Vivienne Finch, BFR Staff

Finch BFR

Low tide turns this Maine beach into a marsh. When I was six, I woke up just before sunrise to go clamming here with my grandfather. We wore black rubber boots and waterproof coats because the mist was so thick it could soak through anything. Once we got to the beach, my grandfather told me to watch out for little dribbles of seawater coming up through holes in the sand. I found the clams; he dug them out with a shovel and tossed them into a big plastic bucket. I didn’t know we were going to eat them, but that evening we made clam chowder.

I didn’t end up liking the chowder, but that disappointment wasn’t nearly enough to taint how much I enjoyed the routine of finding the clams.

I haven’t been clamming since, but if I end up on a Maine beach and can think of a reason to dig up clams without eating them, I haven’t forgotten what to look for.

Advertisements

Elva Bonsall, BFR Staff

woods

While it’s easy to forget stories, their details, characters, and perhaps even the imagery so painstakingly created for the page, it’s unnervingly difficult to forget the impression it leaves upon you. Cold, slippery, and often creeping into your thoughts long after the story itself has been filed away and stored in memory, old emotions from stories often appear to the reader in different forms.

Miserable, lost, and fed up with underpowered technology, I once happened upon this little house, deep in the woods somewhere in a countryside far away. There’s no joy in being lost. Nothing wonderful about being late and out of place, either. And while consumed with hunger, disorientation, and a general aura of grumpiness I stumbled halfway up a muddy hill and found this tiny, tiny home.

While it’s easy to forget stories, it’s hard to forget the emotions behind them; what first connects someone to a page. Seeing this tiny house, I was no longer miserably lost but in one of the fairytales that was read to me as a kid. A sense of place from a small piece of literature I had read long ago made finding a random shack, far away from my intended destination, a magical and special happening. My emotional connection to this sense of place from a story meant I was no longer lost, and instead needed a picture to remember it by.

By Georgia Peppe, BFR Editorial Staff

FullSizeRender

This charcoal and ink drawing was inspired by Frank O’Hara’s poem, “Lana Turner Has Collapsed.” I had always loved the poem, and was inspired to draw this image when my English GSI this semester said O’Hara was one of her favorite poets. This poem had always haunted me, especially as someone who grew up in Hollywood, California, the place where Turner finally crumbles. I had always imagined a crashing to the floor, a crumpling occurring simultaneously with a curling up into a fetal position. Either way, this collapse is very disorienting to the reader considering that people remain upright for the majority of the day and that with the exception of sleeping, our verticalness somehow embodies both our humanity (animals remain on all fours) and liveliness. O’Hara profits off this association and presents the glamorous Lana Turner who has collapsed and lays there as the poem ends with an address of “get up, we love you.”

Marie Maier, BFR Staff

BLOG PHOTO

When you spend your days following train tracks, the past of your surroundings is unveiled quietly, laid out around you. The tracks run through the land, the ones safe to explore, or safe enough anyway, don’t lead to your future; they are a sidewalk for window-shopping through the past. You can follow and follow the paths that have been trail-blazed by others, without seeing anyone. But the remnants are there. The marks left by the ones crazy enough to have gone where you are now. The ones that started this hidden-treasure, hide-and-seek game. The tracks stretch on for a mind-numbing forever, they lead to the secrets that the earth holds. You have to follow them to find your way there and home. But maybe the tracks are your home.