All Posts in Volume 65

November 2009 - Comments Off

Untitled

Megan Costello '12

Daddy says ignore the corpulent monster
In biology class,
The one who sends you notes labeled
“Keys to a sustainable relationship one:
Limit runoff of affection
And the leaching of resentment
Tickle me amoeba
Without you I am haploid”
Mitosis wailing selfishly
Creates replications of this torture
In history class
With the boy who thinks I am a reincarnation of Napoleon
And he is my loyal Cambaceres
Takes it too far
And is banished from high school
For bringing in a sword
Stolen from a young antique store
But at least I got to touch it,
Deltas
Estuaries
The border of Italy and Germany
Here we meet

November 2009 - Comments Off

Untitled

Jordan Amchin '11

The highway is
lit up
with gold
and there is
green inside
my chest.

November 2009 - Comments Off

Fictions

Elisa Bonesteel '11

MOURNING

She is in the shower, two weeks after her son’s disappearance down by the loading docks. She lives in a small New England fishing town, littered with fisherman’s kitsch. Outside of her own house the welcome mat reads, “A fisherman and a normal person live here.” Although this sentiment is true now, just a little earlier it would have been more appropriate for the mat to read “normal persons”. It is painful for her to step on this mat these days. She is thinking about it, now, in the shower. She is wishing she had never given the damned thing to her husband for Father’s Day three years ago. She is thinking about how pointless holidays are these days. She is wondering if he is still a father even, without a son. She doesn’t care to think about the validity of her motherhood.

Her husband is downstairs, sitting in an overstuffed leather chair, staring at his desk. He is letting his eyes wander along with the wood grain, all the way left to the edge and then back to the right again. He is not thinking, or rather, he is thinking but only about the wood in front of him. On the desk are tackles and lures, and above it, framed, is a fly his father made next to a fly he made next to a crude one his son made. Back in the shower she hears a loud thump and is startled. The noise has not come from downstairs, where her husband sits (now staring at his reflection in a darkened window). The noise has not come from outside of her house, where a pool is covered with a tarp for the winter. The noise has not come from the basement, because she would probably have been unable to hear it. The noise has had to, without much doubt, come from the upstairs, where she is showering. She gets out of the tub without turning the water off. The mirror is covered in steam and small streaks where water has beaded and slid down the smooth glass. The doorknob is wet in her hand and she slips while gripping it. In the dark hallway nothing seems out of place. The master bedroom is swathed in shadows from the streetlight outside their window and she cranes her neck to look into each corner from the doorway. Everything looks as it should. Her sons room is at the end of the hallway. The door is closed. There is another thump, and this time she knows where it has come from. Her husband looks at the ceiling as he hears his wife’s feet slapping the hardwood at a quickened pace. He knows where she is going and yells up to her, “Cecile, come down now, don’t start this again!” But the footsteps do not stop. He sighs and reaches for his son’s framed fly, putting it gently into the bottom drawer of his desk.

COLLEGE CREDIT

Will’s final A.P. Art project was a series of images depicting Jesus in a leather jacket. The images were:
• the full figure in a forest, next to a small brook and a doe. (oil paint)
• close ups of his beard and the zipper lining the collar. (charcoal)
• a photograph of his sister wearing a felt beard, her nightgown and their dad’s leather.
• a cubist rendering (acrylic)

He received a 2 on the evaluation, a B- in the class and did not go on to college.

THE WEDDING

I took my daughter to a wedding last summer. It was the hottest summer in years, you couldn’t cool down if you stuck your head in the freezer, it was that kind of summer. Lemonade was no good. Ice cream was no good. About the only that helped was ice down the pants but that left funny marks on your shorts and begged for questions you didn’t really want to answer when someone came to the door uninvited. Anyhow, took my daughter to a wedding. Would’ve taken my wife but she had been acting funny for a while and didn’t want to risk something happening, would have been too embarrassing and also not fair to the kids getting married. I didn’t know them too well but I had worked with the groom’s dad for a couple of years and we’d kept in touch all right. He was the one who invited me, not his kid, no pastel invitation in the mail, just a telephone call in late afternoon. I checked my calendar and told the guy, Hell, I got nothing better to do, might as well get a free drink out of it. So I took my daughter down there. She had just come home from college for the summer. I had missed her like hell. She had grown up some since being away. She wore more black, and didn’t show her boobs off too much anymore. I fought like hell with her in high school to cover them things up. She never did listen, but back from college, ta-da, proper as pie. Anyhow, I guess there was still some of that old girl in there because she got drunk at the wedding and ended up going home with the best man and made a big scene. I should’ve just taken the wife.

November 2009 - Comments Off

Boom

Ariana Ervin '11

When my baby is born I am surprised by its size.
They hand It to me, Its pink tongue loping around in Its mouth, Its chest crushed so tightly in a white velour blanket I find myself prying with my fingers to feel the anxious little patter of a heartbeat. They are stamping Its feet and rolling Its toes through black ink and smoothing the thin strands of hair that sprout from Its soft head and saying time to go.

Time to go. Time to go.

But I feel dizzy. My legs are angry bees and earlier, before, they had strapped me in this plastic dress with thick silver buttons down the back and the snaps are harder to undo than one might think. I fumble madly so the nurse helps me. I slide into shoes and socks, my baby safe inside Its plastic box, the one they have inches next to my bed that I could make go up and down if I wanted. The one with buttons for calling for ice cubes. And I am signing papers and assigning names and they are lifting my baby from the box and handing It to me saying watch the head.

Watch the head. Watch the head.

So I do. I clutch the little head like a tiny boy clutching a sled and I take myself out into the day that is partly warm but also turning grey with graphite pencils as the birds swarm the sky. I think my baby is too young for public transportation so I ignore the #1 and # 12
and #4 buses and move my feet in the direction of a place that is maybe just a little warmer than the air here so cold it burns my ribs.

I have a sandwich in a Cafe; my baby tucked under one of my arms, Its eyes closed and shallow. I am chewing really slowly, the sandwich so hot it has melted the mayonnaise and a tiny sad pool of white liquid has formed on my plate, the insides dotted with brown crumbs. When my baby presses Its pink tongue to Its cheek and thumps at the blanket with Its foot, I feed It too. I pull out one breast (the breast farthest away from my sandwich) and we eat in silence, the only sound from puckered lips. When I am finished eating but my baby is not, I lean down to tell It about a life under the trees.“Your father will drive you to school in a Chevy Impala.” I say. “You can drink from water fountains and run your fingers under the leftover spray and when you are tired so that your eyes feel hot and warm and hazy, like now,” and I pause, press on Its eyelids with my thumb until the flesh twitches and jumps, “you can lie under the window and just lay or sleep or dream." The Café man asks to take my plate and I am struck with a sudden urge to tell him I think my baby hates me. But that is stupid so I nod and he does and pours me more coffee at the exact moment I remember the nurse told me to watch out for caffeine.

Watch out for caffeine. Watch out for caffeine.

I wonder if it matters that I have already forgotten or if you can fix things in reverse like the man in Memento, exonerating himself from murder. So I push my coffee away and like the sound it makes as it slides across the table and tell my baby who is still mashed against my breast that It has to be done eating because suddenly my breast is an aching, wounded lion, roaring into life and I can’t stand for one more drop of milk to be taken.

Roar.

And then we are walking again, after I have paid the Café man and hoisted my little swaddled thing to my right shoulder and tucked my face into Its fleshy neck all wide and bunched like uncooked dough. I think maybe it is five ‘o clock because here are the people, imitations of angry bird flocks, onslaughts of black heels pounding the sidewalk, red hands wrestling with “Don’t Walk” signs and briefcases with metal locks and slippery stroller handles and other more slippery, much smaller, hands.

I am looking for a blue door in a nice part of town and that kind of generalization can really help you get where you are going. So the flashing neon McDonalds signs are just another part of the design and the people, so incredibly jolted, bumping at my shoulders, banging at my baby are just becoming a pulse like a heartbeat. Or a ringing telephone.

Ring.

When I get to your door I stand outside for the longest time, my feet moving all on their own in a pattern I never thought up. Here is the blue door and this one with a tiny gold brass knob for knocking one two three times or banging, pounding, one two three times, or ignoring. And I don’t need to go inside because it only matters that I found it, only now, my baby’s face is red and I remember what the nurse said which was outside is much too cold for a baby.

Much too cold for a baby. Much too cold for a baby.

So I make the brass knob go bang bang bang (three times) and you come. When you answer the door, I am surprised by your size.
I thought I remembered you bigger, so much bigger. I thought you would need to be to create something so small but you are almost the same size as my (our) baby now and so I come inside as we sit on the couch and I let you hold the baby and you feed me tea. And here we are now five or ten years later past the right now and you are driving our daughter to school, rinsing our son in the bath, his squeamish naked body riled with water droplets as you pull him from the tub, slipping her tiny feet into pajama bottoms, rinsing his bottom teeth because he can never reach them himself. And you are saying things like “Okey Dokey,” and “Daddy loves you” and cuddling with the moon, which is astonishing.

Except here’s the thing.

The thing. The thing.

I have finished my tea and the baby is squawking and clawing at Its cheeks and you are holding it out to me, your shoulders shrugged into your neck and I hear myself saying time to go.

Time to go. Time to go.

Out on the sidewalk, under the blue door, I feed my baby again and its head is already getting bigger and I think it’s from all that milk.

November 2009 - Comments Off

In The Well

Tori Arend '10

A veil spun in the water. Thin
like rice paper, it held the heat
of the water; boiled finely.
It was a thermometer a sheet
of mercury wedged under the air,
enclosed above by masonry.
Under this the tongue,
the freshwater ripples, and rows
of tooth-like stones the veil floated
in stove-like heat. Unseen coils
wrapped tightly around roots; sunk
underground into wellspring.
Thick bark began to pulse,
the grass to singe. Birds rested
on branches before lifting
like steam. They flew overhead
while you, on the ground, you pressed
a leaf and held the veined green
until your fingers itched.
You let it go, let it spiral down
shriveled and dry.
By dusk, the leaves have browned,
have stopped circling. The few
burgeoning buds have turned orange
from the heat, and the ground
has softened. The wells stones
its teeth, glow like hot coals,
and the veil in the well spins,
spins further down the mouth
of the long cave. Its fabric disintegrates,
the water evaporates, and you, as you look ,
at your feet, hidden by steam, you
begin to sink further into the ground.

November 2009 - Comments Off

Seen From Above

Daniel Goldberg '11

DONNA
Donna wasn’t born yesterday, you know.  She’s seen what you’re up to and she’ll deal with it her own way, however she likes. In pre-school she bullied the little boys. In college she fucked them. Now she mostly travels, to the places it’s best not to go. She screamed “STOP” once, on an airplane. Everyone was scared, no one knew what she was thinking. Donna is like that.

ALEX
Alex is preppy and orange and he hates to wear clothes.
He swims tall and emerges unchanged.
He wraps his wet claws around the giggling girls who adore him.
He is dainty and tall and loves to chat.
Melissa hands him a towel and a Styrofoam cup of bourbon.
Out at a restaurant, Alex sits on a throne with lowered eyes.
He smiles slyly and watches the girls sit in unison and cross their legs.
Alex is a self-hating vegan, and he stares while the girls chew their steaks.
Slurping his orange vegetables, Alex mutates slowly.
The conversation grows wild, with Alex talking in tongues.
Alex is left alone.

ERIC

Seven different suits, all the same. The boss makes 12 times more money than he does, which doesn’t bother him really. It’s just sick how much money they make.  Eric doesn’t care about money, though. He wears gym shorts at home, never leaves the bedroom, doesn’t spend. He doesn’t dislike work, really.  It’s just so long each day, and he isn’t exactly close to Wall St. either. He read a book that taught him how to make enough money so that he could work from home 3 days a week – that’s it. He hasn’t quite figured it all out. The markets plunged, but the analysts at his company are feeling good. Sometimes he goes to the sensory deprivation tank in Chelsea with the other men, to float in saltwater and forget his body, to lose time.

MATTHEW
Gaze swimming, eyes far apart under a skinny forehead.  He shifts uncomfortably in the spacious overalls.  Lies down on his back for a nap. Matthew can sleep endlessly if nothing wakes him, even on the hot baked ground. His tan is red but not a burn. It suits him, even in winter. Inside him there is quite a temper. You can tell because his arms stand straight at his sides, which only ever happens when his brother calls him “frog foot”.  Matthew thinks his feet are perfectly fine. Even Tracy said so.

DAVE
Born in Tennessee, went to New York once and loved the scene. Stays in Tennessee though, building up an underground following.  Dave feels big in a small town. Puts on a tight black shirt, leather pants, metal boots. Caresses his new guitar. He licks it. Dave once beat a man with his electric guitar. Spent 5 years in prison.

VIKTOR
Viktor lives in his studio. He wants to be famous.  Sure, he knows how to party, but he does it for the fame.  Everybody likes Viktor. We want to be his friend because we think maybe he has it in him – something, anyway. He looks the part too – blonde, a steady walk, boots and jacket from Germany. You’ve seen his parents, I’m sure.  Both are still stars on the big screen. They didn’t push him into this
business though.  The city did it. What else is there in LA?

AUDREY
Audrey claims she likes to eat her vegetables – always did.  She says she likes to wash the dishes. She even claims her homework is “really quite intriguing”. The truth is, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She just gets by on that pretty smile. Even I can’t resist it.

JERRY
Jerry won’t tell anyone about the tens of thousands of dollars he spends on laser hair removal. The truth is, no one’s even seen him without a suit and tie, and if anyone did he’d say he was born 100% hairless, just a freak of nature like that.  Jerry destroyed photos of his hairy past, he goes back to the dermatologist out of compulsion, knowing he’ll always be a freak. The dermatologist suggested he
see a shrink.

MIRANDA
Her parents love to squeeze her cheeks. She blinks. Her older brother can walk and talk. She can sit up sometimes, but he’ll push her down if she does. She blinks.  Her cousins wake her up to play with her. If their mother’s around she won’t let them. She blinks. She didn’t get fed tonight. She blinks. Her brother wakes up crying. She blinks. Her parents put her in a frilly dress.

ZACK
Zack throws his baloney sandwich on the sidewalk.  The fucking birds can eat it. He wipes the grease on his shiny black hair. There’s nothing to do in New York.

November 2009 - Comments Off

I Remember Flying

Alida Salins '09

All I can really remember is the lifting feeling in my chest, like in the moment when mountains are suddenly visible through a break in the trees. Of course, this happened before mountains, when all I knew was long driveways and sticky maple seeds and my brother. The two of us, we would have competitions jumping off his bed. He was older by four years, still is, I suppose, and my parents could afford only one box spring. While he was at school, a dull ache accumulating in his limbs, I would sneak into his room and practice. Our parents shuffling around the kitchen: my small-boned mother mildly worried about germs or wrinkles or Russian literature, my father planning Sunday’s sermon, or just mildly contemplating dust motes in a stream of sunlight. They would never suspect. One day I jumped off, soared, and very nearly landed. Instead I kept going forward, not down, as if I’d snagged my ribs on some laundry line in the air. It pulled me around the corner all the way to the door before I dropped with a start at sounds from downstairs. I felt a little like Jesus. I was pretty sure that with his soft eyes and open palms, Jesus had done similar things. Or maybe Wiley Coyote. My points of reference were not that extensive. I always label this memory as true when I file it away, yet in it I am never the small and suspicious 5-year-old that I was. In my mind it’s always present me, or me in my awkward adolescence, when my brother was absent from school more often than not; a period of time particularly noted for the night when my father had to take an axe to that same door, so now the new one opens out, instead of in. I’d told Mama about flying on the first day of kindergarten while waiting for the bus. I remember it in English but I know we didn’t speak English at home. Mama laughed. Or maybe cried. She had beautiful children full of picturesque ideas. She brimmed with feelings like love or pride. I told Andrejs about it years later, when we had finally become not only siblings but almost friends.

He just squinted his grey eyes and nodded. It was like there was something about the impossible that echoed, something that made staring at the cracks in the walls of his apartment look a little less like the years he spent watching paint chip off the walls of fancy places like Sagamore Children’s Psychiatric Center. Something that made the ever-present past a little more distant. It was like how we used to trick our dear parents by pretending I was being strangled, feet dangling in the air, my hands safely grasped onto his forearms. It wasn’t really happening, but it could be, and if you twisted around just a little, sometimes it was.

November 2009 - Comments Off

House for Carlo Scarpa

Kyle Schroeder '09

Kyle Schroeder '09: House for Carlo Scarpa: Drawing

Kyle Schroeder '09: House for Carlo Scarpa: Drawing

Kyle Schroeder '09: House for Carlo Scarpa: Perspective

Kyle Schroeder '09: House for Carlo Scarpa: Perspective

November 2009 - Comments Off

Untitled

Installation by Drew Gold '09

Drew Gold '09: Untitled, Installation

Drew Gold '09: Untitled, Installation

November 2009 - Comments Off

Untitled

Ian Dolton-Thornton '11

Ian Dolton-Thornton '11: Untitled, Installation

Ian Dolton-Thornton '11: Untitled, Installation

October 2009 - Comments Off

Untitled

Alex Sauser-Monnig '09

Alex Sauser-Monnig '09: Untitled, Drawing

Alex Sauser-Monnig '09: Untitled, Drawing

May 2009 - Comments Off

Storm Windows in CT

<a href="http://thesilo.bandcamp.com/track/storm-windows-in-ct-by-jackson-emmer"></a>
Jackson Emmer '09

May 2009 - Comments Off

Scaling the Walls

<a href="http://thesilo.bandcamp.com/track/scaling-the-walls-by-jonathan-grusauskas"></a>
Jonathan Grusauskas '09

May 2009 - Comments Off

Pillow Talk

<a href="http://thesilo.bandcamp.com/track/pillow-talk-by-sara-lewis"></a>
Sara Lewis '10

May 2009 - Comments Off

Peels

<a href="http://thesilo.bandcamp.com/track/peels-by-twigz"></a>
Twigz is Tom Greenberg '10

May 2009 - 1 comment.

No Wonder

<a href="http://thesilo.bandcamp.com/track/no-wonder-by-will-stratton"></a>
Will Stratton is Will Lulofs '09

May 2009 - Comments Off

Let the Birds

<a href="http://thesilo.bandcamp.com/track/let-the-birds-by-anastasia-clarke"></a>
Anastasia Clarke '10

May 2009 - Comments Off

Arabia

<a href="http://thesilo.bandcamp.com/track/arabia-by-roby-moulton"></a>
Roby Moulton '10

May 2009 - Comments Off

The Teeth

Elisa Bonesteel '11

[flv] http://silo.bennington.edu/videos/theteeth.flv[/flv]

May 2009 - Comments Off

Feel/Place

Emma Morehouse '09
[flv]http://silo.bennington.edu/videos/feel_place.flv[/flv]

May 2009 - Comments Off

Blackgold

Carlo Pilgrim '11

[flv]http://silo.bennington.edu/videos/blackgold.flv[/flv]

May 2009 - Comments Off

Funion Factory

Christie Goshe '09

[flv]http://silo.bennington.edu/videos/funionfactory.flv[/flv]

May 2009 - Comments Off

Farmlife

Christie Goshe '09

[flv]http://silo.bennington.edu/videos/farmlife.flv[/flv]