Scott Withiam
A dying space heater. This weird, homely, unaesthetic put together piece of crap. But when it's cold, who worries about aesthetics? And is it really that bad?--that kind of thing. Then, suddenly, help yourself to Help yourself--pickled herring and aquavit-- hese, the Scandinavian breakfast additions introduced by my 16 year old wife's parents, traveled, just returning. My wife, beautiful, sculpted, more their promising ice sculpture. And me, the piece of crap blowing on her feet, like this piece of crap at my feet, going nowhere, barely going. The cold, always wishing. Wishing I had some skill then that might have saved us, but what? A few burning shots and saluts, and, for a moment--then, like now--sifting through my teeth the chill air, the air her parents breathed while on the cruiser's top deck, their backs to the city of Copenhagen, staring at the big blue ocean. Mostly, me being somebody I wasn't, when I didn't know who I was--dumb, numb, no one's vicarious. It was hard enough living through myself. But what if there was this--what there is, this little knocking-- what it takes, what was needed, a visitor-- what I was--an interruption in service--a little knock, a knock on the door. Halfway through breakfast, the arrival of a household name like me, today, there to buy a used car--her father's Grand Prix-- just to watch the man I was, my summons into the living room, her father saying, Promise me, son, you'll take good care of her. And funny, yes? And not so funny-- under these conditions, I can.
Tables of Content
Seventeen (Fall 2003)
Sixteen (Spring 2003)
Fifteen (Fall 2002) Fourteen (Spring 2002)
Thirteen
(Fall 2001) Twelve (Spring 2001)
Eleven (Fall 2000)
Ten (Spring 2000)
Nine (Fall 1999) Eight (Spring 1999)
Seven, (Fall 1998) Six, (Spring 1998)
Five (Fall 1997) Four (Winter/Spring 1997)
Three (Summer/Fall 1996) Two (Winter 1996)