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by F.N. Stewart!
Page 3, The Carolina,Journal, 1969
Literary Magazine Arrives, Surprises
Those Last Few Days
Those last few days of a romance are the worst. That time which
passes after you have the first doubts of its continued existence to the
final words themselves is the worst time. For in that time you begin to
^e the parts of the sandcastle of happiness begin to wash out to sea on
the tide of changing times. And you stand helplessly by; watching and
knowmg there is not a damn thing you can do, and wishing that there
was. The fragments slip away slowly, in small pieces at first, then in
larger sizes. While thru your thoughts runs the question of why. And in
those last few days that question will come a million times.
A rnillion times you’ll stop and try to give a particle of an answer
and a million tunes the answer won’t come. The doubt itself will turn
to fear, and fear will be only the broken hasp of a bolted door thru
' which comes a torrent of thoughts and more questions each demanding
Ml answer. What do you reply because the answer drawer is empty?
^d how do you explain to demanding questions that you can’t pay
the price don t have the price for their satisfaction. And the questions
can t understand no answer.
Inthose last few days, you seek the missing pieces in the dark corners
ot the past, and the pieces are not there. You stumble thru the darkness
ot what was, hoping to find that one element that was missing, and you
seek blindly because you didn’t know what the element was; if it was
there before. In those last few days you seek something or someone
that will take up the slack of what was happiness. Something en
someone to take up the slack in your thoughts after the final words are
spoken and that certain something is not there.
Bitter Dreams
What were happy moments now wear hard-heeled boots and go
stomping thru the sensitive corridors of your mind. You are forced to
bow to each one to show some respect for memories that were warm
alk to the touch and now are raw chipped steel which stings to be near
it. In those last few days a bitterness begans to build that will later ooze
into an emptiness in your being after the final words are spoken. Slowly
you begin to take the pictures of happiness from your gallery of
recollections. You begin to stack the happy times in back of the closet
of forgetting. There is a quiet reverence in all of your person for it is
known that something fine is dying.
The truth will come slowly covered in a cloak of disbelief which
parts all too easily beforythe stem gaze of reality. In those last few days
you see the handwriting on the wall and realize now that it is covered
with a dust of ignoring which didn’t let you see it before. Somehow
you do not want to see it now.
You begin to seek excuses to be with people because alone times are
bad times. You begin to hunt things to do so that the questions which
are constantly lurking nearby will not have a chance to present
themselves to your mind. And you hope your friends will understand
and not question because you really don’t know what to say. Yet there
is a scream in yourself down where you really live that wants to be
heard. You want to run quickly into someplace in the future where the
final words have stopped echoing thru your mind. You know there is
no place to go, and a dread of final words permeates.
The songs which you hear bring back a gone time. You turn quickly
to say something half-thought to anyone so that the words will hide a
bad feeling starting inside. Your friends tries a half smile to show
understanding and you feel foolish. You start admitting to yourself the
obvious truth that something somewhere in you has gone wrong.
Bad Times
Now comes the time when you begin to examine all that you have
believed. It was wrong, yet you were so sure it was right. You thought
you knew where the faults, all the cracks, all the dents were in the
relationship. But you have missed one someplace, and the entire answer
you believed is now wrong. It is not partially wrong—it is completely
wrong. It is the wrong key to a door you thought was always open.
Now the door is locked closed, and you are outside.
The first cold gushs of wind have begun to blow, and you realize
that the season of love is changing. You have sworn that you would
walk carefully thru this affair and some where ago you trustingly
dropped your guard and now stand committed and defenseless before
the onslaught of final words. This is the place where wishes carry on
weight in conversation. So you think “if’ knowing full well that in the
game of reality “if’ doesn’t count.
The only promises you have left is that the tomorrows will continue
to come. As if the tomorrows were orphans you hope for them better
treatment than the yesterdays are now receiving. There are no real
answers to be given for what is done. You know the price that has been
paid is worth what you have shared. You know that, because you are
now regretting the ending of the affair.
In those last few days, you realize you had thought dreams fell with
a loud crash. You believed that the shattering of a dream had a sound
quite similiar to the roar of four engines on a 707 jet. You sort of
expected it to be at least the same loudness as thunder. The many
tumbling pieces of a shattered crystal dream you thought should scream
like the whine of a falling thousand-pound bomb. Yet now you know
that a broken dream can make a sound no louder than the soft closing
of a door.
By Barbara Jean Smith
Well, the UNC-C literary
magazine “3” finally made it off
the press. Yes, after being
promised its publication since
Christmas, students finally
received the magazine last
week-much to the dismay and
disillusionment of many.
1 eagerly awaited “3.” only to
find that after six months of
work, the staff published a
collection of “art” that to be
could have been published in six
weeks. The presence of pervision.
dirt, and the absence of
comprehensive language does not
make literary art. There is a
present misconception that as
long as it’s incomprehensible and
shocking, then one has created
modern art. No. Perversion has
been around as long as man-it’s
not modern.
I do not wish to criticize all of
the entries. There are some
authors I would like to
comment-among whom are F. N.
Stewart, R. T. Smith. Dianne
Scoggins, T. J. Reddy, Tim
Britton, Bill Sloan, and perhaps
one or two others. With the
exception of two of those
mentioned, there was only one
entry each-1 certainly would
rather have seen thk whoh
magazine compfised of these
artists rather than filled with
pseudo-modern artists. I also
consider these writers, and others
that we have on campus, quite
sufficient to comprise the literary
magazine without including
collections of work from
non-students.
While reading “3,” I was
compelled to consider many
entries as “space-fillers.” Under
this category 1 would include such
articles as the letter of Pat Harris’
Surprises
Come in
Small
Packages
By Mark Klafter
Caution: Don’t underestimate
the power, the creativity, and the
overall ability of diminutive
coaches and physical education
instructors.
They can be devastating.
Such a coach may be found in
the form of UNC-C’s Paul
Fleming.
Fleming’s spry, bouncy walk
coupled with his abundance of
cheerfulness and geniality forms a
pleasant contrast with the deep
involvement he exhibits as a coach
and a teacher.
A consensus of the athletes
that have been under him word it
very simply- dedication. They ali
say coach Fleming is dedicated to
getting the job done and is very
successful in instilling that
dedication in his athletes.
Fleming has spent all but two
of his twenty-nine years in his
home town of Cinneinnati. As
occurs with many boys, he
received his introduction to sports
in the Little League, at the age of
seven.
Tragedy struck the Fleming
family when Paul was thirteen
years old, as his father, a former
boxer, died from cancer. (“I never
really got to know my father.
Exactly when a boy really begins
to need a father 1 did not have
one.”)
Rough times ensued but
Fleming can pinpoint two
ingredients that helped him avoid
the lesser plights that many of his
friends today experience.
“Of course, I owe much to my
mother who did a wonderful job
of raising me under the
circumstances, but most
(Continued on Page 4)
but what was original was good.
Along with most everything in
“3," the photography lost quality
as the magazine neared the end.
Speaking of originality - in
connection with one of the poses
of “Nude Study," 1 would like to
refer the photographers to one of
last years editions of “Life”
magazine. Again, concerning
originality-some of the poetry
smacked of Wliitman and Rod
McKuen.
In closing, I will reiterate the
fact that I am not criticizing all of
the articles and artists, but had
the staff of “3” been more
selective and perhaps more
content with quality and not
quantity, “3” would liave been
more effective.
(this belongs more in “Comment”
than in a creative literary
magazine). 1 would also include
part of the interview with Bill
Sloan. The interview itself is
warranted. Bill is a very creative
and exceptional person, but 1 do
not think the length of the article
was necessary. Also, only out of
respect for the intelligence and
creativity of Roger Grosswald,
was I surprised at some of the art
work and entries accepted for the
magazine (such as Mr. Grunke’s
“Analysis of Humor” which 1
assume was to fill space since
there was no other apparent
reason for its presence).
The pliotography was a good
idea, but the quality was less than
good. There was little originality.
I Saw You There
(name withheld by editor)
Ah my friend, I watched you
on Monday, You didn’t notice me
because your eyes were full of
fear and your heart, full of hate. I
stood and listened as you used me
for a device to strengthen your
own thoughts. I spoke, but you
did not hear me. You only lapsed
into silence when you realized 1
did not agree with you. You
spoke no more. 1 watched your
eyes and your actions, and you
may as well have been shouting
your feelings. You looked upon
others, not seeing, not speaking,
just simply absorbing tlie
instrusions into your small world.
You answered no one except
tliosc wlio vaguely agreed witli
your ill-formed, fragmented
tliouglUs. Only to these people
did you allow slightly, oh, so
slightly more that nothing. I
watched your hands as you
showed your knife. You thought
you were safe and perhaps you
were...from bodily hanic. It was
too late to save your destroyed
mind. 1 watched as you became
irrational, tense, and nervous. Like
a disease you began to spread your
thoughts to those around you.
Ah, my friend, 1 saw you, too.
You listened when he spoke. He
spilled his thought onto the
ground, and you eagerly picked
them up. As soon as you touched
them you put them in your
mouth. Were you not taught that
when something has fallen to the
ground it is dirty? 1 heard your
heart and your mind. Without
Attorney for the
Defense’s Position
knowing it, you told me of your
parents, your liome, and otlier
programmed information to fit
the situation. And yet you
claimed these thouglits to be your
own. Your tliouglits were not
capable of spreading. But your
actions spread as you drew up
tliose around you. Wlien you
turned to face me, I saw your eyes
were blind, your body wooden,
your moutli painted...a puppet.
As my best friend played tlie
puppeteer, you responded
violently, angrily, and irrationally.
I watclied a tragedy in you, my
friend. For wlial will you do wlien
tlie strings arc cut?
Ail, my friend, as I saw you
sitting (liero alone, your Itcad was
bowed and your slionlders
slumped. I watclied as your liaud
clcnclicd in silent resolution. 1
could not tell wlial you were
Ithinking until you raised your
leyes to meet mine. Tiicic was
sadness llial comes only wlien a
man stands alone. For the first
lime today I was looking at a
liuman to his soul. Witliout saying
a word, witliout blinking, witliout
moving at all, it was as if all your
thoughts and fears were mine. In
tlial short instant, I understood.
Your thoughts would not sprad to
anyone. Your actions would go
unnoticed. You walked past me as
if 1 were an inanimate object.
An, my friend, you were not
aware of me as I watched you on
Monday. You did not see me as 1
wept for you. You did not liear
me as I cried out for your liand.
You did not know that I did not
see the color of your skin.
The following document was
handed to students entering the
Union last week.
Why We Support The Black
liberation struggle
The Black Student Movement
has submitted a list of demands to
the administration of the
University of North Carolina. The
demands were arrived at after
much deliberation by the BSM
and grew out of a long history of
attempts by blacks to initiate
changes at the university end of
delaying tactics, insincerity, and
intransigence on the part of the
administration.
Since the publication of these
demands, there has been
considerable debate over the
“validity” of the demands,
whether or not they are justified,
and what tactics are justified if
they are not met. Rather than add
to that useless chatter, 1 hope to
show that white students should
not be concerned with the
content of the demands but rather
should be developing a program
which will supplement the BSM’s
efforts to change the racist nature
of the University of North
Carolina.
To begin with, if students arc
going to practice as well as preach
participatory democracy and self
determination, they must realize
that black student demands are to
be arrived at by black student
period. To attempt to evaluate
black demands from a white,
middle-class perspective is to deny
a history of over 300 years of
slavery, bigotry, and racism. For
too long “well-meaning” white
liberals have been telling blacks
what they (the blacks) should
want, instead of listening to the
blacks. Black people alone have
the right to shape THEIR world
of blackness.
Another “hang-up” is the
question of whether making such
demands is reasonable. It boils
down to this; the BSM demands
are not just demands, they are
necessities for survival in a
country that has done everything
physically, psychologically, and
socially possible (with the
exeception of genocide) to
destroy the black man. Is survival
a reasonable demand?
This analysis shows why we
should support the BSM in their
struggle for liberation.