Stephanie Online

Where the Night Water Runs

Once I chased a dream, a bird song,
a peacock feather,
through midnight down to the lapping water
silver crickets like ear-stars singing
all along the fields where fieldmice hide.
There is no place to go
but down to where the night water runs,
and runs black and slow,
slow like feet running in a dream.
Kind water, sweet and black
whispering, "I take nothing back.
I only go on."
The dream was really a beast
covered by night; I did not know,
and I followed the rank smell far,
too far away,
to find it, large
and turning, white clawed and snorting
too awful for fear,
too awful for running,
the song of my living too awful for fear -
and now to go on,
walking;
dawn is near.

Astronomy

The stars, they are not stars
when you look up;
they are not rocks, but bits of light,
holes in the earth-cloth,
light shining through, like black paper
pin-punched, held up to the sun.
You are not you,
not even a star;
you are a hole through which
I see only shining. I can not guess
the source of the light.
There is a beyond, beyond the cloth-skin,
but so hard to reach,
like touching stars.

Conversations with a Flame

She held the match to the candle and waited. Slowly the wick caught and flared up, sucking and wavering, burning her fingers. She dropped the match and stamped on it with bare feet. She looked into the flame.

"He's gone," she told it.

It puffed and stretched.

"When will I see him again? When will I hear from him? He won't write to me, he doesn't know I exist. I'll never find out what becomes of him, and I can't stand it. Forever. He's gone forever now."

"Don't tell me about it," the flame said in a dry, light, crackling voice. It darted like a snake's tongue.

"I have to tell somebody. "I've never loved anyone before, an dhe doesn't even know I love him and he's going away. Oh God, what can I do?"

We Will Sensor!

Today in Home Room they passed out the Senior Information Sheets - what I've been waiting for. They ask for your nickname favorite saying (Ten words or less, MUST BE PRINTABLE) ambition (Due to space limitations only two ambitions will be printed) pet peeve (Due to space limitations ... ) and highlights (Due to, etc.) At the top ofthe page they tell you: REMEMBER THAT THE YEARBOOK IS A PERMANENT RECORD THAT WILL REPRESENT YOU AND YOUR CLASS IN 1982 AND FOR YEARS TO COME. USE GOOD JUDGEMENT!! WE WILL SENSOR!!" Just like that, with an "S". Must have been written by L_______, our class president. L______ is good at triteness. ...

Anyhow. Nickname: I don't have one. Favorite saying: something from a song / Ambition: Writer, bum. Pet peeve: school spirit / Highlights: WWUH on Sunday nights, electric sneakers

Larry D______ pointed out that although they only have room for 2 of these things, they allow you to list up to 25 school activities you participated in!

Georgeanne says that Rockville High lets you write anything you want, w/out sensorship!

- September 1981

Happiness

All the mourners had left. The casket stood in obstinate, definite silence, like a shut-in turtle, not giving anything of itself. Tiny lacy patterns swirled in silver paint around the bottom and the top rim, and the black wood shone. In Marcia's brown eyes the room blurred and dulled, and she half tripped down the two steps into the parlor. She drew a breath to avoid sobbing aloud, walking slowly toward the black box. She carried flowers, a bunch of hovering baby's breath; and as she came close, she drew up the long, badly fitting dress to her knees, kneeling on white tile. Her eyes would not lift from the floor. She felt she must say something to her mother, say anything, pretend for a moment that she was alive again. Too much weight, Marcia thought, all at once, I can't take it all at once, I can't, mom, I need one more minute of you, I didn't have long enough, let me tell you something. You don't have to talk back, just pretend you're listening, let me sit you up and talk like you can hear me. I want to tell you what I did in school, what I want for supper, what my teacher said, and that I can't take it all at once, it's too much.

Stone Deaf

The other thing is how I got to see the Stones in Hartford. I tried to get tickets but couldn't - first they said there would be no tickets sold that day, then I heard they had gone on sale 1/2 an hour ago. ...

So when we drove home we stopped by Harvest to see if their machine was working again, which it was, and we waited in line. Right then they sold out. So I was depressed. The radio station WHCN was giving away tickets and this pissed me off - how did they get hundreds + thousands of free tickets when fans waited hours in line and then didn't get any? A D.J. from WHCN got on TV with a suitcase of tickets and said the station was giving all these away, all you had to do was be the right caller and you would win a pair. I tried but of course those contests are almost impossible to win. So out of desperation comes inspiration.

Fear and Loathing at the U of Hartford

When Hunter Thompson came to speak at the U. of Hartford, I went to see him. First I called the U. to find out if the public was allowed in - no, you had to enroll in the jounalizm course, for several hundred dollars. I couldn't do that.

Letter to Her Brother, Summer 1982

I was going to have Jim Garvey, Georgianne, Gary, etc. sign this card but I can't seem to get it done - I went to George's grad. party a couple of days ago in the rain but nobody you knew was there.

This weekend's plan goes like this -
Thursday [June 17, 1982] - Garcia-Weir concert, New Haven
Friday [June 18, 1982] - off from work (do you believe it?) Graduation practice in the morning, leave for Cape Cod to see Garcia-Weir; Joe is driving Georgianne + me
Saturday [June 19, 1982] - Graduation in afternoon, leave for Maine with Joe + Georgianne
Sunday [June 20, 1982] - spend day in Maine, see Garcia-Weir at Cumberland Civic Center, drive back

AND I WORK ON MONDAY!!!

Buffalo

From her journals. Undated; probably summer of 1981.

When we got to Buffalo we headed for the War Memorial Colesium, where I thought the show was. Buffalo is a dirty, run-down place on the whole. The War Mem. was in a bad section, like Hartford going toward the North End.

The Collesium itself was a beat-up wooden place, open air like a baseball stadium. No ded heds or hairy people or lines of cars. The gravelly parking lots were practically empty (except for rusting car wrecks). We couldn't believe our eyes, after driving all that way, to arrive at a place like this. Was the concert cancelled? As soon as we came to a more decent neighborhood, we pulled in at a college and Keith and Leonard went in to call a radio station. Hank and I got out and stretched. We took out the tickets. On them it listed the collesium as the Buffalo Memorial.

Ah ha! We whipped out the map of Buffalo + sure enough, on the other side of town was a Buffalo Mem. Collesium. I painted WE FOUND IT on the car + Hank went to find L + Keith. He couldn't - came back and we waited.

Writing Awards

Ink Drawings

WWUH Brochure

Roads of Mexico

I remember the brown boy with brown eyes
who tried to sell us a toy wooden ship
first in the smoky restaurant
and then, as if he had followed us,
in the smoky bar
where we had our pictures taken
so we could know we had been there,
and Tom was drunk
and all his friends were drunk
and we went out to our cars,
I, driving without insurance
along the unknown roads of Mexico
and backing onto the sidewalk,
then we were out aong the highway, back
toward Tijuana, full moon,
our line of cars
calling and beeping back and forth.
We were looking for the perfect beach.
It was too dark to see,
and then we lost the rest of them
around a curve, and it was only
Larry and Tom, still nearly a stranger
and I, and I
pulled off and we walked
through prickly pear, down the hill
to the warm sand and then
the warm Mexican sea.
The moon was still full,
and Tom was drunk.
We lay blankets and sleeping bags on the sand.
We could hear the clicking of sand fleas.
Larry had to go back to the car
for something he forgot
and I ran to dance with the waves
as if in a dream -
the moon moving the waves,
the waves moving me,
I moving my shadow,
my shadow bowing to the moon.
And Tom was suddenly by my ear,
saying he was secretly in love.
I stared at the arms around my waist
saying, Larry will be back soon,
but it didn't matter, really
because I didn't love this man
or even like him very much,
and then I felt as if I was slipping,
as if my mind was washing away
or ebbing out,
all so strange
under a full moon.
I wanted to cry for all the times
I fought to keep from washing away
like the sand, ah this time -
and I wanted to beg him for mercy
but he turned
and walked up the beach.
A moment later
he was asleep.

The Magic Flute Player

"You sure you want to hear this story?" the old man asked, smiling at the young children sitting near him. They giggled and nodded, fidgeting in anticipation.

"Might give you nightmares, this one. 'S about dragons!" The children begged him to go on, to tell the story. He sat back, relaxed, and began.

Free Tickets

If I Knew a Place

If I knew a better place I'd go there,
and drink up the rain,
hands cupped like open mouths
to starry skies.
If I knew a place where buttercups
still laughed like children,
and ponies ran,
and sands were scattered with silver shells,
and trees forgave the wind --
my feet would fly like wings on fire,
I would not look back once,
would not kiss the iron goodbye
or leave light tracks on stone.
Eyes, find the way
the unicorns have gone.
Follow the butterflies
that lift to the skies like stained-glass milkweed,
more instinct than weight --
lead me stumbling home.
This earth is not mine -- I feel no love
in the touch of maples that don't know my name,
and smothered, blinded earth that cannot
feel the sun.
If I knew a better place I'd go there,
laughing and make it my own,
hold it to my heart by its roots and flowers,
unicorns' horns and butterflies,
eager, blue and hungry skies
that wait for wings,
earth that grows with weight of feet
in speckled springs.

Wings of Song

Now, all alone in Eden,
ashamed to claim his creation,
he climbs the grey, wilted trees and weeps
for everything so soon
gone wrong.
He gathers all not dead around him,
the half-wilted remnants
of unequaled beauty --
a violet still blue
a brook not yet dry
as its stone banks crumble
under the weight of his tears.
And from someplace
out and beyond destruction
a bird flies, dandelion yellow,
black-throated and full of song,
perches above him, clasping the branch
with perfect, silver-clawed toes.
This tiny songbird surely
is too sweet to be from invention's hands,
wasn't created this wild from his clay.
It perches on one finger outstretched
and calls for beauty to live and not flee.
The creator speaks softly, rustles the leaves.
"You were right all along.
I give you the world, yellow singbird,
for I couldn't have written your song."

Old Man

Old Man, look in the mirror.
See the life time has shaken
to its knees,
see the deaths you have taken
quietly,
and every line of cobweb
will be with you now forever.
You'd give more than your life to erase
the marks in your body and soul,
no longer perfect
or whole.
Stare out the window
from grey eyes
through grey panes,
smoky skies,
not as blue as yesterday
or a million years ago.
The pavement below
is of crushed bones,
sand and stone,
blue, gasping blood,
eons of mud.
And yet a yellow bird still sings
on window sills, in old men,
sings still of beauty
from morning skies,
oblivious to loneliness
and God's great lies.

Message for You

Message for you,
leader of the tribe.
Message for you,
ring of thin warriors.
Put down your spears;
the enemy can't feel them,
and you've lost at last.
Close your eyes.
Slash your backs with surrender.
Throw your young boys
off the bleak mountain
as a sacrifice to defeat.
Carve in your caves
with fingernails, in blood,
flesh worn away to bone,
with fingerbones careve
the story of your battle
you wretchedly lost.
Eat the grey stones.
Drink the grey dust
and stand not before
your conquerors, yelling,
begging to know what became
of your savior,
for I bring you news.
See what I hold?
This grey bird, eyes
blankly glazed,
feet still searching
but without a song.
Brush the dust with your fingers,
blow the dirt off these precious wings.
Yellow.
Gold like the sun.
This is the bird of Eden.
And look to the sky,
shade your face,
muffle your cry,
we are alone,
for, without the music,
God froze to stone.

Quest

Five years fly back to find us here
still wanderers,
rough with a dream that clings to our hair,
will not wash off in mountain streams
or free-blown wind.
Through brush, swamp elder,
cattails snapping – swooping herons
bring no news of unicorns.
Through forests petrified to stone,
waterfalls, apple orchards,
cracked robins’ eggs, and bits of string –
thrushes, catbirds, crickets sing
no songs of beauty such as this,
give us no hope at all.

Till, there in the lush grass soft to the touch
of steaming hooves, carved ivory,
the unicorn, moonlit white with beaded tail,
braided mane, star-speckled eyes
in a world of mirrored dew.
One moment we have
to catch the wonder that hangs
like silver music in still air,
and then it flies – hooves over moss,
deer-swift, snake-silent,
no rock cloven,
not a branch touched.

Psalm

You wrap your fingered hands around my skull
and crush – heat grows behind my eyes.
This love hurts. I stand in morning
before the silver sea – it speaks –
love hurts, all beauty hurts
and man is clay. One day
I will leave you, and find another cave
where music is baffled by the stone
and deep back, where I will sit
the music will be a dying sound,
but I may take charcoal in my hands
and run swift lines along the wall –
images of you, words the charcoal feels:
this love hurts. There will be no
going far enough to go. You are where
beauty is, and beauty hurts. I feel
perhaps pain is what makes me real.
When I close my eyes
you drag my feet for miles and wake me
where I am lost and no one knows my name
but all around is beauty, and it hurts.
Only give my knees a place to pray.
I love you, but this love hurts,
and I am only clay.

Woodland Mouse

Caged.
Walls of glass and screen
and floor of wood chips
that smell of my forest far
and smell of freedom.
And only one metal wheel to replace
the forever lost streams
and the rocks and the grass
and stones and wet earth
all gone.

I wish
for my forest again.
I wish that these walls
were really of air.
And still, in my mind
I see the tree trunks wet black
with cool, fine-misted falling rain.

The Talking Oak

"That Louisa's really strange."

"You're telling me! I don't know how Anne can like her. And when she looks at you ..."

"What?"

"She hasn't done it to you yet?"

"What? What?"

Mary was getting a little irritated by this time.

"When you make her mad, she looks at you ... her eyes get all bright, and afterward something happens. Like I bumped into her in the hall. I said 'excuse me' but she looked at me, her eyes all bright and sort of yellow and I hadn't walked ten steps before my books fell. That isn't all. She's done other things."

Letter

Tickets