Glimpses of a Summertime

I've been outside for a while now.
Here are some of the more visceral fragments of this place when there's some sun that hits it.-Adam Tierney-



-Sarah McCarty-

Finals Diary

No Direction Home

For me, right now, home is a four hundred mile stretch of farms and fields. St. Paul, to Madison, to Chicago. Three cities, three bright lights. They buckle tightly across the heartland like Orion's Belt. I am lost somewhere along them, a ghost on 94 south bound with my heart all torn up in where I was and where I am going to be. There is the cold hard wood of my parents house. It smells like home. In Madison Wisconsin I walk through a surreal half-life where I know every face. In Chicago I hold my oldest friends in my arms and I don't want to flee my irresponsible and fast paced days in the city.

The St. Paul brickyards are just across the river from downtown. They are old, abandoned. Little children hike there trying to find fossils; the whole riverbed used to be submerged. There are little shelters, old buildings, from when they made bricks there and the train tracks still run alongside the river. The buildings have all broken down, leaving skeletal remains, chimneys leading to nowhere. I come back there every season, with my friends I build a fire and sit, in the snow or the leaves. I look across the river at the city I grew up in. The first bank building still flashing 1 in red neon. It's a comforting thing. When we're all back in the city it's like a little lie we all believe in. We walk in single file and laugh our hardest. It's as if we'll never leave our roots again, and when we do, our nonchalance portends the fleeting nature of our reunions. We trust that we'll convene again.

Lila ash, tells me that home is a place that only exists in her dreams for now, because she has not found it in reality. She sent me these two images to my Madison address. On March 26th, when we were both in this city for the same minute, we walked around a block in downtown Madison twice, looking for access to this house, designed by Frank Lloyd Wright:

I don't know what Lila dreams about, when she dreams about home.
I dream about a house like this,
the river and the lakes,
and the people I walked with.

long long ago.

THE GOOD OLD DAYS
I firmly believe that there was a time, age gone by you call it, when I would have found myself traveling through the ragged rural towns of southern Minnesota in an old jalopy. In a cheap vest and pants that left off a little high on my shins, I would stroll gallantly into the most bustling county fairs; I love something about the scent of fresh corndogs. Popping open my trunk I would soapbox about my finer wares: some toys for children, a miraculous machine from the impending future, or a miracle nostrum of my own invention, resting impotent, green and sickly in an old tonic bottle. I would stay until I grew sick of the flashing lights and screaming children, the loud carnival sounds, and the cotton candy sugar in the air. Or they would chase me out, mistrusting something about my patchy beard or the way my eyes twinkled. Then I would drive home around dusk to pass my time in a dark bar under a neon sign: “The Commodore,” buzzing on and off and on, in sleepy St. Paul Minnesota.
Or you could just call it “The 20s”
This is exactly the realm of my mind that Paulina Schemanski inhabits.

Paulina carries this air, as if she was straight out of a pulpy fiction rag, the kind I read on my living room floor when I’m putting off the “real” literature. It goes beyond her stoic beauty or the way she effortlessly dresses in only black. Paulina’s rugged independence and simultaneous unbridled femininity allude to a time gone by, before make-up was enriched and caked onto apes in laboratories.
I can put it like this: When I’m drinking a beer with her in her kitchen, she can talk freely about how she swoons over the old male authors, as if they weren’t part of the patriarchal cannon. She loves weddings, but doesn’t think she will get married.

All these things shine through in Paulina’s writing and her authoritative grasp upon the English Language. Paulina works as the essay editor of the University of Wisconsin Madison’s undergraduate humanities journal: Illumination as well as working on the poetry staff of The Madison Review.
The last line of this poem, Rain and Water, comes from a story told to Paulina by her boyfriend. A friend of his had decided to jump over a large post, though in attempting it actually injured his testicles. The inconsequential anecdote ended with the sentence “and that was the same day he caught a bird in his hands.” As does the poem.

rain and water
his suitcase overflowed with solid colored t-shirts and
manuscript pages with quarter notes copied
from the broken keyboard
on her carpet floor.

on the threshold:

my knees are aching from standing by you
in this moment before rain.
i’m avoiding getting wet, my darling
and you should do the same.


that was the same day she witnessed
a truck driver eating an apple
and a boy who caught a bird in his hands.

Paulina is studying English at the University of Wisconsin Madison.
Her friends call her Paul. I have it on good authority that she has just purchased a new ribbon for her typewriter.


photos by Logan Jaffe (http://loganjaffe.blogspot.com) care of the facebook.

Harold Shnell Sells Again: The Big Turn Around

Passion! Hope! Sales Maxims!

all these and more...
Harold Shnell Sells Again

A Supermarket in Minnesota

A Supermarket In Minnesota by Adam Tierney

What thoughts I have of this place tonight, the heartland! On my late night walk to the supermarket, feeling lusty and kind in the smaller city.
Am I feeling lost tonight? In between bright and colorful houses of the semi-energetic middle class, dreaming of their hardwood floors.
I had been running my fingers along my own mahogany molding when I had that same hungry notion. Only a few blocks away.
I was a ruddy wanderer once too! Though I was never as gay or as gray as I ought to have been… (I’ve been meaning to tell you why I only write in Russian.)
I got hung up on the revolutionaries.

I said a-HA! but the Mississippi Market was all darkened windows, and I wished after neon fruits.
In my reflection at the window I was dreamy and star-crossed
I stood there naked all night long, admiring the sexual way I grew hair on my chest.
Am I lonely? or am I more lovely this way? I wondered.
There could have been a woman lingering in front of the bulk grains!
Solemnly she would contemplate the Flax or Barley, sweeping her dark, wavy hair back and forth,
she would see me there reflected in her glasses
thinking how refreshing it was to see a man who,
so passionately, refused to enter into markets
She would admire my Walt Whitman beard and the tired qualities of my body,
when at last I would speak to the grain:

Where-O! where-O! might I be blessed at home?
O’er amber waves or in the throws of snow?
Dispel your chaffy garb without remorse,
Swoon through the rye, the miller’s hands are course.

Then waxing at last upon her timid beauty and the wonders of her pale belly, she would not be able to hear me.
I would turn for her, so the moonlight could play wonderfully off my bare buttocks, before whooping and stomping into the night.

Knowing honestly that I was more masculine and American than Charon.
I flexed my boyish muscles above the Great Polluted Mississippi River.

Paresthesia

This is what I've been up to the past week.