Author: Alex Winnick

This week the New England Literature Program (NELP) held its mass meeting. As a former NELP student, I wanted to commemorate this week, and encourage new students to apply to NELP, by writing about one of my most clear memories from my time spent in the woods. 

Mt. Chocorua looks and feels like it sounds: like someone took a bite out of its peak and left the remainder standing naked and incomplete against the surrounding hills. Rising only 3,500 feet in the air, Mt. Chocorua is truly menacing not due to its height, but because of its confusing and harsh trails, its jagged climb. It was too cold for an early May day, but my group and I faced the incline and the clouds with palpable eagerness for our first multi-day hike.

At the start of our ascent, I carried only the shelter of my hiking pack. Its contents were my only difference between unadulterated wilderness and a few comforts of the modern world, and I focused on this realization instead of memorizing Robert Frost’s Time Out, like I was supposed to be doing. As I began lining my feet with the trail, I mentally repacked my bag, chronicling its components– my portable refuge– with relief.

On the journey upwards, my shelter was my backpack. I occupied no space permanently and felt rooted only to my legs and my possessions. Then, as the sun began its descent, and the wind stung harder without the protection of its rays, we reached at 3,000 feet in the air our destination. As I turned, and looked up, I caught my first glimpse of a large cabin, an astonishing view and massive chains.

The Jim Liberty Cabin, as we soon discovered it is called, is secured onto the rocky face of Mt. Chocorua by two enormous metal chain-links, that stretch over the roof and firmly attach to the earth on either side. The chains– set in place because the structure formerly known as the Jim Liberty Cabin blew off the mountain in a vicious winter storm, and its replacement needed more reinforcement– each form a triangle with the ground.

With this knowledge, I approached the cabin entrance with trepidation and concern. I was thousands of feet higher than I usually am, had no means of technology and the only other humans within several dozen miles of me were my five co-hikers. The Jim Liberty Cabin, then, became the focal source of my comfort. Hiking is an exercise full of discomfort, so I desired a shelter that would allow me to relax my calves and lower back, escape the darkening chill and warm my feet. The Jim Liberty Cabin granted none of my dreams, leaving only the image of its nine wooden planks, latched to the walls in groups of three stacks, in three of the corners of the cabin’s only room, etched into my mind forever. When we closed the heavy wooden door, which terrifyingly locked solely from the outside, we found aggressive, deep scratch marks facing the inside of the cabin. We began searching for alternative emergency exits at once.

I spent my only night on Mt. Chocorua in a state of rest more than sleep. My body never adjusted to the harshness of my non-bed, and I was too distracted by the howling of the wind whipping around the roof to relax. Still, I was sheltered. I was surrounded by four sturdy walls, two rattling chains, and five snoring humans. I was not in any immediate danger, needed no medical attention or suffered no emotional damage. I was merely uncomfortable. The cabin, in all its horror, allowed me to safely occupy this once hazardous spot, away from the wind and the weather and the elements of night we miss while inside. It had no heat or pillows or outlets, but it provided basic structure and coverage, enough for six tired hikers to lie still for a few hours and wake to a vast sunrise. Slowly, we woke from light sleeps and stretched our eager legs. As we assembled our belongings, prepared to summit Mt. Chocorua for the first time, we reflected on Jim Liberty’s graciousness and gift. Our peers on the trip were scattered about the mountain sleeping in tents, and although my hips ached from their spot on my plank, I knew it was preferable to the harsh ground. A few hundred feet away, we turned back to our interim shelter. “To Jim Liberty!” we shouted, and began to climb.

I’ve always supported the idea of humor as an art. Even more so when that art has a point. What a commentary on our country’s current political and social climate that quote on quote fake news sources such as Jon Stewart’s “The Daily Show,” and Stephen Colbert’s “The Colbert Report” are actually offering up more accurate and intelligent sources of news than most of the cable networks are. Recently, John Oliver has joined the humor news world with his own show on HBO, a network that allows him a bit more freedom to critique and criticize the overall failures and incompetencies of our government. I want to share two segments of John Oliver’s “Last Week Tonight,” both of which provide sharp, nuanced looks into two problems that are rarely viewed in changing ways. The first regards the country’s mass incarceration system, a problem– as you know if you’ve read Michelle Alexander’s “The New Jim Crow”– that is so heinous and out of control it has both liberal democrats and conservative republicans scrambling together to find a solution. John Oliver hits all of the important facts in just over 15 minutes, all the while capturing the scope and enormity of the problem while also making hilarious jokes. This is a hard thing to do!! But perhaps, he figures, one way to get people to finally start paying attention to this problem is to make them laugh. Well, here you are:

The next segment is much shorter, but provides a hilarious situation in which John Oliver, frustrated by the lack of visible representation in many aired debates on climate change, brings in 97 climate change scientists to argue against 3 climate change skeptics, so as better to match the actual representation of the ratio between believers and non-believers. The way he builds up to this moment is also extremely funny and, again, provides a new perspective on the issue. Instead of asking Americans whether or not they believe in climate change, he argues, polls should test whether or not Americans are wrong about something that is certainly happening. One more to enjoy here!

A couple weeks ago I had the pleasure of seeing Eric Bogosian perform at the Helmut Stern auditorium in the UMMA. I must have been one of five or ten undergraduates in the whole audience, an unsurprising fact given that Bogosian’s period of relative fame peaked a decade or two ago. Still, I recognized his face on some posters and figured it might be worth a watch. How unsuspecting and unready I was.

Bogosian performed a series of monologues from his many years of writing and acting in a one-person Off-Broadway production. Over the past few years, he has enlisted his actor and actress friends to perform these monologues as well; each week they release a new video to the project’s website, and will continue until they hit one-hundred videos. The project, aptly titled, “100 Monologues” provides a vast array of characters, problems, situations and contexts with which the audience can grapple and seek to understand. Some of them are familiar (a frustratingly pleasant but unhelpful flight attendant at an airport, a detached and existential teen hitchhiking across the country) and some are not.

During the performance, Bogosian moved from character to character and scene to scene with unforgiving swiftness and elasticity. Although he sometimes offered his own commentary between sketches, I found it impossible to know if the thoughts were coming from Bogosian himself or yet another character. He proved his commitment to staying in character within the first three minutes of his performance; while taking us through the distorted and rancorous and extremely boisterous thoughts of a drunk man on the subway, he suddenly started yelling at an invisible woman taking photographs. For a moment I thought this must be part of the skit, until he began pointing and clearly moving off script. The photographer was in fact not invisible; she was real and standing just in front of the stage. While maintaining his voice and character, Bogosian (in no pleasant terms) instructed her to leave the auditorium. No questions, no hesitation, no return to the actor. Later on in the performance he made a few comments about the occurrence, apologizing slightly in an agitated tone, defending his right to perform without distraction.

This seemed to symbolize Bogosian’s stance on his show. No mercy. He did not try to spare us from the socially ugly characters he decided to bring into the room. He demonstrated a keen tendency to suspend all formality and to discuss any idea or scene, regardless of how crude or crass it may be. Indeed, one of his characters talked of nothing but the enormous size of his penis, and the ensuing sexual escapades he had experienced because of it. This is Bogosian’s wheelhouse; he moved from a coked-out drug dealer to a recovering male sex addict to an overworked law enforcer. They are not overtly attractive characters, far from it, and their harsh language and abrasive tones make for an uncomfortable viewing experience.

But perhaps this is where Bogosian’s brilliance lies. In each of these characters– people we would have no trouble writing off as deranged or ignorant or unsuccessful– is a degree of truth, a moment of wisdom. The hopelessly lost boy wandering in the woods pondering his karmic movement from human to acorn to lion sperm is not a reliable character, and yet the end of his speech sparks a profound thought. He attests, “It won’t matter that nobody will know where I am, because I’ll know, and that’s the most important thing.” If nothing else, Bogosian’s performance teaches us all to be a little more tolerant to the voices we’re accustomed to writing off as lunacy, and that in exploring the lives of people pushed out from conventional society, we can find brilliance in places we never thought possible.

http://100monologues.com/

Perhaps you’re like me: you find or are told to listen to a new song. You like the song and listen to more of the album. After a couple listens (which you don’t like so much because you find it hard to differentiate between tracks and remember which of your favorite bits and pieces belong in which songs) you decide conclusively that you are a fan. The next several listens are bliss; they last for a few weeks, stay in your mind through class and bus rides and long runs, and guide your thoughts and emotions. This music is the only thing you want to hear and it feels good and new each time you listen. Until, inevitably, you’ve outplayed your welcome. The songs no longer carry such enormous power and your grow tired, wanting, within the first thirty seconds of each song, even the best song, to change towards something new. A few days later, the album is finished. No more chills, no more appreciation, no more obsession.
Well, if you’re like me, there seems no other option than to continue searching for more albums, more new music, more chills. Here are a couple that served me extremely well this summer, and so far into fall.

The Head and the Heart’s “The Head and the Heart”

Chances are you’ve listened to this album before. Not sure how I missed its release in 2010, but I couldn’t be more thankful that I found it four years later. This is the ultimate sunny day music, full of pleasant harmonies and multiple voices and the feel-good kind of folksy rock you see in really good music trailers. (for more on good music from movie trailers, see here). My favorite aspect of The Head and the Heart is the various singers they have in the band, and the way they blend melodies and create different choruses.

Favorite Tracks: Down in the Valley, Rivers and Roads, Winter Song, Lost in my Mind

Mick Jenkins’ “The Water[s]

“Started from the bottom of the map, roll tide at the end of the wave.”

Words from Mick Jenkins, the 23 year old rapper from Chicago, on his recent mixtape The Water[s]. Jenkins was born in Alabama, and the “Roll Tide” reference reminds us that the city’s next great voice is not a native. Don’t be fooled, though. Jenkins’ project surfaces at the top of an incredibly long line of burgeoning music from Chicago. In my opinion it’s the best collection of tracks since Acid Rap, despite the two artist’s dissimilar styles. Jenkins plants an extended metaphor, comparing water to truth, in each song on the mixtape, working the theme until it becomes so visceral and real that I was shocked my laptop didn’t turn into a faucet and spray H20 in all directions. His lyricism is creative, bursting with social commentary and full of complex comparisons. He shares none of Chance’s pretty aesthetic, and instead relies on softer, powerful beats to lay the groundwork for his piercing voice and words. The production is incredible (some tracks from big names like Statik Selectah, Ongaud and Cam from JUSTICE League) and the overall effect of the mixtape is one of awe, deep thought and genuine admiration.

Favorite Tracks: Vibe, Jazz, Comfortable, Martyrs

Happy listening!

“Elegy”

by Aracelis Girmay

           What to do with this knowledge
           that our living is not guaranteed?

Like to draw? Have a few spare hours? Like children’s literature? I spent a while procrastinating and writing this little story, inspired by Ann Arbor’s trend of sunny mornings and cloudy afternoons. I’m leaving some blank lines to signify each new page, and each space for illustrations! Here’s to young activists and story-telling.

———–

Bring Back The Sun

Jeremiah was a boy who loved the sun.

When the sky was blue and slow-moving, and the clouds were small and thick, and the sun was strong, Jeremiah was happy.

He liked to dance on both feet in the sunshine, his tight braids bouncing on the top of his head.

Jeremiah lived in a city called Bloomville, and one of his favorite things to do on a Saturday morning was to run down the blocks, streaming past the maroon row houses and cobblestone sidewalks.

Jeremiah pretended that all the buildings were too hot in the sun, and so he ran past them with his arms outstretched, sending waves of cool air onto their blistering surfaces.

Whooooooooooooosh.

He sailed down the streets of black tar, cooling off rows and rows of houses.

In his mind, Jeremiah wore a cape, and the houses all thanked him for cooling them off.

But Jeremiah had a big problem. The mayor of Bloomville, who everyone liked very much, used to own a big car company. So she cancelled all the busses and painted over the bike lanes, and told everyone in Bloomville to buy a car.

And all the people of Bloomville listened to their mayor, because they liked her very much. So every morning, the people of Bloomville got up, ate their breakfast, brushed their teeth and gathered their things. Then, they got into their cars to start the day.

Citizens of Bloomville drove everywhere they went.

To school.                                      To volunteer.

To work.                                         To the bank.

To the library.                               To the park.

Jeremiah hated driving, because he preferred to run down the streets, his sneakers pounding the ground in freedom. But he had another reason for being mad at the cars.

Every morning started off sunny in Bloomville.

And Jeremiah was happy.

But then everyone started driving their cars. And their cars all let off big puffs of poisonous clouds.

By the time lunch rolled around everyday, Bloomfield was covered in a massive, never-ending gray cloud.

Every day was the same. Bright and sunny in the morning. Dark and cloudy in the afternoon.

Jeremiah hated it. He wished the sun would shine all day long, so he could play and dance and laugh with his friends in the afternoon, too.

One day he asked his mom, “What happens to the sun after lunch? How does it get back to the same spot every morning?”

His mom sighed. “You’ve never seen a sunset, Jeremiah.”

Jeremiah was confused. He couldn’t see why everyone had to drive around in their cars. “Why can’t we share?” he thought. “Why can’t we walk? Don’t people miss the sun?”

Then, Jeremiah had an idea. He ran to the Mayor’s office, which was on the main green of Bloomville. He ran up the big set of stairs and knocked on the door of the City Hall. To Jeremiah’s surprise, the Mayor opened up. “Hello there, young Jeremiah.” said Mayor Park. “What can I do for you?”

Jeremiah threw up his hands. “Mrs. Mayor, I’m tired of these clouds.” he said. “Everybody’s cars put toxins in the air and cover up the sun! It never shines past lunch!”

Mayor Park smiled down at him, but shook her head. “I’m sorry, Jeremiah. The people of Bloomville like driving cars, it’s good for them. Unless you can show me otherwise, that’s the way it’s going to be. You’ll get your sun in the morning.”

Jeremiah was not satisfied. In fact, he was downright angry. He didn’t think that one person should decide when the sun could shine. So he zoomed down the steps and ran to the playground and gathered his friends together. When he explained his idea, they all agreed to help.

Some went to the hardware store.

Some went to the library to use the printers.

Everyone else, including Jeremiah, went home to put on their  sneakers.

An hour later, they all met back at the playground. All of the runners took a stack of flyers and a bag of wooden keys. When they were finally ready, they devised a plan, and split up the city’s streets. Then they were off! They ran down the sidewalks, pausing at each house to distribute a poster and a fake key.

All afternoon they sped through the neighborhood. Jeremiah was fastest of all. Every time he rang a doorbell he convinced someone else to help bring back the sun. He was so busy he almost forgot to be sad about the gray clouds.

At 6pm, everyone went in front of the City Hall. They were exhausted, but proud of all their hard work. Jeremiah put a huge bin on the top of the steps. “Now we wait,” he said. Soon, Mayor Park walked out of the door with her things, ready to go home for the day. “What’s all this?” she asked the crowd. “Will you wait a few minutes with us and find out?” Jeremiah asked.

Just then, Mrs. Glen from down the road showed up. “I’d like to state my support for the ‘Bring Back the Sun'” campaign. I agree to drive less if the city provides busses.” And she dropped her wooden key in the bin, to symbolize how she would give up driving.

Mr. Howard appeared and came up next. “I’d be happy to ride my bike around if there was space on the streets for me.” He said, dropping his wooden key in the bin.

Steadily, citizens of Bloomville came to the city hall to drop off their keys. Mayor Park sat with Jeremiah and his friends, stunned by what she was seeing. “It appears I was wrong, Jeremiah. It looks like the people of Bloomville actually want to drive less.”

Over the next couple of weeks Mayor Park made a lot of changes in the city. She started five bus routes that catered to most of the people in Bloomville. She had bike lanes painted on all of the main streets. And she had her old company sell hybrid vehicles and bicycles. With fewer cars on the roads, Bloomville stopped getting cloudy in the afternoon. Week by week, the sunshine lasted further into the day.

One night, Jeremiah’s mom invited everyone who worked on the campaign over to their house for cake and ice cream. They all waited on the front porch. “Tonight is a very special night,” She said. “You are all about to see your very first sunset in Bloomville. And it’s all because of your hard work, reminding people to care for the environment.”

Jeremiah sat on the top step, surrounded by his friends and parents and neighbors. He gazed outwards at the fiery ball of light sinking lower and lower into the horizon, sending waves of pink and orange light back across the sky. For the first time he could ever remember, he had been happy for an entire day.