Fall 2009 | Illumination: the Undergraduate Journal of Humanities by Illumination: the Undergraduate Journal of Humanities

Fall 2009

coverMeghan Johnson

My paintings respond to historic portraitureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s urge to commemorate, while at the same time inserting the language of paint. In these paintings, finely rendered areas and heavy gestural portions coincide. Through these compositional techniques, I intend to elucidate the doubt and mystery of the present day and the effect that such a haze has on our understanding of human histories.

Back coverAmanda Cheung MoMo

johnson-

red lory yellow lory painting

(johnson) portraait of a woman with kitchenware painting

Illumination from the university of Wisconsin Madsion

Featuring: art Literature Essays

letter from the editor

I am extremely proud to present the ninth issue of Illumination. I have been with the journal since my first semester freshman year and I cannot believe how much the journal has accomplished in these last couple of years. Illumination offers students on this campus so many opportunities, whether they are a staff member or a contributor. We are the university’s only student-run undergraduate journal of humanities, giving an outlet to many authors and artists on campus. For the staff, Illumination provides leadership opportunities and valuable editorial experience. Whether it is prose, poetry, art, layout and design, or publicity, Illumination has something to offer to everybody. It’s been important to me this year to spread the word about all the opportunities, offered not only by Illumination, but also by the Publications Committee. PubCom, a subset of the Wisconsin Union Directorate, not only houses Illumination, but many other great publications. Besides Illumination, my personal favorite is Kids Pub, a fantastic chance for kids in financially challenged situations to foster their creativity. This is my first semester as editor-in-chief of the journal and it has been a whirlwind, but also a fantastic experience. There are some people this semester that provided so much support to the journal that it is crucial I thank them. Publication Committee’s director, Sarah Horvath, was always willing to take a frantic call and respond to late night e-mails while handling her own enormous work load. Our new advisor, Susan Dibbell, has been amazing for our journal and very supportive. I cannot count how many times I’ve seen Susan at Memorial Union late at night, working hard. Both Sarah and Susan’s contributions were vital to this semester’s issue of Illumination. I encourage everyone to visit our website at http://illumination.library.wisc.edu to stay in touch, or e-mail me at illumination@library.wisc.edu. Auf Wiedersehen, Kate Neuens

oetry

walnut canyon

Perched on the upper lip of “The Grand Canyon,” we clutched your jeans, you told us that God measured out its depth by hammering Alaska into the earth to create His desired shape. We feel Him in even our tiniest whispers that cross the canyon and come back to us. You said no screaming: the canyon would crash into us, swallow us whole and we would wallow forever piecing together parts of Alaska, asking for help and receiving only our questions in return. You’d packed us into a car, and we rattled across miles and miles of Route 66. Our skin nearly cooked from Texas to Arizona, while you translated strange scrawls on cave after cave wall, swearing angels wrote these first love poems in Latin, carving good into the world just as it’s carved in us. In Flagstaff, you set us at the edge of that huge hole, took us in your arms and with a grave whisper, labeled it The Grand Canyon, teaching us about your God through your geology and your geography, leaving us to wonder years later if your love was also a careful weave of fact and fiction.

Catherine Malchow 4

Origins: a poem of epic proportions Come one, come all, For a story of a different nature, One of epic proportions And humble beginnings, A saga of origins. It starts with a wee bit of darkness. Well, not a wee bit of darkness; A big, empty, enveloping blanket, Stare too long and become it, Kind of darkness.

A little spark wiggles in the crevices. Coalescing, Glowing, Changing. Lots more many couple long whiles later, For no apparent reason, It begins with man Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t blink!

Dan Pankratz

Well, that darkness sits around for a while. A couple long whiles. Heck, I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know. Nobody really knows. Then kablooie! Explosions! Blazing, ripping, spinning, flashing fireworks extraordinaire! Things flying everywhere, every direction, outwards, always outwards! Fiery ripples on the pond of pitch! Defy the darkness! Waste not the breath of a phoenix! Explosions! That kind of thing. A couple long whiles pass. Lots of couple long whiles, actually. The molten masquerade keeps symphony, Blazing, ripping, spinning; A convoluted furnace of drizzling potential. Many couple long whiles later, Little pieces of kablooie float around Drifting in circles, pirouetting each other, Eternalizing the masquerade. Zoom in to ground level:

roma He told me how the whole city roared the day the war ended. The uncertainty and disbelief. Then silence. Him in green army fatigues searching through the horror for the church with the bell that wrung him by the wrist through the crowded streets. It sings an aria then fades to nothing. The ring, is history. Here, everything picks la storia. Even a deaf man stops to listen to a beautiful woman sing. My grandfather warned me of this mysteryâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;this wonder of the Roman nights wandering for la musica. Somewhere on the Tiber, he says to me, I buried my heart. Now, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s history.

Cameron Loftus

my lights

Kelsey Wenberg

Everyday they pour concrete to set my bones, stunted growth, they push me up until the vertigo makes me sick. My skin cracks and buckles, skid tracks like scars, tar traces my stretch marks for miles. All night my eyes glow bright white fluorescent light, they never close. My ears ring sirens screeching. My bowels swell and spit subway cars. Speed freak, wandering under my shining fingertips, awake â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;til dawn. Drunk hangover, I puke smoldering steam up through my grated teeth. Drooling fools flock to me with their dicks in their hands, seeking rich fame, glory, immortality, and a good lay. I make men grovel at my filthy feet, but I lose them behind my walls. I sit in the same stagnant air and watch six million men breathe dust into each othersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; mouths. Every morning I wake on the headache crunch of constipated cars, the unconscious blurred shuffle between traffic lights, and the vague leftover of a dream lingering.

love

Rageena Price

he speaks to me in kisses that never quite reach (with bites and bucks for emphasis). our conversations consist of fleshy sentences passed from exhale to inhale. a question, posed with her back arched in plea /sure: love? is the period at the end of your eviction notice.

eggshell

Yesterday I saw four children who only wear velveteen and quarterly and cotton, with peter pan collars or scalloped edges, they had simple toys and clean fingernails with white moons at the bottoms, they probably used a tea pleasure on Sundays. Tickling each other with onyx feathers, they left black wisps tumbling through the air like dandelion fluff. I bet they have simple toys, and a credenza in their backyard, for special occasions. Their father sports a mustache as soft as flower petals and coiffed into two perfect handlebars. I imagine kitchen table conversations, hellos and goodbyes how sterile they must be with their plastic-wrapped â&#x20AC;&#x153;I love youâ&#x20AC;?s.

Ashley Beene

Last night I dreamed myself a son, with the curved ears and long fingers of a father I never touched— He sat on the carpet reading from the screenplay of my living, sounding out the shape of the spring when I laughed a line of long meditations on the depths of black rivers on cloudy nights, sang symphonies to the heavy sound of burning, climbed the stairs in time to mention my mother at sunrise in the bathroom, petroleum jelly slick on her face, robe fraying along its hem. He paged past December and the whispers: we will get through this winter together,

recent history “We often told ourselves imperishable things.” —Baudelaire

the cellar full, imperishable. March came again and with it, brick bridges over ice floes. What remained to be written was a bomber jacket thrown over the barrier, salt on the ice and sheet music soaked through, half rests peeling off the page in an empty room, interrupting my breathing. Tonight I’m still holding my breath, resting my hand on the shoulder of a boy who reads through the calendar in a voice like my own. My son, though I turn ahead to see you, I’m still afraid of the column of salt I may become.

Sarah Nance

I. When I think of the word marriage, I don’t think of that union—my mother & my father—I think of the time we were moving across the country for a promise. How my father came home from work to find the car packed and his children buckled in sleeping. How my mother’s words deflated him like an old basketball. Not even a good-by. II. When I think of the word marriage I don’t think of the next union—my mother & the man with no face. Because it wasn’t official until they started to beat her. Or at least that’s what my brother says. He says much but my mother says it’s nothing but fire—everything he says is fire. Just like my father. III. When I think of the word marriage I don’t think of the next union—the grave that will remain empty beside her. I think of the fire my brother preached. How he said after my first lay I’d never want to leave that temple. That there is no warmth like the inside of a woman’s body. IV. Now, at the wedding, he is dressed in a suit but is still breathing fire. Tells me what marriage really is: silence. I think of the first time I touched a girl. The way she filled my body with glowing coals. As she slipped her bathing top below her belly button I knew what violence truly meant. My body had never hated itself more, yet never knew itself before. When I think of the word marriage I think of love. All I’ve known of love is violence.

aunty donna —for my cuzos

Cameron Loftus

This poem was selected to receive a Certificate of Recognition and $200 honorarium by the Friends of the University of Wisconsin-Madison Library.

a private kind of wonder The next time you slip through a crowd, Cradle a girl’s face in your scrutiny; Let it break over you waves of tangled sensation. Do you see the ruse? Not even she understands it; That mask of supple, polite indifference Hides gorgeous, stupid, profound, unimaginable worlds Civilizations, revolutions and revelations, Crumbling and reborn in seconds, and thirds, And infinities comprehended, chasms with endless gouges Of crystalline air, motes of light and thought and life Visible in loosely churning depths. To rival those pits, what heights, what soaring heights! Monoliths absorbed in clouds tinged with mourning and night, Some quarried, refined, some rough-hewn and barbarous, Runes and jokes, recipes and poetry, treatises and innuendo Tattooed in hazardous array across their scowling brows. Forests are there, too, of trees imperceptibly huge from Ten thousand miles away, of vines of ragged silk and thimbles, Of leaves whose veins trace lies, or snowflakes, or echoes, Choirs of ferns rejoicing unknown gods in silvery psalms. Wade in her seas; cup your hand in—go, and draw back A palm of equal parts blood and water, a liquid used In no baptism, no ablution save that of birth and death, Whence came the men and myths of her worlds; You are not one of them, nor ever shall be— But perhaps a beast, leader of that piteous, mewling race That crawls on malformed stumps about some blighted glade: They hold no place here, those intrusive aberrants. I tell you all this because I have betrayed nothing, Betrayed nothing as a biographer betrays nothing of a life, Scratches not the meanest portion of such private wonder; I tell you all this because you will never see it, For what is she but a face, passing by, gone in seconds, in thirds, Infinities of absence, nothing but a walking gate To realms unguessed, a shining wall a lifetime high and wide? What is she but a face? Of many? Of millions? I tell you all this because you will never even see the door; You saw its tarnished reflection, painted in dull, electric shades Borrowed from a thunderhead—no, no, not even that far: As through some gauzy screen, you saw its silhouette. For who is she but a face? Nothing of substance shows. You never glanced inside.

Chrisopher Apfelbach

rt work untitled

mixed media

Logan Woods

unnamed

mixed media 2D

Abrianna Barca

trade

photograph

Dana LeMoine no room left to grow print

Lucy Jost

birthday guests

ink, pencil, charcoal

(Jost) self portrait ink

(Jost)

taste

ink, pencil, charcoal

Kitty Huffman

adaptation video stills

John Zydowicz artist bio name

Catch â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;em in the Dark

text text text

scan of film photo

art title description/dimensions

Laura Kim The one in Red video stills

Raeleen Kao

flight drawing

Nicole Powers and the idea cannot survive serigraph

(Powers)

factory

watercolor, pastel, ink

public announcement watercolor, colored pencil, ink

Kelly Benes untitled

mixed media

Sarah Ripp

soaking silver photograph

(Benes) red door

photograph

rose volunteers Vincent Dumas

“We only need a few more... please, just a few more.” The hushed hall looked down on the speaker, a middlish woman, and shifted uncomfortably in their seats. The woman’s eyes roved the hall incessantly, awaiting with both trepidation and carefully concealed desire for any movement that would indicate a volunteer. The brightly fluorescent auditorium left little room for the tortured consciences to hide, and the heady aerosol cleaning scents gave the consciences little space to be guilty. The front rows pressed their bodies relentlessly against their seats, away from the stage, away from the woman asking for volunteers. The cleared throats, snivels, and coughs normal to such a gathering were absolutely absent. The men, women, and children composing the full seats were arrayed in a variety of apparel from the thick winter jacket to the most peculiar costumes of abstract design. Apart from the damned, unflinchingly dogged woman asking for volunteers, not a person was looking at anyone else. Every eye was turned chillingly inward, each attempting to avoid contact, as if any recognition of humanity in themselves would be as good as raising their hands. A man towards the middle of the room, harassed by himself beyond his ability to bear, leaped to his feet in violent emotion. “I’ll go,” he declared bluntly, affecting a confident and unperturbed disposition, for fear that he wasn’t. He wrestled past people to get out of his row, those he touched snapped away from him, even the brief contact eliciting many more of their own cruel thoughts. He arrived at the end of the row and turned to the woman, awaiting further instruction, desperate for that instruction to come before he faltered and sat back down in shame. Rough, haggard, guttural laughter escaped him. The woman, with what seemed like sadistic pleasure to many of the individuals who lifted their eyes enough to witness the sordid situation, smiled. “Thank you. Please just go out the exit.” She gestured behind the man, up the aisle to the door above which stood a green, glowing “EXIT” sign. The man, trembling to an unseen, internal clock, turned towards the door. As he approached, the green of the sign seemed to flicker as he rapidly blinked, a great upwelling of intuitive resistance produced sweat across his face and neck, dribbled down his beard. His feet kept the same pace, but the energy that poured recklessly into each step became exponentially larger as each moment of time

rushed recklessly passed into obscurity. A hand, inconceivable in its steadiness to the observers, reached up and pushed the door open, letting a small slit of the light from the room escape into the darkened hall. The few people able to watch the procession through to the end watch as the man entered the lightless abyss, watched him hesitate for a moment in the doorway, unsure of which of the two deviating paths he was supposed to take. Before any could see more, the door shut behind the man, and eyes were once more turned to the front. The people sitting in their hard, wooden chairs, growing more uncomfortable by the moment, once more resumed their silent waiting. Some of the stronger individuals in the crowd would occasionally hazard glances around the room, hoping to determine what was to happen next. Most just sat still as the deadest forest. “Just a few more,” the smiling woman dressed in white said from the front of the room. With every word uttered from the woman’s mouth, the people in the crowd felt more and more like actors awaiting their big entrance; dread baptized them in fear. Nervous thoughts and emotion swirled like wind from person to person, never staying with any long, yet no stay being short enough. A woman with a child clutched tightly in her arms rose to give herself to the softly spoken demands. A man sitting next to her cried out, swiping desperately at her and pulling her back to the seat. He stood in his wife and child’s place, moving down the constricted row, as the man before him had done, and into the aisle. He did not wait for the dreadful woman to give her quaint, horrible words of direction, instead moving immediately to the door illuminated in green from the “EXIT” sign that hung above the door. But as he neared this absurdly terrible destination, his feet scraped to a halt. His motion gradually reversed itself until he began shuffling away from the door with its nauseating green glow. Not farther than a few steps did he make it before he was compelled forward violently by unseen hands, hands of a sickly and grotesque nature. Up the path lined by the seats filled with the downcast eyes of perplexed, confused, afraid souls. Propelled out the exit, the man was lost behind the closed doors. “We only need a few more... please, just a few more.” The woman had once again spoken to the ever more resigned group. At once oblique and candid, the lady’s call was hopelessly unforgettable. This time, however, no more people stood or came forward. On stage, the woman looked around the room. There was no activity. No one moved. No one spoke. No one even looked around. The pressure this development created grew greater and greater, the weight of it settled firmly on the room’s occupants, squeezing breath from lungs and thought from minds. When the pressure became unbearable, a grandiose and organic laugh echoed through the room. The laugh continued, giddy gasps of air were gluttonously swallowed without causing pause in the racket. It rose and sunk in intensity like monstrous waves before a gale, the cause of the hilarity unpronounced and unknown. Slowly, with diminishing hesitance, reserve was broken like clots as the blood rushed to that area of the brain responsible for hackneyed, unmonitored and unfettered humor, and the seats erupted in hissing, bubbling, hearty, and boisterous laughter and giggling. The woman in white stood upon the stage, malign eyes turning to surprised as the heat of humor wrapped itself tightly around her. The laughing continued as one by one people got up and left the room through the door labeled “EXIT” in glib, green, glowing letters.

This prose piece was selected to receive a Certificate of Recognition and $200 honorarium by the Friends of the University of Wisconsin-Madison Library.

Falling in Love Abroad in a Series of Scenes: John McClellan There is a folk legend in Argentina: once every 50 years, for one night at midnight, a special flower blooms. The flower smells strongly of cheese, and when it blooms, mice come from as far as their sense of smell can bring them and feast. Unfortunately for the mice, the cheesy smell is not the only thing unique about the flower (it is, after all, the stuff of Argentine folk legends). When the starchy flower is ingested, it immediately begins to expand and expand, until the mouse that ate it explodes. Too much of a good thing. And maybe it’s the reason there aren’t many cats around the city — with all the mice gone, what’s there to do? And without cats, the dogs seem to just loaf around all day. And although I’ve never seen an exploding mouse, maybe the legend helps explain why there is something magic buzzing in the electric air of the city. If not, at least it might explain why I lay around so much. There is another legend, just as important, but less widely known, that on the first night he saw her, she wasn’t wearing inch-and-a-half-high red heels, as has been reported, but rather her feet were encased with living flames. Like maybe an angel or maybe a demon. All eyes were on the hem of her dress, well above her knees, which could explain why there was some confusion about her footwear, but he saw. He noticed how she didn’t really walk so much as sizzle and feelings flamed up in his heart. And because this is Argentina, where they take “Romance language” literally, and feelings are more often than not of a certain type, he knew he had to

ask her to dance. I wonder how he got up the nerve to ask her because sure, he didn’t have to worry about stepping on her toes, but wasn’t he worried about getting burned? She stood out like an energy-saver light bulb, tall and her blonde hair shining above everyone else on the dance floor. They danced, and she wrapped her arms around him and stared in his eyes with their noses tipto-tip. When he got home and undressed for the night, he noticed that the hems of his khakis were singed, and her eyes, he realized, were scorched into his memory. I take the subte from Recoleta to Plaza de Mayo most days and walk around with the pigeons. Old ladies and young boys sell corn kernels to feed the birds for two pesos a packet. Sometimes I buy a packet or two and put kernels in each hand and stand with my arms out straight to the side. The pigeons flock over me, landing on my hands and my arms and my shoulders. Other times, I don’t buy the kernels and I just sit in the Plaza and think. As a stray dog sympathizer, and a man with occasional interest in certain feline qualities, I’ve thought about how maybe pigeons are the mice of this city. Like long ago, the mice got together and decided they were tired of always being underfoot and under pursuit, so they took to the sky. He would (some days later, after that fiery first night) lean in for a kiss as they sat in a park full of pigeons and vaguely threatening homeless men, and a pigeon overhead would rudely interrupt the tender moment of puppy love. Fine revenge for all those years of broom-swings and mousetraps, I say. Speaking of puppy love, I know a story about a cat: The two of them, him and her, on her roof at night. He had brought a bottle of La Gata Negra Sauvignon Blanc and some weed that he bought from a bartender a few streets over on Ayacucho. When she opened the door of her building, she was wearing a black dress so short he started to hope that maybe they wouldn’t make it out to dinner. And even so, she’d look good on his arm. They went up to the roof of her building to drink the wine and smoke the weed. The city at night from on high was huge and living. She was beautiful with her face lit by the electricity of the nighttime; he swirled wine in his plastic cup; smoke swirled in

the dark above their heads. She was glad he brought Sauvignon Blanc because she was tired of Chardonnay. And she didn’t normally smoke weed, but she was giggly and cute. I’m not high, she said. Or I am high, but physically, because we are on the roof, not because of the weed. I think you should roll another one. He laughed and rolled another. I’m a cat in the night, she said, and in her little black dress she looked the part. He lit the new joint and took a long, deep hit. -- To steal a kiss can be as risky as any act of theft. Crimes carry consequence, and crimes of passion, however small, are never taken lightly. Think about it: you can lean in while her attention is momentarily elsewhere, and that kiss can take you to places you never expected; or worse still, she can discover you in the act, and lean back as you lean in, and then you are caught. You can only look sheepishly in her eyes and hope she looks back. Prison time would be better. This is Argentina, though, and crimes tend to be overlooked here more than usual, and so maybe that is why he stole the first one and got away with it. They were at the café up the street from her apartment on Junin, the one where he would go for a milenesa de pollo and a liter of Quilmes for lunch most days. She was wearing skinny jeans and a tanktop, so she didn’t think that she looked good, but he knew different. He was unsure of himself but he was sure he couldn’t keep looking at her without doing something. She had a habit of looking off into the distance sometimes, and this time, when there was a lull in the conversation and she stared away, he chose larceny. He was quick and fast and she hardly even noticed before it was over. He sat there, smiling a little nervous and spinning his bottle of agua con gas, and she smiled back at him and gave him a kiss in return. Only in Argentina. The first week I was in the city, I was on the bus going down Calle Sante Fe, from my house to the city center. I had taken my wallet from my back pocket and put it in my right front, on the advice of the old woman I was staying with. The precaution didn’t help, however, and a few blocks after I had gotten on the bus, I felt a hand in my pocket. I looked over at the short woman with her hand digging for my wallet, and grabbed her arm by the wrist. I looked at her, confused about what to do next, and she just looked back at me. No surprise, no remorse. Just an everyday thing. At the next stop, she was off the bus and on her way. It wasn’t just an avoided pick-pocket attempt, but also a lesson about life here: in a city of 10 million, everyday takes on a whole new meaning.

And with her, his everyday was completely new. There is something about getting to know a new person in a new city; everything turned fresh and new for him like he’d never tasted food like this, a drink like this, touched a hand like this. It was easy for him to get lost in sensory overload with so much new all around and in the possibilities for reinvention that it offered. And so, they set out to reinvent themselves in the context of each other. In the context of their new city. As parejas en crimen. He ordered fancy bottles of wine and she drank too many glasses, and they always ordered chocolate cake for dessert, which was certainly a crime against her diet. Then they would steal into his apartment, careful like burglars not to wake the old woman he stayed with, until they were in his room and then all pretense of quiet was dropped. Tell me which crime is worse: 1). Another American moved in with me, after I had been living in the city for a couple months or so, and he was gangly and blonde and obviously American. He hadn’t been here for three days before, out at night in Palermo, one block over to the wrong side of the railroad tracks, he was walking by himself and he was robbed. Three men were walking behind him, and by the time he realized it was too late. The minute he started to speed up his stride, one of the men tackled him to the ground. Another held a knife to his throat while the third rifled through his wallet and took whatever pesos he had. 2). One night, they had been on just a few dates, he took her to Campo Bravo, in the Las Carnitas district, because he was trying to be impressive. There was a long wait, and he got there before her, so he tried to drink as many glasses of champagne as he could until she arrived, to steal his nerves and sharpen his wit. When she walked up, her hair was down and long past her shoulders, not straightened but with its slight natural wave. She was wearing jeans that he was surprised even she could fit into and a black rain-slick. It was a Friday night in Las Carnitas, so there were people everywhere but not a single person like her. She was like a bank robber who strolls in machine gun blazing, grabbing attention without asking. He threw back his glass of champagne and signaled the hostess for two more. And just like that, she had stolen his heart. ---

Every Tuesday, they would go to an Irish Pub just across Calle Cordoba from his apartment. They would drink bottles of Quilmes, buy-one-get-one-free from ten until midnight, and when she got full from the beers they would switch to something else. If she ordered a cocktail, or even a glass of white wine, he would know that it was going to be a good night. If she wanted to switch to red wine, it was trickier, because sometimes she claimed that the red wine went straight to her head and made her tired. More than occasionally, he had trouble gauging her moods. The bar was always crowded on Tuesdays, but they would find a small table, sometimes off in the corner, sometimes in the middle of all the commotion, and the other people didn’t bother them. It was like they were speaking a different language than everyone else, which, actually, they were. He was starting to love her and her eyes were so pretty that when she looked at him, he thought that maybe she felt the same way. He thought of what his father would say, though. Here he was, in an Irish Pub with a tall, blond American girl (really, just the type he had come here to avoid) instead of with some wine heiress from Mendoza, sipping on a glass of Malbec and looking over the acres of vineyards that would someday be his, if he played his cards right. But whatever, she seemed like a winning hand to him, especially when she switched from beer to vodka, and agreed to stay the night at his place. Mendoza was an eight-hour bus ride, and there she was lying next to him. I went once to Mendoza with a friend, a 30-yearold painter named Gustavo. He took me to his friend’s house, way up in the Andes, and he painted the mountains at sunrise and sunset, and I wrote love poems to the grape vines. At night, after he finished painting, we would go into the town and get drunk. An Argentine town never sleeps, and when we would arrive at the Plaza Independencia, it would be full of families: the parents and grandparents sitting outside at cafés, sharing a liter of Quilmes, and the kids running around under the trees hung with blinking lights. We would sit at the café with the old folks and drink a bottle of beer or two, until it was time to go out. Then we would hop into the car and drive outside the city to where the boliches were. We would stay until just before sunrise, so we could get back in time for Gustavo to paint. Malbec is the most popular wine in Argentina, and the type of grape most commonly grown in Mendoza. It is a thin-skinned grape, and so it is more temperamental than a Merlot or a Cab. It is a good wine, intense, but where it really shines is in the blend. A Syrah-Malbec-Merlot blend is a beautiful wine, and when he thought about it, he was lucky that he ordered it for her because she was beautiful, too. They had been dating for just a little while, and he was still trying to impress her; his friend’s father, who was a wine collector, had told him about Malbec’s affinity for blending, so he had told her, Let’s get this one. Malbec blends really well, and he had pretended to know what that meant. Plus, it was one of the most expensive bottles on the menu. She must have liked it, because she drank two glasses even before he did, and soon her legs were crossed over his under the table. Once, she stared off into the distance, and he got quickly an-

gry, but she soon looked back at him and her eyes were pretty. When I was in Mendoza, Gustavo and I took a bag of mushrooms each; he wanted to go in another direction with his painting, he said, and my love poems were more about wanting to get drunk than to fall in love. So we took the mushrooms and waited around for them to kick in. While we waited, we talked about art and what it meant to be an artist. I told him that I didn’t feel like an artist, even though I wanted to be one. He told me that if I wanted to be, then I was. I wasn’t sure about that, but I didn’t say anything back, and so we looked at a book of Jackson Pollock paintings instead of talking. It took a while before we realized that the mushrooms had started to work. I went out on the balcony of the house to be alone, but I wasn’t. The vines from the valley below were pulsing and moving and getting closer to me. I stared at them, flashing green and brown and dark purple, and I could taste the wine that the grapes would be made into: this wine was a blend of what I was and what I wanted to be and what I would become. Gustavo was still inside, painting the mountains that he saw in the cracks of the wall plaster. I wrote a love poem that made me cry, but I threw it down to the vines and forgot what I had written. -- Avenida 9 de Julio is the widest street in the world, and it takes a bit of courage to cross. Drivers in this city make it dangerous to cross even the narrowest alleys, and 9 de Julio gives them a few extra shots at you. I learned pretty quickly though, how to duck and dodge across traffic like a true Porteño; all it takes is some moxi and a certain lack of concern about your own well-being. Twenty people a day are killed in traffic accidents in Argentina, and more than a couple were just trying to cross the street. Making it from one side to the other: a tricky business. Sometimes, when he sat across from her and reached out, palms up, halfway across the table, and she didn’t take his hands, he felt that the distance between them was too wide to overcome. That there were too many obstacles to avoid and he felt unsure. It was at times like these that he would refill his wine glass. Most of the time, however, and especially after the wine had been flowing, they talked at length and at ease. She was so pretty that he would listen to her talk about anything, and she was so smart that whatever she had to say was interesting. He would talk, too, and hope that he was being as interesting. It was easy, especially at first, to get to know one another because everything was new so they could start at the beginning. They were starting new lives, so sharing things about their old ones came natural and unawkward. She told him about her brother, and how he had once stolen a beer when he was three and hid in the closet with it. She told him about her mom and her dad and about how she was worried her mom would never be happy (and, later, about how she was worried she would never be happy). He told her about his family, too, and about the dumb things he did in high school. He told her about when he wrecked a car while drunk, and she didn’t judge him. Just said how sorry she was and climbed into his lap when she saw that it was a hard story to tell. One of the first things I remember about Argentina is a postcard that I saw before I got here. It was of 9 de Julio, the

long view down towards Calle Corrientes and the Obelisco rising high to its point. It was impressive on the postcard and the first time I walked down to the business district from my place up Santa Fe on Larrea, and stood under it, it was even more so. Cute girls were selling newspapers and handing out flyers and the Obelisco stretched up grey and high above me. I reached out like I could touch the top point. Then I looked down and bought a newspaper from one of the cute girls, even though it was in a language I couldn’t read. She liked to go to El Museo on Wednesday nights, because a lot of people went there straight from work and so all the men were dressed in their Christian Dior suits. He had a sports coat that he wore. She also liked it because she could dress up like a secretary, a slutty secretary of course, and so he liked it, too. She was tall and thin, taller than any of the Argentine women, so she stood out even more than she normally would have. The dance floor at El Museo was huge and wide, and there were giant video screens all over. The bass would pound in her ears so she couldn’t hear what he was saying. She liked having him there, but sometimes she would see a handsome Argentine in a suit and wish that she could go talk to him, just to prove to herself that she could, which—if he had offered a peso for her thoughts— he would have told her was ridiculous because in that secretary’s outfit she could have done anything she wanted. They would dance close and fast to the loud techno, and she would put the tip of her nose on his and look into his eyes. I wonder if he ever had trouble crossing the streets here. It’s hard to imagine he didn’t. Myself, I barely avoided certain death more than once in my first couple months, dodging out of the way of a colectiva, bumping along and throwing black clouds into the air and the driver paying no attention because everyone else had to get out of the way of his big bus. It’s not easy, crossing the streets of this city. Once, I was high and was walking from a bar at the intersection of Ayacucho and Juncal, and it was a beautiful day. It was early September, before the weather turned hot, and the sun was still new from months behind grey winter clouds. The sky was blue and the air smelled like gasoline. I was looking at the sky and at every face I passed, and I was falling in love with one girl after another. I was just walking, feeling happy and lucky to be here, when a hand grabbed my shoulder and pulled me back. I was ready to be angry, to turn around and shout in my American-accented Spanish, when I felt the wind first and then saw the colectiva rush by not a foot from where I stood a few paces into the street. I looked back and an old woman was standing there, looking at me. I said, Gracias, and then I ducked around a car and across the street. -- Outside the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes in spring is beautiful. The trees in the park across the street, bare all winter, bloom purple. It is a sight that rivals any you can find inside the museum, which is saying something because the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes has one of the most important collections in South America. One day, it had just turned to spring and the weather was nice for the first time in weeks. He called her and told her to meet him at

the museum. The sun was out and shining and he said, Wear a cute little sundress, because he loved seeing her in dresses. She showed up in shorts and a t-shirt, but the shorts were short, so, oh well, he thought. They walked through the museum together and he tried to remember everything he learned in Art History 202 his sophomore year. Her favorite paintings were the ones of naked women, and she also liked the Degas paintings of ballerinas. His favorites were the Gauguins, because he knew that he was living a fantasy himself. I admire painting for its immediacy. When the artist draws his brush across the canvas, a red streak of sunset or the curve of a breast or one half of a mountain peak, there is a sensory reaction right away. I know that it is hard work, and I have seen my friend Gustavo slave over a canvas for months, but the impact, at least for me, hits hard and fast. Maybe it is the same way that I react to a beautiful girl; after more careful observation, I could extol on every small detail of her face, but it is that first, initial punch of beauty that affects me the most. I like to get high and go to the Museo Nacional. Walking around there, looking at the masterpieces, is a little like falling in love. I have a new crush every time I move on to the next painting. She was certainly a work of art, he thought. No Renaissance master could have sculpted her more perfectly. It was early September, and she wore a long skirt and a flower in her hair and her beauty was in full bloom in the new spring. They took a walk around Recoleta, up Calle Junin from her house down to Avenida Libertador where the Museo Nacional was. The façade of the museum was a deep pink, and the trees were light purple, and the flower in her hair was red. The sun shone bright in his eyes, and made them water a little, so all the colors blended together like an Impressionist painting. They stopped at a restaurant in Buenos Aires Design. She ordered a grilled vegetable sandwich with no cheese, and he ordered a liter of Quilmes. The weather was perfect and so was the moment, so he sat there and drank his beer in silence because he didn’t want to ruin everything with an imperfect word. Poetry, as a discipline, has a lot in common with painting. Both are restricted; the painter has only his canvas and the poet has just his few words fit into his meter. And they both are after creating that perfect image. The novel writer has it easy because he can coach and lead the reader and use as many words as he needs. The painter and the poet, however, can simply throw their images out and hope they stick. I’m not much of a poet myself, although I have tried to be at certain points, and I can’t draw to save my life, which frustrates me because a simple pencil drawing seems like the most pure form of art; art reflects life and to make a few scratches on a piece of paper and become a mirror is an amazing talent. He once tried to draw a picture of her, but he wasn’t any better at it than me and crumpled the paper when he realized the futility of the task. She was jealous of the sculpture because it had bigger breasts that her, she said. He laughed, and said, I am jealous of the sculptor because the sculptor was able to bring such beauty out from a hunk of black marble. Luckily, he didn’t have to, and leaned over to give her a kiss. She laughed, and her laugh was beautiful because it was a child’s laugh: happy and short and without pretense. It was more

of a giggle than a laugh. When he laughed, really laughed, it was loud and out of control, and sometimes he was embarrassed by it, so a lot of times he would just fake a low chuckle. When I laugh, I toss my head back and let it go like spoken-verse poetry. I imagine that when Jackson Pollock laughs, he sprays spit across the room. When Antonio Berni laughs, he either smiles toothless and you get the feeling he is laughing at you on the inside, or he bursts out in an irrational laugh that makes you laugh, too, but at what you are not sure. Degas probably has a winking laugh, charming and seducing you. Gauguin, I’m sure, always laughs at his own jokes. -- The two of them, in Bariloche: they were sitting in a chairlift riding to the top of the mountain. They were surrounded on all sides by high, snow-capped peaks and low, deep-blue lakes. It was beautiful. She is beautiful, he thought, and asked for a kiss. She stopped snapping away with her camera for a quick peck, and then back through the lenses. At the top of the chairlift, there was a small café with an observation deck. They went inside the café and she ordered tea and a slice of chocolate cake, and he ordered a chocolate-cognac, even though it was only ten in the morning. She made him eat some of the cake, because she didn’t want to eat it all. After they finished, they went outside to the observation deck. Bariloche in the early spring looked like another world: steel-colored mountains covered in green pine trees surrounded by blue and green lakes in full panorama as far as her camera could zoom. Unadulterated nature. He walked around in slow circles, kicking at rocks and trying to distract her from her pictures. Because even there, she was the most beautiful thing around. She was not easily distracted though, and he got a few quick kisses but nothing else. She sat on his lap for a while. He asked to look at her pictures, but she wouldn’t let him because, she said, there were pictures that she took of herself in cute underwear. He grabbed at the camera, but she pulled it away too quick. He laughed but really wished she would let him see. Life is different outside the city. It is slower: the cars drive slower, the people talk slower, the pace of the nights is slower. In the city, especially when drinks are being poured at city-speed, the nights can come and go, one after the other, and if you stop paying attention for a moment, or not get out of bed until it’s time to start the next one, you lose track of yourself and you can end up someplace that you didn’t plan on. Because it is easy to get lost in the city: just get off on the wrong subte stop, or drink one too many fernet and cokes, and all of a sudden, you have no idea where you are, which is why it is nice to get out of the city every now and again, so that you have a chance to catch up with yourself. Once, when I needed to catch up with myself, I took the long bus down south to Bariloche, and stayed for a few days. I stayed with a friend-of-a-friend, and when I got there I bought three bottles of mountain wine from a man on the side of the road and holed up in my room. I looked out the window at the mountains and drank the wine. I had planned on writing, but the mountains put my words into perspective so I couldn’t put anything on the page that I liked. I just tried to let the landscape fill up my mind instead of thoughts. When

the wine was finished, I went into town and walked around a bit. People are friendlier outside the city: more willing to listen to my terrible accent, more willing to take the time to help you out. Maybe it’s because, outside of the city where everything is slower, there is more time to go around and you don’t have to be so careful with it. I sat in a park and watched the people walk around with the backdrop of the mountains and the lakes, until I saw a pretty girl and asked her to dinner. Like I said, people are friendlier outside the city, so I thought, what the hell? I’ll give it a shot. One day while they were there, they went for a hike up the mountain. When they first started, at the bottom, the day was unusually hot for early spring, and they both took off their jackets and he carried them. She was a runner—he certainly wasn’t—and she climbed fast, like she was trying to prove something. He kept up and tried not to breathe too heavy. But as they climbed higher, the air started to get thinner and cooler. After about an hour and a half, he noticed the first snow on the ground: just a little white and brown patch. In another half-hour, though, they were walking through snow up to their knees. Once, he took a wrong step and ended up in a snow bank past his waist. At first, it was fun. He made a snowball and threw it lightly at her. She giggled and took a picture when he ended up in the snow bank, then gave him a kiss when he got out. But after a while of walking in the deep snow, they were both tired and their feet were soaked through. They hadn’t expected anything like this, so they were dressed light and unprepared. He followed her to the top, because, well, he liked the view when he was following her, but it was no fun. That night, with the excuse that he had to warm himself up, he got too drunk and ruined it. Yelled at her about something that made sense when he was thinking about it, but he could tell was nonsense when he said it out loud. Then when he realized that he was wrong, he just got drunker. She left him at the hotel bar and he stayed and drank beer, trying to cool off. When he got back to the room, she was pretending to be asleep and there was a pillow and a blanket on the floor. Luckily, he was drunk enough to pass out and didn’t have to lay there and think about it, but the next morning was not good. He had a headache and couldn’t stomach any breakfast. He tried to pretend like nothing had happened and she played along, but he could tell she was still mad. ---

There is a park on Calle Las Heras, where the street turns at a sharp angle and becomes a quiet corner of Recoleta, instead of the busy thoroughfare that it usually is. They would go to the park and sit together, him and her, under a huge rubber tree. The tree was so big as to seem timeless to him, and it was nice to sit under. In the city, everything was big on a scale like he had never known before, but the tree was big in a different way. A natural way. It shielded them from the towering concrete of the high rises. Sometimes he would try to hold her hand, and sometimes she would let him. Children played games and kicked balls in the park. Once, a child on a bicycle rode wide circles around the big tree for the whole hour they sat there. They watched him ride and sometimes talked and sometimes kissed. With her under the timeless tree, he thought, long-legged and blonde, she was beautiful in a timeless way. There is another rubber tree outside the Recoleta cemetery, where Eva Peron is buried. The mausoleums in the cemetery are big and ornate and expensive. They are made from marble and carved stone. I wonder what it takes to be buried like that. What kind of life must you lead to deserve such a treatment in death? I sometimes walk around in the cemetery, although it makes me vaguely uncomfortable, and I make up stories for the people buried there. Maybe this guy was an activist during the Dirty War, and although he somehow managed not to “disappear,” all that government pressure got to him in the end and he died early of heart failure. Maybe that guy was a distant relation to the hero, San Martin himself, and although he worked humbly as a laundromat owner, he was a kind man and great blood flowed through his veins. Maybe another fought alongside General Las Heras in the fight for independence, and when the General became governor of la Provincia, he was honored for the bravery he showed. But probably not. I wonder if there are any artists buried in the cemetery, but for all its antiquated magnificence, it doesn’t seem a likely landing spot for a painter or a poet. The cemetery was one of the first places in the city that he visited. It was just a short walk from his house, and every Saturday, there was a fair in the park where people set up stands and sold crafts. He didn’t actually go into the cemetery that first time because he didn’t want to be a tourist. He thought he was above the obligatory stop to pay homage to Argentina’s leading lady. Plus, the old woman he was staying with was no Peronista, and had countless stories of friends and relatives who were in someway mistreated while General Peron was in power. She told him a story about her uncle, whose business was taken away and was thrown in jail for seven months, and she told it with great indignation and not a little pride. I would have asked whether she preferred the Dictator, but he was more polite and told her that he didn’t go see Evita’s grave. She was born poor but beautiful in rural Argentina in 1919. Despite her humble beginnings, she was rich in force of character, and so when she was 15 she went to the big city to make her name, which, of course, she did. She was an actress until she caught the eye of General Juan Peron at a charity event in San Juan, when she became Eva Peron, soon-to-be First Lady of Argentina and forever in the collective heart of the people. She must have been some beauty, to not only win the affections of the powerful man, but to also steal the hearts of future generations all with one look. He did go another time, however, with her. She wanted to see it. She said, It’s something that everyone has to do, and he was never good at saying no to her. So they went and he noticed the rubber tree outside the cemetery, and it made him think about their tree, in the park on Calle Las Heras. He thought about the little boy, riding his bike round and around, and he thought about holding her hand, which he did as they walked through the gate into the cemetery. In front of Eva’s grave, there was a crowd of tourists: fat, blond people talking in some Nordic language. He hung back behind while she pushed her way to the front. She shone in the afternoon sunlight, and he thought to himself that she deserved just as much admiration as the dead woman. In fact, she deserved more because she was here, alive and beautiful and full of a vigor for life that he found irresistible. If it wasn’t for her, he thought, he would stay all day in the room he was renting and smoke weed. But experiences with her meant more to him than anything he had in a long while, and so he was willing to do anything. He walked through the crowd and put his arm around her waist while she looked at the famous grave.

Profile of an Imagined Science and its Conjurer John Hamel Definition is defined as an exact statement or description of the nature, scope, or meaning of something. For instance: Doctor: n.

1 a qualified practitioner of medicine. 2 a person who gives advice or makes improvements.

Evermor: adv.

1 (used for rhetorical effect or in ecclesiastical contexts) always.

These definitions are limpid enough in a vacuum. But if a man were to appropriate “doctor” and “evermore” as a pseudonym, could he be defined by the sum of these definitions? Would their hybrid encompass the nature, scope or meaning of him? Would Dr. Evermor be a qualified practitioner of always? Or a person who makes improvements always? Definition, by definition, can also be the action or process of defining something – the process becoming the nature, the scope, or meaning of something. Perhaps Dr. Evermor would consider this definition to additionally be the definition of art. Because art, or at least his, seems to be the action or process of defining something, of becoming the very nature, scope or meaning of something. So in attempting to define Dr. Evermor, perhaps this is the approach to take. Doctor Evermor: n. 1 sculptor of junk; collagist of time, or at least the ephemeral point that connects past to future; North Freedom, Wisconsin; an art historian noted that the village’s name not only provides his art a metaphysical context but also a physical one encircled by a scrap yard, a munitions plant, and an inhumed mountain range, the peaks of which are exposed by the erosion of geologic time; “How much will that sculpture weigh?”

“That’s a good question. Weight’s the most important aspect…” doesn’t explain why; form-before-function architect of the Forevertron, [ETYMOLOGY: a portmanteau consisting of “forever,” meaning “for all future time,” and “-tron,” a suffix denoting a “particle accelerator”], his magnum opus, a space capsule, 300 tons (!), 50 feet high, 60 deep, electromagnetic generators supporting a pastiche of spiral staircases, turrets, celestial telescopes, carnivals, gazebos, chimneys, etc., [SEE: the intersection of a technological revolution past and one yet to come], [SEE: sci-fi worlds built of anachronistic scraps]; “Where do you get all this stuff?” “We’ve been collecting it…” uses the collective, human “we” for rhetorical effect; sitting in his wheelchair, sitting on his proof that movement of the mind is superior to that of the body that wears two bolo ties: a scorpion decorating one clasp while something less memorable adorns the other; a cowboy hat, hair in a braided ponytail, etc., [SEE: a herder, cowboy of temporal planes, corralling metallic artifacts towards infinitude], [SEE: a rodeo of junkyard beasts]; “Why are you planning on repainting the sculptures?” “We weren’t born brown. We were born colorful…” rust an obvious symbol of decline, dying, suggests Eleanor Every, [NOTE: root of Evermor], rejecting bucolic as aesthetic, refers to her husband as “the Doctor,” [SEE: alchemist of reverse aging] [SEE: the necromantic tendencies of Faust]; and then the Doctor’s welding assistant, wearing a jumpsuit, the Doctor’s able body, muttering a vague New Zealand English, has been on “vacation for the past 26 years,” unclear as to his definition of vacation; the Doctor now bites off the end of a cigar, never expelling it from his mouth, instead expelling: “Can you tell me what this machinery was used for? Can you even tell me what it’s called?” the subject being defined now asking the questions, illustrating that the world has lost touch with what it was built upon, simultaneously illustrating that he hasn’t; his sculptures proving destruction as a form of construction, and vice versa, [SEE: agent of eternal return]; a clairvoyant of industrial wreckage; wrecker, rectifier [SEE: wrecktifiying], a force to be wreckoned with; the scrap yard palette, the blowpipe brush, his welding helmet now on, sparks flying as he applies heat to history, flames flaying layers off a dead science, his distant profile an apotheosis over the shadow the present casts, welding the ephemeral point connecting past to future; he is in fact a practitioner of always at all times on all occasions forever.

the Flash of a

Synapse David Labedz

SSAY

Toward the end of my senior year of high school, I got to be a damn good French horn player. Like anything else, that skill has drifted away toward disrepair through consistent neglect, but for a few months when I was 18, I was playing well enough that I could pit my skills against almost any high school French horn player. The catch was that I didn’t feel like pitting myself against high school French horn players. It didn’t seem to mean anything that I was first chair at Bradford High School, because there were plenty of last chairs in other orchestras that could put me to shame. No matter how good I got, there would always be someone better than me: as a good seventhgrade horn player, the eighth-graders could still kick my ass; as a good tenth-grade horn player, I was still third chair; as a good twelfth-grade horn player, a professional could still embarrass me. Now, plenty of people would think this kind of talk is self-righteous. After all, shouldn’t I be content with my gifts and glad I excel at what I do, et cetera. The answer, of course, is absolutely not. The point isn’t to brag about what I do well (or, even worse, DID well); it’s to hammer home the point that anything I can do, I can do better. I’ve been thinking about myself in a global context a lot lately. I’ll graduate next year, and will need to figure out what to do with myself; of course I’ve still got that nagging undergraduate existentialist tendency in my back pocket, and so I find myself constantly thinking about my life-term goals in terms of my own sense of meaning, and the sorts of occupations that I deem morally respectable. In short, what

can I do to make myself happy, and feel useful? I don’t intend for this to devolve into some kind of soul-searching blog entry. My hope is that my musings will carry over to someone else’s experience, rather than droning on my own, and that someone may find something of value in my conclusions. To help with this, I’ll turn my attention away from myself for a bit. Tonight I saw a very good documentary on PBS regarding the scientist E.O. Wilson. Dr. Wilson is a professor at Harvard, curator of the biology museum there, and a worldrenowned authority on ants. This last criterion has allowed him to form numerous theories about animal social behavior that he has subsequently transferred over to human behavior, resulting in a synthesis known as “Sociobiology”. Specifics on this can be found in Dr. Wilson’s On Human Nature, which I highly recommend. The upshot of all this is that he is, without exaggeration, perhaps the most important living scientist, and more importantly (also without exaggeration), a model for anyone who would like to study anything. I have read a couple of Dr. Wilson’s books, a few of his articles, and tonight I saw him in action on his PBS special. Both in print and on screen, it is obvious that he reaches the pinnacle of achievement for any enthusiast, be it scientific, artistic, or spiritual: he truly loses himself in his work. The entire time he writes or speaks, there is not a moment where the focus is on him, and his achievements: every second is spent marveling in amazement at the source material. One easily forgets that it was his discovery; in his company, such possessives appear ludicrous. He stakes no claim even to a theory like Sociobiology. It is simply an underlying trait that he managed to unearth. It existed all along. He was just the one lucky enough to bring it to light. That’s the kind of scientist I want to be. I hope someday soon to be so immersed in my material that I can forget myself, overlooking my own achievement, and seeing myself as a single link in the transmission of information that I am only carrying. My research will cease to be “mine”; it will be transient, like all information, stored in me until it can be passed on and perfected by someone else further down the line. In that context, what does it matter if someone else is a better French horn player than me? What’s the point of competing to be the “best,” or to be “world class” in any artistic or academic pursuit? This attitude of total

immersion makes someone capable of being world-class; beyond it, there’s just the question of stumbling across something worth knowing. People tend to get so caught up in their performance relative to others, it’s easy to forget that those “others” are relative to everyone else, struggling in the same slippery competition. There is no top to be lonely at; there is no light at the end of the tunnel: there’s really not even a tunnel – it’s an illusion driven by our desire to feel that our beginning and end has some grand impact, that somehow other things begin and end with us. The truth is, nothing is beginning or ending with you. You are not even the blink of an eye: you’re the flash of a synapse. The best you hope for is to carry something in that flash that’s worth passing on, and that applies to anything – science, art, teaching, parenting, whatever your legacy happens to be. When that flash fades, a few others should be ignited around it. E.O. Wilson has been one such flash for me, and I hope to be one for as many others as possible.

two weeks in the funhouse:

Motorcycling, Safaris and the

overwhelming specter of Western aid money in

Nepal

With barely a warning, our elephant charged down the embankment at the end of the jungle, giving my friend a taste of scenic greenery right to the kneecaps. He howled in pain as we emerged onto a dusty plain. There the rhino we had been pestering stood stoic and sedate, presenting his ass to the telephoto lenses sprouting from the riding carriages. A group of European, American and Chinese tourists ooh-ed and aah-ed at the heavily armored backside as my buddy continued to curse, half doubled-up. For the Western European or American traveler, touring Nepal is both appealing and offputting in its exotic absurdity, like what you might get if Salvador Dali were to paint a crowd scene. On my trip to the Subcontinent, I found that itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a hell of a lot of fun to be a rich Westerner in Nepal, but my enjoyment was cut with disgust at the sundry perversions of Westernization. NGO workers and eco-tourists can do good works all day, then at night retire to accommodations done up in the European style, all with the happy knowledge that although the British Raj has fallen, what is stood for remains brilliant and eternal. Meanwhile, our culture (bolstered by our aid dollar) is seeping in at the seams, pervading the country and subjugating it with a smile.

Alec Luhn

Bob Dylan makes his entrance

As a Slavicist, I study contradictions. Russia’s conflicted identity, caught between the prim establishment of the West and the ancient exoticism of the East, first attracted me to Russia and occupied my interest during 15 months of study in Nizhnii Novgorod and St. Petersburg. The lure of similarly exotic country, caught between the two largest nations on earth, drew me to Nepal for a brief respite from Russia. Of course, the warmer climate, firesalepriced plane ticket, guaranteed lodging and in-country host (my Kathmandu-based friend) also helped seal the decision to go to the land of the Gurkhas. My journey began in New Delhi. As I stepped from the modern airport into the dim, crowded taxi pool, I felt like circa-1963 Bob Dylan emerging from behind the tinted windows of his limousine: Half-stunned, I was bewildered and frustrated by my sudden and overwhelming popularity; everyone wanted to give me a ride, to show me his friend’s great shop, to know where I was from and where I was going. When I reached Nepal, I encountered a new kind of solicitor, the stoner-tout. In contrast to the frenetic questioning of his Indian counterpart, the Nepali stoner-tout casually vies for his target’s attention with a leisurely, “Hey dude, you smoke?”. It’s a better fit for Nepal, which in comparison with India’s teeming, Where’s Waldo?-style chaos is as calm as Goodnight Moon, the Valium lull after the cocaine rush. In Nepal, wealth is scarce, but time is overabundant among the hut-bound set, and these magnates of the hours spend recklessly. On the way to Pokhara, we had to sit in a dusty Nepali town for eight hours due to that scourge of the Nepali road system, the “bandh,” which is a form of political protest that completely shuts down traffic. The miles of backed-up trucks, carts and buses was practically a Fourthof-July parade for the locals; folks pulled out lawn chairs and watched the traffic stand still. Even the waylaid Nepali travelers accepted their immediate fate with almost bemused patience. Only the white tourists, on their way to exotic prepaid mountain treks or jungle resorts, got antsy and upset. The obstruction itself was never actually visible, but according to a Pokhara resident on our bus, the Youth Communist League started the bandh to raise awareness over the suicide of a villager whose husband beat her. It certainly did raise my awareness that a road-

side in rural Nepal is a dull place to spend an afternoon, although I don’t know what exactly it did for the villager, or for eliminating domestic violence. Once we finally did get to Pokhara, we decided the best way to take in the mountainous scenery was by motorcycle. I had never ridden a motorcycle in my life, but this was no problem since I was a rich American: I learned to ride my rented bike in five minutes and then took off into the mountains, which would be a hairy experience for Evel Knievel, let alone a complete newbie. Even after I biffed on a sandflat and bent the leg-guard, a $10 slick of the palm quieted the owner’s protestations. Subcontinental drivers on the whole are fearless; daytime driving on Delhi’s ring road highway is like a Fortune 500 race through a traffic jam, with the occasional elephant, donkey-cart or stray cow thrown into the mix. But Nepal adds the element of extreme heights to the already unbalanced equation. My hands got sore clenching the handlebars as we straddled cliffs to avoid careening, overfilled buses. It is this carefree, dangerous and exhilarating atmosphere, free of Western-style regulations and liability agreements, that gives Nepal its ramshackle charm. When there were no seats left on a bus from Bhaktapur to Changunarayan, for example, we simply sat on the roof. The schoolkids up there with us were obviously used this hair-raising travail, laughing whenever someone forgot to duck and was clipped by a branch. Thanks to a natural deference to tourists and strength of the dollar, Nepal holds awesome possibilities for “bideshis,” or white people. Amusements can be found from the top of Everest to the dark depths of the Nepali dance bar, which, besides live classic rock music, is the main form of nightlife. The tone was as bawdy as you might expect, but the action on stage reminded me of the nun dance from the Weird Al music video for “Amish Paradise,” i.e. pretty PG by nudie-bar standards. Of course, any bideshi on an American-sized payroll can get around the modest façade. A local hustler named Tippot approached us with an offer to take one of the teenage dancers home for the night: 3,000 rupees ($40).

The house that aid money built

After my friend got scraped on our three-day, hand-holding package tour in Chitwan National Park, we headed back to Kathmandu and its comforting yet disgusting level of Westernization, which caters to an extremely spoiled

subculture of hippie expats. I was reminded of a rather pastoral but nonetheless acerbic article by local son Nanda Shrestha that I’d read back at UW-Madison. Titled “Becoming a Development Category,” it describes the influx of white development workers into Nepal in the 1960’s, most in search of cheap drugs and “cultural relief from the material opulence of stale suburban life.” Nepal’s exotic appeal still attracts development workers, as well as smugly cynical tourists like myself. But even while these foreigners enjoy slumming it in Nepal’s picturesque poverty, they demand the familiar comfort of Western culture. The soundtrack to my trip featured more classic rock than a marching-band halftime show, played by Nepali rockers at bars patronized by whites. I griped, then gorged on the first plate of pancakes with maple syrup I’d had in eight months. There’s just too many bideshis trying to “save” a tiny, impoverished country, while they themselves live in what by comparison is opulent splendor. In Nepal, the Jeffrey Sachs-style flow of aid money and the technocratic society of aid-worker maharajas overseeing it reinforce a kind of pseudo-religion of white privilege. “In the past, if a trail was damaged, the villagers from surrounding villages organized a work force and repaired it,” Shrestha reminisces. “Now the villagers felt that somebody else, a foreign donor or government agency would come and fix it. Nowadays, nothing moves without foreign aid.” Reading this passage, I pictured the steel suspension bridges we saw jutting incongruously out of the terraced, hut-dotted landscape in Pokhara, which I later learned is the city Shrestha focuses on in his account. Shrestha published this article in 1995, but nothing much has changed since then. Blame a West-

ern paradigm of “backwardness” and “development,” backed up by millions of dollars of aid, for starters. We’re ostensibly bringing democracy to Nepal, but at what intangible cost? My trip to Nepal captured the situation to a turn, especially the image of bideshis riding through the jungle on servile elephants, conducted by villagers with heavy metal ankus. It’s just too metaphorical: Westerners riding raw, exotic Nepal, assisted by hook-wielding local drivers. Where to, sahib? There’s only one answer: Toward that vague metaphysical point that Westerners and Westernizers and neo-imperialists love to aim for, be it democracy or modernity, or for that matter participatory politics with a half-measure of conspicuous consumption and visions of a big box retailer near a high-capacity arterial road featuring smaller shop space retailers and restaurants attractive to the desired customer profile. In middle school, I had a friend whose gimp dad held a special hunting license that allowed him to shoot from the comfort of his car. This is exactly what well-meaning Western democracy-builders and oh-so-culturallysensitive Western tourists are doing now in Nepal and other points east. We’re shooting from the car, when we should be out getting scraped against the trees. 1. Nanda Shrestha, “Becoming a Development Category,” in Development: A Cultural Studies Reader, ed. Jane Haggis and Susan Schech (Malden, MA : Blackwell, 2002), 103.

dea isconsin

UW President Charles Van Hise proclaimed that he would “never be content until the beneficient influence of the University reaches every family in the state.” It was in this spirit that Van Hise created the Wisconsin Idea in 1904, a vision that has endured for more than 100 years. As the world shrinks and the University grows, it becomes increasingly important for the University to maintain its tradition of outreach in Wisconsin, while extending its programs to encompass a larger national and global community. Many UW-Madison undergraduates are rising to the challenge. Illumination is proud to highlight not only those stud ents making a difference in Wisconsin, but also those serving around the country and abroad. Using the University’s incredible resources to extend its borders, these students keep Van Hise’s vision alive. To learn more about the Wisconsin Idea, visit http://www.wisc.edu/wisconsinidea.

“On, Ghana!”: the Wisconsin Idea makes an Impression Kyle Walsh It has been two years since I began my tenure at the University of Wisconsin, and in those two years the changes that have ensued were changes I never anticipated. And now I find myself writing from across the Atlantic, in the west of Africa at the University of Ghana. Though I have been living in a far different world for the past two and a half months, I remain intent on keeping old and making new connections to the place I call home. During my time abroad, in the midst of one of Ghana’s premiere universities, I have taken a significant interest in what has proven to be an incredibly valuable program for me. The program entitled, “Cross-cultural Classroom Connections,” sounds as simple as it truly is, but in reality it is much, much more. And as a School of Education student, in pursuit of becoming an elementary school teacher, I appreciate and value the significance of classrooms, making connections, and now, what it means to put those two together. I would venture to guess that this is why it is rather easy for me to understand and relate to the vision known as the Wisconsin Idea. It is through various means and organizations that I have always been encouraged to find a way to bring about, as well as keep, strong relationships that span the entire globe. And as we should—after all, we each find ourselves belonging to the same human race. Cross-cultural Classroom Connections has a clear mission: “to promote global understanding in children.” The cyber pen-pal program takes learning outside of the classroom, and plays an active role in influencing the way today’s children understand the world. By showing students in the Madison area an unfamiliar view of the world, it is my hope that they will someday have the oppor-

tunity—and will—to change the path of our globe. I am confident that the program epitomizes the Wisconsin Idea, in that education can, and should, “influence and improve peoples’ lives beyond the university classroom.” I am currently corresponding with a 4/5 class from Lindbergh Elementary, as well as with one teacher with various classes at Sennett Middle School. Cross-cultural Classroom Connections is the instrument that I am utilizing to ensure that my experience abroad does not end once the semester does. Rather than waiting to share everything I learn when I return, I am attempting to establish connections in one of the most important places I see fit. I am constantly reminded of the simple truth that children are the future. By connecting students in Madison, Wisconsin with the local culture of Sub-Saharan Africa’s first independent country, Ghana, we are able to instill the importance of a globally connected world. In doing so, we truly are “transcending the traditional barriers of age, distance and time.” The target audience is no longer limited to those within the University, but is now open to the entire area of Madison, and more. I am optimistic that rather than only connecting with the students in class, we are also aiding teachers in their efforts of teaching their students about the world outside of the classroom. This too has the power to travel any distance, as it already has traveled thousands of miles across the Atlantic. It is an unbelievable feeling knowing that I, as well as others in this program, have the opportunity to teach students without being in the classroom. The potential is infinite. Cross-cultural Classroom Connections has affected me in the way that I have the ability to tell my story to many students from outside of the city, state, country, and even continent. I often have to remind

myself that I really am in Africa. Being able to share the experiences I am having here is something that I feel serves great significance. I feel it is valuable being able to explain to students that just because something isn’t what we are used to, doesn’t always mean that it’s wrong. It is an essential truth that must be revealed. Our way is not the way. It is simply a way. I find it extremely meaningful being able to teach students of Ghanaian culture, and everything that comes along with it. Experiences like volunteering at a local orphanage, eating fufu, or mashed cassava (yam) with my hands, or being in the country where the local team just won the World Cup are all completely different from anything I have experienced within the borders of the United States. While there are also frustrations that occur every day in Ghana, I am thankful for each experience that I am having. They have all impacted my outlook on life, and now, hopefully have helped shape the perspectives of many, many more. Helping students back home realize that across the globe, classrooms are not often decorated with student-made pictures and that even the markers and crayons used to do this in the U.S. are usually absent, is important. But that difference alone does not make this better or worse than a class in Madison, Wisconsin that does have these tools. Different does not signify anything other than different, and it is important to recognize the beauty of diversity. If we were all the same, what would we learn from each other? As I sit here in Legon, Ghana, that question is one I personally hope to pose to students who find themselves sitting at a desk in Madison. Ultimately, the answer to that question is what represents the goal of Crosscultural Classroom Connections. Maybe it is just coincidence that the University of Wisconsin is home to Cross-cultural Classroom Connections, and the Wisconsin Idea. But I’d like to think otherwise.

finding myself in the Wisconsin Idea Brett Bernsteen

Coming from a relatively homogeneous town nearly twenty times smaller than Madison, I found myself staggeringly overwhelmed with the sheer scope and size of this place. I was in the middle of a life-altering transition, and concerned I wouldn’t survive academically, so I closed myself off from the new potential experiences that surrounded me in an attempt to keep my head above water. However, from the time I got on campus, I was bombarded with numerous opportunities to get involved. Contrary to my relatively involved high-school self, I didn’t respond to these opportunities. I was remarkably uninvolved in the campus and the surrounding community. Instead, I kept my nose buried in my books that first year, waiting for all the great people, places, and life-changing experiences I had heard so much about to simply come knocking on my door. I was trying to figure out how to be a college student, but in doing so I just became more and more disconnected. I didn’t feel like a college student at all. It didn’t take me very long to realize that these opportunities wouldn’t just come knocking. But by a sheer stroke of luck, I didn’t have to look far. I first heard about the Morgridge Center for Public Service while living in University Housing. Generally I ignored the colorful sea of flyers that stood in front of me on my way out the door, but on this particular day, one flyer stood out. “Find yourself in service to others,” it read. I hadn’t yet found a place for myself on campus, and with an extensive high school history in volunteering, working at the Morgridge Center seemed like the perfect way to get out there and experience this great university I had heard so much about. It took me almost a year, but I had finally decided to take the plunge. In looking back on my first year at UW-Madison, despite my lack of involvement in the campus, all the confusion, all the all-nighters, and all the stress I felt on any given day, I still had a great year. However, I can honestly say that I did not truly feel like a part of this campus community until I found the Morgridge Center for Public Service. What compelled me most to begin working for the Morgridge Center for Public Service was its inspiring dedication to advancing the Wisconsin Idea. Through promoting civic engagement, strengthening teaching and learning, and building collaborative partnerships through public service, service-learning, and community-based research, this university provides students and faculty with the chance to live and experience the Wisconsin Idea firsthand. In utilizing the various programs and services offered through the Morgridge Center, it is our hope that students will feel inspired to apply the knowledge and information attained during their time at the University of Wisconsin to be a positive influence not just within in the Madison community, but also beyond state, national, and international borders.

My role in the Morgridge Center, and therefore in promoting the Wisconsin Idea, is that of the Campus Outreach Coordinator. It is my primary objective to promote the Morgridge Center programs and services through speeches, presentations, and special events targeted towards students and faculty. I quickly discovered, through connecting with students on campus about opportunities for public service, that there were many who held the same apprehensions about university life as I did. Like me, many were interested in volunteering and becoming active within the community but felt too lost or overwhelmed by school to actualize these ambitions. In introducing its programs and services to students, I soon realized the essential role of the Morgridge Center on this campus. Small-group volunteer programs like Badger Volunteers provide students with a supportive team of other volunteers, while interactive academic opportunities like service-learning courses provide opportunities for students to volunteer as part of their course work. Furthermore, programs like the Wisconsin Idea Undergraduate Fellowship allow students to create their own projects to meet community needs on a local, national, or international level. Through financial and academic guidance, this particular program promotes the very notion of the Wisconsin Idea: that the knowledge and experiences offered by the University of Wisconsin have the potential to benefit the state and beyond. My only regret about discovering the Morgridge Center and its connection to the Wisconsin Idea was that I didn’t discover it sooner. Had I been aware of these dynamic programs and resources as a lost, confused freshman, I can only imagine where I’d be today. In promoting these programs to the student population, I finally felt like I was part of something great. I knew that, in

working with the Morgridge Center for Public Service, I would be helping students become involved in this great community and sharing the trials and tribulations I’ve had in order to give them the most worthwhile experience possible. I also knew that I would be helping countless non-profit agencies in Madison and across the country maintain a steady volunteer population to help meet their needs. What I didn’t realize, however, was that in working for the Morgridge Center, I would be helping myself. As a result of trekking back and forth across campus to meetings, presentations, and information sessions, I was becoming more and more enveloped in university life. Because of my work, I am now more passionate and aware of the issues that affect UW-Madison and its students, as well as those that affect us all on a global level. After becoming more engaged in the university, I also found I began to improve academically. I take more pride in my school, and I know now that contrary to popular belief, college students really do care about volunteering and impacting the community. I was aware of the Wisconsin Idea prior to working at the Morgridge Center for Public Service, but after discovering the great diversity of students and faculty on campus willing and dedicated to serving its purpose. I understand now that, after over a hundred years, it’s more alive than ever.

Christopher Apfelbach is a sophomore Vocal Performance major who picked up his first book of John Keats at age 8 and never figured out how to shift his mindset away from the unerringly Romantic ideals of the early 19th century. In his spare time he writes, sings, composes, and generally makes a fool of himself during rainstorms or moonlit nights. Abrianna Barca Abrianna is a pre-med junior majoring in psychology, far from an artist, a passionate person, so thankful for the support of her family and close friends, trying to “risk living,” and loves lists. barca@wisc.edu Ashley Beene is a fifth year student majoring in Creative Writing and Spanish Literature, with a certificate in European Studies. She hopes to go start graduate school next fall. Kelley Benes: My name is Kelley Benes, and this is my fourth year as an undergraduate here at UW-Madison. I am majoring in art, anthropology, and African studies. My concentration is in printmaking, but I work with mixed media and do some makeshift photography as well. My interests include sewing, snacking, old lather things, southern Africa, and hoarding brooches and matchboxes. I plan to graduate in May and look forward to continuing my endeavor in making pretty things. Brett Bernsteen: Brett Bernsteen is a sophomore whose majors this week include History and Spanish and hopes to eventually attend law school, but his life goals are always subject to change. He originally hails from Hudson, WI. In true Wisconsin tradition, both of his siblings also currently attend UW-Madison. bbernsteen@wisc.edu. Amanda Cheung Vincent Dumas John Hamel will be graduating in December with a degree in journalism. He is a San Francisco native. His post-collegiate plans include moving to an organic farm near California’s Lost Coast.

her education in the art field and traveling abroad, Italy and Ireland being at the top of her list. Raeleen Kao: I am a third year undergraduate student and am currently working toward my Bachelors in Fine Arts. The importance of art in my life is apparent, however, I hold an almost equal amount of interest in subjects of science, specifically physics, biology and anatomy. The latter two continue to have a visible influence on my work in addition to a deep fascination in the concepts of beauty and perfection. My current work is composed of almost strictly graphite rendered pieces. The nature of this medium mimics the subjects of my work by demanding meticulous control. Laura Kim: I am a senior art student concentrating on video, performance and installation. “I have a fortune cookie persona. I listen to the movements of synthetic pixels and breathe as fast as I can to catch up with those nomadic desires. I am a Mimist, so I do whatever I want. I sound ridiculous because I am human. Art is Hard. Pixel. Digital riot. Take out sushi. Pick me up my early mornin’ cherry coke. Sheer pride veils fakeness. Elaborate note taking on coolness.” quoted by Laura Onsale

Nicole Powers’s artwork places humanoid “little guys” in a ruined world they do not control. Her style references children’s books illustrations, while her subject matter explores themes of dystopia, isolation, and over-consumption. This juxtaposition interests Nicole, who is a BFA student focusing on printmaking. She is also a history major and is part of Professor Chamberlain’s group therapy for people writing a senior thesis. Rageena Price is a junior majoring in English. When she’s not writing, she’s probably at the University’s Equestrian Center, where she would live if she could.

Kyle Walsh is in his third year at UW, majoring in elementary education, and is also studying educational policy. Originally from La Crosse, Wisconsin, Kyle is spending his fall semester abroad, in Ghana, where he even wove his very own basketand quite often has to remind himself that David Labedz he really is in Africa. Back in Wisconsin, he enjoys playing tennis, as well as marching Dana LeMoine is a BFA candidate in her 5th and playing flugelhorn in the UW Band, year. Her work is based in printmaking and (but who actually knows what a flugelhorn focuses on her grandmother and the pas- is?). Kyle has also spent time working at sage of time as it relates to memories. Lindbergh Elementary School and volunteering with the UW Children’s Hospital. Cameron Loftus is interested in how simple words meet simple sounds and make sim- Kelsey Wenberg is a sophomore art major ple stories sound like beautiful music. at the UW-Madison. cloftus@wisc.edu Logan Woods: My compositions are conAlec Luhn is a senior majoring in history, glomerates of letter-like and simultanejournalism and Russian. His interests in- ously figural marks, whose goal is to clude alpine skiing, Soviet kitsch and clas- present the ll-defined boundary between sic rock. Luhn’s work has appeared in The symbol and actuality. Depending on the Badger Herald, The Moscow Times, The St. viewer’s inclination, they are one moment Petersburg Times, St. Petersburg In Your a cluster of figures and the next something Pocket, The Wisconsin State Journal and on similar to an abstractly composed written numerous Web publications, including Na- description. This paradoxical state allows tional Geographic Society’s Glimpse.org. the forms to exist as descriptions of themselves. Catherine Malchow John Robert Zydowicz is a junior majoring John McClellan: Undergrad English Major in English-Creative Writing and HorticulBirthday: 6/7/1987 ture. While he aspires to be a writer, John is also interested in photography, film makSarah Nance spends a lot of her time at- ing, gardening, cooking, and, above all, tempting to finish her thesis so she can preparing for the inevitable Zombie Apocgraduate. when she’s not doing that, she alypse. It’s coming, seriously! He would can be found in campus libraries, reading like to thank his friends Tom and Peter for Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and sub- helping him with this photograph, and he sisting on coffee and granola bars. would like to point out that neither of the subjects are wearing pants Dan Pankratz: Creative writing major. Likes Pink Floyd, velociraptors, and Arrested Development. That is all.

Kitty Huffman: I grew up in a protestant Hungarian community in Transylvania, catching the last few years of the communist dictatorship in Romania.While I was growing up, I fell in love with and studied theater. My mentor, a renowned playwright and professor of dramaturgy, took me under his wing at the age of 17 and in addition to teaching me, allowed me to observe the production of many theater shows he was working on, which had a great impact on my development. Wanting to experience more of the world, two years into my studies at the University of Theater and Drama in Transylvania I decided to move to the United States to further my education. In 2007, I enrolled to the University of Wisconsin, Madison, focusing on Performance, Video and Installation art, and expecting to graduate in 2010. Sarah Ripp: Sarah Jane Ripp is a fourth year student at the UW Madison. She is pursuMeghan Johnson: My paintings respond to ing a Bachelor of Fine Arts in photography historic portraiture’s urge to commemorate, and graphic design. Common themes in her while at the same time inserting the language photography include keepsakes, memories, of paint. In these paintings, finely rendered family, and the relationships between these areas and heavy gestural portions coincide. things. On campus, Sarah is involved with Through these compositional techniques, I the Wisconsin Badger Yearbook where she intend to elucidate the doubt and mystery of is currently serving as the Editor in Chief the present day and the effect that such a haze for the 125th anniversary edition of the has on our understanding of human histories. publication. Sarah’s hometown is Middleton, Wisconsin. Lucy Jost is a pursuing a BFA and a B.S. degree in Art History. When she is not at class, work, or yoga, she enjoys brainstorming creative ways to unleash her wild imagination! After school she looks forward to continuing

contributors

thank you Vicki Tobias, Dave Luke, Andrew Gough, Eliot Finkelstein, Kelli Keclik, Adam Blackbourn, Gary Sandefur, Jenny Klaila, Ron Kuka, The Font Bureau, Inc., Magdalena Hauner, David Null, Pamela Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Donnell, Chris Kleinhenz, Tom Garver, Lee Konrad, Bill Reeder, John Fink, Jeff Rolling, Paul Broadhead, Mark Hanson, Troy Suski, Nancy Lynch Special Thanks to John D. Wiley, who established sustainable funding for Illumination, the Friends of the University of Wisconsin-Madison Library, which provides Certificates of Achievement and honoraria for select literature and essay pieces, and Man Tim Lam for his graphic designs.

Sponsors Lemuel R. and Norma B. Boulware Estate Wisconsin Union

Final Thoughts

Madison offers a variety of unique traditions for students to participate in as they spend their years in this vibrant city. After receiving a hard-earned paycheck, a walk down State Street and purchasing a couple of things at some local boutiques is the best way to spend. Heading down to the farmer’s market early Saturday morning, looking for the freshest local produce is the greatest food to find downtown. And for many students, after finishing their last final, a much needed stop at a local pub is the best way to celebrate the end of a semester. The obvious theme to these examples is local businesses. Madison has many neighborhood businesses and vendors that make this city so distinct and provide many jobs. In this struggling market small businesses have been hit hard and now, more than ever, it is important to come up with new and creative ways get local businesses out of the shadows and into the spotlight. They are a major part of what makes this county unique. Dane Buy Local, an alliance of more than 460 local businesses founded by Wisconsin Partners for SustainAbility, has recognized the importance of local character. Co-founder Rick Brooks, a UW outreach program manager and head of the nonprofit Story in a Bag, came up with a solution to highlight these neighborhood places, a writing contest called The Local Business Story Project. The idea: simple. The effect: invaluable. The idea behind The Local Business Story Project is for writers to be inspired by the neighborhood businesses they interact with and to reflect on the exchange of value and meaning between people who choose local, familiar character over the impersonality of mass marketing. Dane Buy Local is hoping these business transactions will translate into a short story that is true and highlights the merchant of their choice. The characters only need to someway engage locally owned independent businesses. Winning stories will recall Madison business encounters that illustrate memorable people, products and services, coincidences and surprises, humorous or touching encounters, anything that brings to mind what’s special about such enterprises. Awards will be given out in at least four different categories: UW-Madison undergraduates, students ages six to 18, UW-Madison alumni, and anyone else. The grand prize winner in each category will receive $100 and the top five entries will receive a Dane Buy Local tote bag full of gift certificates and products. To find out more about all these “neighborhood places and friendly Faces”, see www. danebuylocal.com or contact us as at illumination@library.wisc.edu. Stories can be as short as a paragraph or as long as 1500 words. Deadline will be February 17, 2010.