Hello Quarterly

Kelly Latimore: The Owl sightings, the Owl calls

2008-08-18T09:49:00.000-07:00

The first swoop was like a night kite, low and silent and the whooshing gave way to a pin-drop-stop, characteristic of a type rope walker, on a branch above our heads. This was my first sighting. After a stare he flew far above us toward the woods, toward the wild part of town. I didn't see him for a year after that. It was at the end of March and Ryne and I walked the old brick road to the center of town but our walking was cut by the silent but majestically loud, ""hoo-hoo hoooooo hoo-hoo". Looking up on a branch we saw him; Ryne for the first time. His blazing yellow eyes blinked with a brazen audacity at his two much larger but grounded guests. We were in his holy space and by no means should we flinch or leave. His stare continued to burn until another "hoo-hoo..." peirced us forcing our legs to shock and awe, to step back, but with that the mighty bird leap from his perch free falling for a number of feet until he stretched out his hands all at once; hands for flying and the force of which sent him circling up and over the trees, over the houses, and back into the wild. We stood still.
Another year later I started to climb a roof to have a good sit with some friends. As I climbed and shimmied my footing on the sand paper roof I casually looked up to the radio tower that jetted like an apollo rocket from the gravel parking lot behind our house only to see a ghost land on the tower's highest point. Pointing my finger in disbelief I stammered my sentence around and around until for clarification purposes simply said, "Owl!" I knew who it was and had felt its holy space before. My friends, however, knew not what to think or to believe and stared at the tippy top of the tower thinking the lump to be but a light on an antenna. They held this belief until the light showed his wings and with silence we watched him swoop away for a meal; Travis remarking, "what if he swooped down at us?!"
Oh, he is chasing us and swooping down real low; his claws burying deep in our shoulders. The pain is real and needed. In the fields he takes us and asks us to bury ourselves, the false selves, the dead selves, the un-holy. Some bury their hands, some their feet but rare is the man to bury his whole being. Rare is it that men die completely. They can follow their new feet but soon their heart will die leaving but feet and no heart. They can follow their new hands but blindness will callus over the eyes leaving the hands to grope. Do men and women dare to bury their whole selves? Only then will all be new; new hands, new feet, new eyes, new mind, new heart, new ears...

He will translate the clouds to us,
speaking of life, of light.
His words will get to us
and will see him in the night.

Johannah Swank: poem

2008-08-12T08:38:00.000-07:00

Saturday's slow sticky crawl

Will be unknown inside the cool white walls

Though summer bleeds like children's fists

Pounding the skins of their rubber balls

Rubber, gleaned from the slick trees of Borneo

Where the slow sticky crawl is known by all

Known all too well by the stroking bell

And the muffled call

Sunday's little toxic quips

Will be swirled around like a choice red wine

Back and forth with a sharp glassy swish

Pelting the curve of the fragile side

Glass, hacked by the sharp wit of L. P. Cromwell

Whose clemency and thrift was known by all

Known all too well by the window panes

And the shattered halls

Monday's carefully designed drudges

Will groan groggy in the front seats of cars

Forced to wake at unusual hours

To curse the blessing of their summer jobs

Jobs, made by the swift hands of Wolfowitz

Whose strategy and poise is known by all

Known all too well by the steel-framed doors

And the splintered skulls

by Johannah Swank

Andy Mills: somethings and nothings

2008-08-08T07:21:00.000-07:00

We, the where in between the somethings and nothings.

In between the yes and no.

In between the left and right.

In between the love and careless.

In between the man and his seed.

In between the caste and king.

In between the take and give.

In between the lost and won.

In between the found and missing.

In between the simple and complex.

In between the embraced and the neglected.

In between the coming and the going.

The Full and void.

The Art and Exploit.

The Time and death.

The sterile and organic.

The Touch and loneliness.

The Heel and tooth.

And the who, of the electric.

The eccentric.

The magic.

The frantic.

The pathetic.

The tragic.

The ignorant.

The urgent.

The bigot.

The devout.

The destitute.

The living.

The giving.

The searching.

The screaming.

The dying.

The crying.

The trying.

And here ~~I move and I sit and stare and i…~~ we move and we sit and we stare and look about with wonders and woes and worlds on our shoulders.

Yes!

We!

We are Atlas, and the sweat of our stretched skin is touching with the stench of intimacy and purpose.

Yes!

we are Achilles, and our socks share identical stains.
Yes!

we are Cupid, causing catastrophe and creation with sacred motivation.

And No!

we are not Zeus,

(though some are still persistent that our fathers and gods are).

We ask, “What’s next?” as the new baseball.

We say, “there are volcanoes on the moon!”

“we are moving 18 miles a second around the Sun!”

She said, “It was an act of tension, as the great things on earth are things of tension.”*

He translated, “Adventavit asinus, Plucher et fortissimus.”^

He wrote, “There is wisdom that is woe, but there is woe that is madness.”+

We hear:

--“Christ!”

--“Allah Akbar!”

--“Shalom!”

--“Om.”

--“Samsara.”

--“Nill!”

We do?

We sip.

We sin.

We kiss.

We bloom.

We dance.

We long.

We lose.

We mourn.

We listen.

We learn.

We love?

We move.

We sleep.

We move.

We die,

But first, we (the between), try.

Footnotes:

* Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead

^ “The ass arrived, beautiful and most brave”, Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil

+ Herman Melville, Moby Dick.

_____________________________________________________

Andy Mills is a 24 yr. old story teller who currently resides in the Sudan. To read more about his adventures visit showsomecourage.blogspot.com

Erik G. Neave: Remnants of America

2008-08-07T07:34:00.000-07:00

Remnants of America
popping through German landscapes-
a delivery truck, yellow
or the fine fast food
we contribute.
No matter the distance,
in land of thought,
by speed limitless car
or auto-wombed boat
in native ink
or foreign throat
remnants persist.
Persist
-like the train tracked trees
poking through dull German soil
fill the passenger window
no matter the point of view
-like Illinois-an fields
dragged through rivers and the deep deep sea
all the long way to Denmark
-like the unending allusions of an author
who, in one wintry second,
confines and liberates
-like the repeating repeat
of music which misplaces the manners of a guest
and hosts all too quickly too familiar.

It is not the parched desert
but the thirstless ocean,
Dear Josephine,
when crossed brings tears
when swallowed
when swallowing
"He will not be erased,
He will stand witness."

And so, the growing attempts
to strike Home across Its
simple smiling face,
to leave Home with
cold steady back,
to slowly walk from Its
cheek swollen pink
find me arriving with
plump rolling belly
across the reversing ocean
(walking on water, mind you!)
to spew the remnants of America
on dyrt* swedish dirt
and see my own crooked image
in the pool.

My own Home rises up
four sides strong
and shakes me
with the fury of God
finally dumps me
on the grass (or the sod)
curled up like a lamb
shoving my own dull teeth
into my left hand.

*dyrt is the swedish word for expensive.
_______________________________________________________

Erik is currently on the move, performing music. Cedarwell: coming to a city near you!
(Greenville, IL Sept. 4)

Steph Plant: 4 works

2008-08-05T09:25:00.000-07:00

"femme fatale"

"red.green.yellow"

"rabbit spirit"

"limbs of joy"
____________________________________________________________

Steph Plant currently attends Greenville College in Greenville, IL. Once, while decorating the town's sidewalks Stephanie was mistaken for a crazy woman "causing a scene". The police were called, but everything was straightened out in the end.

Caleb Engstrom: Pen to Paper for One Hour.

2008-08-04T13:09:00.000-07:00

Pen to Paper for One Hour.

8 1/2" x 11"

Paper and Ink

This drawing took one hour to complete.

-Caleb

Donna Timm: Donna's Cookies

2008-08-01T12:57:00.000-07:00

DONNA'S COOKIES (dav's mom aka Donna or Hot Donna--check with Ket on that.)

This makes a ton of cookies so I have sent a few of these to dav and some of you may have eaten them on some occasion.

3 c. flour (can use part whole wheat--1 1/2 c.)
1 T. baking powder
1 T. baking soda
1 T. cinnamon
1 t. salt

3 sticks butter
1 1/2 c. white sugar(I try to use less--maybe 1 1/4 c.)
1 1/2 c. brown sugar " " " "
3 eggs
1 T. vanilla

3 c. chocolate chips
3 c. oats
2 c. coconut
2 c. chopped nuts

1. Mix flour, baking powder, baking soda, cinnamon and salt together.
2. Cream butter, then add sugars, eggs, and vanilla. Mix well.
3. Add chocolate chips, oats, coconut and nuts to above mixture.
4. Drop by large spoonfuls on ungreased cookie sheets about 3 inches apart.
5. Bake until lightly browned 17-20 minutes at 350 degrees.

Enjoy and share with others--there will be plenty.
Blessings on you. Love from Donna. Come home with dav sometime and I will feed you.

________________________________________________________________

Donna Timm is a mother who is full of love.

Taylor Robinson proudly presents a record of our youth without soliloquy

2008-08-01T08:58:00.000-07:00

Side A: We Use What We Have 8:52
Side B: Strange Root Bears Strange Fruit 12:34

We all have a common denominator here. It is the demographic structure and evolution of our new, “hip”, redefined culture. Feeling blessed to have soft, tight skin for a short period of time and wanting to share it with everyone. We didn’t invent the bohemian style but now we are reinventing the reinvention and perfecting the arty, beatnik tone and pace to which we beat our drums. We are the new age, non-conforming, mavericks and look to each other for incoming and outgoing style, be it fashion, art, music, or what-have-you. OUR peers, but not THE peers, of our youth are sitting upon high rise pedestals and awarding points for style and creativity. But you see, no ones podium is higher than anyone else’s, we are all sitting on a common plane. There is no cheerleader, no one, high, “popular” figure to which we are trying to appease. We are sharing our culture among each other and respecting everyone’s unique chic-ness. We are the purest white and the thickest blackness. We are the trippiest colors harboring in the cosmos, erupting, cataclysmic and living.

Sitting amongst us are the smoothest memories that we can drink. Let’s do this, let us think of memories as trees for a second. We are all understanding individuals with open minds, the type of people ready to paint our bodies and march down the streets in song, so this shouldn’t be too hard.

Tend to the root and the fruit will follow. The roots, gnarled, intertwined with your mind, the core of all memory. Up the tree sprouts, from you brain, and the bark hardens and sets up so that you can never forget that there is, in fact, a distinct memory. The branches are where you spent your time. One branch for the time you went to the beach, one for the dirty apartments you congregated in, one for the old church. On these “branches” are leaves. Leaves sit on the branch to enhance its beauty and so let the leaves represent knick knacks and objects that enhanced the surrounding. One leaf can represent the book about the univerese and another can represent the pink cabinet it was sitting on. The delicious fruit growing on these branches are the delicious people you shared the experience with.

Branch- Apartment on Busey
Leaves- Computer, soft green carpet, Pigidily, Clothes piled in the corners. Why is that bike here? Ect. Ect. Ect.
Fruit- Aisha, Ally. Oh, look that fruit has water on it! I forgot Lucas road his bike in the rain that day.

So let us relish in what we have! Let’s enjoy his beard, her freckles, the way her skin was so soft, or his hands were callous, and especially those faces people make when something is just a little too sourer. Let’s publish magazines, and have street parades, dance all night, kiss a stranger, kiss a best friend! Start finding solace in the chaos of our minds and start thinking of having no money as being a little more adventurous. Let’s enjoy our youth for what it is.

Taylor Robinson is 19 years of old from Danville, IL. He believes in Hello Quarterly and thus is proud to be a part of it.

Jon Brownhill: To my kid's kid's kid's kid's kid

2008-07-31T09:17:00.000-07:00

To my kid's kid's kid's kid's kid

I can't stop wondering about the future
I can't stop picturing what its like
Is there still poor, still war, famine and strife?

Or will we figure out why there's life?

Will there be darkness?
Will there be nothing?

Dead or alive?
Organic or synthesized?
I can't justify this compromise!

Any way I wrap my head
All I see is everyone dead!
Will it end?

4, 3, 2, 1
An exploding sun
Just give me the gun
I think I'm done.

Don't worry some are still thinking of you...

We tried
but everything we fried
was what we used to call the luxuries of being alive

I can't remember why
We were just tearing out the earth's insides

But when we found out what we did
We all sat down to wait
Not help, not care, only hate
oh Apathy, you have been our fate.
But now it's too late...

We're floating into space
________________________________________

Jon Brownhill is a 21 yr. old artist who currently resides in Portland, Oregon.

Hayley Sutton: A Bit of Rambling

2008-07-31T08:52:00.000-07:00

"A coward is incapable of exhibiting love; it is the prerogative of
the brave."-Mahatma Ghandi

We roll the window down so that we can now begin to breathe in the
evergreen. Lets give it  a try, lets keep this for truth. At some
point, predicted with instances and time, we have to,

smash down the wall.

I think that comes with keeping time with clocks and realizing the
change of slight movement in our faces. Be careful about the ticking
noise, its an organized march of a thousand drums and feet moving
from pavement to grass. Its calculated, its expected, not
individualized. It is alive and to be recognized though, for this is a
force that will not be reckoned with. This song has taken its beat
ever before the capsule had numbers to show and tell us when we need
to be somewhere. We must never forget but somehow keep it faintly in
the distance. If you let it, it will hold your hands. If you let it,
it will change you into a bird. If you let it, it will take you into a
victorious battle against a thousand men on white horses. If you let
it, you will sit face to face with reason, wisdom and someone nick
named clarity. You must always remember to keep it, if you don't
you'll wake up in the morning and not see the face you once had. Then
often not remember what the beating inside comes from, or even if you
hear it anymore. You see, ... the noise, the drums the ticking, once
you become hollow to it, you will never grace your rightful position
near the steps at the family reunion of all its cousins, so many
embraces once all together is a spectacle for all to see.

Walk and see the shiny metal around, or the weathered pieces of the
earth, strap them on you bodies as armor. We shall need it once the
battle starts. If we believe in this sound truly with all of our
hearts we can swim in blue seas and clear skies of our triumph. Its
likely that because of what this metal has brought us we will keep it
on for the rest of our lives.

I am starting to see shiny pieces on faces as they walk. Sometimes I
see them on shoe laces of young faces. They know, they know so well.
I remember when I used to skate every morning, the wheels were metal
they protected my toes... once I would see this shiny metal and I
collected it to cover every possible inch. It was easier to see and
pick the armor when I still would skate. I stopped skating and wheels
became bigger and bigger and lighting fast. Its hard to find armor
while going so fast you know, the sounds of marching drums become
muffled by sounds of motors and I now can only see the ticking across
my wrist. These wheels, this time, going so fast made it uncomfortable
to wear my collection so I began to shed of them. I don't forget as
much about the metal anymore. Sometimes i'll paint flecks of the metal
on to my cheeks and sometimes my eyes. My laces chime with the sounds
of spoons tied to them. They remind me, I hope they can remind us.

Hayley Sutton
_________________________________________________________
currently attends Greenville College in Greenville, IL. She just got back from a road trip.

All Along The Western Front, Love T

2008-07-28T12:41:00.000-07:00

Psalm/anti-psalm

the morning:

I will bless the Lord with my entire soul, with everything in me.

I will sing of his praises from the highest hill to the valley where dead rail cars die.

The Lord formed my destiny and had mercy.

The God of all Realities has nurtured my form through His grace.

I will play the stringed instruments until my tips have no feel to them.

I will shout the eternal victory until God's own blood flows from my throat.

I will carry your ark. I will lament at your cross.

I will feed my soul with your Word and never faint. Never. Ever

Though darkness comes with sickle and scythe

Your hand blocks fiery arrows, your eyes purify my spirit

Yea, though I wander through the plains of the darkness of hate,

Evil will never get the best of me. God's so good.

the night:

My enemies have risen from the Void Sea,

When they rise up against me, they are wily Genesis snakes.

These-who-will-not-be-named grab up the good fruit and prune the bad.

Their scaly, razor tip claws

Rip open my Peace, my Grace, and replace it with

Americanized delight.

Their malevolent blood-green eyes pierce through my imagination with such immediacy, I feel as if God may be the Liar and a lie from the get-go.

With iron in hand and willfully strong,

They seem to devour me.

They seem to rip my soul from its Source.

The little Baby begins to mean squat but shitty diapers.

The Divine Thirty-something gives his life for nothing but the Crusades, Girls Gone Wild, and the pompousness of indie culture.

He becomes one of a few ways, the false and irrational death.

I become unreasonably cynical.

My song turns to the color of fear, my soul screams loud, my digits quiver.

My substance is shaken,

losing

all

hope.

The darkness of my mind has taken over.

I am simply primate major.

I do it to myself.

The snakes win again.

And, nope, there's no ubiquitous

"Suddenly, like a beautiful breeze, the Lord comes and heals my mind."

There's nothing like that, not tonight.

Unlike Moses on the rock, I see Him for what He is.

God is what God is and tonight my God is despair.

Moral:

Joy comes in the morning.
____________________________________________________
T Robinson is a 23 yr. old dreamer who currently lives in Nashville, TN.

Andrew Nelson: March 28, 2008 Shabbat

2008-07-27T12:55:00.000-07:00

This is a journal entry, edited for grammar and style, which recounts some observations and feelings I experienced during my first visit to the Western Wall in Jerusalem.

(Postcard of a shop owner in the streets of the Old City of Jerusalem c.1980’s

March 28, 2008 Shabbat

After eating at the restaurant by our hostel and buying a bunch of old unimpressive postcards (the store I went to also had some green Hamas headbands and bracelets) we went to a Shabbat observance at the Western Wall. It was a spectacular night of worship that I was glad to observe and join in. We got there around 6:15 P.M., and the crowd streamed in heavily until 7:15 P.M. (It is around 9:30 P.M. now as I write and I still hear men singing as they walk up the road to exit out the Damascus gate.)

I was waiting for a formal service to begin, but there was no such thing. I went in wearing a cardboard kippah provided for visitors that need something to cover their heads. As I ventured in I expected everyone to be intently set on worship, but there were several people walking around and talking casually. Many however were as near as they could be to the beautiful stones of the last remnant of the Temple Mount. Some people were singing as they processed to the Mount, singing in groups at the Mount, and singing silently while bowing back and forth to keep their prayers in rhythm. People were reading their prayer books and studying the Torah. It looked like some old men were teaching children who were sitting at little wooden desks right by the wall. People were circled around tables looking at books together. There were many black trousers, black jackets, and puffy hats of the Hasidim. Their clothes look nice, but in all likelihood they are jobless and poor having given themselves over to the highly honored religious pursuit of Talmudic studies. They usually have several kids, but they were probably with their wives who were praying in the women’s section of the wall. There were other non-Hasidic Ultra-Orthodox Jews praying there too. Many pro-settler Modern Religious Jews, even one man with a gun strapped to his back, were present there praying (they generally wear a kippah rather than the poofy or brimmed hat).

When I moved to the front, within reach of the ancient stones of the Temple Mount, I took a left and went under the arches where the wall continues unseen from the outside. In there were many shelves of prayer books (I found one in both English and Hebrew). It appears that there was even a library with many volumes of Talmud behind me, but I didn’t want to touch them because they looked really nice, as if they were for serious religious study. I like the idea of viewing study as worship. I also noticed how everyone was worshipping but at there own pace and in their own direction, but at the same time everyone seemed to be gaining strength from the fact that there were other people doing similar things. Being before their holiest place had something to do with the intense energy. All I could do was to keep my cardboard kippah on and pray the words “Lord have mercy” which expressed exactly all the things I could not articulate.

(Postcard of the Dung Gate to the Old City of Jerusalem c. 1980’s)
__________________________________________________________________

Andrew Nelson is a 22 yr. old student at Greenville College, in Greenville IL. He currently lives in the basement of St. Paul's Free Methodist Church, where he serves as sexton.

Nate Henricks: !

2008-07-26T01:27:00.000-07:00

David Simison: ....

2008-07-25T15:40:00.001-07:00

....

Your mom does not care about you.

Read books and pages then their pages fall out and all of the pages are on the ground and you don’t even know what to do with the pages now because they’re all out of order and no one knows what the right order is and no one wants to put all of the pages back because they are too tired and that man is looking at the pages like “geez, someone should clean up all of these pages” but we all just looked at the pages until we saw one of those on a page and picked up all the pages and threw them into a garbage can.

It’s just archaic anniversary talk. Don’t get all excited.

Table stories of canned food, spider bait, and the ever famous pen dragon barbequed beef. I know at least YOU remember this, and I can’t imagine that even Jesus forgot. You know how many times that goofballs forgotten to do stuff.

Savory savior snacks. TREATS. An inconsequential risk with no means of ending until the phone stops ringing and your mom calls up the stairs saying in that ever so booming voice “get your ass out of bed and wash the windows!”

I didn’t feel like doing it then and I especially don’t feel like doing it now. My failure to comply reflects my failure to care about anything other than what I want to do. I feel like doing what makes me happy. Right now that’s drinking mountain dew and eating too much trail mix. Yesterday it was ice cream and tomorrow it might be by mowing the lawn and painting all of your walls.

Its not that I am not grateful for whats been given. Its all really cool like a spaceman or a bow and arrow. But things were taken too far, and MAYBE MY FEET DON’T TOUCH THE GROUND ANYMORE AND MAYBE ITS BECAUSE YOU STOLE MY FEET AND now put them on top of your feet like little shoe feet.

Theres nothing wrong with me. Theres nothing wrong with me. Theres nothing wrong with me.

M and M kisses and salt water fish. Basted perfectly with an ample amount of sunrise to bring into the mixture.

It may not be possible to be anything more than you already are. So quit trying so hard. Knowledge only means something if you can regurgitate it and make Tim think that you are smart. And we all know how hard that is.

__________________________________________________________________

David Simison is a boy who loves science.

Matt Aufrecht: ~~~~

2008-07-25T10:45:00.000-07:00

Displaying 12 of 12 comments View/Edit All

Mat'k

Jul 25 2008 12:08 AM

Comment Back - Send Message - Block User

I'm thinking of a number between one and what the fuck happened to predictability; the milkman, the paperboy, evening the odds are in your favorite. fla vor ice cream Korn on the ty cobble stoned out of your strawberry mine fields forever and ever a man a what's the plan stan the man oppressor of gone mental or monkeys might fly out of my way or the highway mister easy street meets meat eats steam tapes emancipates mortgage rates and roller skates roomy mates creates sissy weights whiles we'n masticates. anatomic clock. bi-illogical lock-down.town. sensiculling legitimizationicalling satiashunned byprodutivitites sympathighs aweaken with the chum chine, chum chine. feilo yuec omiminitiomsito. It wasn't the first time any of us had ever not known what it was to become everything we had every thought had been up to this point when no one quite could tell you any thing further than the tip of your nose before your face turned to Ronald Lacey-like soup pouring out over the earth and thus relativating gravyty.
~~~~
~~~~
~~~~
~~~~

____________________________________________________________________

Matt Aufrecht is a 25 yr. old noise maker from Chicago, IL.

Ally Simmons: Summerrr Recipes

2008-07-24T13:53:00.000-07:00

SUMMERRR Recipes

I really love cooking for family and friends.

I think food talks, a lot. For instance, I am really turned on when a perspective love interest cooks for me. (which has actually happened only once I think) I guess everyone is sort of turned on by it because it's used in movies a lot. Really though, if someone makes me something special to eat, I feel so special. That is legit.

Also, what kind of food you make says a lot to. My mom makes traditional meal after traditional meal (all of which are traditionally delicous) in contrast my dad makes up something new and original for each meal. ( I am more like my dad and maybe even a little more experimental than he is) I was relating how what I decided to cook for myself may effect how I view the world. I found a lot of similarities.

For instance, I like the challenge of making really delicious vegan or vegetarian food. I have grown to accept the fact that a vegan diet or vegetarian diet is decidedly better for me than a regular diet. Though I wouldn't call myself a vegan or a vegetarian because when my mom makes one of her traditional meals I won't turn down any part of it, I feel like I would be turning down a part of myself. When I am away from my mom's cooking I do make all vegetarian meals which is much different than the meals I have eaten while growing up. Part of my challenge to myself is making food that is both traditional and vegetarian. I can relate that to my life in many ways, I feel like I am traditonal in some ways and very very progressive in others. When I think about it my food sort of speaks this about me.

Also, I enjoy making foods from other cultures. For me trying foreign food, (foreign beers are also like this) is sort of like traveling. I love taking on the task of making food that I am not familar with, such as sushi, or curry like I made tonight. When you are learning to do something you haven't seen being done in front of you your whole life you are outside your terriotory, you are traveling. Who knew you could travel so far within your own kitchen? Because I haven't traveled as much cooking has been a great outlet for my restlessness.

After saying these things I guess the term "YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT!" has some weight to it, more weight than assuming a morbidly obese person must eat nothing but mc donalds and taco bell.

Anyway for my post on "Hello Quarterly" I thought I would make a meal for my whole family then give the recipes as a post. The things I choose to cook were inspired by summer. I picked out yummy summer foods that I love that would have a pretty summer look and a light fresh taste. I took some pictures as well. ( yes, that is one of my kittens!!! so cute I know.)

note: The sweet potatoe curry looks a little strange but tastes very good.

*******************+++++++++++++++++++***********************+++++++++++++++++++++*********************

!D!Yummy Summer Mango Mojito Pie!2! !!!!!(so good even if you don't like mangos or mojitos, and very easy.)

Ingredients

· 1 (1/4 ounce) envelope unflavored gelatin

· 1/2 cup nonfat milk

· 1 (8 ounce) package reduced-fat cream cheese, softened

· 3/4 cup Splenda granular

· 1 cup light sour cream

· 2 tablespoons fresh lime juice

· 2 teaspoons lime zest

· 1/2 teaspoon rum extract

· 2 ripe mangoes, peeled and cut into 1/4-inch cubes

· 1 (6 ounce) reduced fat graham cracker crust

garnishes

· mint sprig (optional)

· mango, slices (optional)

Directions

Sprinkle gelatin over milk in a small saucepan; let stand 1 minute. Cook over low heat, stirring until gelatin dissolves (about 2 minutes). Set aside.

Beat cream cheese and Splenda granular at medium speed with an electric mixer until smooth. Gradually add sour cream, lime juice, lime peel and rum extract, beating until smooth.

Gradually add gelatin mixture, beating until blended.

Chill 30 minutes or until mixture begins to thicken, stirring frequently.

Stir mango into gelatin mixture; spoon into pie crust.

Chill 2 hours or until set.

Garnish with mint sprigs and mango slices.

Simple Sweet Summer Salad (Made this up myself, my little sister who is a picky eater loved it)

Prep Time: 10 Minutes Serves: 4

6 Cups Spinach Leaves (or a Bag of Spinach)

3/4 Cup Walnut Pieces

1-2 Cup of Bluberries

1-2 Cups of dried Cranberries

1/3 Cup of salad dressing (I recommend some sort of vinergerette or maybe olive oil and balsamic viniger, I used red wine vinegerette)

Wash all the vegetables before preparing. In a large serving bowl, put all the washed spinach into the bowl. Add the blueberries and Cranberries. Toss the salad gently. Drizzle red wine vinegerette or another favorite dressing of your choice, and serve right away.

Sweet Potatoes in a Coconut and Peanut Sauce (You will really like this if you enjoy indian food)

Ingredients:

1 onion, finely chopped

2 cloves of garlic, crushed

a little sunflower oil

1 teaspoon of curry powder

2 tablespoons of peanut butter

1 tin of coconut milk

5 or 6 medium sized sweet potatoes, cut into bite size chunks

seasalt to taste

Fry the onion and garlic in the oil for a few minutes. Add the curry spices and stir well. Add the peanut butter, stirring over a medium heat until in begins to melt and then pour in your coconut milk and stir until well blended. Put the sweet potatoes and salt in the pan and bring to the boil and then turn down to simmer until they are softened (10 minutes +). Nice with rice and salad.

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Ally Simmons is a 21 yr. old free-styler who currently resides in Champaign, IL. In her free time she makes a big stir with her band, Tiger Babies.

Dan Rapp: poem

2008-07-24T11:47:00.000-07:00

a poem by Dan Rapp

A bird will never chirp at night
Unless the bird is without sight
And in that case it never stops
It chirps and chirps until it drops

And in that case it has been shot
And will most certainly be forgot
Then in 10 days another bird
Will chirp, chirp, chirp, and will be heard

By a narcoleptic man who never sleeps
He stays up listening to the peeps
And many sounds both near and far
Like the cricket, frog, train, and car

All surround him as he lays there still
Imagining that one great kill
Until one night his eyes closed shut
With his gun upon his gut
As he jolted awake from one big snore
He realized he wouldn't be hearing any noises anymore
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Dan Rapp is a 21 yr. old from fuel pump technician and specialist from Cornell, IL, who enjoys drinking Mountain Dew and making prehistoric bird calls.

Steph Mirabelli: My cat dreams and knows Photoshop

2008-07-23T20:01:00.000-07:00

Hello Quarterly reports:
Stephanie Mirabelli, a 25 yr. old free-spirited secretary from Concord, North Carolina, was baffled to discover today that her cat Kenyon was doing more than just taking cat naps. According to Mirabelli, "my cat dreams...he also knows [how to use] Photoshop."
Mirabelli states,
..."kenyon's dream is joe, by the way.... joe used to sweep kenyon with a broom when we all lived together. kenyon and joe shared a special bond. kenyon dreamt of this bond one night, long after we parted ways with joe, and felt compelled to record it upon waking. what we have here is the product of that compulsion..."

"...also, he wants me to tell you he's "not gay or nothin."'

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Kenyon is a 5 yr. old garbage cat/seamstress/idiot savant who misses Joe and stays cool by the pool with Ms. Mirabelli.

Dav Timm: Pop

2008-07-23T14:55:00.001-07:00

Pop: a poem by Dav Timm

Slam! Toilets! Slam doors!
Wake up, it’s time to paint and do chores!

Get up, get out! Get out of house, get out of town.
Go get in your car and drive, or maybe you can walk.

Hitch! Hike! Hop trains!
Don’t do your work! Don’t get a job, slob!
Trains are great for carrying cargo. They really go a long, long way.

Dream! Dream! Get on the sleep train! Go crazy on your dream boat, eat dreamcicles and drink pop.

Orange pop, green pop, grape pop! We love to drink great grape pop on top of our dreamy steam train.

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Dav Timm is a 19 yr. old student who currently attends Greenville College in Greenville, IL. Many say that Dav is the best dancer that they have ever seen. In his free time Dav collages, eats bressfass at sevan, launsch at elevon, and acquires nicknames like "Yellow" and "Ranky".

Samantha Crain Presents: Basket-toes

2008-07-23T13:35:00.000-07:00

The woven baskets fell out of the black hole and rolled down the uneven slope covered with rocks. The black hole loomed in a circular sway, a roaring vaccum-cleaner noise pounding out of the area. This happened every 2 weeks near Flashboomtowne but nobody was ever around to see it until now. Randy was rollypolly on the ground with his hands flattening his ears. He sang "I Will Survive" in a warbly yell (the version by Cake, mind you) and that comforted him through the parade of baskets falling from the black sky gap. That song was his go-to comfort song. Those baskets tumbled down the hill that preceeded the ocean and rested below the red sun (in 3-D mini-model terms). When they came to a discontinuance at the bottom of the tilt, they were then in a sand art desert. The baskets lay there for a few seconds and then grew legs and arms. Randy still kept his eyes wide between blinks and his contacts started to itch from all the sand art blowing on his face. The baskets began to climb up the yellow sandmade mesas and orange
cacti. The baskets that remained on the ground danced in circles through the red rocks and filled themselves with them.
Randy thought to himself "They should wear shoes or they'll stub a toe."

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Samantha Crain is a 21 yr. alien. She is currently on a nation-wide pillaging tour in the United States. Look for her in the National Enquirer, right next to bat-boy.

Rusty Shackleford: when you meet that special someone, a time will come when you know

2008-07-23T09:38:00.001-07:00

Here I lie at 4 in the morning contemplating my future. My days are switched with my nights lately...I go to bed at 6 in the morning. I wake up in the afternoon and make a frozen pizza. Half the time I contemplate all the good things the future holds for me...and the other half I contemplate how starting soon I won't be able to wake up in the afternoon and eat frozen pizza every day. I suppose it would help you out if I told you I'm getting married in 2 days. You don't have to ask me if I'm nervous/excited/anxious because....I'M GETTING MARRIED IN TWO DAYS. Do you think I'm just some cold robot? I want to punch anyone that asks me that, but then again I DO want wedding gifts so I have to play it nice.
Anyway...I'm 21 years old and she is 24. Some have said that we are too young and that we can't possibly know if the other person is "the one". And to that, I reply with the same line that has been recycled in countless films and 7th Heaven/Gilmore Girls episodes: "when you meet that special someone, a time will come when you know".
Now I know what you are about to ask...did that time come for me when I knew she was the one? Boy, did it ever. I hope my story of romance and love will inspire you in your own relationships, present and future...

I worked at a bookstore for a few years, a job I absolutely despised. The customers were weird and I usually worked by myself which meant I was hardly able to go in the back to take a crap (constant holding it in led to an inflame appendix and a subsequent emergency appendectomy...you better believe I blame the bookstore). Throughout the weeks, a man named Ken (name kept the same because he's a fucking creep) visited often and we would talk. He took a liking to me, would show me pictures of his grandkids, and even gave me his address to write him while I was to be away at school. Now let me tell you...he is a little slow...and he seemed nice enough so I was nice enough to him. Somehow, I told him I smoked one day, and for some reason he interpreted that as a huge step of bravery in confessing a secret to him (see what I mean by weird customers?) and told me that he, too, had a secret to share with me. He said he was too embarassed to say it out loud and he wanted to write it down. I assured him that he most definitely did not have to share any secret with me at anytime whatsoever, but he grabbed a pad of paper and before I could feign busyness he had slipped me a note reading: "I've struggled with homosexuality for 25 years". OK, so I read this, felt really awkward....I don't even remember what I said to him. I know I didn't say anything that would make him think I wanted ANOTHER note from him. But the river of secret notes kept-a-flowin' NOTE #2: "Have you and your girlfriend ever had sex?" I told him "Ken you are getting very personal and I'd appreciate it if you dropped the whole thing" (by the way, the answer is YES! WOO!!!!) He did drop the whole thing...right on top of another note. NOTE #3 "How big is your penis?" I said "You really need to leave, NOW!" (by the way, its fucking huge). He left, completely embarrassed, and I stood there feeling completely violated, and NOT in the good way. I didn't want to tell anyone (except for helloquarterly of course), but I called my girlfriend and told her the whole story. She comforted me and whatnot. I told her I had to poop but no one was there to relieve me so I could relieve myself. Well, to my surprise, 20 minutes later, my girl showed up and said "I'm here so you can poop!" I was so happy and grateful! But there was more...she had brought with her....A BACONATER FROM WENDY'S. As I was sitting on the shitter, contemplating my upcoming meal of 2 patties, 6 bacon strips, 4 slices of cheese....I knew that this girl was the best thing that ever happened to me....and if this whole Ken thing didn't work out, I wanted to marry her!

To those reading this, when the time comes when a creepy old man wants to know how big your penis is, all the while you have to shit your pants, you are going to have to ask yourself...who do I want to comfort me? I know I have my answer.
I truly hope that one day...you find yours.

Rusty Shackleford is a 21 yr. old whiz-kid from IL who is marrying the girl of his dreams in 2 days. He currently kicks ass and eats pizza.

Dustin Kent: The Bearded Legend and Mashed Potatoes

2008-07-22T18:22:00.000-07:00

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Dustin Kent is a 22 yr old college graduate from Greenville, IL. Dustin loves his wife Megan, dvds, and snapping his fingers like a hepcat. In his spare time he makes absurd comics, claymation movies, and tons and tons of trouble.

Caitlin Keturi: Cursive Was Right...Art is Hard

2008-07-22T14:33:00.000-07:00

An Essay by Caitlin Keturi

I once read a book titled, “Art and Fear: Observations On the Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking.” by David Bayles and Ted Orland. In short, it is a book about ordinary art made by ordinary people…not artistic geniuses, ala Rembrandt or Giotto or Bach. Art doesn’t have to be perfect. After all, it’s being made by humans, who are far less than perfect, myself definitely included. When I think of art in this way, I feel confident about my decision to study art in college.

Lately, I’ve had many afternoons to myself with not much to do. “Well, I guess I could paint.” Sometimes I don’t know why I feel the urge to paint. My experience in painting has been limited – a blow-off beginner class in high school, and a brutal pre-requisite color and visual theory course in my freshman year of college. Never before has a class been so difficult, depressing, and expensive, as we were required to buy high-quality artist-grade paints. We had several assignments that required us to make color charts by painting small chips. When all was said and done, I think I had painted over 300 2x2 chips. I would spend hours and hours mixing paint to get the perfect intensities and hues, only to receive mediocre grades and find out that my light-dark red chip was, somehow, too light. This made me feel like my art had to be flawless, and it didn’t help when a brutally honest, frank professor critiqued our pieces. I can be mature and say that these critiques really did help me in the long run, and I think they did, but at the same time I feel like they held me back. I hated art at the end of the semester. (Not really, but I think you know what I mean.) I began to not care how my projects looked because I knew I would end up getting a bad grade, no matter how many times I painted and repainted. I understand that criticism helps us to grow and learn and expand our minds but, gosh, I wish it didn’t hurt so much. Maybe, just maybe, my professor was trying to instill in us the thought that we shouldn’t be beat down by criticisms of our work. Reverse psychology, perhaps! I can only hope that’s what he was trying to do when he would point to my piece and say things like, “I can’t even look at this right now.”

I guess what I’m trying to say is that we as artists shouldn’t let ourselves be negatively affected by what others think of our work. I was the one who decided to use chartreuse green instead of magenta. You were the one who thought it would be better to compose the song in ¾ time instead of 2/4. For some reason, a kid in your ceramics class chose to sculpt a life-size statue of Thomas Jefferson. Sure, why not?

Every piece of art is beautiful. There has always been that endless battle of what can be classified as art and what cannot. In high school, my history teacher once threw an orange at the chalkboard. As juice ran down the board and students picked pieces of peel from their desks, he said, “Is that art?” Once again…sure, why not? Maybe it wasn’t complex, but he created something by himself, even if only for the sake of humor. I think if someone takes the time to put himself or herself into something and express whatever they may be feeling, then that is beautiful and honest. It is art.

I think we should humbly accept criticism and comments, as they do help us in our journeys toward whatever we may be seeking. Someone’s comment may open our eyes to a whole new world of thought, or maybe if we’re lucky, a new friend. And we can always use more friends.

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Caitlin Keturi is a 19 year old college student from East Peoria, IL. She currently attends Illinois State University in Normal, IL, and she continues to get her crunky bar, grape drank, and baby girl on with admirable enthusiasm.

Dave Laws: High Scores!

2008-07-21T15:29:00.001-07:00

For the past week I have been hanging out in Oklahoma with some friends. While the times of boredom come in and out, I seem to embrace those times, and play on a very entertaining website called virtualnes.com. I’d say check it out sometime. Its chock full of all the old great NES games I used to play as a kid. It’s a goldmine of memories. And I tell you what, when boredom strikes, I praise god for that website.
What the site is, is a collection of all the old NES games somehow transferred onto the World Wide Web, and made playable to all who stumble upon them. As I was going through the list of games, I stumble across a very interesting game called Yoshi. Blocks with different enemies fall from the top of the screen somewhat like tetris, and when you match them up, they disappear. Eggshells fall from the top of the screen as well. When you get a top half of an eggshell, and lay it on top of the bottom half, a Yoshi is born into the world. The point of the game is to create Yoshis, but not let the enemies stack too high to reach the top. If you like Tetris, this may be something you will be interested in too.

Anyways, I had been playing this game, and found that I was somewhat good at it. I really don’t know how to judge that, but I do know that I was kicking ass. I thought to myself, “man, I wonder what the high score is for this game?” so I went to the trusty site of Twin Galaxies, and looked up the high score. 3500 points (more or less).
“Damn, I got this shit.” I thought to myself.
So I continued to play this game, and exceeded the high score.
But here's the bad news.
I was playing it on the computer. Not the original system. Not the original game. And plus, in order to claim your fame on twin galaxies, everything needed to be videotaped. The closest proof I have is a picture of my score.

To me this was all bullshit. I mean, I’m not pissed about it at all, because in my mind I know I can beat the score. It’s just the fact that there are regulations to being good at something. And not just in this stupid video game, but in everything. When you write songs things have to have order and structure and catchy melodies and chord progressions. When you write an essay it has to conform to this format, or this standard of writing. When you speak, you have to use appropriate language as well as longer, more sophisticated words. When you live your life, in order to reach “happiness” you have to make sure you have way more than enough money saved, and make sure you have straight teeth and a fancy car. Then you have to make sure your kids have straight teeth, then give them your fancy car, then buy yourself another car. I don’t know it just doesn’t make sense to me.

I hope that you can make sense out of whatever I just wrote. If you cant I'm sorry and I hope to explain it to you better someday. I promise I can communicate better live and in the flesh. But what I wanted to say out of this whole thing is that there shouldn’t be any fences, walls, or even boundaries to the way you live your life, and the way that you create and do things. Kick ass and be happy with it no matter what they say. Because we all have the “high score” if you will. We all got it. It’s just different in everyone, and it’s a matter of not giving a shit about the rules and regulations, or what the big dogs in charge say.
You are as right as I am.

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Dave Laws is a 19 year old college student from North Carolina who has a knack for bangin' on the system and keeping it real. He currently attends Greenville College in Greenville, IL.

Letter from the Editors

2008-07-21T14:43:00.000-07:00

"Communication is an art form."
My friend Dave Laws said this the other night, after we experienced the good vibes of late night conversation.
That night we excitedly talked about the beats, our history, our wanting to make peace and do good; all of this as we took turns blowing each other's minds with the things we had to say.

Every time I have this type of exchange with friends, I wonder, "why doesn't this happen more often?" "Why isn't this type of communication encouraged more often?"
By "this type of communication" I mean the kind that excites us. The type of communication where you are completely free to speak the mind, and make sound effects if you need to.
Educated or not, Complete BS or not, don't we have the right to behave in these ways, to enjoy other's company, and to feel listened to?
Everyone who has a voice aught to use it!
(Eyes and ears too!)

-Nate