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CULTURE CLASH

a venue for Galveston’s free thinkers

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GALVESTON COLLEGE

MAKE IT REAL!

REAL LIFE. REAL EXPERIENCES. REAL FUTURE.

Galveston College offers the education students are looking for, whether it’s a certificate, leisure learning or an associate degree that allows them to transfer to a four-year university or enter the workforce. It’s all right here in Galveston, affording students not only an economical approach to higher education, but an incomparable island lifestyle. Learn more at www.gc.edu. Life’s about to get real!

MYTH: IT’S NOT EASY TO TRANSFER TO A 4-YEAR UNIVERSITY

TRUTH: Community colleges were originally created to give students an affordable option of eventually obtaining a four-year degree. Therefore, there is a specific system set in place, designed to help students seamlessly transition

intimacy

In this issue of Culture Clash, writers and other artists offer to us a perspective on the subject of intimacy. Their letters, articles, songs, art, stories, poems are to be heard. You are heard. Isn’t that a phrase we wish for in every intimate relationship? Whether by your family, your partner, your business associate, your friend, your enemy, human beings want to be heard.

Culture Clash magazine provides Galveston with an open platform; a broadcasted invitation for all to be read, seen, and heard. Our Third Coast peeps volunteer their time for Culture Clash as editors, poets, artists and writers in order to promote and safeguard this “collaborative venue for Galveston locals” (www.cultureclashgalveston.com).

Within these pages, hear from writers Jessica Antonelli, Bee Cregar, Torrina Harris, Julian Jimenez, Chris Larabee-Johnson, Amalie Lopez, Dan Marks, Stephanie Mohan, and Tanner Price who offer perspectives on intimacy. Artists Joachim West and Samantha Wylie share their visual representations on intimacy. And though Juan Gonzales has written his three Culture Clash articles from behind prison bars, he is being heard. If his story speaks to you, legal support is needed (contact Culture Clash).

READ, ENJOY and PLEASE SHARE!

Write us an email or shoot us a comment any time online: CultureClashGalveston.com facebook.com/CultureClashMag CultureClashGalveston@gmail.com

Janese Maricelli-Thomasson Publisher

COVER ART, “Intimacy”: This issue’s cover was hand drawn by local artist Samantha Wylie. Samantha is a representational oil painter, and shares her skills as an art teacher at Satori Elementary School. For many years, Samantha has worked as an instructor for the Galveston Arts Center “Art for All” outreach program.

a humanbetter

Spend time with friends and family, feed your soul. Don’t have a lage friend group or family on the island? Come out to our Culture Clash Bash and meet the crew. We would LOVE to know YOU! NEXT EVENT NOV. 10TH AT SHRIMP N’ STUFF DOWNTOWN.

H Y G G E

The Art of Intimacy

By Stephanie Mohan

ON A GALVESTON MORNING, YOU MAY HAVE WOKEN UP TO FIND THE SKY DARK and cloudy with that unending drizzly fall rain. As the streets begin to puddle, you decide to cancel your early plans, grab your favorite book, light a candle, and sip a warm cup of your favorite coffee. And if the rain continues through the evening, instead of going out for dinner, you invite a close friend over to enjoy a hearty homemade meal, while you sit on the couch snuggled in fuzzy blankets, reminiscing about memories of the good ol’ days, or discussing current events. Those intimate moments of comfort, contentment, and companionship…that’s hygge.

Hygge, pronounced “HUE-gah”, is the Danish word to describe a feeling of coziness and comfort that generates a sense of well-being. It actually stems from the Old Norse word hugr, or hug, which means soul, or consciousness. Practicing hygge is an essential part of Danish culture, perhaps stemming from the need to survive the boredom of the cold dark winters they experience in the region. While it’s rare for us Galvestonians to experience the chilly winds of winter for very long, we can still benefit by incorporating hygge into our daily lives.

TIPS FOR PRACTICING HYGGE, AT HOME AND ON THE ISLAND:

• Turn off overhead lamps, and light your favorite candles

• Steep a pot of tea or recreate your favorite pumpkin spice latte at home

• Add a touch of sparkle to your home with string lights that twinkle

• Adorn your living room with fleece blankets, fluffy throw pillows, and encourage guests to get cozy, perhaps sitting on a pouf or floor pillow

• Put away cell phones, and turn off the TV

• Baking at home – bread, pie, cookies, cakes, homemade pizzas

• Comfort foods galore- casseroles, chili, soups, pie, mac & cheese, chocolate, etc.

• On a cool evening, enjoy your time outside with a backyard fire pit

• Take long walks on the beach at sunrise or sunset

• On a lazy afternoon, relax in a hammock with a cold drink

• Make homemade apple cider or mulled wine

• Visit your favorite ice cream shop, or candy store— hygge is about enjoying life’s little pleasures

• Take a bike ride down the seawall and soak up the salty air

• Host a casual potluck dinner party or wine & cheese night with close friends

• Visit Galveston’s Own Farmers Market and celebrate the seasons by trying new recipes featuring fruits and vegetables that are at their peak

• Meet your friends for a long and lazy Sunday brunch

• Break out the board games and pizza for a night of family fun

• Pack a picnic and head to the beach

• Take a stroll through Lafittes Cove Nature Preserve or High Island to go birdwatching

• Send handwritten letters and Christmas cards

• Open the curtains and shutters to let in natural light

• Plant a container garden, or buy fresh flowers to brighten up your home

Most of all, hygge is about mindfulness, community, coziness, pleasure, and peace.

Photo

SO CLOSE, YET SO FAR

By Julian Jimenez

IT’S ONE OF THE GREAT IRONIES OF OUR MODERN ERA THAT WE LIVE IN A WORLD THAT’S NEVER BEEN MORE CONNECTED, yet somehow it feels that we’ve all grown apart. In so many ways, the tangled confusion of our busy culture provides for our need for stimulation, convenience, and autonomy; but in doing so isolates in insidious ways. We text, not voice call; hang out at bars glued to phones. Most of us no longer live in large families or well-connected communities. Our differences are magnified, fomenting conflict, and anger and frustration only feed itself. Indeed, we have the luxury of living in isolation, and in doing so are beginning to lose something truly important: intimacy.

It’s only in recent decades that modern research has recognized how infants require touch and affection to grow properly; in its absence babies literally fail to thrive. They need physical and emotional sustenance to survive. What’s more difficult to remember is that need never disappears. Look at any child or teenager who’s raised in an environment without nurturing parents, and the risk for serious emotional problems skyrockets. In the context of modern culture, this means that on some level, the rising levels of violence, addiction, and depression are rooted in our inability to make meaningful connection through the confines of our commercialized existence. Intimacy denotes vulnerability, shared openness, and caring. Can that kind of connection truly be bridged through a notification or a pop-up?

Of course, intimacy and romance are intertwined in the collective consciousness. But to suggest that intimacy is firmly in the realm of love stories does a disservice to the kinds of experiences we’ve all had at some

point. Yes, there’s the intimacy of sitting at night, reading books together on the carpet, curled under lamplight with your partner as the rain patters softly outside. But there’s also the intimacy of a sharing a laugh with your high school buddies as you drink beers in the garage. Or the intimacy of your grandmother’s palm as she guides the ladle in your hand when you cook Thanksgiving dinner together. Of a mother’s first words to her newborn child, the belly-rubbing cuddles with your dog, the shared sadness of sitting with strangers at your best friend’s funeral. These are the kinds of memories to be relived, the ones you fold over and over in your mind until the feeling is sharper than the truth: though past and fleeting, the moments are still fresh and real and raw. The weight of that love cuts to your core like a katana, the sweetness of those slices of life sing to the soul. We all have these memories, and they help us feel more loved and less alone.

There’s another irony in this too, of course. Researchers in recent times have discovered there is a curvilinear

relationship between people’s fear of intimacy and the extent to which they desire it: that is, people who either reject intimacy or desire intimacy the most tend to express the greatest fear of it. To explain these findings, they posited that fear may stem either from anxiety regarding the intimacy itself, or lack the confidence/social skills to seek out and develop such relationships. That fear of vulnerability or being hurt is something that stops many people from making the kind of fulfilling connections that allow us to find true happiness.

We all have a responsibility to recognize this. Be more grateful for the touch of kindness that pushes someone to hold the door for you; reach out to others and know the intimacy of a warm hug or a smile can make a huge difference. We can all work to make our connections with others just a bit more meaningful. In doing so, we overcome the way our culture distances us to instead build the kind of communal intimacy we all need.

Illustration by JanMar Agency

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Self expression is essential. The ability to open your heart and your mind to the world doesn’t come easy to everyone. Regardless, the need to do so is real. We offer the outlet you may seek. Write us!

Eww,

Don’t Get Too Close!

By Bee Cregar AKA Miffy Mass Murder #999 Homicide

INTIMACY...THAT’S A SIMPLE YET VERY COMPLICATED WORD. AT FIRST GLANCE, YOU COULD SWEEP IT UNDER THE CARPET AS SEXUAL. ... AH, NOW I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION.

As the public, we are bombarded with all types of stimulation from about a bazillion different kinds of media, trying to unweave what is actually real and authentic. It’s enough to make your head spin, just in time for a little Exorcist, Halloween fun. Confusing what intimacy might truly mean, is no surprise.

I’m new to being an islander. I landed in March, hailing from California. Shush now my sha, I’m originally from Louisiana. Southern, born and bred. A few days ago, I attended a local ribbon cutting for a new business downtown. A small “intimate” space. What made it so cozy was the warmth with which I was greeted. Everyone I met seemed to want to hear what I had to say. Hugs and handshakes abounded.

Today was a birthday celebration for my husband. We drove to a surf park to meet old friends. We surfed, ate good food and reminisced. This friend is someone who, many years ago, called me when his wife left and said, “I want to kill myself.” I told him, “Ok, but first, let me teach you to surf today. At the end of the day, if you still want to end it, I will leave you to it.” Eight years later, he’s a big wheel in the San Onofre Surf Club. I’ve gotta say I feel pretty darned intimate with this friend.

In January, this year, I became a grandma. I will NEVER experience anything more intimate than being in the delivery room, helping

coach my daughter for birth. I lifted weights at a professional level for many years. Telling her to, “Squat like a hack slide, crunch your abs and blow out,” worked better than any Lamaze directions ever taught. She was my coach in many athletic events while she was growing up. I was her coach on the most important day of our life. Baby Willa was born with Van Morrison crooning in the background, singing, “Sweet Thing.”

I married my husband after knowing him four months. We met online, then in person. He said on our first date, “I’m in!” I promptly broke up with him. To my surprise, he gave me exactly what I asked for - space. We got back together on Fat Tuesday of that year. He picked up his phone to a tearful me... after all, Mardi Gras lives large in my Creole soul. Miraculously, after not speaking during the “break up period,” I got a mystery package delivered at work that day, which happened to be Valentine’s Day. He had remembered all of my favorite things that we had discussed on those first, “get to know ya” dates: Hello Kitty, a rainbow unicorn with combable hair, Swedish fish and a copy of the movie The Watch. How much more intimate can it be, when another human listens to the silly and the sad, hard and the glory, of what makes you who you are?

In a world of vices that push us apart, let’s push back, push together and become intimate. Ask a stranger, “How’s your day?” Wave at your neighbors, instead of doing everything you can to avoid eye contact. Take that one extra second to smile and be kind. Thanks for letting me take this chance to, “Get close to you.”

Love and Longing

By Tanner Price

IN THE LDR

AT LEAST THREE TIMES IN THE PAST TWO YEARS, I THOUGHT FOR SURE I’D FOUND THE ONE. These people opened me up to radical and explosive joy that I’d never felt until I met them. Oblivious to every buzzer of common sense telling me not to go for it, I fell unabashedly, head-over-heels in love with three incredible people. And the problem with that? They each lived halfway around the world.

It was always hard for me to open myself up to people. That tends to be surprising when I walk, talk, think, and behave like the biggest extrovert in the room. But for all the amazing and wonderful friends I’ve made over the years, they’ve only ever gotten a tiny peek into the Tanner Price Patented “Vault of Emotions”. The only people who’ve ever had the combination have never been close enough to touch the dial.

The first was a Brazilian-Italian psychology student who was raised by a family of witches. No, really! That’s actually how we met! She was brought

up in the old Italian craft of Stregheria, and I was a young hopelessly spiritual seafaring cadet looking to learn the secrets of life and happiness that routine and a khaki uniform could never teach me. In just a few days of getting to know her, I realized I’d never felt so – as corny as it is – enchanted by anyone before! But as the relationship began and our feelings grew stronger, I realized in the midst of daily life as a couple that we’d never get to experience what love would be like without the distance between us. The emotional intimacy faded as the realization came that we were too young and poor to fly overseas and be together in person, and the relationship soon faded away.

That was about when I became close to the leader of our “coven”, a British nonbinary witch who was just as big a dork as I am. We started out as friends, as two people often do, then in our mutual frustration with our own failing love lives, we decided to hook up as a coping mechanism – no strings

attached! After all, I was still much too fragile for another long-distance relationship after losing my soulmate, right? Yeah, not really. I fell in love harder and faster than ever. We had everything in common and I’d never enjoyed anybody’s company more completely than hers. The relationship took roots in two different hemispheres, and we spent the next three months struggling to figure out how to meet in the middle.

The thing I never hear anyone talking about in longdistance relationships (LDRs) is why the openness and affection, late-night video calls, and falling asleep on the phone are all so important. LDRs are built on that because they can never have the physical intimacy that comes with a relationship in person. Holding hands in the street, snuggling in a hammock between two trees, climbing up on rooftops to make out, and all those beautiful things that make happy “real” relationships so good only get to exist in fantasy in LDRs, because you know that paying thousands of dollars to fly out across the planet to spend a paradisiacal week with each other just isn’t responsible for two poor college students. Eventually that relationship too faded away, and I swore I would never date longdistance again.

Naturally the cycle repeated itself one more time, but it ended with a German girl who never showed me her face. She chose instead to show me her soul through her writing, storyteller that she was, and I inevitably followed suit. I’ll spare you all the details of the romance, but it taught me a valuable lesson about relationships. The successful ones are built upon intimacy of both the mind and the body, and without complete access to both, there’s a hard set limit to the level of love you can share. I don’t know who the next person to gain access to my Vault of Emotions will be, but this time I’ll make sure we’ll be close enough to open it together.

SLANDER NTAMCY

By Jessica Antonelli

At a BBQ by the beach:

-“It doesn’t matter your age, race, religion, whatever. What matters is you’re out there skating and we’re all connected through the love of the board. We’re all out there because we love it and that is a special bond. That’s intimate to me.”

-“I think of intimacy as, “What’s your story? What drives you? What do you do every day?” But it could be a lot of things. Like, a truthful debate amongst friends. You open up your brain, get vulnerable. You say what you really think. In an intimate group, I’m going to be myself and let my guard down.”

Is Galveston an intimate island? I went to the locals to find out. Before I popped the question, I had to define the term, since we’re not thinking of the between-the-sheets type of intimacy. The dictionary defines intimacy as: “close familiarity or friendship.” Here’s what some islanders had to say.

A dinner with a born-on-the-islander and recent islander-by-choice:

-“We moved back here with the intention to become more tight-knit in the community…and in work that happens. There are some glaring positives… knowing the right people can help get you a job, because your dad knows their brother or something like that, but that’s only a positive if you’re in the right loop.”

-“There are multi-generational families here, and there are people who will never leave. Everyone else knows everything the other person ever did, and they’ll all be together forever. The internet has changed all that for us. We have low level intimacy with more people than ever and can stay connected.”

Photo from Jessica Antonelli, Mod Coffee and Shutterstock.com

to intimacy by route of so many paths. Whether you grew up here, love to skate or surf, or make art, or eat and drink well, or take long walks down the beach, there is a story here for you just waiting to be told.

-“It doesn’t bother me that Galveston is a small town. Where used to live, I only had my work friends. Down here, there’s a scene, back there was suburbia hell. Here there was a weekly punk rock night, and I had a huge crush on *****. So I was like, hell yeah. I visited a bunch before I moved down here.”

-“I think intimacy can be sharing hopes and dreams, your history and personal details…even just…sharing food. I don’t know if people are more sexually intimate here more than anywhere else, but maybe the tourists come here for that. You have more time to be intimate

A couple of business owners talking over coffee:

-“No matter what you become, you’re still the person you were from the community you grew up with. For example, George Mitchell became a multi-billionaire, developed the Woodlands, built an empire and influenced a lot in the state. He helped create a renaissance in Galveston. But the reason he kept coming back here, was because here he was just George. He didn’t have to worry that people around here were just after his money. His coffee buddies would mess with him. They’d tell him he was full of sh*t for this that or another, not kiss his a**. And he kept coming back, he loved it.”

-“In a small town, hiring for a small business, a kid walks in to fill out an application and they’re the spit image of their mom or dad. You don’t know their name, but you know who they are.”

INTIMACY ON THE INSIDE

By Juan Gonzolez

The impact of his fist on my forehead caused me to see starts, but I felt nothing but relief. This is physical contact I can understand and deal with. No confusion, hesitation, or further questions involved. This is prison intimacy.

“Pack your shit, you’re on chain!” Finally… after 4 days in city jail, 9 months in county jail, and 23 months in the Garza East TDCJ Transfer Unit, I am ready to move on to whatever is next. When serving time in Texas, what is next is an I.D. (Inmate Detention) Unit. These are prisons across the state that house inmates for years and decades, if not the rest of their lives. Some units are strictly policed by guards who come down hard for any real or imagined infraction, while other units are “wide open” and inmates can get away with anything short of attacking guards or rioting. Inmates run the prisons in Texas. We have our own code of conduct that is rigidly enforced. If it is a choice between breaking an official rule, or an inmate rule, it is much, much safer to break the official rule. With only a few minutes to pack a pillow case-sized bag, I sort through my stuff and fill in with what’s most important to me: family pictures, letters, writing and drawing supplies, coffee, my bible,

and a few other books quickly fill my chain bag. The rest of my property will supposedly follow me months later, but gets conveniently lost instead.

As usual, we are not told where we are going, how long it will take, or how long we will be there. We are handcuffed to each other, loaded on a Bluebird, and we are on our way. This trip is much more relaxed than my previous ride 23 months ago. Inmates joke and swap stories about guards and other inmates in Garza East. Some aspiring rap stars stomp a beat and spit verses to each other. I choose instead to look at the world passing by through metal-meshed windows; it looks beautiful. After multiple stops at transient wings, I get assigned to the Stringfellow Unit in Rosharon. I spend a few months settling in and getting used to the unit, its officers, and its rules. After a few months, I am

assigned and shipped to another unit in Huntsville closer to a medical facility, where I will stay until my eventual release.

For a place teeming with people, prison is a depressingly lonely place. No one really knows me, and after a while, I’m not even sure I know myself. This way has changed me in ways that constantly surprise and dismay me. Those in the Free know me as social and outgoing. Not so much now though. Unless you are a gang member, you mean nothing to no one. Actually, I believe that is all true for gang members, they just don’t see it. If I am sick or depressed here, no one will ask what’s wrong. If I see someone is down, I can’t ask how they are doing either. Because remember, kindness equals weakness here.

With so many people in close proximity to each other, personal space becomes much smaller, but also much more dense. To invade someone’s personal space is a huge transgression and to touch someone is equivalent to an attack. If an immediate apology is not offered, it is an act of aggression that must be answered. Sometimes an apology is enough, and sometimes blood is required. It depends on who and how many others are watching.

In this place, any physical touch is unacceptable. There is no hugging, patting on the back, or even shaking hands. Except for those in the same gangs, we fist bump instead. Even a nod and a smile hello is uncomfortably intimate. As many emotions that we are humans express as we live life; in prison, only two emotions are acceptable to

show outwardly - indifference and anger. There are no shades in between.

After a couple of months, I was escorted to the medical facility to get an initial evaluation of my condition. After the normal “shut up and wait” period, I am escorted to the respiratory section where I meet “Miss A,” the nurse who conducts the testing. She is a very nice lady and I enjoy being treated like a human as she asks me questions about my condition and my military service. We eventually get to the physical part of the evaluation and I am told to remove my shirt so she can listen to my lungs. She tells me to inhale and exhale normally as she places one hand on my back and another on my chest.

Suddenly, I am unable to breathe! My heart starts pounding so loudly that it drowns all else out. I break into a cold sweat. I am terrified! What is happening to me!?

“Miss A” notices something is going on and she looks me in the eyes and asks me if

I nod my head yes, but I am most definitely not okay. I feel violated. I feel fear. I feel anger. I feel helplessness. I have an overpowering urge to jump up and run away. Emotions cascade through me faster than I can identify them. I have freaked out.

She replaces her hands on me and I attempt to reign my fear in and breathe. To distract myself, I look around the bare, drab room, then look at her. Her scrubs are an aqua-like color with little multicolored diamonds. They are the brightest colors in the room. She has hazel eyes, with small crows feet and wrinkles by her mouth that show she likes to smile and laugh a lot. She smells of fields of purple flowers and green fresh grass. (Yes, I know… but I swear that I smelled colors!) She is about 5 foot 1 or 2 inches, maybe 110 or 120 pounds, and she is scaring the living shit out of me! Yet… my body is also reacting in another physical and totally unexpected way. Let’s just say that my fear was not the only thing rising. WTF!? I suddenly had another emotion to deal with- shame.

“What is wrong with me” I wonder to myself as I force myself calm through the rest of the process. This nice lady has done nothing but talk to me humanely and professionally. Why am I feeling all these things? After many hours of thought, I realize that

it has been years since I have been touched by someone not handcuffing me or hitting me. My body no longer knows how to react to any other touch besides negatively. Being handcuffed is demeaning and guards often do it just to assert their power over you. The other common touch is fighting. It is difficult if not impossible to go through this system without violence touching you occasionally. No physical touch in prison is ever a positive occasion.

Shortly after my experience in the medical building, I found myself in one of those situations where a fight is unavoidable. Someone perceived my indifference as a lack of respect. Since there were many people watching, the inmate could not back down and began shouting louder and angrier, trying to regain his respect. Realizing that the situation had escalated past being able to ignore him, and having to uphold my own appearance of respect to those watching, I stood up and resigned myself to a fight.

The tension built as his homeboys and everyone else discreetly slid away and gave us room. He worked himself up into a lather and finally swung a wide right at me. I lowered and thrust my head forward so it hit my forehead. Stars and tweety birds circle my head but I feel great. The line has been crossed after the first touch and the result is inevitable. The goal is no longer to avoid the fight, but to finish it quickly without getting caught. I revel in the feeling of freedom from having to hide my emotions for a few moments. He swings wildly with no discipline, connecting a few times, but none as hard or solid as the first punch to my forehead. I dart in and out, concentrating on his gut, knowing that prison workouts focus on

strengthening the upper body, but never the core. After about 40 seconds that seem like 40 minutes, he decides that the issue has been settled to his satisfaction and drops down on the bench to nurse a sudden tummy-ache. I sit next to him and life resumes. The guard walks by and notices nothing.

This is the kind of touching I am now conditioned to: handcuffs and fists. This is what passes for intimacy in prison. What am I going to do once I leave this place? Will I ever even be able to open up and talk freely to anyone again? I think I will. After all, I’ve opened myself up to you, haven’t I? Will I be able to avoid violence? I think I will. Most people in the Free don’t punch first, and I am more of a defensive fighter than an instigator.

Will I ever not freak out when touched by a woman? Well now, that, I don’t know. I may react like I did in third grade when a girl gave me my first kiss. I ran away and hid. (Sorry, Esmeralda!) That kind of intimacy probably scares me the most now. There is no normal conversation allowed with females here. After so long, I’ve forgotten what normal even is. I fear that this place has cursed me to a life alone even once freed.

I work hard to regain the man I was before all this, but outwardly, I am becoming someone else. I look in the mirror and realize that some asshole has taken over my facial expressions and demeanor. He has even taken over my hair color! My hair is black while his is graying. I hope to leave that guy behind once I leave this place. He makes me uncomfortable.

Well it’s around mail call time again and I’m hoping for a letter today, so I’ll say goodbye for now. Till then, watch your back and for God’s sake, do not bump into anybody!

FOUND OBJECTS

By Dan Marks

THERE IS A GENRE OF ART DEFINED BY THE USE OF OBJECTS NOT TYPICALLY CONSIDERED ART. Sometimes called “trash art”, because these “artists” go picking through your trash in the middle of the night like raccoons. If you’re a French raccoon, it’s called objet trouve’. I’ve never picked trash in France, but I have picked through the trash on our little island. One of my favorite Facebook pictures is me sitting on the South Jetty amidst the remains of Bolivar after Ike. I spent a day sifting through the debris, making up stories in my head with every doll, kettle, tv, and front doorsteps that I found. It was a very Galveston experience.

Recently, a good friend of one of our staff came across a box of personal effects sitting beside a dumpster. They didn’t know what to do with it. But they naturally thought of me. Thanks, guys. I’m touched.

Most of what I’ve seen consists of old letters between a few Texas friends finishing up their Army service just after World War II. Jack Bailey, Bob Wilson, and Robert Harrison had been stationed in Maastricht in the Netherlands. Jack made it back home to Texas first, assuring everyone’s families that the rest would be home soon. Robert Harrison enrolled at UC Berkeley and ran into fellow Texan Nisson Pearl. And all these letters are addressed to Bob H. Wilson, Jr., who is spending 1946 in the Philippines as he finishes out his enlistment.

What’s this got to do with Galveston? Well, Bob Wilson was a patron of the arts. He went to UT Austin and became an architect, practicing for a long time in Houston. He kept a place here and served on the Board of the Galveston Art Center, as well as the Houston Contemporary Art Center. He acquired many pieces during his travels and donated to

galleries in Houston, Galveston, and Tyler. This story is sounding more French all the time.

What struck me wasn’t the art, but rather the “found”. Some of these people had been a part of Bob’s life before the War - before he had a plan to leave Tyler, Texas. Jack’s letters tell of all the girls and tomfoolery to be had, if Bob would just get back home. He even threatens to date Bob’s sister Sara if he doesn’t hurry up. Others in the group Bob only met through his far flung travels in the Army. But it obviously had an effect on him. Through these people, and through art, Bob tried to bring a bigger picture of the world back to Texas, and back to our little Island in particular.

Yes, I said it. Some of these people were found objects. I can’t prove, outside of a box of letters, that these relationships continued as intimately as they had during the War. Jack’s family still lives in San Antonio. Bob’s sister, at the time of his death, still lived in Tyler. Bob Wilson’s obituary in the Chronicle in 2004 makes no mention of a wife and kids.

On our little sandbar off the coast of Texas, however, life always imitates art. I didn’t know any of these people before researching the letters. Hell, I’m still not really sure who they were. But I knew Leon Banks Jr, who was a Merchant Mariner like myself. I met him at Selena’s Blue Room long ago. Leon liked to talk and occasionally we’d catch up at La Stacion to swap stories. Leon had been in the Air Force during the War. He graduated from Central about the time Kelton Sams (see last issue) was born. Could Leon have known these guys? Jack Bailey had been a pilot. Bob Wilson had been in the Engineering Corps in the Pacific. Could he have known Leon at one of the airstrips out there?

Ernie Pyle, the famous war correspondent, was doing a tour through the Pacific Theater at the time of his death. He was killed a couple weeks into the Battle of Okinawa in April 1945. On his way there, he had stopped at a B-29 bomber base on some island. Could Ernie have known Bob Wilson? Probably not, from the dates. But Ernie did meet Gustavo Gonzalez of 2620 Ave K, Galveston, Texas, and wrote about him in his book titled, “The Last Chapter”. Gustavo was the guy who brought the mail around. I’d imagine that made him quite popular. Especially as Jack Bailey and Bob Wilson always seem to go round and round in their letters about how hard it is for mail from home to catch someone in the field. Did Gustavo know Bob, or Leon?

It’s a small world. From one island to another, our connections to our friends, family, and shipmates, are a cat’s cradle of personalities. On ships and in the service, it is sometimes said that you become closer than family. As memories fade and I find letters in my house from people I haven’t talked to in over twenty years, I’d say, take that with a grain of salt. Galveston is filled with transient life. Colleges, medical residencies, cruise ship deserters, and summer tourists. We pick and choose which found objects we keep.

Remember this. Robert Falcon Scott picked what he thought were the five best qualified people to make it to the South Pole and back. They all died only twelve miles from safety. Ernest Shackleton took the flotsam and jetsam of humanity and made a team. He only made it within 98 miles of the Pole, but returned with all his people.

Kelton Sams’ parents grew up in Louisiana, only 15 miles apart, but didn’t meet until moving to Galveston. Of course, we’re not the only subtropical island in the Gulf of Mexico inspiring love to last the ages. But we’re an interesting mix. And, I have to say, I’m kinda attached. Excuse me while I get my hanky.

I expect a lot out of you, Galveston. And I find a lot in return. As the mayor of Steve Martin’s fictional Colorado town said in the movie Roxanne, “I would rather be with the people of this town than the finest people in the world.”

Letters

pulse

November-December 2018 Calendar of Events

november

Lone Star Rally TATTOO SPECIAL

Thursday November 1st - Monday November 4th • ALL DAY

American Dragon Tattoo Shop

4108 Seawall Blvd.

Special: $30 - $40

Culture Clash EPIC BASH 2018

Celebrating 1 Year in Print!!

Saturday, Nov. 10, 2018

6:30 PM – 11 PM

Shrimp N’ Stuff Downtown 216 23rd Street

Admission: FREE(donations appreciated)

CALEB CAUDLE / BRODY PRICE

Thursday, November 15, 2018

8 PM – 11:30 PM

Old Quarter Acoustic Cafe 413 20th Street

Admission: TBA

ArtWalk

Saturday, November 24, 2018

6 PM – 9 PM

Galveston Arts Center & Other Galleries

Admission: FREE

december

The Rumor Report: Drag Show! Every Friday and Saturday 11 PM & 12:30 PM

Rumors Beach Bar 3102 Seawall Blvd.

Admission: FREE

Polymer Clay Studio Saturday, December 8, 2018

8 AM - 4 PM

Galveston Art Center 2127 Stand Street

Admission: $75

The Nutcracka Ball: “The Night Before” Theme Wednesday, December 26, 2018

9 PM - 12:00 PM

Drunken Monkeyz 202 20th Street

Admission: FREE

Scar Tissue

By Amalie Lopez

It’s all for you.

Except for the wistful, dejected pieces, those are for myself. Reminders. Some may perceive them as warning labels.

They were left with me from another, but I own them now. I cannot cast them away & abandon their abilities to continue shaping me. Such nourishment allowed flowers to grow through these cracks of freshly broken ground.

I will always embrace the barren pieces lying underneath where sparks turned sorrowful & died out, leaving me bewildered & unwanted.

The appreciation & recognition that they created for what we had, seemed infinite.

But the mysteries of me appeared to be falling short causing you to become content & anxious for a once again quieter, calmer love.

I assure you, that all of the mystery in the world is now in your hands. I will be pure smoke. An illusion.

And you don’t need to even know this because in the meantime, you will remain stagnant. For a moment, partially blind.

All of the control you fear losing, is more yours than ever before. Even the idea of having to hurt another because I remain yours completely, doesn’t belong to me.

I am not mediocre or bleak. And I will love you ferociously.

Untitled

By Chris Larabee-Johnson

All the world’s a stage And all men and women merely players. - William Shakespeare

Oh, Intimacy. You fickle feline. You Jokester and icon of irony. How we cohere and convince, bait and persuade, embrace but simultaneously run from you.

The struggle is real.

I am, by no means, an expert in intimacy, in fact, I’m a hot ass mess. This confession is important to own because if I believe I have it all figured out, that my thoughts and feelings are most important, I would be mistaken and suffer the consequences of arrogance and denial.

Ego check.

I often compare intimate intelligence to composting. In its most basic practice, you learn what is useful and discard properly what will harm the process.

Shedding ourselves from what is unnecessary, untrue and unnatural is the most intimate sacrifice to ourselves and the planet.

No pressure.

Through tactful intimacy alone we can liberate ourselves from loneliness, confusion and fear, playing forward energetic love, peace and compassion to the world, one Act at a time.

Know your lines and be great at improvisation. Be notable and sincere.

With practice, comes ease. With ease, comes peace. With peace, comes true happiness.

A waking dream.

But not without intimacy.

ofpgalveston eople

on Intimacy

Interviews and Photos

By Julia Salinas

Jadea (left)

CC: How do you define intimacy?

Jadea: It is a good feel for somebody, a good ol’ feeling you wanna give somebody.

Bernardo Hernandez (left)

CC: What does intimacy mean to you?

B.H. : To me personally, it means you have a girlfriend or a boyfriend and you decide to go on a date by the beach... one thing leads to another thing and before you know it, you are holding each other’s hand and you have intimacy. It’s not bad thing or a good thing. It all depends on the person and how they see it. You don’t plan for it, it just happens.

Thomas and Virginia Salinas (above)

CC: What was your first intimate encounter?

Thomas: Holding hands or trying to hold hand at least.

Virginia: My mom saw us, and punished me because at the time we weren’t allowed to hold hands or anything. We were supposed to talk with a fence between you and your boyfriend. But she, my mom, saw him holding my hand. She locked me up in my room for a whole day as a punishment.

Thomas: When I tried to hold her hand, her mom noticed it and got upset. All I wanted to do was hold her hand, to show her that I care for her and respected her. I wanted to show her that I wanted to be part of her life. But in Mexico at the time, you couldn’t do that.

Virginia: That was the way to date because with your boyfriend you could only talk, no holding hands, kissing or anything. But this was years ago and we’ve been almost 35 years happily married.

Thomas: And I still do hold her hand without her mom watching, even in the car, watching tv, walking together.

Virginia: Were old and we still old hands and I think we will forever.