda Civic into the small, mostly run-down apartment com-plex. It looked quite like Jeremy felt in that moment. It had been a most egregious few weeks, few years even. And he hadn’t really stopped to consider just how everything had been going for him. If he stayed busy enough, and often times, drunk enough, life had a way of just continuing forward. He had maintained a steady slew of part-time jobs but usually managed to get fired for his consistent inconsistence. Miss a day here, 30 minutes late there. Always on to the next thing, it seemed. But that’s how it usually goes, isn’t it? The big blue ball of the cosmos keeps spinning, spinning, spinning . . . regardless of how well your favorite sports team is doing, or if the bills are or are not getting paid. It was easier to just not consider the ramifications. But he was doing that now. At what moment did the summation of everything begin this gradual decline? There must have been a peak prior to the descent. And now that there was the descent, there must also be a rock-bottom.
Neighbors, Lucas P. Dutil
2018 Motif
34
He trudged up the stairs at 1518 East Cleveland Street slowly. He lived on the second floor by himself. As he searched for his house key, he continued down the rabbit-hole of questions.
And if there was a summit before the decline, he believed he had found it. It was his 14th birthday party. It had been good, hadn’t it? Good in a way that only the youth can understand, when small things seem big, and all of life seems to balance and depend precariously on one math grade, or who may or may not be at the party on Friday. His 14th birthday had been attended by many of his friends, and he did have many, but maybe more importantly, it had been attended by both of his parents. As he supposed was true for all children of the great divide, his life had a funny way of feeling like two chap-ters, each with a beginning, but only one with an ending: when parents are together, and when they no longer were. Everything had changed then. How could it not though, real-ly? Two Christmases. Two Easters. Two birthday parties. Two lives. Sometimes less is more, he had often pondered. If you had asked Jeremy in those first couple years if it had bothered him (and the school counselor did ask – How does that make you feel?), he would have said, “No, not really,” probably in a small voice, with a childish grin. But if you had asked his friends or his teachers, they may have told you a different story, about the tale of two halves. He had become moody, reserved some days for no apparent reason, but other times, he would appear as happy and eager for life as ever. It was difficult to know and predict which student would come to school most times. But how unusual was that, really? After all, it was “only a phase,” and there was puberty to blame. After several years, it seemed he had finally come around, equaled out. Though he still felt as if his life seemed to resemble a smooth round stone rolling down a large hill, gaining only more inertia all of the time. It would have to stop eventually. Right?
Jeremy found his house key, opened his apartment door, and went inside. His small apartment was a simple design. Upon entering, there was a large square that functioned as both the kitchen and the living room. To the right of the square was a single door that led to the master (and only) bedroom. As he walked across the main room, he couldn’t help but notice how clean he had left everything. It was organized, and he pondered briefly how he managed to keep it this way. It was a stark contrast from his bedroom which was littered with grocery bags, empty cups, and an array of dirty and clean laun-dry. As this thought entered and exited, he felt a sudden headache pierce through his head like an icicle. He was prone to headaches and an occasional migraine, and he knew what a preemptive strike like this may mean for later. It was a warning shot, and it felt like this might be the start of something more serious. He took two Advil from the near-ly empty bottle on his bedroom floor, the last remaining Pop-tart off of his night stand, and he decided he would sleep. Maybe he would feel better when he woke up. Across from this bedroom door was a single closet, which Jeremy did not use. In fact, he hardly noticed it was even there.
VI Thomas Seals eased his car into the final parking spot at 1518 East Cleveland Street. He enjoyed living here. It was quiet most of the time, and his neighbors left him alone. This was most important. He hadn’t really given much thought to his neighbors, if he was honest. He considered them mostly inconsequential. If they interrupted his routine, then that would be something. But largely, they lived separate, confined existences apart from
Motif2019
35
Thomas’s scrutinizing gaze. And what you didn’t know couldn’t hurt you, isn’t that right? Thomas nodded to himself in approval. But there was something that Thomas didn’t know. He couldn’t remember what he done on Tuesday. And it was Friday – the end of the work week. This was a 36-hour work week, meaning he had Tuesday off, meaning that he wasn’t at work.
“But . . . where was I?” he insisted of himself. But not only he, also the voices, the mechanical red hum demanded that he tell them.
“Where did you go? Where did you flee? Can’t you remember? Who did you see?” They sang in unison. He wished he could answer them, for he understood (without knowing how he knew this – he just did) that this would be the answer to quiet them. Maybe the silence wouldn’t last forever, but it may last the night. And that would be a brief, but sweet respite. After all, the man in hell did not ask Lazarus for a bucket of water, but only a drop.
Thomas entered his apartment. To his understanding, each apartment exactly mir-rored the neighbor’s apartment. His was a square-shaped apartment, with a large square room that contained both the kitchen and the living room. His bedroom was in a room to the left. Across from his bedroom was a single door. It led to a large closet. He didn’t use the closet because he didn’t own much. Excess had a way of complicating things. He preferred less.
Thomas took off his shoes at the base of his bed, lined them up neatly there, and pro-ceeded to lay on top of his bed. All of the sheets, the blankets, and the bed comforter were perfect in their execution. No wrinkles were to be found. You could tell a lot about some-one from the condition they left their bed in the morning. Thomas believed this with the same gravitas with which he believed in the laws of thermodynamics. But this thought was far from him at the moment. He needed to remember. It was a simple thing, wasn’t it? A location, a point of time, a purpose – but none of it was there. It was gone. He lay supine upon his covers and closed his eyes, though sleep was far from him in that moment. Questions, questions, questions. He clenched and unclenched his fists.
Where did you go? Where did you flee? Can’t you remember? Who did you see?
Thrice. A knock on the door, and voices muffled. Thomas’s eyes shot open, but he didn’t move. He never had any visitors. Friends were a necessary precursor to visitors, and he hadn’t any. he knocking continued. He sat up quickly, brought his legs to the side of his bed, and stood up. He tiptoed through his bedroom door. He moved with caution, as one might if they suspected a burglar had entered their home, and this felt not far from that conclusion.
“Jeremy, I know you’re in there. Your car is parked outside. Just open the door,” the intruders declared from their position outside the apartment. The banging on the door escalated. It sounded as if they might break it down with time. But this wasn’t the concern at the moment. The red hum was no longer a hum at all. Everything within Thomas’s head screamed, and the pressure was mounting. It felt as if a balloon was expanding more and more with each heartbeat, but it was not air or water on the inside but bugs, pushing angrily against their perimeter as they multiplied in size and number. Thomas fell on his knees, cascading forward prostrate on the floor. He squeezed his ears to block out the sounds of the voices, but they continued to pulse as one. Thomas saw in his mind the bugs scratching the insides of his skull and throat as they tried to escape. And he started to scream.
Neighbors, Lucas P. Dutil
2018 Motif
36
“AAAAAAHHHHGGHH!” His throated cracked as he tried to block out the voices.
At the sound of the screaming, the visitor outside the apartment increased the urgen-cy of their knocking. “Jeremy! Open the damn door! What is going on? Jeremy, please!” The screaming inside continued. Thomas began a slow crawl towards the door. His body had broken into a full sweat, and his elbows were red and burned from the carpet. He clenched the carpet with both of his fists and pulled steadily forward.
Outside, the visitor was calling the police to report a possible emergency. Everything had gone silent in the small corner apartment.
VII Jeremy opened the door to the entrance of his apartment. His headache was back, and he felt more tired than ever in his life. His elbows were bleeding and he wasn’t sure what had caused this, probably some stupid decision he had made while he was under the influence. That may also explain the cut on his hand. Outside his open apartment door stood his ex-girlfriend.
She was clearly troubled by the man who stood in the open door.
She spoke first.
ClaustrophobicSydney Patterson, Graphic Design
Motif2019
37
On Seeing the Gulf of the Poets David Rogner
Il golfo dei Poeti, so they say,because two English poets came to liveand write, listening to waves beside the bay,breathing what the Italian air could give.The Casa Magni stands just up the shore,green shuttered windows on a white façade.There Shelley lived. The stormy verse would pourout of his pen: breath from a desperate god.Then one day, warm waves summon him to sailout from the tranquil bay, borne by a breezehe’d said could scatter words that would prevailagainst all odds, soaring beyond the seas.Drowned in a storm, a poet’s death he meets,his pockets full of Sophocles and Keats.
South African SunsetEden Schultz, Photograph
2018 Motif
38
Figure 2Molly Miklosz, Charcoal Drawing
Motif2019
39
&?
bbb
bbb
44
4445
4543
43Piano
Œ œ œ œ œ œ œU
œ œ Œ ÓP
Œ œ œ œ œ œ œU
œ œ Œ Ó
Œ œ œ œ œ œ œU
œ œ Œ Ó
Œ œ œ œ œ œ œUœ œ
œ œ Œ Ó Œ
&?
bbb
bbb
43
43Pno.
5
œ œ œ œ
œ œ Œ Œœ œ œ œ
œ œ Œ Œœ œ œ œ
œ œ Œ Œ˙nU
œ œ
œ œœU Œ
&?
bbb
bbb
44
44Pno.
9
œ œ œ œ
œ œ Œ Œœ œ œ œ
œ œ Œ Œœ œ œ œ
œ œ Œ Œ.˙n
U
œ œ œ œ œU
&?
bbb
bbb
44
4445
4543
43Pno.
13 Œ œ œ œ œ œ œU
œ œ Œ ÓP
Œ œ œ œ œ œ œU
œ œ Œ Ó
Œ œ œ œ œ œ œU
œ œ Œ Ó
Œ œ œ œ œ œ œUœ œ
œ œ ∑
&?
bbb
bbb
43
43Pno.
17
œ œ œ œ
œ œ œ Œ
œ œ œ œ
œb œ œb Œœ œ œ œ
œ œ œ Œ.˙
U
œ œ œ œ œU
&?
bbb
bbb
44
44Pno.
21 Ó œ œ∑
œ œ œ œ œœ œ Œ Œ
œ œ œ œ
œ œ Œ Œœ œ œ œn
U
œ œ Œ œ œU
Stricken, SmittenSam Marquart
©
Smooth, Connected, With Pedal
Stricken, SmittenSam Marquart
2018 Motif
40
&?
bbb
bbb
44
4445
4543
43Pno.
25 Œ œ œ œ œ œ œU
œ œ Œ ÓP
Œ œ œ œ œ œ œU
œ œ Œ Ó
Œ œ œ œ œ œ œU
œ œ Œ Ó
Œ œ œ œ œ œ œUœ œ
œ œ Œ Ó Œ
&?
bbb
bbb
43
43Pno.
29
œ œ œ œ
œ œ Œ Œœ œ œ œ
œ œ Œ Œœ œ œ œ
œ œ Œ Œ˙nU
œ œ
œ œ œ Œ
&?
bbb
bbbPno.
33
œ œ œ œ
œ œ Œ Œœ œ œ œ
œ œ Œ Œœ œ œ œ
œ œ Œ Œ
&?
bbb
bbb
44
4445
45Pno.
36
˙̇̇nU œœ
> œœ>
œ œ œœŒƒ
œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ
œ œ œ œ ˙
œœ ˙̇ œœ œœ
œb œ œb œ ˙
œœ ˙̇ œœ œœ
œ œ œ œ ˙
&?
bbb
bbb
45
4543
4344
44Pno.
40 wwU œ œ
œœ œœ ˙̇U Œ &
P
œ œ œ œ œ
œ œ Œ Œ
œ œ œ œ
œ œ Œ Œ
œ œ œU œnU
œ œ Œ œU œU?
&?
bbb
bbb
44
44Pno.
44 Œ œ œ œ œ œ œU
œ œ Œ ÓP
Œ œ œ œ œ œ œU
œ œ Œ Ó
Œ œ œ œ œ œ œU
œ œ Œ Ó
Œ œ œ œ œ œ œU
œ œ Œ Ó
wwwU
˙̇U
˙U
π
2 Stricken, Smitten
With Passion
Sweetly
Motif2019
41
Frozen BeachAlexander Ogden
We stole a car, illegal without tags,drove it out of the overwhelming city,back towards my home: Michigan.Took the freeway, and our time.You said that my driving scared you,but I was eager to watch us freeze together,on the lake, looking out as long as we could.
Niles, past the rivers, and wet, dusty farm towns,into the city center, for coffee in the cold sunlight,and lunch in the dark of the diner.Then back into the car you said smelled like smoke,which I embarrassedly tried to ignore or downplay.Drove out to the dunes, outside of my state;no one was there so we just entered the gate.
Parked the car about a quarter mile from the frozen head,got out with gloves on and collar up,making our way down to the beach.The sand was wet gold beneath our feet.I took the lead and climbed up the cold tide,up above the ebb. I looked at the blue tranquiland called for you, windblown face and scarf,
but you would not join me and look out.You said that your feet would slip,so I promised you that I would hold you stiff,but still you would not drift.You said you would just bring us both down.I told you that I wasn’t afraid to fall for you,but . . . you were not afraid to fall for me.
You didn’t want to fall with me.
Alone, the sun going down, I turned to my salt-less sea,letting myself burn my cheeks in the breeze,and came down colder in my sweater.You apologized profusely, said your shoes wouldn’t grip,so we walked back through the wet sand or snow,past the beach house in brick.We got in the car, me without my jacket,
2018 Motif
42
and as I started the car, you asked if we could sing,but I reminded you that my radio was broken,so we sat there in silence,passed the guard shack and welcome sign,and drove back into the noise of the city,the one you loved so muchthat I was so eager to escape with you.
Now all that’s left is our footprints on the bluff,so when you ask me over for gin,I can’t help but remember the state your shoes were in,your feet so cold, you so bundled up.And at your cocktail parties I stand out on the porchand think of it like frozen coast.But this time, you’re no longer with me.
Green HeronAndrew Steinmann, Photograph
Motif2019
43
Girl Removed Rachael Ann Nuckles, Drypoint Print
2018 Motif
44
DistanceJason Kohm
She lives and laughs and loves away from me;the distance cannot be suppressed. I fearthe future plans to lie in wait and bedevoid of her, yet filled with dreams most dear.Though sweet the sound, to dream is not to live.We rise to live, not wake to dream. We oughtto be content with what the Sower gives,and not exist in dreams, alone in thought.So live, O dreamer! Live with open eyes.Curse not the soil on which you are sown,for though she lives afar, your heart still flies!We simply are on different soil grown.And every time I see whom I adore,the distance stretches closer than before.
Double MoonAnastasiya Camp, Photograph
Motif2019
45
Night OwlsLeroy Kucia, Graphite, Ink and Wax Pencil on Paper
7400 Augusta Street River Forest, IL 60305-1499 708.771.8300www.CUChicago.edu
Motif Vol. 41 | 2019The Creative Arts Journal of Concordia University Chicago