4. Bohemia - January 2012

January 2012waco’s art & literary journalbohemia

Also includingshort fiction& poetry by

Pete AbleAdam Amberg

Michael Alan GillLisa HathawayLisa Hathaway

Jasmine NkrumahDonna Walker-Nixon

Ari Young and more

Featuring:The Waco Arts Initiative

BoHo Beats: Beautiful Disturbance

Subdued Echoes: Kate Sterchi

Legacy Cafe and Art GalleryLegacy Cafe and Art Galleryand Vintage Valentine’s Day

Pin-Up Girls

2 • bohemia • January 2012

This is where we usually put the Letter from the Editor. I’m not The Editor, though I am an editor, in that my job is to make the writers’ lives more difficult: they send me their text-babies, lovingly crafted and arranged—I return them covered in red, with mean things written in the margins. I’m the Bad Cop. I love my job.

Amanda asked me to write the Letter for this issue, ostensibly because the magazine “should always feature different voices.” I think she needed more time to perform the vaguely nefarious rituals the visual team uses to transmute our tangled word-scrawls into a magazine. Whatever it is they do, it’s been working. I recently brought some copies to a family reunion; here’s the conversation we had:

“So? What do you guys think? I especially liked the way this writer—”

“Did you take these pictures, Eric?”

“No, I’m the managing editor. I do a lot of—”

“This layout is fantastic! What program do you guys use?”

“I don’t really know. I don’t do—”

“I absolutely LOVE the color contrast here!”

“... Thanks. I did all of it.”

So my family now thinks I produce this thing single-handedly—which is why I’d like to thank the following staff, who had absolutely nothing to do with the production of this magazine, for, you know, doing all that nothing:

Amanda Hixson, of course, is our Captain. People talk about someone wearing lots of hats. Amanda is made out of hats. She embodies hatness. This journal is her baby, and we are her swarming stepchildren. We feed and nourish it under her watchful gaze.

Our writing team is phenomenal. I’ve no idea how we managed to gather such talented wordsmiths, but we are blessed. Mandy Bray and Ari Young have each done more in the last month than I’ve done all year. And they can both do poetry, which is like some inscrutable heavenly language to me. Kayla Hawk turns in articles before we even ask for them; we’re storyboarding an issue, and she somehow knows what we want and already finished that article a week ago. She’s some sort of writer-shaman, I’m convinced. Whitney Van Laningham is our Swiss Army knife. She can do anything: fiction, journalism, modelling, promotion, delicious cupcakes. Any time there’s a tricky project, I call Whitney—and then I don’t even have to think about it again. Lisa Hathaway writes, draws, and pho-tographs; but most importantly, she’s my Wall. I throw all my half-cocked ideas at her, and we see what sticks. She has a hand in most everything we do.

As mentioned, I’ve no idea what our visual team does. They do picture things, with cameras. I understand that part. But then they do some sort of computer voodoo that prettifies everything and makes it a magazine. It is not my place to question such wondrous works. Josh Schnizer and Steven Ruud seem to be forming some sort of photography super-group-jam-band collective. It’s loud and kinda grunge; your parents wouldn’t like it. Lindsey Parker does a great (though unflattering) impression of me as a party trick. It’s upsetting. Her day job keeps her busy, but she still finds time to stalk bands for us. Cyndi Wheeler is behind most of our fashion shoots, and, I’m told, is something of a mother hen for our Bohemia girls.

Renny Quintero is everywhere, all at once. She’s our emergency artwork genie, and we don’t even have to call her anymore; we just turn on the Bat Signal, and she shows up to save the day. She’s the hero Gotham deserves. Kris Ann is our muse. Non Argubright is the ace up our sleeve. And any time we look even remotely presentable, it’s Amy Cook’s doing. Megan Barnett is our new Design Overlord. She’s fantastically talented; I hope she sticks around.

Jim McKeown is, himself, a team. He writes, he edits, he has important meetings with important people. I don’t know who these people are: shadowy magnates, magi of varying stripe, movers and shakers. Jim is, other than Amanda, our only truly indispensable staff member.

I should also thank our contributors, our friends and families, our many Bohemians, and of course our readers. Without you, we wouldn’t be able to make this thing. Also, nobody would read it. So thanks.

-Eric

presents

A fantastical coming-of-age tale that was the longest-running

musical on Broadway

Feb. 22-257:30 p.m.

Feb. 25-262 p.m.

Ball Performing Arts Centerat McLennan Community College

Tickets are $10-12 & go on sale Feb. 8.

MCC Box Office: 299-8200 or [email protected]

Enjoy an elegant eveningsupporting

the MCC Foundation

Thursday, Feb. 236 p.m. dinner

8 p.m. performance of Pippin

Tickets are $65

& available through Feb. 16.

299-8604

[email protected]

Letter from an editor

photos by Deena Richardson


Table of Contents

ColleaguesEditor In Chief

Amanda Hixson

Assitant EditorJim McKeown

____________________

Managing EditorEric Doyle

Assistant ManagerRenny Quintero

InternsJoshua Schnizer, Whitney Van Laningham

____________________

Lay-Out & Ad DesignMegan Barnett

____________________

Ad SalesMandy Bray

____________________

Writing TeamMandy Bray, Eric Doyle, Lisa Hathaway, Kayla Hawk, Jim

McKeown, Whitney Van Laningham (lead), Ari Young, Dominik Young

BlogMandy Bray, Lisa Hathaway, Jim McKeown, Autumn

Mercy, Meagan Smith, Ari Young, Dominik Young

Photography TeamKris Ann, Noelle Argubright, Lisa Hathaway, Lindsey Parker, Steven Ruud (lead), Josh Schnizer, Cynthia

Wheeler

IllustratorsNoelle Argubright, Joshua Schnizer, Renny Quintero

(lead)

Style Team Elyse Beggs, Amy Cook (lead), Serena Teakell

ContributorsArt

Stephanie Beard, Sharon Bernard, Jenna Foster, Jennifer Jefferis, Iris Lee, Talmage Minter, The Peace Artist, Taylor

Smith, Kate Sterchi, Scott Wright

PhotographyBen Gutmann, Deena Richardson, Erin Shephard

StoriesPete Able, Chad Conine, Michael Alan Gill, Erica

Photiades, Leonard Smithhart, Donna Walker-Nixon

PoetryAdam Amberg, Cynthia Barrios, Jennifer Jefferis,

Samantha Lenora, Jasmine Nkrumah, Cat Villarreal

Cover credit:Serena Teakell, photo by Steven Ruud

____________________

Bohemia: Waco’s Art & Literary Journal (Waco, TX)

Volume 2, Number 1 January, 2012

ISSN No. 2162-8653

Printed by Waco Printing Company

Contact Bohemia throughwww.bohemia-journal.comStaff Photos

Letter From An Editor

Waco Arts Initiative

Hope Chest

He & She

I’m A Failure

Miss Marie

Subdued Echos: Kate Sterchi

BoHo Threads: Winter in Salado

Vintage Valetine Pin-Ups

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06

09

10

12

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16

21

24

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Scott Wright at Croft Gallery

BoHo Beats: Beautiful Disturbance

Deferred Dreams

The Transfer

Love To See You Smile

Legacy Cafe and Art Gallery

The Birth of Waco Fork

Art Center Waco

Contributors

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30

33

36

38

40

42

44

46

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Those feeble mechanisms of defense

If you will but release them into my capable hands

I will transform them into magnificent fortresses of love

Your prickles & stony refusals

Do barely hold the wolves at bay

Often failing, thus leaving you prey

Allow me to rescue you, I pray

Love’s gigantic strength

Holds others not at arm’s length

But embraces them

Close to your heart but never a threat

For you have made your enemies friends

Inside the lights are out and everyone’s asleep.

I’ve come home late again. I’ve learned that absence

has a presence like chills in December

when the world turns from the sun. Silence sits

in his favorite armchair like a father lingering

for his prodigal’s return. Beneath my feet

the floorboard creaks like the bleating of sheep

and in the darkness still the sardonic muse awaits.

Trade”by Jennifer Jefferis

the dark houseby Adam Amberg

art b

y Ta

ylor

Sm

ith

photo by Steven Ruud


Waco Arts InitiativeBuilding 11 of the South Terrace

neighborhood in Waco, Texas, is alive with noise. A dozen or

so elementary school-aged children are crowded around two volunteers playing games, or scampering in and out of the open doorway. For the past three years, Waco Arts Initiative has been an artistic haven for local kids. Founded by Grace Ladd in 2008, WAI has expanded from an after-school arts program to a successful, non-profit fine arts learning center. Currently, there are three main art forms being taught at Waco Arts: vi-sual, musical, and theatrical. Each of those mediums is divided into differ-ent projects lead by the various vol-unteers in order to stimulate a child’s imagination, as well as their emotion-al growth and development.

The transformations that have been made to the program just in the last year have drasti-cally improved Waco Arts as an organization. New rules focusing on the idea of “respect” have been implemented to help the children understand the concept. Meredith Noles, one of the many volunteers at WAI, explains that,

“They don’t get a lot of respect at school, but through Waco Arts, we can empower them and show them that they’re worth something.” Originally, the program was started based on the need for these kids to be loved, cared for, and exposed to art classes that weren’t avail-able in their schools. It has since expanded into a series of sophisticated, intensive fine arts projects.

“Attendance used to be pretty spotty, but it has gotten better with the new pro-gram. Commitment has been our theme this year. Not only do the kids make a commit-ment, but the volunteers have a commitment

by Whitney Van Laningham

photos by Joshua Schnizer


as well,” Noles says. “This year, we went door to door. We had the kids and parents fill out forms to give consent to do art. The par-ent has to give their kid permission to take the classes, and also make a commitment to take them to the classes.” The new program at Waco Arts is designed to hold both par-ents and children accountable for their own attendance. It increases the parents’ involve-ment in their children’s lives and shows the children what it means to be responsible for a project. Overall, the program is succeeding. Test scores have increased for the chil-dren involved in WAI, and violence has decreased. “Fighting is a big deal in their schools and their environment. When they are challenged, it is easier to throw a fit. But they are beginning to catch on that there are different ways to handle difficul-ties,” says Noles.

The artwork that these children are doing is not your standard after-school arts-n’-crafts. They are working on projects in this program that most of us didn’t see until high school. Erica Wickett, the Friday art instructor, ex-

plains that, “[What’s] most empowering for the kids is that we’re trying to teach them ac-tual art skills this year that don’t undermine their intelligence or their abilities as artists. The fact that they’re building work shows that we know that they are responsible.” Each child involved in Waco Arts this year is working on several projects at a time. The kids involved in the theatre department are busy memorizing blocking and dialogue they will perform in an end-of-semester play. The musicians are working towards being able to perform a final concert at Common Grounds, and the art students are working on three main mediums of visual art: paint, sculpture, and photography.

There are no simple popsicle-stick picture frames or cotton ball collages anywhere in Building 11. Rather, there are thought-pro-voking paintings and life-size human sculp-tures made of clear, cellophane tape. Another volunteer, Haley Propes, is handing out dis-posable cameras to the older kids enlisted in the photography class. The environment of Waco Arts encourages the kids to take on

challenging, intricate projects to help them understand how real fine art is created. “We really wanted to give them kind of an idea about how artists work,” Propes explains.

“Fine art doesn’t take a day. It’s a process that you start and you leave and come back and you think about it and then you finish it. Or not. Some art isn’t finished.”

Waco Arts Initiative gives children in the South Terrace area the individual attention that they may not be receiv-ing at home or school. The lessons taught at Waco Arts are important, but not nearly as important as the underlying message that the kids receive from the volunteers: hope. “Art is important,” says Noles. “But more impor-tant than art is being able to see a future for yourself.” The dedicated volunteers at WAI have taken the concept of an after-school craft activity and transformed it into a mes-sage that will motivate their kids to succeed in life. Through the love and support given by the volunteers at Waco Arts, there is a fun, safe place in Waco for these children to call their own.


It was like the day we discovered the fire behind the hill

Was a signal tower

I would watch the red haze on cloudy nights,

A faintly pulsing halo alive beyond the trees, hot and blood-red.

It never goes away, I whispered, and you watched too

We ventured into the dark, finally, waving flashlights in tiny hands

Planless, boundless, magnificent

Expecting lava, a burning bush, an eternal flame to a forgotten god.

We found instead a bulb above our heads

Turning off and on in hideous eternity

Enraging the cold mist around us, flushing our faces unnaturally

When I found you with him, it was like that

Like the swift end of innocence

Like a damning blaze that never burned

I fly to her as she sits on a wireYet she flies to another

My heart grows heavy as I grow wearyI fear through all of the foggy haze

...that...

She fails to realize her wings have been clipped From her own destructive behaviour

I fear for her well being every nightHere I sit waiting on the wire for her return

...all night long...

As she makes her haphazard, wounded approach back to the wireAs she has done on many occasions

She finds her angelHanging upside down

...frozen lifeless...

Waiting for her return

Firelight

Birds On a Wireby Lisa Hathaway

by Cynthia Barrios

Sing me a lullaby

Serenade me with your voice

Let the music open my heart

Breathing in time with the beat

Passion is overpowering

We bask in its beauty

Erase all other thoughts

Nothing else matter when it’s you and me

passionby Cat Villarreal

Remember this night

When two truly became one

Following our hearts

And letting it all go

Keep these memories forever

Of two lovers

Breaking all the rules

Just to share such passion

art by The Peace Artist

painting by Jennifer Jefferis

photo by Lindsey Parker


The sick feeling in Amelia’s stomach is back. Though she is stubbornly a realist when considering her future, for a few

blessed minutes every morning, she suspends her sentence and indulges: this sickness could be the start of a new life for her.

On occasions when Ken forgets his work propos-als or his lunch, the jangling of his keys in the lock breaks the spell; forcing her to sit up, run to the bedroom for clothes, anything to make it look as though she has done something since getting up. Sometimes, she jumps in the shower, robe and all, holding her breath as her pj’s soak through with icy water, hiding from his impend-ing judgment.

It is a childish ritual; Amelia knows this. Ken never says anything about her quirks, and doesn’t demand much from her. As long as the house is acceptably clean (acceptable being a standard held over from his college days) and there is takeout ready when he arrives home from work, he does not question the content of the hours that separate their lives from each other. At thirty-seven years old, she has grown to appreciate this about him.

She tentatively places her hands on her stomach, keeping them still so she can sense any move-ment below. She closes her eyes. Nothing. Well, it would be too soon to tell, if it were true. Guessing how Ken will respond is like imagining an egg with feelings, so she just opens her eyes. Ken will have to accept it, either way. It comes so easily to him that she wonders if it’s really acceptance, or just expert detachment.

Their two years of married life have been genial, but consist mostly of the physical presence of a relationship: dirty dishes in the sink, two warm bodies in bed at night. The possible life -- hall-ways pounded by little feet and smudge marks on the windows -- only occupies fleeting space in their world. She never complains, and Ken never asks.

Ken’s job surrounds him with stories far more vivid than either of them could live, so she has become a good listener. Yesterday, it had been a self-help book centered on interior decorating as therapy.

“So the basic premise is that the brain supposedly perceives an emotion when it looks at a color. If the colors in a room are too bold, the brain at-taches overwhelming emotion to the color, thus drowning the person in angst. This is not an exaggeration.”

“Well, I can see how that might cause discomfort in someone.”

“Okay, then. Try this one on for size, Amelia: the author warns against painting the walls white be-

cause she says the brain can’t attach an emotion to it, thereby numbing sensory receptors.”

“That’s interesting. I thought white was supposed to be the color that went with every-thing. You know, neutral.”

“A normal person would think that. In our author’s es-teemed opinion, neutral is bad. Neutral symbolizes a detachment to one’s envi-ronment, and eventually, a disengagement with the human race.”Amelia glanced around the kitchen, painted a light taupe color. All of a sudden, the inoffensive nature of the room seemed to be the very thing wrong with it.

“So, do you think the book will sell?”Ken stops chewing and stares at her. “Are you joking?” He asked.Amelia had made a mistake. She was supposed to agree with Ken. She gave what she thought was a droll chuckle, “Of course I’m joking. It sounds like complete crap.”That night, when Ken was snoring softly be-side her, Amelia lay on her back, and wondered: what palette did the decorator recommend for perfection?Amelia remembers that she and Ken were on their fourth date, well into their second bottle of wine, when he told her about the baby. It happened in college, a party, some girl he forgot about. A three AM phone call to his dorm room changed all of this. Sitting bleary-eyed on the floor, his mind struggled to make sense of what he was hearing. Her story, fractured by a bad connection and cry-ing jags, went something like this: She didn’t expect him to care, just thought he should know. She had wanted to correct the mistake, make it go away. There were protestors there. They called her a whore and said she was going to hell. She recognized one of the protestors from her bible group back home. She had run from the place, terrified the girl would recognize her. Ken didn’t know what to say. He managed to mumble, “Are you okay?” “No, Ken, I’m not okay. I know you don’t care about me or this baby, but you might want to at some point.” Then she hung up.Ken sat on the floor, cradling the phone. When he finally worked up the nerve to call her back, he realized he didn’t know her name or her number. Amelia was intrigued by the sadness in his sto-ry. She was also mildly annoyed that she had

dressed up for an evening that wasn’t turning into anything.

“What happened after that?” She asked.

Ken gave her a look that she now knew was code for “that’s all there is”.

“That’s all there is.” He said. “I can’t even remem-ber what she looked like. For all I know she could have been some crazy chick who wanted to mess with someone and picked my name out of the directory.”

“So you think she was lying?” She could see how a woman might have a vendetta against him.

“No, that’s not what I’m saying at all. Don’t you listen?” His criticism stung her.

“My point is that it doesn’t matter whether it was real or not. That phone call has haunted me for the last fifteen years.”

“I understand that.”

“I don’t think you do, Amelia.”

Wine made Ken feel sorry for himself. She want-ed to feel sorry for him too. He looked cute when he was sad. But she couldn’t. He was being mean and it was quite a buzz kill.

“Ken, I’m sure it must have been difficult for you to go through. But, it’s been fifteen years and there’s been nothing. Why hold on to it? Do you want me to feel sorry for you?”

Ken looked as though she had just slapped him.

“What?” he said.

Amelia hadn’t expected him to look so shocked. She pressed him, anyway.

“How is your life any different than if you’d never known?”

Ken forcefully grasped his wine glass and downed its contents in front of her. He sat back on the couch and closed his eyes. He looked like he might cry, and she remembers thinking he was putting on quite a show. “A week after that phone call, I got a vasectomy.” He let the words hang in the air, as though challenging her to respond. When she didn’t, he said, “I know she was real. I couldn’t change it. So I made sure it would never happen again.” • Continued on page 39 •

Hope Chestphoto by Joshua Schnizer

by Erica Photiades


Photo by Ari Young

and she could feel the wind“It was a bitterly cold night

cutting throughher thin coat...”


He and SheIt was a bitterly cold night and she could feel the wind cutting through her thin coat as she walked through the dark streets, searching for the right door. He had said it was a red, unobtrusive door right next to a Starbucks on 5th Street, but all the street-lights on this side were out and she was hav-ing a hard time determining which of two doors it was. In the darkness, the color was hard to see, and of course he had chosen to meet at a bar so hip it didn’t even acquiesce to the societal norm of using a sign to adver-tise their establishment. If you were trendy, you would know where to go. She was ner-vous as hell, hands shaking not only from the cold, and she could feel herself bastard-izing him in her mind, simply for making her feel this way.

He was actually an amazing guy, from what she could tell, and had only chosen this bar due to being a short walk from his office. The possibility of him being perfect was what was wracking her nerves the most. After a month of extensive online discussion, she had built him up in her head to near soul-mate status and anything else would be unac-ceptable. She also had the fear that he would be too perfect, too handsome, too interesting, and upon seeing her in person, might sud-denly remember an early appointment he had to get to, and duck out unapologetically. Yes, she was a bit of an overanalytical fool when it came to love and had ruined every relationship she had been in.

Thus, after the most recent trainwreck, ending over a broken bottle of vodka and unfounded accusations of adultery, she had taken a sabbatical, seen a therapist and tried

to work through some of her trust issues. Six months later she was back on the market, thirty years old and finding herself in a dat-ing pool full of drunks, druggies, divorcees, and daddies. One night after a terrible blind date with a 23-year old metal band member who only wanted to borrow money, she had wandered online, glass of wine in hand, kit-ty in lap, and begun the tortuous process of sorting through a massive database of pro-files. She lived in a big city, and even after narrowing it down to her favorite interests (contemporary literature, chess, marketing, and yoga) had still ended up with two-hun-dred and seven matches to look through. An hour later, she was through a bottle of wine and just about to call it a night, sick of read-ing endless self-summaries of man-children whose relationship inadequacies were glar-ingly obvious. She had drunk just enough to ignore the fact that she, too, was probably in the same “instant reject” pile for some other lonely soul seeking love by the light of a computer screen.

Then she saw him. Brown hair, green eyes, polo shirt and pierced lip. Tax attorney by day, punk rocker by night. Scrabble afi-cionado and weekend snowboarder. A walk-ing paradox, just like her. She finally took a chance, sending her first and only message of the night, a generic blurb of an introduc-tion. But it was a start.

She woke up the next morning, headache intact. She chugged a bottle of water, ate some oat bran and checked her messages. He had replied. Thus started a virtual court-ship, which had lasted four weeks, leading to this night. It had grown quite intimate, as much as one could be with just a key-board to work with, and had progressed to

daily phone calls and text messages. He had wanted to meet sooner, the first weekend in fact, but she had found herself making up excuses. He was firmly on a pedestal and she was scared to see him topple. Finally, he had convinced her. It was time to meet and she knew if she put him off any further, he would move on. So she quelled her fears as best as she could, with a Jack Daniels and Coke, and her best lipstick. Now here she was, trembling on the street, like a sixteen year old on the way to her first dance. She felt like an idiot.

Which door was it? Who cared, a simpler soul would try them both, but using any excuse for delay, she had stood here way too long. She could feel her heart thrum-ming away and hoped, irrationally, that he wouldn’t hear it. She summoned all her in-ner strength, gritted her shaking hands into fists, and strode determinedly toward the first door. As she pushed it open, she could see that it indeed opened into a bar. It was the right door. She glanced around the room, seeing the usual bar clichés: two old men drinking beers and smoking, some frat boys playing pool, a few girls dancing woefully to the Lynyrd Skynyrd blasting out of the jukebox. And in the corner, a man.

As she walked toward him on weak knees, he looked up and saw her approaching. His green eyes met her blue ones through the dark smoky bar, and he smiled. The dissipa-tion of her nerves progressed in time with the widening of his mouth, and as she neared his table, a single thought popped into her head:

“I can do this.”

So she sat down and said hello.

by Ari Young


“You’re a failure,” she told me. My mouth dropped open in shock. It was something that I’d always known, but for some reason–one unknown to me–I still pos-sessed a paralyzing fear of becoming a failure.

“No, listen: YOU. ARE. A. FAILURE.” She emphasized every syllable with breathiness, kinesics and facial expressions. Her eyes got bigger with each pause and inflection, and when she finished informing me of this reality, they were as big as saucers.

Let me start at the beginning. It’s two in the morning on a Monday night–or a Tuesday morning, depending on your perspective. I’ve been dating–if you can even call it that–an at-

tractive high school student named Melissa Tindley for two weeks, but I just found out that she’s been two timing me. She’s got another boyfriend–a much taller, manlier version of myself, it seems. I’m devastated. I’ve been trying to find a woman for a long time, but it seems to me like they are all very dishonest. Beautiful, yes–but also dishonest. Now, I un-derstand that for someone seeing my situation from the outside, it seems like I am basing my idea of what women are like using only one source of research: Melissa. But believe me, I’ve been down this road a hundred times.

Back to the story. I’m devastated. When I found out that she had another boyfriend, I was ready to give up on women as a whole.

And that’s what I did. Tuesday at two in the morning, I, Michael David LaRoux, gave up on women.

“That’s an awfully big decision,” I told myself. “What’s this mean? Do I like guys now, or am I some weird, non-Catholic monk?” The ques-tions flooded my mind, making it difficult for me to sleep. What made it worse was that I was thirsty. By this time in my life, I’d found a place to live, but I was still too poor to pay for rent and a meal. So, I was hungry; hungry and thirsty. Lucky for me, I had 16 dollars in my pocket–enough to buy a meal at Travis’–the diner up the road–along with a cup of coffee. So, at 2 in the morning, I started walking down 9th street, towards the diner. When I walked

Failureby Michael Alan Gill

photo by Amanda Hixson


in the door, I heard a voice shout, “Hello! Welcome to Travis’! Sit anywhere you like!” There was no one in sight. It seemed like I was the only one there. I walked past a table with a plate full of uneaten food on it–a chicken fried steak platter, with eggs and a coke. I as-sumed there was someone in the bathroom or something and that I would soon see a friendly face. I was wrong. The entire time I was there, chicken fried steak smothered in delicious white gravy, eggs–sunny side up–were getting cold. It was a shame.

Finally I saw a face–a waitress–decked out in the typical Travis’ diner uniform: black polo, black slacks, black non-slip shoes. She had short, wiry blond hair, pale blue eyes and a sharp nose. She had amazing hips. No other human being in this earth has been blessed with such glorious hips as this women. Her teeth were pearly white and straight. Her cheeks were high. Her face, her body–every-thing about her was beautiful.

“Hi there,” she said. Even her voice was per-fect. “What can I get for you?”

“Coffee,” I responded.

“Will that be all, or do you need a minute to decide?”

“I’ll need a minute.”

As she walked away from the table, I tried desperately to convince myself that she was just another girl–that she would treat me with the same cold-heartedness that I’d always re-ceived at the hands of a pretty face. “C’mon, Michael. You’ve given up on women. You said you’ve stopped searching for love. Now stop, damn you. For christ’s sake, just stop.” I couldn’t stop. I hung on every word that came out of her mouth. With a dry mouth and sweaty hands I asked for a southern chicken salad with ranch dressing. She brought it out to me promptly. As she stood at my table and asked me if I needed anything else, I tried to think of something that I needed that would ensure that she would come back to me. “Peppers,” I responded. “Peppers and Tabasco.” She brought it out and watched as I picked the to-matoes out of my salad. “Y’know,” she said,

“you could’ve said you didn’t want tomatoes.” I looked up at her and paused, trying to think of a good excuse. “Oh, I guess I forgot to ask.”

By this time, a group of people walked in. It was a Monday, but they were still very, very drunk. Smelling violently of whiskey and beer, they sat down directly behind me. Two guys, two girls–each more wasted than the last. “I give up on giving up,” I thought to myself. The argument with my pride continued. “I can’t help it. This girl is amazing.” My pride answered back, “Michael, you’ve said five words to her. You don’t know if she’s amazing

or not. At least be careful. You’re a damned fool, LaRoux.” I knew my pride was right, so I heeded its wisdom–slightly. I was still going to try as hard as I could to woo this beautiful woman.

Behind me, I heard the two drunk guys yelling, quite loudly, “Kiss her.” They were talking to the other two women in their party. Both of these women were grossly unattractive, so I did not see what the fuss was about–it was for that reason that I kept my eyes on my plate and my coffee. Being that their party was larger, my waitress devoted her time specifically to them. I decided, while she was helping the other customers, to search for two things on her person: a ring and a name-tag. I searched for the ring to make sure she was available, I searched for the name-tag simply because I wanted to be able to address her on a more personal level than the rest of the restaurant. Finally she turned towards me and I saw her name in bold letters. “Taylor,” it read. It was a beautiful name. Taylor. Equally as beautiful was the lack of a ring on her finger.

Finally the drunken crowd left and I was left with Taylor to talk about life. I stayed for hours. Finally, at 4, I decided it was time to leave. “Well,” I told her, “I guess I’ll get my check.” I walked up to the register, trying to muster up the courage to ask her for her number. I warred within my-self. The romantic part of me felt an obligation to ask her for her number, but my pride con-tinuously reminded me of my feeble attempt to give up women. Still warring, I started to walk out the door. The door handle was cool on my finger tips. I didn’t want to leave the diner, but I felt I had to. I didn’t want to come off as more awkward than I already had. So I decided that I would leave the diner.

As I pushed the door open, I heard a voice from behind me say, “Hey, y’know, I’m here all by myself ’til 7 in the morning. You could be nice and just stay and talk to me.” “That settles it,” I thought. “I’m not going anywhere ’til sev-en.” Taylor and I talked for the entirety of her shift. At one point during the night, I jokingly asked her to run away with me–although, if she would’ve said yes, I would be writing this from a hut in Tahiti and not from a computer in the comfort of my own home. I discovered very quickly that she was very opinionated, yet brilliant. As she spoke, I fell in love. She seemed to be everything I wanted in a woman. At 7 in the morning, I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. I had to leave.

I felt a sharp pain in my chest, a tingling up my spine, and a numbness in my face. Again I felt a deep longing to ask her for her number. I felt like a child, arguing with myself; trying

desperately to overcome this paralyzing fear of an obviously wonderful woman. My heart pounded and my throat ached. But, finally, I did it. With a deceptively bold voice, I looked at her and said, “Taylor, I feel like you could be a really great friend to have. The conversa-tion has been great. So, even though I don’t normally do this, I was wondering if I could have your number.” “Yes,” she responded hastily, scribbling down ten digits on a piece of receipt paper. “Feel free to text or call if you want.” The joy I felt was unfathomed. I had her number. Now for the hard part: trying to convince her that we needed to date.

The process was easier than I thought it would be. Four days after I met her, I tried to con-vince her to let me kiss her. And I did. That devolved into deep conversation, which end-ed with her and I as a couple–the very thing I longed for. But now–now I’m looking into deep, blue eyes–as big as saucers, I believe I said–as she is telling me that I am a failure. Normally it would bother me–if anyone else would’ve told me that I was a failure, I would be devastated. But I knew it was for my own good. The whole conversation went like this:

“Michael, you’re a failure.”

I pulled away.

“No,” she responded, grabbing my blue flannel shirt, “come here and listen–you are a failure.”

My mouth dropped open. For some reason, I was shocked at hearing it. She continued.

“YOU ARE A FAILURE! But, baby, listen–I am too. We are both failures. Everyone is. Everyone fails. But I love you. I love you more than any person in the world. You are a failure. A failure whom I love.”

I had a ring. It wasn’t expensive or big in any way, but it would do. I knew I loved her, and I knew–and still know–that I wanted to be with her for the rest of my life. So I dropped to one knee and asked her if she would marry a fail-ure. Yes, it is a very cheesy story, but I felt an overwhelming need to share it. I am a failure. She is a failure. But we love one another.

And that’s perfect.


Miss MarieOne of my earliest memories is walking

with my mother as she pushed a stroller with my sister, Pat. Our destination was

the Kensington Branch of the Free Library of Philadelphia. In addition to reading to me in my earliest years, my mother took me on frequent visits to the local library. I can still see that im-age as though I stood across the street watching it unfold. Little did I know the impact the events of that day would have on my life.

In the summer between third and fourth grade, I joined the Summer Reading Club at the Kensington Branch. The goal was to read ten books and write ten book reports. One day, I was introduced to the children’s librarian, Marie Guertin, or Miss Marie as we called her. She had the softest voice and the gentlest smile. I credit Miss Marie with introducing me to a whole world of books outside the ones in my home. Many years of searching has enabled me to add copies of many of those books, which filled my summer, to my library.

Even when I went to high school, the branch was only one station before mine on the el, and I oc-casionally stopped off for a visit. Miss Marie al-ways welcomed me, and asked about what I was reading. She told me about some of the books she recommended to students those years.

Fast forward to about 1988. I was teaching a class on drama to a group of senior citizens at the Cottman Avenue Branch of the library. One day, I wandered into the children’s section, which was right next to my classroom. Seated at a desk was Miss Marie. I was stunned. Her hair was now white, but she still had that soft voice and smile. We chatted for a while about the old days, but alas, I had to get to the last class of the session. I did not get back to Cottman Avenue after that chance encounter.

My family still lives in Philly, so on every one of my frequent visits, I made a mental note to stop and see if Miss Marie still kept watch over the

children’s collection. I must have forgotten to press save, because I never made it there.

Fast forward again to June 2011. I resolved that this visit would include a trip to the branch to see if anyone knew anything about Miss Marie. I wandered through all the departments and asked the oldest librarians I saw if they remembered Miss Marie. None did. Finally, one of the chil-dren’s librarians remembered her, and to my sur-prise, she thought she was still alive and living home somewhere in or near Philadelphia. She promised to see if she could find out about her for me, so I left my cell number with a hope that I would hear from her.

A few weeks passed with no call, but every time the phone rang, I anxiously looked for a 215 area code. I began to fear the worst. But I kept up hope, and decided to write a letter to Miss Marie in the event I learned where she lived.

Dear Miss Marie:

The last time we talked was at the Cottman Avenue Branch of the Free Library of Philadelphia 20 some years ago. Not long after, I moved to Texas, and my visits home became rare and all too short. I wanted to stop so many times and see if you were still there, but somehow, I was never able to make it. In June of 2011, I stopped by and spoke with the head of the children’s department, Marianne Bucci. She remembered you. Apparently, you two share the same dentist, and she tried calling, but her friend was not in work that day. She promised to try and find out any news. I haven’t heard from her since I got home, so I thought I would write you a letter and send it to the branch in the hope it might reach you.

I want to thank you for what you did for me – helped me become the person, the reader, the teacher I am today. I would really be surprised if you remember the day I first came into the newly opened Kensington Branch at Front & Dauphin. The hundreds of colorful books struck me as the most wonderful things I had ever seen. I still love the smell and the presence of paper today

– no e-readers for me!

The summer I turned eight, I already loved books but had run out of things to read in my home. I marveled at the number of books which surrounded me that day -- thin ones, tall ones, short ones, and fat ones, with so many colors and pictures.

You took my hand and walked me to a table in the children’s section. We sat together, each in our own tiny, tiny chair. In a gentle voice I can still hear, you explained the rules of the vacation reading club. I don’t remember much else of what you said, because I felt as if I were in a dream.

by Jim McKeown photos by Cynthia Wheeler


I can honestly say, this was one of the most dif-ficult letters I ever had to write. I never sent it. I kept it in my brief case and pulled it out once in a while to change a word, a comma, or add a thought.

Over the Thanksgiving Holiday – always my fa-vorite time of year -- I was back in Philly. I set aside Friday morning for a trip to the Cottman Branch. Marianne Bucci clapped her hands when she saw me. “I am so glad you stopped by! I found her, but I lost your number, I am so very sorry I could not call you.” She gave me the name, address, and phone number of an assisted living facility a few miles outside Philadelphia.

Now, let’s rewind to the day before. At Thanksgiving dinner, I talked to my niece who was having a baby in a few months. She and her husband asked if we could drive up and visit

them the next day in Holland, Pennsylvania.

On Friday morning, as I stared down at the ad-dress from Mrs. Bucci, I could have sworn I had begun to hallucinate, because the home of Miss Marie was in Holland, Pennsylvania. I drove to my niece’s house and she gave me directions – about three-miles worth! – to the retirement home. This was Karma or fate or a most wonder-ful coincidence at work!

She had hardly changed at all. We visited for about 45 minutes. She told me the story of her life, we reminisced about the Kensington Branch and the summer days I spent reading. I confessed my crush, and she laughed and blushed in that sweet, sweet way I remembered.

The dinner bell rang, and I had to leave. I asked her if I could kiss her on the cheek, and she said,

“Sure.” I bent down and thanked her for making

me the reader and book lover I am today. Her eyes filled with tears, and she thanked me for go-ing to so much trouble to talk to her. I had a diffi-cult time holding back my own tears, and when I got out to my car, I could no longer help it. Home in Waco, I sent her some flowers.

Sometimes, people we meet -- in seemingly ran-dom encounters -- can have profound effects on our lives. Don’t forget to thank them. Write a letter, send a card, visit, tell them how know-ing them made your life better. I certainly had something to be thankful for this year during tur-key day! I found Miss Marie and thanked her personally.

I do remember many of the books you told me to read over the four or five years I was young enough to participate: The Great Wheel, The Adventures of a Brownie, and Mr. Popper’s Penguins. Walter Farley’s Black Stallion series was another favorite when you found out how much I loved horses. Black Beauty was also on that list.

You also led me to other animal books -- Carcajou, Big Red, The Wind in the Willows, and the most thrilling of all, Bring ‘em Back Alive by Frank Buck. On occasion, I still turn to these treasures five decades later. Do you remember my first science fiction book? Assignment in Space with RIP Foster by Blake Savage opened whole new worlds to me. Every once in a while I spend a lazy afternoon with “Rip” Foster.

Would you be surprised to know I have collected all these and more that I read those years? I bet not! As I recognize covers, titles, and characters, I add more books to my “childhood shelf.”

The biggest surprise came when you showed up at school that fall. I was so proud that you came all the way to my class to give me my certificate. I would give anything if even one of those red-bordered beauties had survived.

Well, I wanted to say thank you for instilling in me a love of reading, and books, and learning, and writing, and sharing with others my love of books. I get to do that every day in the class room.

I think of you often, Miss Marie. Please write to me if you can. Let me know how you are doing and where you are, so we can sit and have a cup of tea and talk about those wonderful, happy, peaceful days at the Kensington Branch.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, not only from me, but from all the countless children who sat at the little table and talked to you about books. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

--Jimmy

PS. If you haven’t already guessed, you were my first boyhood crush!


For Kate Sterchi, the art process is one of continually “becom-ing.” Complexity, struggle, and

emotion stretch out from the lines and layers of her paintings, seeping from color into color.

Sterchi’s goal is to create visual ex-periences for the viewer through her nonrepresentational pieces, as she phrases it, “environments in which the viewer can meditate and respond to that which awakens within.”

The Croft Art Gallery in downtown Waco displayed a 13-piece collec-tion of Sterchi’s work from October 7 – 28. The Croft Gallery was her first solo gallery exhibit aside from student exhibits at the Carleen Bright Arboretum and Martin Museum of Art. “The [Croft Exhibit] was very impor-tant growth-wise as an artist,” says Sterchi. “Creating a body of work out-side of the university challenged me to establish a work ethic, enabling the maturation of my work. The response from the show at the Croft was very encouraging.” The primary media for the exhibit was acrylic on canvas, al-though she also explores watercolor and oil.

A Dallas native, Sterchi first gravitated to-ward art as a Baylor student. “I have always liked to draw, but had never considered pur-suing art in college until I took a drawing class at Baylor my freshman year. Needless to say, I switched my major from undecided to BFA painting that same semester.” It took Sterchi several years to find her own style and form. “I did a lot of bad paintings!” she laughs.

“I started nonrepresentational art through ac-cident,” she admits. Sterchi encountered a

“magical moment” in her first painting class at Baylor where, frustrated by the work on the canvas, she continued to erase and paint layer upon layer over her existing work un-til something entirely different remained. The result was “Fallen Silence,” an acrylic on canvas piece featured at the Croft Art Gallery show. “The work more truly com-municated through color and form what I

was attempting to convey through imagery.” She began to further explore this process of building up washes of paint, creating her unique and beautiful layering style.

“I had to learn how to be still, to listen to the work and try and hear what it needs and not assert myself over it,” she explains. In her artist statement, she articulates this further:

“My work is created from the conscious ex-ploration of color and form as well as from the subconscious exercise of contemplation. Quieting my mind, I let my inward stillness direct my brush.”

Since graduating from Baylor in 2010, Sterchi lives in Waco with her husband and teaches art to middle and high schoolers at Live Oak Classical School, a local private institution. Sterchi enjoys teaching and continually learning alongside her students. Teaching only first and last period frees her up to paint during the day at her small

studio space above Croft Art Gallery. Sterchi also paints at home, especially with watercolor. “There is art every-where in my house!” she laughs. “I can’t separate Kate as an artist from Kate as a person. It’s all intertwined.”

The transition from student to artist has been a learning curve. “Waco is a safe place to learn the gallery pro-cess. With my professors are close by, I am able to meet with and ask them for advice.” says Sterchi. Part of the growing process for her includes mastering the business side of exhib-iting and marketing her art, her least favorite aspect.

Many of Sterchi’s paintings begin with an emotion of sorrow or frustra-tion over the limits of understanding. What remains in the end she calls a landscape of being, reminiscent of the process of allowing both know-ing and unknowing to exist together. Sterchi finds that the nonrepresenta-tional form suggests and celebrates the mystery of further understanding as coming from the embracing of the unknown.

Some of her influences include the prints and paintings of abstract impres-sionist Helen Frankenthaler, as well as the works and philosophies of Mark Rothko and Wassily Kandinsky.

With friends to help critique her work, Sterchi continues to produce new art as she reaches out beyond the collegiate environ-ment. “It takes me anywhere from a week to months to complete a painting. One of the things I’ve been learning is how to know when something is finished,” she says. She hopes to land more gallery exhibits in the future. Long-term, she might consider pur-suing her MFA and teaching art at the uni-versity level.

When asked how she measures her suc-cess, she doesn’t hesitate before answering,

“If my work is true, if my work reflects the process of surrender to the creative process, then I have succeeded.”

Subdued Echoes by Mandy Moench Bray

Photo by Joshua Schnizer


Abandoned and Revisited

Internal Veil

Of Limits1

2 34

5

Fallen Silence

Into the Desert

1

2

3

4

5



Photos by Joshua Schnizer


3112 Franklin Ave Waco, TX

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This month the BoHo girls visited Salado, TX for their fashion spread. Amy, Kris Ann, Serena, and Whitney posed amongst the Salado College ruins. Salado College operated from 1860 to 1885. A fire destroyed the building in 1901, 1902, and 1924. The community could not afford to rebuild after the third fire. The site is open to the public.

Salado is home to the Stagecoach Inn, the oldest continuously running hotel in Texas. Main Street of Salado is a lively marketplace with over 60 eclectic shops and artists galleries.

by Steven Ruud

BoHo threads: winter in salado

Bo

Ho

Photos by Steven Ruud


(something torn)

once hope seemed lost. wandering minds opened to the dis-carded dreams of a lost child of the night. one misstep caused a downpore of weak thoughts. the only solution would be to free fall into the dark abyss of neverending doubt. the idea of tomorrow’s promises fill the air, now, bringing a spark of light.

by Kris Ann

weakness.

hearts fall and rise beneath tired bones just hoping for the final discord,

but it never arrives when you expect.

nothing seems possible when the glass sits vacant;

only love hinders dispair.

by Kris Ann

My Heart is Breaking SilentlyMy heart is breaking silently

But no one else can tell

I only mourn the glorious heights

Of love from which we fell

It burdens me, unfelt, unseen

By others’ hearts or eyes

Because I paste my smile on

And stifle all the cries

by Jennifer Jefferis


How to love a GoddessI crave a life of passion, love and meaning

No mere existence of paltry insignificanceCan quench my desire or stoke the fire

I am the quest, the treasure, and the troveNot a simple convenience for you to behold

In search of my flame you shall traverse any planeJust for one touch ~ one taste

Your entire life you willingly lay to wasteAs you fight your way to the center of my core

Waves of lasting light and love till eternity adornI am the silence that wakes you in the dead of nightReminding you to be

I am the truth that rings clear in your soulDriving you to openly see

I am your goddess

by Samantha Lenora


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26 • bohemia • January 2012 Photography by Lone Star Pin-up • Custom Wardrobe by Sew She Said • Hair and Makeup by Josephine Love



Scott Wright is a hoarder – of sorts. Not the kind with empty pizza boxes and fast food wrappers;

rather, he tends more to the collection of buckets of bottle caps and cartons of keys. His works shout joy and fun.

Friday, December 2nd saw the opening of an exhibit by the Waco native. He did his undergraduate work at Baylor, and received an MFA from North Texas, in Denton, where he is now based. While studying for this degree, he fashioned a number of ordinary objects in clay. His instructor said, “Why not just use the objects themselves?”

Scott primarily works with collages and assemblages. “I have always been a maker and more of a craftsman. I love assembling things.” For example, one striking piece includes a collage of old text book pages with maps and drawings of Texas mounted on a board. He then has dozens of keys nailed to the board in neat, precisely measured rows. The work is then framed with a cut-out sil-houette of Texas, attached to the collage board to create a shadow box effect.

The keys vary from nearly new automo-bile keys to old, rusted house keys. “I had a locksmith look at the pieces, and he pointed out several styles of keys no longer made,” Scott says. The fun comes in the old pages and the variety of

keys, which provide the viewer with an unending source of amusement.

Scott once bought a box of old metal sign letters and arranged them on a background which resembles a plaster wall with crackling, giving the entire piece an antique finish. When asked about how he achieved the crackling ef-fect, he smiled with twinkling eyes, and said, “Artist’s secret.” He used the same effect in two other pieces involving met-al machine parts.

But the most interesting pieces of his work include a collection of pages from yearbooks of photos and profiles of

Texans who served in the armed forces during World War II. “Hundreds of these books were produced during the war. I have quite a few volumes with hundreds of pages each.”

Scott mounted the pages on a board and then added cutouts of the famous World War II pin-ups which decorated barracks walls and the noses of long-range bomb-ers. The scantily clad redheads, blondes, and brunettes add a colorful touch to the drab black and white photos.

Similar to the key piece, another “shad-ow-box” cut out of Texas frames a col-lection of rusted and smashed bottle

Scott Wright at Croft Art Galleryby Jim McKeown


For more information on current and up-coming shows, visit their website http://www.croftartgallery.com/home.html

A particularly intriguing part of the show involved a well-known fountain in Brussels, Belgium, which features a bronze figure of a young boy peeing into the water. Postcards with a wide variety of tourists and reactions are mounted on a board. One-third of each piece has a silhouette of the statue in various colors and patterns.

The most amusing piece in the show is a gigantic handlebar mustache, cut from cardboard and painted brown, which dominates the floor of the gallery. Sporting his own handlebar, Scott says,

“I am just having a lot of fun with this piece. Everybody that walks by laughs, or at least smiles.”

Joy, happiness, and fun are the hallmarks of this delightful show. Scott’s website is http://scottwrightart.com/#home

Hours for Croft Gallery, located at 712 Austin Avenue in Waco, are Monday-Friday 11am-5pm, and Saturdays 10am-4pm. The gallery will remain open late during special events. Please see artists’ pages for extended hours. All shows will open with a “First Friday” event featuring an artist talk, live music, and refreshments. The gallery will re-main open on First Friday’s until 9pm.

caps. Scott found a bucket of those at a flea market. “I did not know at the time what I would do with them, but I knew there was something in those little metal pieces.” Scott almost always sees the finished project when he begins working with these objects. When asked about how he comes up with these ideas for using his found objects, he said, “I really don’t know. It comes to me. I see the bottle caps lined up, and I decide what kind of mounting I want. I start to work on it, and it takes on a life of its own.”

Scott says that when people ask him, “What do you do?” and he replies, “I am an artist,” most automatically as-sume he is a painter. “I want people to understand that a whole world of art exists outside of traditional canvases and paper. Ordinary, everyday objects, which some people might simply throw into the trash, have a beauty. The right placement and mounting can bring out the vision I had, and then allow viewers to be drawn into the piece, and experi-ence it for themselves.”

While touring the show with Scott, a visitor pointed out words that could be spelled by tracing a line from one let-ter to adjoining letters. He laughed and said, “No one ever noticed that before!”

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The rock scene in Waco was bumped up a notch when Beautiful Disturbance burst forth with their

solid sound and fun, energetic sets. For the past two years, work, sweat, and tears have gone into their music and gigs, play-ing in town and on the road. Though there have been a few changes to the roster of rockers, the current members exemplify what makes Beautiful Disturbance the must see band whose motto is: “As long as we believe in each other and we’re here for each other, screw the world”.

The band is fronted by the amazing pipes of Brenda Flores. Singing since the age of eleven, she first started belting songs in church at the urging of the mu-sic director. She felt the stage calling her several years later, at fifteen, and sang and recorded whenever she could. In fact, performing as a solo act was the very be-

ginning of the idea that would spawn the band.

Shredding guitarist and supporting husband, Auggie, is the second original member of the band. After playing drums as a young boy, he swapped to the gui-tar at age nine and never looked back. During a hiatus from the music world, he supported Brenda in her endeavors, find-ing a love of music again and a hunger to form a band. He writes the lyrics for their cutting songs and stumps for the band as a manager for their bookings.

Maribel “Bella” Pevia—a childhood friend of Auggie’s--originally joined the band as a guitarist before switching to the bass at the first opportunity. Music was a huge part of her upbringing: she began playing the piano at five before she moved to the drums and then onto the bass. Soft-spoken but with a definite

spark, she started playing bass by acci-dent when the bass player of a church band she was singing with missed a per-formance. Having memorized the sound of the instrument, she stepped up and took the spot with her obvious talent—an aptitude that doesn’t escape those who see her in her element.

Holding down the beat for the ensem-ble is the band’s only non-native Wacoan, Chris Lane, who hales from Memphis, TN. Like Bella, he started out on the piano, playing for his piano teacher/mother. After ten years on classical piano and hand bells, he was given lessons on drums by a friend who needed a drum-mer for his metal band. The most recently added member, he set the stage for the newer sound of Beautiful Disturbance to develop via his harder style and skill.

Since the early summer of 2011, the

BoHo beats: Beautiful Disturbance

written by Kayla Hawk photography by Noelle Argubright


band has chopped their way through the months by playing gig after gig. Local venues of the aftermath include Beatnix and Treff’s. Some of their best times have been on the road during festivals where they had the chance to meet other bands and make lasting fans outside of Waco. Other favorite performances have been when the crowd blew the lid off the doors by enveloping the band in high levels of enthusiasm, especially those times they could play for their home crowd. When asked what sets them apart, Auggie said,

“Whenever we rehearse and we talk and we pray—that’s what we talk about all the time—how we’re out

there going with the intent of bring-ing something different that can re-ally help somebody out, that can re-ally penetrate to the soul.”

Their loyal fans have only added to this mission by giving their all at shows and letting them know how appreciative they are personally, often sharing their stories and their excitement about the band. Regardless of the venue, they have a craze for the intense lyrics and energy to match the melodies and hard riffs that accompany them.

To continue their passion, the band re-cently recorded an EP that will be out in

early 2012. The songs will be available anywhere fans can scoop them up. Their collective goal is to continue their tour of central Texas, adding as many venues in other cities as they can, and to get signed to a label. They agree that the goal has been “worldwide” from day one, and, with their faith and hard work, they plan on conquering that objective.

To get regular updates on their activities, like them on facebook at http://www.face-book.com/#!/BeautifulDisturbanceMusic or check out their schedule, music, vid-eos, and merchandise on their website: www.BeautifulDisturbanceamusic.com.


It’s funny how in a race that is claimed to be hated by others

We hate ourselves so often.

Black-the darkness seen as a curse

A mystery no one could ever solve

So instead, they involve whips chains…

Ropes that silently hang

Yellow- the blessed curse they would speak

Too dark for white; too light for black

Constantly bouncing in the grey area of our history

But when will we change our story

When will we realize that long hair

Is not always bought in sizes for a dark skinned woman

When will we realize that the light skinned girl

Dwells in the darkest of dark nights

Just to fight the ones she is suppose to call her brothers or her sisters

When will we realize that beauty is not just skin deep

The beauty that we all possess is compressed in our chest

Thumping multiple seconds each day

All because the women before us kept on pushing

When times kept refusing them to move forward

Beauty is in the veins; the same veins that we speak in vain for because

We feel that even after all we gained… it is still not enough

We must still try to find some bad in us

So we segregate to Black or Yellow.

BlackBy Jasmine Nkrumah

Yellow&

phot

o by

Jos

hua

Sch

nize

r


Snow covers the ground. Charla opens the curtains, peeks out, while Macy prances barefoot in the patterns of lace. “Come on,

Charla. It’s fun.” Charla’s mama tells her to put on her coat and stay inside. Macy’s mama says the same thing, but Macy never follows the rules.

Images of the past wove in and out of Charla’s mind as she clutched the rim of the toilet. Her stomach was ripping out of her insides like in that novel about a Roman emperor who had his wife’s stomach slashed open.

“Suzanne,” Charla’s husband Paul moaned from the bedroom. If she could vomit, she’d make it to work by 7:30 to count her drawer money, but she passed the hours until Paul got up.

“You look like shit. Sick again?” Blue, black circles had replaced her peaches and cream com-plexion when she got married two years ago. She wanted to crawl back in bed, but Paul said, “We can’t afford for you to miss work.”

When they got married, they made plans: he’d go to school, get a degree, and find a full-time job. Then, it would be her turn. Now, when he talked about possibly moving to Waco for law school, she felt lost in his shuffle. But he takes care of me, she told herself. He brought her orange juice every morning and night to make sure she stayed hydrated. It left her mouth tasting like a tin can, but she didn’t have the heart to tell him.

Before he left to take his final, she reminded him, “Macy’s home from TCU, and she wants me to go shopping with her tomorrow.”

“You know what I think of Macy.”

“She’s going to choose her wedding gown and she wants . . .”

“You to spend money we don’t have. Knowing Macy and Colter, they’ll back out.”

This time she planned to stand her ground. When

they graduated from high school, her English teacher said, “You ought to be a writer.” The ladies at the church nursery said she had a way with children and should become an elementary school teacher. When she started work at the sav-ings and loan, her supervisor said, “Charla, you ought to go to college and become a CPA.”

She deferred her dreams for Paul, who started out to be a pharmacist like his grandfather on his mother’s side, but he made poor grades in chemistry, so he changed to business. But Charla thought he still liked chemistry since just last week she caught him reading a library book on organic chemistry and the effects of poison on lab animals.

“Macy and Colter won’t back out. They’ve been together since second grade.” Through good times and bad, people called Macy and Colter the perfect couple. Not like Paul and Charla, who started dating their senior year after he broke up with his first girlfriend, before he and his family moved to Lindsey. People were surprised when they got married the summer of high school grad-uation. Macy teased, “Everybody says you’re pregnant. Are you?”

“Heavens no, Daddy would die of a broken heart.”

Paul raced out the door while Charla held her scrambled stomach. Maybe I should call Macy, she told herself, but decided to wait. As she walked the half block to the savings and loan, her stomach felt like a basketball being shot from the free throw line. Just before noon, she acciden-tally closed her cash drawer on her right index finger. The zest of the pain shot up her wrist. Her supervisor told her to take the rest of the day off. He drove her home, and Charla felt herself am-bling without control into the flower bed. Paul didn’t get home until after midnight. And again, she hugged the toilet most of the night.

“Drink your orange juice.” Paul reminded her

about leaving work early, and she told herself he loved her more than all the stars in the deep blue sky. He said he’d study at the library most of the day with his group, and he even smiled. “I don’t think you should make this trip to Waco. They’ll understand.”

Charla wanted to disagree, but cymbals clanged in her head. She couldn’t lift her leg to move from the bed to the floor, and she pulled the covers over her head to screen herself from the piercing daylight. “You’re my best girl,” he said.

“Stay home. Take care of yourself.” Because of his repeated mantra, again she told herself he cared, he’d love her forever.

“I’ll stay home,” she whispered.

He asked for Macy’s phone number. Charla couldn’t remember whether the one came before or after the two, whether there was a three or a five at the end. Her mind slurred the words. She slid her hands between the covers because of the cold.

By that time, Macy had parked her old VW in the driveway. She honked, but Charla couldn’t rouse herself from under the covers. “I’ll take care of this,” Paul said.

“No. I. Want. To. See. Them.” Each word form-ing its own sentence.

“You’re in no condition,” he said.

“But,” she answered. Her voice firmer than she realized as she told Paul to help her make it to the tattered velvet couch with the afghan that she knitted in high school pulled high around her shoulders.

Macy knocked on the screen door. Paul caught his foot on the afghan, kicked at it like he would a puppy that got in his way while Charla tried to muster a smile that failed to materialize.

“You aren’t ready?” Macy asked. “This is the

deferred dreams

by Donna Walker-Nixonphotos by Ben Gutmann


only weekend I’ll be able to go until after finals.”

“She can’t make the trip,” Paul answered for Charla. “Got the virus that’s going around. You know how it is.” Paul sat at the kitchen table, fumbled with his management book, opened it to a page, didn’t exactly look at it, but didn’t look at Charla either.

“I wanted to go, but . . .” Charla hugged the af-ghan and shivered. “Paul, you’ve got your study group,” Charla reminded him.

“It can wait,” he said. “For my best girl.”

Macy sat down on the couch next to Charla. Her mother nodded and noted that Charla needed to be in bed, not up entertaining company. Paul agreed and pointed toward the door, but Charla said, “No, I haven’t seen Macy in ages.”

Macy added, “Girl, more like a century.”

“A month of Sundays,” Charla said. They laughed together, and Charla made a joke about trying to beat each other’s trite metaphors.

“Girl, you won, as always.”

With that, Paul mumbled, “I don’t get it.” He sat down at the kitchen table and said he’d call his buds to postpone the study group, but Charla didn’t want him to make that call. She fumbled for words. Like looking through a snowstorm in one of those controlled universes, she told him,

“No. You go. I’ve got company.” She didn’t

know where she found the words, but they rang firmly enough for him to mutter that he’d go, but he’d be back soon.

“You take care of my girl,” he threatened Macy.

Even Macy now knew they would not make the trip to Waco as her mother pulled the afghan up around Charla’s shoulders and said, “We can make this trip when you feel better.” Charla wanted to tell Mrs. Tolbert all the things she couldn’t tell her own mama, who thought the woman should defer to the man. Once, Charla tried to tell her mother about Paul commanding her to go on the roof to check for damage from a hail storm. When she turned to come back down, she almost fell off the roof. She could have sworn he put the ladder by the chimney, but he said no, it was by the front garage door. “You’re such a klutz,” he said.

Charla began to fear for her life, but her Mama said, “You married him for better or worse.” She paused and added, “Your father often asks me to do things I’d rather not do, but the Bible sets the example for us to follow.” Charla wanted to tell Mrs. Tolbert about the ladder and about feeling sick all the time. Instead, Charla told herself it must be all in her head.

“I’ve never seen you this way,” Macy said, “Not even when we had to eat those concoctions that Mrs. Stokes created in the Allard’s Crossing lunchroom.”

Charla wished she could go back to elementary school now and eat a concoction that made every-body at school sick to their stomach. That could be explained; people could nod and say, “We all know that kids don’t like school cafeteria food.” But how do you tell people that you think your husband is killing you? They’d think Charla had an overactive imagination. She told herself she’d watched too much Perry Mason.

Charla wanted to laugh when Macy told more stories about Allard’s Crossing, depositing food in plastic milk containers to keep the teachers from knowing they had not eaten the limp spin-ach: Macy’s idea to protect Charla from Mrs. Larson who’d harp when Charla did not finish her full meal, “Why you have the appetite of a bird, Charla. I don’t know how you thrive.” Charla wanted to laugh at Macy’s imitation, but instead Charla smiled and tried to enjoy the company she seldom had. She enjoyed thinking about things aside from justifying her books at the end of the day and waiting for Paul to come home late from his study group.

“Remember how Old Lady Wilson wanted you to write, write, write. You were all set to go to Paris and live in a gutter apartment.”

“That’s an attic,” Charla corrected and almost laughed.

“Then you and Paul got together. I could never picture you with him, myself.” Charla pulled


the afghan up to the bottom of her chin, almost hiding her cheeks in the blue and orange fringe, and Macy commented, “To each their own. Now Colter Bob, he’s my kind of cowboy,” or some-thing like she always said when talking about the love of her life.

“Macy Lee Tolbert, quit carrying on like a love sick teenager. You’re about to get married in a few months, and I’ve raised you better than to carry on like this.”

“Oh, Mama, cut that out.”

They laughed together, and Charla couldn’t help thinking, Macy has everything: a chance to get an education, a loving fiancé, and a mother who knows when to take a joke and how to talk about serious things. Charla’s mama tried, but couldn’t help that she was just too old when she Charla came into this world.

“We all know all the things Charla could be doing now instead of taking care of HIM.”

Usually Mrs. Tolbert would remind Macy that she had no business interfering in other people’s affairs, but Mrs. Tolbert didn’t utter a word, and that hurt Charla most of all.

Never one to have a thought and not bring it into expression, Macy stared at an Escher print, and then commented, “This doesn’t look like you.”

“Paul bought that at an art sale at school.” Charla’s voice trailed off.

“I kind of like it,” Mrs. Tolbert said.

Macy, not letting up, added, “What’s this stair-case going nowhere supposed to mean?”

“Paul says,” Charla started but couldn’t finish her own thought.

“I don’t give a shit what he says.” Charla let go of her solid hold on the afghan, which slid down to her waist. Mrs. Tolbert didn’t correct Macy for her loose language like she normally would have. “Girl, you’ve lost weight. You look like one of those starving Biafrans we studied about in history class.”

“Paul will be home soon.” And by the way Macy and Mrs. Tolbert failed to look at each other and her, Charla knew they recognized the lie she had just told. “I’m fixing him a special dinner.” Charla tried to add something plausible to what she had just said, and they looked away. “Yeah, Colter Bob and I are going to Silver River tonight to kick up our heels and have a good time.”

“Dear, if you want to see a doctor, I can take you on Monday,” Mrs. Tolbert tried to say as Macy opened the screen door.

“I’ll be fine. Paul takes care of me,” Charla said while Macy and her mother walked toward the blue VW. Charla clutched her side with one hand and attempted to wave good-bye with the other. She wanted to call the library, but Paul didn’t like for her to disturb his studying, and she didn’t know which cubicle to tell them to check for him in. Once, a few months ago, she’d called when

he’d gone to the student center for a coke.

So she huddled on the couch, then crouched down low in the bed under the covers on a hot summer afternoon. She felt herself go limp. When he finally got home, she heaved and couldn’t breathe without hiccuping.

“You look,” he said, and Charla finished his sentence in an almost inaudible voice,

“Like shit.”

“No, but you look bad.” He reached out to her, and she grasped his hand and held it to her forehead. “It’s the bug,” he said again.

“I’ve never felt this bad in my whole life.” Knowing he’d say she’d read too many books, she waited for his reaction. He jerked his hand suddenly away, then re-turned it to her forehead before getting a thermometer.

“Macy’s mother told me she’d take me to the doctor on Monday.”

“I was reading in the paper the other day about this disease that they all got at the American Legion Convention a few years back making a comeback,” he fi-nally said.

Charla eyed him like a caged animal does its keeper, wanting him to hold her and call her his darling. Instead, he shook the thermometer, took her temperature three times, and announced her temperature peaked at 101 degrees. Finally he said, “You sure look sick. Maybe we should go to the hospital.”

She closed her fist around the tail of his t-shirt as he practically carried her to the car. She de-voured his face as he drove, looking for signs of tenderness and love like he promised her on their wedding day. He tapped the dash with his hand, listening to a Beatles song on his eight track. She reached over to pat his shoulder and then take his hand in hers. He begrudgingly placed it one her lap.

“You use tampons, don’t you?”

She nodded.

“I read the other day about a new disease. Toxic shock something-or-the-other, and you get it from using tampons.” He waited for her reac-tion, and she slid down in the seat and dropped his hand. “You have all the symptoms. Maybe you’d better tell the doctor. They don’t know to look for those things.”

She could barely keep her eyelids separate from each other when he stopped in front to the emer-gency room door. The nurses came to take care of her. He stayed until they finished examining her, then left, saying, “I can’t do you any good here.”

He promised to come tomorrow and bring her fa-vorite foods and the book she had started reading.

“This hospital stuff will kill you,” he said. “I take good care of my best girl.”

Star light, star bright. Charla drifted off to sleep, envisioning what life would have been if she had gone to college, gotten her degree, and never married Paul.

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She screams, furious at the frigid wind biting her rosy cheeks. Furious at the blanket wrapped around her small

frame for warmth. Furious at the fumbling attempts to shove her arms through the straps.

Furious at me.

The woman, girl, who gave Jo life shuffles through the dead grass, leaning on the strong arms of Miss Liza and by all counts, on the grace of God. I see her through the window. I hope she will look back. I pray she won’t.

The transfer, the last of several for the af-ternoon ceremony, lasts longer than my trial runs with the stuffed bear. It is the blanket, of course. I hadn’t counted on the blanket. The blanket makes everything more diffi-cult, but you can’t leave a two day old baby exposed to the elements. Not in February, anyway. Not on a day like today.

The first transfer required a signature. And a signature requires tears. They left the door open accidentally. We weren’t meant to see but we did. The pen landed on the paper and the tears landed on the oak desk just as we passed through the laundry room, and God help us we breathed a sigh of relief. How do I explain what happened? A transfer of ownership? A transfer of authority?

A transfer of love. They all were, really.

Jo fidgets in my arms. I want to be frustrat-ed, but I like that she fights. It makes me

smile. Roughly sixty seconds in my arms and already I feel inadequate as a father. But then it has to be this way. It is Jo’s way of reminding me who her real father is, and how he has orchestrated the afternoon’s pro-ceedings since her conception nine months ago – since the beginning of time.

Miss Liza and the girl who loves deeply reach the rickety staircase. Strips of white paint cling to the wood against the onslaught of a northwestern gust. It tosses Jo’s dark hair, thick and delightful for a newborn, and it lifts the blanket like a ghost before drop-ping it back down, exposing my daughter’s left leg. The final transfer beckons, but I breathe deep and remind myself that the hard part is over. Or so I want to believe.

How does one explain the link between love and grief?

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The young man who speaks at the ceremony gives his best effort, better than I could have imagined, and still it falls short of reality. His words feel light and easy, and the mo-ment feels heavy, complex. He quotes the good book and I remember long ago days as a child, fighting the chill on a wintry Sunday afternoon and finding relief in a pocket of golden sun warming the living room carpet. I look around the home before me, but all the shades are drawn.

Hanging on the wall above the girl who grieves is a painting of the storm-tossed sea.

On the shore stands an old man with his arm around his grandson. They look out upon the waters expectantly. I do not know this, for I cannot see their faces, but I believe it. The storm brings wind and rain and an end to dreams of sailing. They must tolerate the problems on land for a while longer, but the grandfather knows that Poseidon will not stay angry forever. Soon the gray will give way to blue, the cold wind will transform to warm breeze, and the sails will fill the empti-ness in their hearts.

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Jo thinks I’m a complete idiot. She’s prob-ably right. The straps are twisted and her blanket is bunched between her legs. This isn’t remotely close to loading a stuffed bear, and to make matters worse there is a camera recording every misstep.

“You mind turning that off for a second?”

Our well-intentioned friend obliges. I glance through the van window once again. Miss Liza opens the torn screen door for the girl of wonders and beckons her inside. The girl, the woman, hesitates. She looks at her hands, the same hands that two minutes prior held a tiny baby. They held her world, and then I took it from her. No, it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t like that at all.

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“It’s time,” Miss Liza says.

The Transferby Pete Able


She stands beside the woman with the pre-cious gift, steadying her with a reassuring hand. The woman cradles Joanna in her arms. Miss Liza nods toward me, her eyes urgent. I hesitate – will I have to wrestle the child away? She steps forward and extends her arms, placing Joanna in mine. I kiss the woman’s cheek.

“I love you. Thank you.”

It’s inadequate, but Miss Liza turns the woman who trusts away and they move to-ward the house. I am left holding her uni-verse. The picket fence surrounding the yard rattles in the wind, and distant trees on the horizon bow before us, acknowledging our feat. Clouds part and there is peace in the Texas sky. I turn my face toward it, soaking in those golden sunbeams of my childhood. The baby stirs. Another transfer completed, and one final transfer to come.

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Jo’s legs swing freely underneath her snow white placement dress. The blanket has re-lented and I focus on the task at hand. The buckle extends easily over her diaper but the straps are too tight. I can’t get her arms through. I’ll have to loosen them or risk standing here fiddling for another ten min-utes. I pick up Jo and look helpless.

“Do you need me to hold her?”

The woman I love whispers in my ear. I glance up at the house to see the right sneak-

er of a new mother pass into darkness. Now a new mother stands ready at my side.

“Please.”

I settle Jo into her arms, and for the brief-est moment I see myself holding hands with this woman, saying vows before God and man, walking down the long aisle and smil-ing at warm faces in the candlelight. Now I see a dark haired wonder in a yellow sun-dress twirling around my wife’s form, kick-ing leaves and laughing, knowing love and cherishing life. This is the final transfer, not some clumsy effort with child-safety equip-ment, but the radiant warmth of a new life passing from a mother, a father and again to a mother. It’s a transfer of dreams, and I am but a passenger.

The straps are loose. The new mother places Jo in the seat and I secure the latch. The shades of the maternity home are open, and behind them in the darkness I sense the careworn eyes of a young woman with the wetness of my lips still fresh on her cheek. She is crying again, but the tears flow from a well of peace. I do not know this, but I believe it.

I lean close and pull the blanket down so Jo’s arms can roam free. She opens her eyes, blue – blue like the evening summer sky, like the sea that carries an old man and his grandson sailing. I can feel the breeze. My heart is full.

Illustration by Renny Quintero


Love To See You Smile

by Leonard Smithhart

“I got my first warning of the day for telling my coworkers to call me Mr. Smithhart…”

Illustration by Renny Quintero


I got my first warning of the day for telling my coworkers to call me Mr. Smithhart. I feel entitled to that. I’m

twenty years older than my boss. Don’t call me Lenny.

After being let go from my other job for moral failures and a lack of integrity I came here. I’m glad it doesn’t take in-tegrity to fry something that is as close to pure ground beef as a boca burger.

“Lenny, speed up on the line. The drive-thru averages are pushing 2 minutes.”

My manager Steve is a jackass. He got on the fast track because he finished a semester of community college. He thinks he is cool because he gets to de-cide who has to clean the toilet.

“I’m sorry, sir, I was just trying to give the customers the quality they deserve from a visit to McD’s. By the way, Steve, could I get a break here? I need a smoke.”

“Smoke? Your application said you are a nonsmoker.”

“I am quitting, so I am a nonsmoker. I just need a smoke right now because constructing these meals, creating these moments of perfection, just like the commercials promise, is really stress-ing me out. There’s just a lot of pressure to cre-ate a meal that is sure to make you smile.”

“Whatever. You got five.”

I stepped outside the back door pulling the pack of cigs out of my pocket and popped the .38 special lighter out of my revolver belt buckle. I envision it’s a real gun. “Oh shit! Sorry Steve, it just went off in my hand.” In my mind, I can hear him screaming. I wouldn’t want to kill Steve; he isn’t that bad of a guy. I mean I would just give him a flesh wound, maybe a shoulder shot. My daydream ends and I head back inside.

I ash in a burger and send it down the

line. Bad people don’t come into McD’s; if they did I would put rat poison or something, maybe arsenic, in the special sauce.

“Smithhart, did you bring a cigarette in here?”

“Uhh … no, Theo, I must have just brought the smell in.”

“This Big Mac is smoking.”

“What?

“There is a cigarette between the buns. It is smoking.”

“You’re full of shit,” I say with conviction.

“Seriously man, there isn’t even a piece of meat.”

There’s never real meat anyway. What the hell does it matter? “All right, so I got bored.”

Theo’s dad made him get a job here when he turned 17. He has been here for nine months and has really excelled at the position. He has gotten two em-ployee-of-the-month awards since he started. He would have gotten three, set the Waco record, but he befriended me,

and well, his stock instantly dropped. Really a paragon of our current eco-nomic state.

“I am throwing this in the trash before we both get fired.”

I end my shift with a Big Mac, dreading coming back in nine short, short hours to work breakfast. I spend my morn-ing thinking of how many Mcwords can be created. It’s a beautiful McMorning. Steve doesn’t come in until noon. That’s a McMiracle. I decided to really get se-rious today about quitting smoking, so I packed my revolver belt buckle with nicotine gum. But just in case the shit hit the fan I slipped a couple cigarettes into my sock. I take a McShit before

clocking out for lunch. Steve is here early for the second shift.

“Lenny, you’re on the register after lunch.” I hate the register. I would rath-er dip my head in french-fry grease.

After a tasty #3 I am welcomed back by Steve, who hands me a red jacket.

“Management decided that your tattoo wasn’t good for business.” It’s a flam-ing skull being shot in the forehead by a Colt .45. “You have to wear this jacket whenever you run the register.”

“It’s 90 degrees in here!”

“Sorry, Lenny. Guns and skulls don’t make people smile.”

“Smoke? Your application said you are a nonsmoker…”

Amelia keeps the tests in her underwear drawer, a spot she knows Ken will never look. She calls it her hope chest. As she crouches over the toilet seat, she allows the white walls of the bathroom to numb her. The book might work after all. After three minutes, she looks. Yes, she thinks. Finally, yes.

What Amelia has never told Ken is that she has always wanted to be a mother. She should have told him it was her biggest dream that night. But she didn’t want to scare him off. Even though she knew he was selfish, she was thirty-five, and he kept calling. She was tired of waiting, so she said yes.

She still wonders if the story about the girl and his baby was really true, or if he was just trying to manipulate her. She still finds it hard to see him as vulnerable, or honest. She knows now that all his stories have a spin to them.

She gets up from the floor of the bathroom, and turns on the shower. The sensation of the water running down the curves of her body feels like an embrace. Though there is no noticeable change, she already feels like a mother. We’re all just se-crets wrapped in flesh.

She turns the water off, steps out of the shower and towels off. She’s decided to wait before tell-ing Ken. She’d like to stage one last experiment for him before she leaves. So she’ll wait. Wait and see who comes clean first. he might cry, and she remembers thinking he was putting on quite a show.

“A week after that phone call, I got a vasectomy.” He let the words hang in the air, as though chal-lenging her to respond. When she didn’t, he said,

“I know she was real. I couldn’t change it. So I made sure it would never happen again.”

• Continued on page 43 •

Hope Chest cont..


Downtown Waco has seen quite a few changes over the past year and one, in particular, has me excited.

Between 7th and 8th sits a warm, inviting café with hot coffee, the best French Vanilla Cappuccino this writer has ever had, and a budding menu of yummy food. Though the bar tables are comfortable, the television is flat and on constant stream, and the couches provide a homey feel, the most interesting part of the establishment hangs on the walls.

James LaFayette is the owner, biggest fan, and hardest promoter of the business that struck out of his love of art. Originally from New York, the charismatic and passionate LaFayette came to Waco a few years ago, hashing out a career in the corporate world of Pizza Hut and IHOP franchising. By his own admission, however, he “never had a desire for restaurants”.

But, driving up I-35 from Austin has a way of bringing about ideas, as he came up with the mission to meld his love of art with a coffee bar. And he would be different: his gallery would be diverse, reflecting “the different cultures of the artists and the com-munity”, something that “Waco hasn’t seen”. Bringing a few workers with him when he retired from IHOP, he renovated the current location completely and, this past August, the dream came to fruition.

While some of the pieces that cover the walls are from his personal collection, more artists are gaining spaces for their own work. He strives for people to think: “Wow, I could be on this wall someday.” And, those words are said with a conviction and a determina-tion to make them true. Unlike standard art galleries across the U.S., an artist merely has

to present a piece to James and he’ll make a space for it. His reasoning: “The public should determine what’s good or not, what fits or doesn’t.” Each month, artists are celebrated with a special wine and cheese reception, further instilling the communal atmosphere.

Involved in the local area, Legacy Café & Art Gallery hosts a VA program every week, has donated art to a school program, and al-lowed a group of children to make their own artwork to feature on the wall. In addition, the 10% commission the café takes from the selling of the paintings is strictly donated.

For the patronage, coffee is self-serve all day with pizza and sandwiches for lunch or dinner, although breakfast is also served. If you aren’t a fan of coffee, the wonderful staff would be more than happy to make a smoothie or a cold glass of Dr. Pepper—your choice. In the way of nightly enter-tainment, the Café offers “Jazz night” ev-ery Friday featuring talented local players and Saturdays are looking to feature some Open Mic Poetry. The atmosphere reflects the inclusive vibe given by the owner, who is genial enough to make a friend in every customer he comes across—no matter who you are or where you’re from, you’re among friends.

You can get alerts on upcoming news or hours of operation for the Café by liking their Facebook page or checking their web-site: www.legacycafeartgallery.com. Or, as many of us who have grown to love the Café have figured out: just stop in, say hello, and make yourself at home.

Legacy Café & Art GalleryBy Kayla Hawk

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photos by Joshua Schnizer

Taqueria Taqueria ZacatecasTaqueria ZacatecasTaqueria

Barbacoa, Al Pastor, Asada, Bistec, Carnitas, Chicken & Beef Fajita,& More!

2311 LaSalle, Waco254-753-1665

Open Sunday-Thursday9 am -11 pm

Friday & Saturday9 am-3:30am


We always ate lunch at Leal’s on Wednesday.

On Wednesday’s, as I sat in fourth pe-riod, I knew I would soon be savoring a burrito with meat, potatoes, cheese and guadalupe, which was what Cesar Leal and I called guacamole as a joke. Someone, sometime asked Cesar, in all sincerity, for guadalupe on his burrito. It’s funny when people call things by the wrong name, and so Cesar and I had this inside joke.

It was always kind of funny, just like we always ate at Leal’s on Wednesday. Of course, we often ate there on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays as well. These were the dying days of high school kids’ privilege of off-campus lunch. As such, I would pile in a car with Michael DuBois, the Dethlefsen twins, Eric Davis, Ramsey March, Tim and Cory Webb, Scott Toby, Greg Moss and various others. We would decide on the fly where to eat lunch — Uncle Dan’s, Captain Billy Whizzbang’s, there used to be a place called Snuffy’s. But we defaulted to Leal’s. If ever indecision loomed, we went to Leal’s.

We even discussed this trend in econom-ics class one day. Our teacher insisted that we loved to go to Leal’s because we wanted to see Cesar, because we could see the owner’s face and feel good about dining there. I found this idea laugh-able. I ate Leal’s burritos because they tasted awesome. I mean, heck — meat, potatoes cheese and guacamole? To this day those might as well be my four food groups (notice how they so closely align to the actual food groups). Not only that, you ordered at the counter, but they still served chips and salsa at the table like a real sit-down restaurant. Not only that, but it was also dirt cheap. Like less than five bucks for a burrito and drink and, as mentioned previously, chips and salsa.

I might have been 17, but I rec-ognized a good deal.People ask me where WacoFork came from and while I’ve never given this ac-tual answer to that question, I could. I loved those days of going for lunch with my pals. I believe there’s no better way to make and grow friendships than by breaking bread together.

Cory Webb is the brains behind WacoFork and his brother Tim helped us in the beginning to establish our da-tabase. I’ve been going to restaurants with those boys since before we were old enough to pronounce the word res-taurant. I’m serious. Our families met at church when Tim and I were 3 year-olds and Cory was 2. The Webbs and Conines would go to Kitok’s or Pepperoni’s Pizza or Health Camp or we would go for ice cream at Big Scoop. The day I received my driver’s license, the three of us went for a late-night Sonic run. I managed to get all catawampus in the drive thru and they laughed at me unmercifully. This happened a lot. Still does.

So when Cory, a web developer, and I, a journalist, searched out ways to com-bine our respective skills, we felt we had enough of a handle on the Waco dining scene to create a site like the one we’re in the process of sharing with the Waco community.

In a way, we were right.Leal’s, our favorite in our high school days, is still there. We still eat there to-gether and I still order a burrito with meat, potatoes, cheese and guadalupe. But Leal’s, and Captain Billy Whizzbang’s and Uncle Dan’s for that matter, were merely our places. The Mexican food and burger and barbecue joints in our neighborhood. That’s a huge part of the Waco restaurant scene. Depending on

the neighborhood, those places might as well be Beatnix and El Charro Tapatio and Tony DeMaria’s; Cupp’s and Vitek’s and Taqueria El Crucero; Griff’s and Rusty Star and Trevino’s.

But that’s also why we’re glad we creat-ed this thing, because “Where you wan-na eat?” shouldn’t just mean “Which of the three places that we always go should we go this time?”

WacoFork introduced me to three of my current favorite local restaurants (Cafe Homestead, El Crucero and Beatnix), it took me back to places I grew up going (Lone Star Tavern and Poppa Rollo’s) and stretched my palette to include the Puerto Rican cuisine served up at Cafe Viejo San Juan.

See, a town is more than people and busi-nesses and restaurants. This is our town because we live here now and these are the places we love to dine together.

So maybe that’s what I’ll tell people now when they ask “what is WacoFork?” It’s the 2011 internet equivalent of hopping in a truck with half of a dozen buddies and raising the question “Where you wanna eat?”

The Birth Of Waco Forkby Chad Conine

Illu

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Amelia keeps the tests in her underwear drawer, a spot she knows Ken will never look. She calls it her hope chest. As she crouches over the toilet seat, she allows the white walls of the bathroom to numb her. The book might work after all. After three minutes, she looks. Yes, she thinks. Finally, yes. What Amelia has never told Ken is that she has always wanted to be a mother. She should have told him it was her biggest dream that night. But she didn’t want to scare him off. Even though she knew he was selfish, she was thirty-five, and he kept calling. She was tired of waiting, so she said yes. She still wonders if the story about the girl and his baby was really true, or if he was just trying to manipulate her. She still finds it hard to see him as vulnerable, or honest. She knows now that all his stories have a spin to them.She gets up from the floor of the bathroom, and turns on the shower. The sensation of the water running down the curves of her body feels like an embrace. Though there is no noticeable change, she already feels like a mother. We’re all just se-crets wrapped in flesh.She turns the water off, steps out of the shower and towels off. She’s decided to wait before tell-ing Ken. She’d like to stage one last experiment for him before she leaves. So she’ll wait. Wait and see who comes clean first.

Hope Chest cont...


The Art Center Waco was originally formed in 1972 in a store front lo-cation on Franklin Avenue in down-

town Waco. Later, they renovated and moved to the William Cameron summer home, “Valley View,” on the McLennan Community College Campus.

This 1924 Mediterranean style house pro-vides a wonderful setting, not only for the art the museum houses, but also for the many educational activities and classes the center provides for the community. Mark Arnold, the executive director, notes “our mission is exclusively educational, and we are a museum. We belong to the Texas and American Associations of Museums. We maintain museum standards in all our exhibits and activities.”

ACW also partners with Waco I.S.D., and they provide a program for mentally chal-lenged students through Alta Vista. They also have a number of programs for senior citizens.

A recent collaboration with KWBU, the lo-cal NPR affiliate at 103.3 FM, resulted in an intriguing and eclectic exhibition. This

“Membership Invitational Art Exhibition” showcased forty works by Central Texas artists in a wide variety of genres and media.

This juried exhibit will award $2,000 in prizes. The first place winner will have

their artwork reproduced into a poster that each current and new mem-ber of ACW and KWBU will receive. In addition, ballots are available for a People’s Choice Award. The winner will receive a cash prize.

Mark says, “The purpose of this exhibit is to get people talking about art in general, and central Texas artists in particular.” He would like to make this event an annual affair. Of course, Mark and Joe Riley, the President and CEO of KWBU, hope to boost membership in both organizations.

This show also allows ACW to further its educational mission. “Students are able to view a variety of styles and media. We have works in oils, acrylics, and water colors.” The collection includes abstract pieces, portraits, nature scenes, land-scapes, and even a surreal piece or two.

One particularly intriguing piece by Sharon Bernard, is titled “Unraveling Memory”. Works stream from the head of a small figure, while a larger figure watches and words rain down around the piece. Another wonderful piece is the myth-filled 4 Jaguar by Iris Lee.

Iris draws on her Mayan ancestry for the work, which includes elements of the Central American jungles and traditional Mayan costumes.

Stephanie Beard’s vibrant “Live Wires”, is a colorful and vivid abstract work.

Realism is not neglected. Bill Austin’s portrait “Willie” brings the singer to life. Debra Duke captured a white egret in full flight in “Peal of Remembrance.”

Two large canvases dominate the show, however, Jenna Foster’s “Cling Trapped” hangs at the entrance to the show and pro-vides color, excitement, and movement, which draw the viewer in to the details of shading and brush strokes.

The second, “St. Francis on the Brazos” by Talmage Minter, evokes the history of Waco and the Hispanic influences all around the city.

This exhibit runs through February 5th, 2012. Winners will be announced at that time. Now in his 7th year as director, Mark says, “The support of the communi-ty for this exhibit has been overwhelming. We hope to capitalize on that enthusiasm, and get more people to sign on and sup-port ACW as well as KWBU.”

Upcoming events include an exhibit of the work of MCC instructor Jeremy Newton beginning February 17th. His installa-tions involve a “surprisingly unusual use of ordinary objects,” Mark says with a note of pride and anticipation for this ex-hibit. Jeremy works in ink, but he also uses objects such as pencil shavings and staples in his work.

With the 40th anniversary of ACW com-ing up next year, a special exhibit is be-ing planned. Work by an internationally known artist, whose identity is a closely guarded secret until the details of the show can be worked out, will be, in Mark’s words, “a spectacular show for the art fans of Central Texas. The ACW website is www.artcenterwaco.org

Art Center Wacoby Jim McKeown Photos by Lindsey Parker


4 Jaguar by Iris Lee

Cling Trapped by Jenna Foster

St. Frances on the Brazos by Talmage Minter

Live Wires by Stephanie Beard

Unraveling Memory by Sharon Bernard


PETE ABLE has been writing stories and po-etry of varying quality since college, or almost 20 years. His screenplays have been finalists with Scriptapalooza, PAGE International, and the New York Television Festival, among others. He lives in Woodway with his wife, Melissa, and daughters Joanna and Lila. He is currently the director of Financial and HR systems for Baylor University.

A. K. AMBERG moved to Waco six years ago and hasn’t looked back since. Born in Nashville and raised in Houston, he finds the quirkiness of Central Texas far more poetic than any of his pre-vious surroundings. He has published poems in both the UK and the US, including his own book of original poetry and prose, The Least of These.

KRIS ANN is a local native with a love of all things natural. She draws inspiration from Frida Kahlo and Vincent Van Gogh. Her one wish is to dress you with optimal class.

NOELLE ARGUBRIGHT, a native of the 254, hails from beautiful Lake Whitney, Texas. She re-turned from Georgia back in September after six years of Art Schoolin’ and Life Livin’. She paints, writes, and rides bikes. She’s lived on the road, in the forest, and in paradise. She can kill chickens. She welds, eats cow brains, speaks German, and knows way more about Southeastern Vernacular Masonry Tactics than anyone should know. She is pleased to find Waco surging with a Creative Culture poised to blow everybody’s mind.

MEGAN BARNETT was born and raised right here in Waco, TX. With a love for art and design, she could always be found with a pencil, paint-brush or a sketchbook in hand. Megan graduated

from Abilene Christian University in 2009 with a BFA in Graphic Design and jumped feet first into the design community. Since then she has designed advertising on a local and international level. Find more of Megan’s work and bio at www.justlikethatdesign.com.

CYNTHIA BARRIOS is a linguaphile who oc-casionally has problems listening to what you’re saying because she’s too busy trying to place your accent or thinking about a word you used five minutes ago. She enjoys being outside and dragging people outside to join her—because of this, she has played on many truly great play-grounds around the world. Cynthia entertains

her friends with her human tricks of juggling and excessive trivial knowledge, and her legendarily terrible dancing.

MANDY BRAY With a Creative Writing de-gree from Colorado College, Mandy is continu-ally seeking to discover exactly what one can do with a humanities degree. The second of four sis-ters, she was raised on football (soccer) and fine chocolate and coffee in Scotland and Germany before returning to the United States at age 17. Temporarily relinquishing her world traveling in Waco, she lives with her husband, Ross, and two labs, Aspen and Xena.

CHAD CONINE Chad’s voice and mugshot are recognizable in the Waco, Texas community as he spent most of the last decade covering col-lege, high school and community sports for the Waco Tribune-Herald. He honed his journalistic skills during the last 15 years in a sportswriting career that took him from his high school and community papers in the mid-1990s to detailed reporting while following teams on their roads to bowl games and state championships. Since leaving the Tribune-Herald in 2010, Chad has broadened his scope, writing for Golf.com while developing two books and maintaining an active voice in high school and college football in Texas. Chad earned a BA in journalism from Texas Tech University and continues to be more affected than he should be by the successes and failures of the Red Raider football program. He’s based in Waco, Texas, but is known to spend chunks of time in Austin, Dallas/Fort Worth, Lubbock and St. Andrews, Scotland.

ERIC DOYLE holds degrees in philosophy and medieval history -- neither of which seems to be very employable. He lives in Waco, has an un-natural hatred for pigeons, and washes dishes for a living.

MICHAEL ALAN GILL calls Waco his home. Born far from what most would consider humble beginnings, he have gone from living in great wealth, to being a homeless musician. He has al-ways had a passion for music, poetry, and writing. From a very young age he has been a bold person, unafraid to ask questions. To quote one of the most influential men in his life, John Locke, “I attribute the little I know to my not having been ashamed to ask for information, and to my rule of conversing with all descriptions of men on those topics that form their own peculiar professions and pursuits.” He’s taken this quote very person-ally for a long time, and made an effort to ask per-sonal questions to everyone he meets so that, in his interrogation, he may gain knowledge about the person that may produce a better respect for the person, as well as the alteration of one or many incorrect opinions.

BEN GUTMANN was born on March 13, 1991, born and raised in Dallas, Texas. His mother was a paralegal and quilter in her spare time. His fa-

ther was a print producer and painter. Ben feels he grew up in a creative household. His grand-father, in fact, was a professional photographer/ videographer and Ben can remember being in-trigued by his grandfather’s work his whole life. He says he had his first SLR camera at age 13, and it has become an obsession ever since. Ben thanks his parents profusely for exposing him to all forms art. Ben is a TSTC student.

LISA HATHAWAY is a photojournalist and musician. She loves to write poetry and sing. She collects guitars, writes poetry, owns her own home in Waco, and has two dogs, Katie and Cupid.

KAYLA HAWK is originally from Arkansas. She came to Waco to study at Baylor and hopes to get a degree in English Literature. She’s writ-ten poetry, short stories, and novels, starting at the age of 13. Currently, she’s working on two series novels, one for a pre-teen audience and the other for YA readers. She works for a local law firm and lives in Waco with her boyfriend and three dogs.

AMANDA HIXSON likes to make papers. And magazines. And diaries. And journals. And blogs. And websites. She attended Baylor, MCC, and The University of Texas at Arlington. She has a degree in education and is seeking an MA in creative writing. She has been published in the Baylor Lariat, The Stone Circle, The City Review, and Bohemia. She lives in Waco with her hus-band, PS3, and Nintendo Wii.

JIM MCKEOWN has an MA in Literature from Baylor University and an MFA in creative writing from National University. He teaches literature, creative writing, and composition at McLennan Community College. He lives in Waco with his wife, his son Chris, two cats, and their faithful lab, Marcy.

JASMINE ASHDEL NKRUMAH is a 21-year-old poet from Houston, Texas. Currently, she is a senior at Baylor University, pursuing her Bachelors of Sciences in Nutrition Sciences with chemistry minor and a Pre-Physician Assistant concentration. She is part of many organizations, including Zeta Phi Beta Sorority, Incorporated, the Academy of Leader Development and Civic Engagement Fellow Program, and she one of the founders of Diverse Verses Poetry Group. She has been writing poetry since the age of 12, but she really had a passion for at the age of 16, the age she was one of many female teenagers suf-fering with an eating disorder. “Poetry really shed light on the beauty of our imperfections.” Her other hobbies consist of singing, running, and cooking. Upon graduation, Jasmine plans to attend Health Professions School, pursuing a duo-master’s in Medical Science and Public Health. Her career goal is to use her knowledge of Nutrition Sciences and poetry to counsel boys and girls suffering with eating disorders.

Boho Contributors


LINDSEY PARKER was raised in China Spring and holds a B.A. in Public Relations (minor in Photography) from Texas State. She has lived in Tennessee, pitched against the Japanese Olympic softball team, and written oodles of journals that no one has ever read. She enjoys teaching her son life lessons via baseball and dancing in the kitch-en. Lindsey teaches at Bosqueville ISD. Her pho-tography tends to show depth and she especially looks for layers. “I try to capture those moments that go unnoticed; it’s like a game I have with life--and if I capture it, I win.”

THE PEACE ARTIST What can I do for Peace? The Peace Artist can run, and he can do art. His pilgrimage is one of faith. Faith in the good-ness of others and faith in love, art, and peace. His 10,000 mile journey around the continental United States is a trek for peace between nations, amongst people, and the often most difficult...in-ner peace. He runs until given shelter, and fasts until given food; he never asks. He takes no mon-ey, only art supplies. He gives away his artwork as a peace offering to those who will accept them. People are good. His only hope is that others will be encouraged and inspired by his example, and they will do what they can for peace. www.the-peaceartist.com

ERICA PHOTIADES is a transplant to Waco from Detroit, Michigan. Having never been to Texas, she moved to Waco last year to teach 6th grade orchestra. She tremendously enjoys the

absence of snow and abundance of 60+ degree days. She has played the violin for 22 years, and has picked up cello, bass, viola, percussion and guitar along the way. While her first love is teach-ing, she enjoys the creative challenge writing fic-tion and the physical challenge running around Cameron Park.

LAUREN “RENNY” QUINTERO is a local Wacoan, born and raised. She has never been too far away from Waco, nor has she once left the United States. Renny paints far too much in her free time, and dumps all her paintings to sell on her favorite Burger/Coffee joint, Beatnix. She also enjoys fiddling with Photoshop and dabbing in photography. She loves the Beatles and watch-es way too many cartoons. She often claims that random passers-by are her boyfriends/husbands.

DEENA MCKEOWN RICHARDSON lives in Lorena with her husband and their two kids. She’s been shooting photos for about 10 years. A native Texan, Deena typically focuses on Texas scenes — rodeos, football games, wild-flowers, windmills and beautiful sunsets. Her

favorite photography subject is people, espe-cially children. Deena prefers informal photo shoots that allow her to capture the everyday moments that make life special. Her goal is to make you feel like you were there when the photo was taken. To see more of Deena’s pho-tography, including some of her wedding and high school senior photos, visit her website at www.deenasphotos.com.

STEVE RUUD I was born the bastard son of a murderous drug fueled Hell’s Angel. My mamma tried, but between her trips to the asylum and my childhood spent following the Grateful Dead, I managed to develop what psychologists would later call a “mild personality disorder”. Oh, I for-got this is supposed to be serious. Ahem (audible sound of a throat being cleared)..”And now for something completely different!” I want to be stereotyped, I want to be classified.. I am an artist who uses photography as a way to communicate and make sense of this small part of the world. Buy a ticket and enjoy the ride! Balance Imaging

TAYLOR SMITH is a Waco native and 2010 Baylor graduate in Graphic Design. He was raised by a scrapbooker, which is reflected in a lot of his handmade collage work. His love of vintage culture and style also plays a big role in his art. Playing in a band (Loafers), and working at Domino’s Pizza in his spare time keeps him busy and productive. As of last week he is even starting a design company (Deuxtone) with long-time friend Tanner Freeman.

WHITNEY VAN LANINGHAM says that as a native to Los Angeles, California, the adjustment to Waco and Texas life in general has been quite an adventure. She is a Communication Specialist major with a minor in Creative Writing at Baylor University. She loves puppies, rock n’ roll, yoga, the 1920’s, and anything covered in teriyaki sauce.

My name is CATALINA VILLARREAL. I am 18 years old and currently a high school senior. I started writing poetry in 7th or 8th grade (back then it was terrible. I still have them!). Over that time I have had my ups and downs just like ev-eryone else. Luckily, I found an escape: music and poetry! I used my poetry like someone would tell a best friend their secrets. Most of my poems are about things that are relevant to something in my life. Although there are some of them that have absolutely no relevance to me whatsoever. Either way I love writing and I love sharing this Passion with others!

DONNA WALKER-NIXON currently serves as a lecturer in the Department of English at Baylor University. Before coming to Baylor, she was a full-professor at the University of Mary Hardin-Baylor, where she founded Windhover: A Journal of Christian Literature in 1996. She edited the journal until 2002 when she left teaching to pur-sue writing and editing full-time. During the time she was gainfully employed, she also co-edited

the New Texas series with James Ward Lee. And during the time she was not gainfully employed, she co-founded Langdon Review of the Arts in Texas, a yearly publication that spotlights artists, writers, musicians, and current happenings in the arts in Texas. She has published short stories in the journals descant, Concho River Review, and Echoes. Her work has also appeared in Red Boots and Attitude, Texas Short Stories I and II, and Writing on the Wind. Her husband Timothy Hobbs writes terrific vampire and literary fiction and has published in several venues.

CYNDI WHEELER is a Waco native and moth-er of two. She writes, paints, and does graphic

design. Her true love is photography. She has been a volunteer for Waco Center For Youth for four years.

ARI YOUNG was born and raised in Anchorage Alaska. She attended college at both Montana State University and University of Alaska Anchorage, receiving a bachelor’s degree in English literature from the latter. She has been all over the world, and her life’s goal is to go to every continent and every state. She recently de-cided to sell all of her stuff and move 5000 miles south to Texas. So far, she loves the weather, the people, and oh yes, the local beer.

LOVE GOOD

DESIGN?so do we!

JLTJUSTLIKETHAT

Design Studio

Here at Just Like That Design Studio we love quality design. From business cards, magazine layouts, and Christmas cards, to invitations, logos, ads and banners JLT can give you a personalized experience in marketing your next adventure.

www.JustLikeThatDesign.com

LOVE GOOD

DESIGN?so do we!

JLTJUSTLIKETHAT

Design Studio

Here at Just Like That Design Studio we love quality design. From business cards, magazine layouts, and Christmas cards, to invitations, logos, ads and banners JLT can give you a personalized experience in marketing your next adventure.

www.JustLikeThatDesign.com

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