<%BANNER%>

Sherwood Anderson Tours the East Village

xml version 1.0 encoding UTF-8
REPORT xmlns http:www.fcla.edudlsmddaitss xmlns:xsi http:www.w3.org2001XMLSchema-instance xsi:schemaLocation http:www.fcla.edudlsmddaitssdaitssReport.xsd
INGEST IEID E20101130_AAAADM INGEST_TIME 2010-11-30T18:40:20Z PACKAGE UFE0010283_00001
AGREEMENT_INFO ACCOUNT UF PROJECT UFDC
FILES
FILE SIZE 8247 DFID F20101130_AACGKX ORIGIN DEPOSITOR PATH sabatelli_c_Page_07.QC.jpg GLOBAL false PRESERVATION BIT MESSAGE_DIGEST ALGORITHM MD5
fec24d877bd77b4ccb53c1c18a3ef8cc
SHA-1
51519a164f78382cdf74c8b7400f367612fda6a4
15544 F20101130_AACGKY sabatelli_c_Page_09.QC.jpg
eba568b643b5a0f01dc4f8a062f4011c
94a7d1a7a2e943eb3a4667420986fa31db6b1b1a
1053954 F20101130_AACGIA sabatelli_c_Page_26.tif
7ad48f62c728e69a4ff4d55a4e17cecd
05c35ae8b5986d461254183468099c292be412f0
10690 F20101130_AACGKZ sabatelli_c_Page_33.QC.jpg
71783b1bad1abeccb9aa403d8d083abf
6f5ac3b828171715580129b1725108f15ac98c21
F20101130_AACGIB sabatelli_c_Page_27.tif
e25e447e7aa624a1ddc926320e6b789e
9efdbaab424b1dfd9a2235e3642d1f07e29a55a5
F20101130_AACGIC sabatelli_c_Page_28.tif
46c3280e8930fb20ae1881af34726b53
e1ae0144fcfcf24393c7c100cc83f7c6423912ba
F20101130_AACGID sabatelli_c_Page_30.tif
9620623c425d557cda2613d68f1f0c41
8c7a71bcc71487db84f94a82ef54bf36fece1581
F20101130_AACGIE sabatelli_c_Page_32.tif
4b71b6f01e8e1ccc921103dc9a2d012a
34a6973eb2d6640470135748c642dfc112d357db
F20101130_AACGIF sabatelli_c_Page_33.tif
013e68b3facdd455962ae368f3809c54
64225221cc31b3f21c1467d91295aef54684b894
F20101130_AACGIG sabatelli_c_Page_34.tif
cdb77dbffae945a75ff5b654d2975ba6
5d27cbbd5e00f6a0577ee7105586a3fee5ad46ee
7343 F20101130_AACGIH sabatelli_c_Page_01.pro
558e422b0246df73b873447fdbd809a3
e2174d1f81f4c6e53916a2ff4ac2054b453b0a01
34012 F20101130_AACGDL sabatelli_c_Page_23.jpg
8f97b9861b246d4348659976b1a62a47
00bca3eb7aa67aa1a6f84be8d67471d7cf22dd84
1307 F20101130_AACGII sabatelli_c_Page_02.pro
b47097166a6d19dc1fc258c52cfec097
de2c5766ff5b0f7aa0a1aa099b7ca85fc063c430
27483 F20101130_AACGDM sabatelli_c_Page_07.jpg
802ab1142f73fff891054e14b3dc1c28
216a129c991ee90665cf2a3cc8807e95bd73996d
2098 F20101130_AACGIJ sabatelli_c_Page_03.pro
0e546c5a0118e4761829e28eb90d3b54
9dc42beeb729ff995dea54b4f413ed585aeae8d8
F20101130_AACGDN sabatelli_c_Page_31.tif
64074ec45c65fb475a57ee911bdf7e0f
b931024875f89ee27352abb670bc311101e82882
21812 F20101130_AACGIK sabatelli_c_Page_04.pro
bb53490d1fc4f794b6e153363cd22a72
be1be5e671e266bbe4402d6b72f78bc9683299fa
844 F20101130_AACGDO sabatelli_c_Page_14.txt
ced0dc7d7227ceb56286e1cf2627bc2c
1669bef4bf49357cc0033c27495f6d868e912226
57510 F20101130_AACGIL sabatelli_c_Page_05.pro
2eadeeb54da4ddd2c6505fb044b878db
d7d2d7b951181904848ad9e4d9a5536712c5501c
1197 F20101130_AACGDP sabatelli_c_Page_29.txt
7e217899d8247d872c8003c995274883
9363f6b10a602aeef868ef109edaf63077b9e3dd
13949 F20101130_AACGIM sabatelli_c_Page_07.pro
ab4b541065fb6e8219b3a2afd64d41b7
8fe2cfe2c70f4d5d21f118f4f260cc7467ed4b41
F20101130_AACGDQ sabatelli_c_Page_29.tif
bca2a31a7c487d06ec6e064b3319f302
a5429337a7f04156796eb66cb5331bd739289330
16494 F20101130_AACGIN sabatelli_c_Page_08.pro
5d83e0573d9f7f059df4be4487e9beec
05325ca74a0a0cc08bb9e68e32824e968c135504
18626 F20101130_AACGIO sabatelli_c_Page_10.pro
6c85fcd154c89a3b329056168628a88a
b93b7cd066193fc66eba0430519a28cb3f114dc1
2253 F20101130_AACGDR sabatelli_c_Page_05.txt
6e192561c7b66e6dce05d9eaf935e85b
f9ec82e42ac49dca2ad193b65f35eb29226518d8
21007 F20101130_AACGIP sabatelli_c_Page_11.pro
7030c86d04a2e0347b7c17ef97cb9b32
6b6a185030849afc3945b155c7d4849f65370086
959 F20101130_AACGDS sabatelli_c_Page_21.txt
499fa3da88642c8474e6d344d5bc1a05
73fa89aca740f674f9a6334578f447d4db913a22
35920 F20101130_AACGIQ sabatelli_c_Page_12.pro
a008a731aa0e858f8ff6097c7a7a4334
fe90e084dddf90bb21f457f8f6e8e0051bf68ed2
786 F20101130_AACGDT sabatelli_c_Page_19.txt
46d8a58fee674f91cbc8a021c55973d3
64bbdfda06c85b6d6fd7e0dba665620ec8195b0d
21069 F20101130_AACGIR sabatelli_c_Page_14.pro
ee84155ea06e0dd0751965dca05bfd00
8f2bed4ed7c4bfd16da88aaaa187ac2d56c48358
5875 F20101130_AACGDU sabatelli_c_Page_02.jp2
8412a1aad087e068851050a8d44875dc
c82dd5d1bebc859410ddd9c73fd95920859009a3
19625 F20101130_AACGIS sabatelli_c_Page_15.pro
661ffa7ae429c28099e5fb7d518d59d2
8730f75c03043cd8c927a9ecdd0a4d377fdf9e01
6742 F20101130_AACGDV sabatelli_c_Page_06.QC.jpg
c3f28da2e5e7ddca2675725384180cad
96c64fad552c9f629a2aa3fb4ad28bb7d5fc4763
28773 F20101130_AACGIT sabatelli_c_Page_17.pro
9ec9ce52915ed4209dce1f9453a4572d
1be72cc52ff5f16d68d3b047d1ee9dbf334cd610
23219 F20101130_AACGDW sabatelli_c_Page_06.pro
ac3ee21cb536d99114af0806181e5f92
c2dce8b77c214479ea734cf6286b1769f60b6b61
22089 F20101130_AACGIU sabatelli_c_Page_18.pro
75f74870b3603baecf76a6c488cb8ac2
1bb22b2d495e7b540e96fee1b921f81b7efad742
2334 F20101130_AACGDX sabatelli_c_Page_26thm.jpg
e0bf1b94ee729ba7baf0efd99a8a911e
7cea9e3be3223a8d79b3e34128af05ed811b0bf6
17330 F20101130_AACGIV sabatelli_c_Page_19.pro
22c39caf9150722eb8bdb742a8e084df
12983dffed9ebd5d1adc3234caa18b47efad1dc6
723 F20101130_AACGDY sabatelli_c_Page_28.txt
9397689d2f9a6aef1e3cc614cc1217cd
aa3c65c588c05a0d78bbdd25c1b4cc3c220cfdf2
23827 F20101130_AACGIW sabatelli_c_Page_20.pro
c309b9b70d2e3e83fc0780eff20ca20b
d11793af3e3825ea6cf1c6802cf26cbfd56c9452
60007 F20101130_AACGDZ sabatelli_c_Page_29.jp2
d541e16b69eec9a84984a87da53c6396
660e372202983b38619f54815c5e1a347964f739
24094 F20101130_AACGIX sabatelli_c_Page_21.pro
ac4b03452b7bc4e819a6c3fcb33146bd
b5466e4677c648d14f68c1b9ca306fa0b343e65d
21653 F20101130_AACGGA sabatelli_c_Page_01.jp2
fb8d8e4258581a88bab1fb59287bf4f3
f31f6fdfe6a7aa3583e43e06340af7f7b4953c80
5995 F20101130_AACGIY sabatelli_c_Page_22.pro
123eede42ef614fb18bc9df6bb9cf751
c35a5e4678966a2f887df98fd0b7b51ab7db4c8d
7366 F20101130_AACGGB sabatelli_c_Page_03.jp2
67ba7e1607f032c813d9a08fd3731831
a67dc70086f10597bad06ce06b231fbf703dc817
21093 F20101130_AACGIZ sabatelli_c_Page_23.pro
232300ee0fd63d87c876a6f4f75e7780
63a9df82885f2dc9937e91068e62f0ced68799d1
49248 F20101130_AACGGC sabatelli_c_Page_04.jp2
211f4468b40991a67f38091b77f6d570
35e18c7411ce10db48e6a29bc14fd6f92179c099
2728 F20101130_AACGLA sabatelli_c_Page_07thm.jpg
d3557f2239ea232c9faaee06ea83387d
32cec12135f83630de63d518d11ddcb91e564e67
1051983 F20101130_AACGGD sabatelli_c_Page_05.jp2
4edd3c87ede6d6f212f2f88a77866cd3
8bbf902f58fc9aa091221bba523e8a88f538fdf2
4117 F20101130_AACGLB sabatelli_c_Page_12thm.jpg
ef686d5eb131124b30fcc47670d887d8
d4d381a58eb6fd129fa3b77a05847b4c3be5e20a
472201 F20101130_AACGGE sabatelli_c_Page_06.jp2
a3f22d67a3ced88a125fd3c908cd1944
1966391754bfd7883be262f66443aa372e7d2510
2863 F20101130_AACGLC sabatelli_c_Page_14thm.jpg
c959ca55157fcce58d59ba33f165dd45
327f184ff6231b4bda91c1ff7b2429ad7f53e507
34545 F20101130_AACGGF sabatelli_c_Page_07.jp2
ff4396f429d74fd3b7c9b1a5e4ed7287
201027d98cf4b23b460b8f161af4ec92cafcde22
2626 F20101130_AACGLD sabatelli_c_Page_28thm.jpg
e477031dbe06c562dbc34fa50dbd03cb
7ff140f0b37446826ca80bd109e58edc77e579af
35931 F20101130_AACGGG sabatelli_c_Page_08.jp2
d5c267cfa03edb920fcad2f8d6303986
aea85f4345d608c498bc50b10be15ae2834d4ff7
15288 F20101130_AACGLE sabatelli_c_Page_05.QC.jpg
5b439b4d24fdfc273de90019d1f5e667
738452e349619713dc80792dc7f983fabcc1d595
83431 F20101130_AACGGH sabatelli_c_Page_09.jp2
1121ce287bb911817a386b9e4386e794
9c49e360ccb71d2dde282b0370736ca09dea2b66
9081 F20101130_AACGLF sabatelli_c_Page_14.QC.jpg
327088a097fd8303930aa41a42409abd
b08f79f46652fc8f6ed0aab97624a8b139c2913b
40562 F20101130_AACGGI sabatelli_c_Page_10.jp2
c2a1783e18dc1fe0c303d7f9e2526130
bc1a87645676f294c46efe167ee9bde84190d196
8282 F20101130_AACGLG sabatelli_c_Page_28.QC.jpg
a04d14d90d1b369b30e1d56be0aba93a
0d6dbb906dc4c4ac335a19c4e8a9513850296093
45949 F20101130_AACGGJ sabatelli_c_Page_11.jp2
d56e16b914af22367d3091fb51df7a02
75a1ffc8cac645ddbe821640258735838c61a11a
3406 F20101130_AACGLH sabatelli_c_Page_17thm.jpg
8860f348384bef0644c0247729070d5f
e3879dbcab000a4ffbb0046484a5284c815c7d7a
74885 F20101130_AACGGK sabatelli_c_Page_12.jp2
daff58662a74d038960ce772ff5fcbeb
1d06283b655c27d6d4e1898f0960a1f651963418
32037 F20101130_AACGGL sabatelli_c_Page_13.jp2
ef8f6a184f5dfcb0dc3ee707151fcc43
5a27f3c0f2b49aeeddc204ae9462a5174a217816
3444 F20101130_AACGLI sabatelli_c_Page_03.QC.jpg
aa2c993a14108565140fd8252e367b8e
72901cd3c18941be02a9dafd9566465eae1e5b0a
45314 F20101130_AACGGM sabatelli_c_Page_14.jp2
2761b1530cf04a416f6cd16dc08ab400
f76690451cbea192cd6a1314a4b770b0a91ef2bb
3734 F20101130_AACGLJ sabatelli_c_Page_04thm.jpg
037848d0984cb6820d4ab429d3946870
36eb7d26fb16129581e70317e3b8e14c0891ea51
15203 F20101130_AACGLK sabatelli_c_Page_32.QC.jpg
d3f422f1f0450fd5d6bd80eb1a05d7e9
84d839b30a4e1fb7aa38a93cea5f2d93e7124ece
43010 F20101130_AACGGN sabatelli_c_Page_15.jp2
755910a1adccc7ff5d95d3220b925f69
faac23cef82dacece5da2b9985690a22b9a17956
2980 F20101130_AACGLL sabatelli_c_Page_23thm.jpg
8408bef13a637f10330072d1ca8c678e
dd8b2edc0601876cc277173bbc2d49dd919c620f
43630 F20101130_AACGGO sabatelli_c_Page_16.jp2
b2f179be6167612c81e76602f2f513f0
c23e8cda53c89a790343c175e271c9470247216c
8911 F20101130_AACGLM sabatelli_c_Page_19.QC.jpg
76bcc95b3b5343b79bea60bb2d099f5c
eaedb92206fe4fdd8419406f6f1958b0bced2030
59923 F20101130_AACGGP sabatelli_c_Page_17.jp2
b4c2570e9b94d8610171ee358ca0c5dc
196338a8624ad5b9de050ffee2ac9f5648f4717d
3343 F20101130_AACGLN sabatelli_c_Page_02.QC.jpg
39a9fec8d00a56bb19f9a990c7dbc2c1
70c9dcf53a1ee2e584288b652efe96e8ac382c8d
39302 F20101130_AACGGQ sabatelli_c_Page_19.jp2
a516d77d85e17a6e5828d0647bf176fe
2654cca99317f68a9b65d6206f4d689287d3c45b
3022 F20101130_AACGLO sabatelli_c_Page_11thm.jpg
360c433ecc03442ae70e9408003ed248
a6a1f91e9756b2010aa0ada792a519714e4d9a98
50411 F20101130_AACGGR sabatelli_c_Page_20.jp2
9155859ca2306588dcd31e749828b0ba
ee50fe5e265bc65598ab0320815776a00aa77089
8086 F20101130_AACGLP sabatelli_c_Page_08.QC.jpg
51c2c0ab09d96876660e9857fd209b26
6186d7544a4777185a9333c60520c1b71d08b97e
50883 F20101130_AACGGS sabatelli_c_Page_21.jp2
3f566b7d5882def00e239b4f52ee7516
7d67cb7ffab2ce22cebf3963f9c1e3235dd87f50
14670 F20101130_AACGLQ sabatelli_c_Page_12.QC.jpg
2b8f137c750ea8b4a9837da43530df5c
d64aeb83e2d63b56c882dccd1315d523eb14c01f
16126 F20101130_AACGGT sabatelli_c_Page_22.jp2
9507f6e65ab97e015f94c3add9369f38
645d1dfd2eacba44e0ced8eebe69f9fb8db228a4
3173 F20101130_AACGLR sabatelli_c_Page_34thm.jpg
06ee13542e4bddee794fe547f151f226
a084cc12ce42a855c0bad9bf83dda982a02ec1dd
45680 F20101130_AACGGU sabatelli_c_Page_23.jp2
73e029abb542f01e78c7689b9e2e2efa
ba5fd5b31fcc36e59d6a31fe64c4738331f1f076
9728 F20101130_AACGLS sabatelli_c_Page_23.QC.jpg
b6ade1c1f6ba90b8f15664c1e4c2d8b5
1e74e7a2e5e53f2c909e0610869e83071bc643e6
34001 F20101130_AACGGV sabatelli_c_Page_24.jp2
5d5ab8be1b921347f39b2f807e8e4d84
bbbf6c7ae97b0b72d0e62f2e413524dfc012558d
1391 F20101130_AACGLT sabatelli_c_Page_02thm.jpg
44bb1168488b2fee05e2bd3f86db97c0
5e6433708966351cf9a278d2ba678645cafaa243
25511 F20101130_AACGGW sabatelli_c_Page_25.jp2
91f2dd475d5e9582a059dca07528cc52
270913b8c9e121f3efb2fce311f3334ca81a314e
6850 F20101130_AACGLU sabatelli_c_Page_01.QC.jpg
48bab1ee7fb76d267237313da0f7f014
8ee63d2bd721a12b3ecb453d40d979a334541a37
28403 F20101130_AACGGX sabatelli_c_Page_26.jp2
3afe9468d543de218eeeb71afd144a00
0b8d16dc77d3b0bc40d6a0488fb8ca116b692be8
4553 F20101130_AACGLV sabatelli_c_Page_22.QC.jpg
897e9da922c9930c2575c561c4cec50f
193113a71a0414a875173c9b9a621d635a6b8be0
14692 F20101130_AACGEA sabatelli_c_Page_13.pro
83b7ecb9dd0ea0d57be5e703cedebca6
b2235afea9f74ee18c89ebc5e545f473d71f4272
40607 F20101130_AACGGY sabatelli_c_Page_27.jp2
29fbde9c7a604dbedfd483ca796e4d6a
505d445fb63f33a0cf088b9ef85929f9deb1131b
9756 F20101130_AACGLW sabatelli_c_Page_18.QC.jpg
41a2a0527ebf3bbb55d8e1407712082f
187cf69df816b0f58871c6e30e13907d76493003
38435 F20101130_AACGGZ sabatelli_c_Page_28.jp2
02779ed4cee57a804a87ea5ff726e8f9
fd617a4b32bf6604dad46e29839c20ee3affd822
12106 F20101130_AACGLX sabatelli_c_Page_29.QC.jpg
3b659fde3448f7180d7b50f78cb03af8
8212cd0645bda07c4dc90b1825490c5327cd3ff3
884 F20101130_AACGEB sabatelli_c_Page_18.txt
b229ac29465da4a7a80b5b6bb8233e26
099756ec28cb7c4019c02383b564eed5a9b04c2c
15435 F20101130_AACGJA sabatelli_c_Page_24.pro
19011c601ce8b3626582ba7c120ed5e3
3a4a67eaef53fca4be625bad20f3d526c236cbd9
55165 F20101130_AACGLY UFE0010283_00001.xml FULL
2a0ba01bfe5bd71426735c1a721faf9f
7b055c3eace805e75f038f06fa3f5f4ff7ee9a89
3151 F20101130_AACGEC sabatelli_c_Page_33thm.jpg
90f13461c83d15fdd9084cceca79e61e
c0e6e9d569b3170270b32b493715454f2201ee3b
10283 F20101130_AACGJB sabatelli_c_Page_25.pro
e5e1b67143183dc4ae5989946ffa3979
a54c70a80398f6a51ddec4a71509536e23ca3562
1459 F20101130_AACGLZ sabatelli_c_Page_03thm.jpg
3471153d9c56f2fce982fce2d0c54997
63f1f22bd4d6b2f3c43bde2e3a7d090e0c16b188
F20101130_AACGED sabatelli_c_Page_17.tif
ee0badbb2e7304cbca3bf827787d1ad2
d12b9f24af7f152c47b74e7d48dbd67d87e11e51
18210 F20101130_AACGJC sabatelli_c_Page_27.pro
e2acef91b18f8ea759be9f9980bb08b6
070647b633b366fd67b966a6e22a79b01ccfba7d
51993 F20101130_AACGEE sabatelli_c_Page_12.jpg
b1da91760a410d0250c3af91dd2ace9d
cb034db43ba9a6bb39ef458a600666a5ac8116e2
18021 F20101130_AACGJD sabatelli_c_Page_28.pro
708448cd348e0443fe01728318efd604
855358c1c78f28f63ff0aa9524d5943dcc9b140e
47212 F20101130_AACGEF sabatelli_c_Page_18.jp2
c0f46b45d48b4103d2eb077054857df8
8d079a35b433d6199a068c3e2c7999a4753ed37b
28362 F20101130_AACGJE sabatelli_c_Page_29.pro
5579505a1f92f841946aa95d39e7ad31
214a7facff4edb23e99881e6ec9193216a8fc727
F20101130_AACGEG sabatelli_c_Page_03.tif
815570645376b8de6b0641acd9d19cee
470ca6ddc9ecfc25009a8c2215cac238d93fb929
26324 F20101130_AACGJF sabatelli_c_Page_30.pro
3830a6888ac4fb3a5d24ef2fb5627809
96f0bcea6e9973bdbb9c4587b0c19657390f2a64
496 F20101130_AACGEH sabatelli_c_Page_26.txt
7103d5c156529fbda075ae4060b8e5c2
5de99a41e599bb902a23558499f0513a33cf474d
19681 F20101130_AACGEI sabatelli_c_Page_16.pro
a28ed28b7f6d35e3332ea4d914e8a5e6
a86c392001829c00381d0c8a9b612ac168f62273
18537 F20101130_AACGJG sabatelli_c_Page_31.pro
fbf187da0aab3318df30f400563af7de
057daf44aaddfd156cb47c48d3986106cf718b45
7298 F20101130_AACGEJ sabatelli_c_Page_24.QC.jpg
d0e4c6c18700a14d291426d6fd7dcaf2
81848c8ba44332afdd21b1a24d39cde1bcf9f87d
38773 F20101130_AACGJH sabatelli_c_Page_32.pro
b79fca81d81b2ba78c5280e22a39641b
504af22ca58b817d72c995e5ac9e72159b5a5030
12081 F20101130_AACGEK sabatelli_c_Page_26.pro
e2ecb015db7960f69d7570e45a3c3dcb
3bbebc46327bc35fc21e912bbe14d6398f1e7052
24443 F20101130_AACGJI sabatelli_c_Page_33.pro
f1d5f88b0e6d999ae9541b31b7d51d1f
7605ce38a52917b456f0293f5ea17d84c4b5004e
970 F20101130_AACGEL sabatelli_c_Page_33.txt
caad28a2c6618fb2e80cae2a8911c786
b7028b32f10136fb980332fc9e426bb3159f1c9a
2559 F20101130_AACGEM sabatelli_c_Page_08thm.jpg
a4c631d01d93b16a1fe3739cf37565fd
399a6561f5549996066cb5a193ec187356b4fc3b
17933 F20101130_AACGJJ sabatelli_c_Page_34.pro
5461bc30cb9382106fa59f4d1bfe21ce
307333cb0aaba3448c2ac8f563ac2b4f6b8d780b
42747 F20101130_AACGEN sabatelli_c_Page_09.pro
0eaa94fe13dd0c79ac3718c0aeab126c
c5c1dcf6010eda220f89da39eea130b8e6b13245
397 F20101130_AACGJK sabatelli_c_Page_01.txt
b671293429b7c05bcfd9d5c645eb50c0
6c8793dd8517f1155ab1918a8f242ace86728f8b
2150 F20101130_AACGEO sabatelli_c_Page_01thm.jpg
433db95e4b300aecf3b700f92a820bae
5ac884d77e669ce3b0d93a9928ee86fd7703977d
119 F20101130_AACGJL sabatelli_c_Page_02.txt
f049bfbb8c05d26b7b7629ccad42ea58
c1dfe43bdd98a6bd58eb40b5ac6644cf3b6912b2
F20101130_AACGEP sabatelli_c_Page_21.tif
5cea3a2dcc6c361547879366e20dedbf
2b3557a4c96e00a8db442dd0e2c6e5ec528ff60e
128 F20101130_AACGJM sabatelli_c_Page_03.txt
4939a2dea529d2a32da6be1bdd10eb0a
896f58da5305d8aae772d6c5790d92603d11640d
38177 F20101130_AACGEQ sabatelli_c_Page_21.jpg
a819881758a7ef7e249ff356c283db9e
3741933e94649e6aa0df779de4ac2f57ef76b1b0
916 F20101130_AACGJN sabatelli_c_Page_04.txt
08fbe797c831449a9f09851c80129a18
41f4ca7f5180cf0110395e7ce1cd942c1db5a401
1744 F20101130_AACGER sabatelli_c_Page_22thm.jpg
7e132157f82073a40b0175b2807dcbd0
dd56b89aea02b8d20684ddf7627bbc83aef608f0
888 F20101130_AACGJO sabatelli_c_Page_06.txt
6db428d4bf393aa5929edfe6e39c67d7
3a86996ccea216adc71a4a20c284053c6ade2d63
F20101130_AACGES sabatelli_c_Page_19.tif
27a95d62640d9434253b753bcf9e26ce
cbd7ae4fcd88a331b2a0f988083d95f7576b423f
744 F20101130_AACGJP sabatelli_c_Page_07.txt
43fe4df72f8dd09febf6fe7c469e2ae5
5a0a2464be89cacccce2f1520c1a51b09e8e5630
43032 F20101130_AACGET UFE0010283_00001.mets
d4ee3d559b3388a910402545e17611cf
af20b9958b5510aef29818d076403347f743f9ef
667 F20101130_AACGJQ sabatelli_c_Page_08.txt
b757ec29684b7d87262e2a1e1751a60e
91d6752ff60fdf5e73c60789732504a3e454252f
1664 F20101130_AACGJR sabatelli_c_Page_09.txt
5528046426f3b600432fe7697bc4a54b
0ca4f5c5ba570ac8cc7c21566a9032adda720192
747 F20101130_AACGJS sabatelli_c_Page_10.txt
4cbb8b07e63551858c8e3dc8c3930370
26ec340f5a60fe116e4980b74931dda1940e4466
21750 F20101130_AACGEW sabatelli_c_Page_01.jpg
174387313af95a40b666580926b53c52
99d5bc077e23cad023b1c47e452deb15c7102ef2
843 F20101130_AACGJT sabatelli_c_Page_11.txt
49c8b8d7a26791cc84d3ed77e3c9cfc7
86e9c8f71f6c1a8980fa9bdf34ba1e71ec26fbc2
10429 F20101130_AACGEX sabatelli_c_Page_02.jpg
62c2657af9a7c331d88a8f1416b0ae20
2265a2017128361b27106115d1216082371b5f70
1406 F20101130_AACGJU sabatelli_c_Page_12.txt
dd9241109a943cc96696ca69def08af5
4d5570a275960be15e6283b6484df36b9c389e67
10800 F20101130_AACGEY sabatelli_c_Page_03.jpg
953133f109be9a81d92d992c7a414edc
11240fef8cf550a7f04a6653b5cfbb570a7e0f57
588 F20101130_AACGJV sabatelli_c_Page_13.txt
1c3c3383dd8b06ad6682a08bb7f39395
4ba039e5836a2131174f9ee100c617821f9f9c11
36456 F20101130_AACGEZ sabatelli_c_Page_04.jpg
0a7ba3a1eb83b9f2c63eb8cea42abac3
55dd38dd0c513a4fa42ceb84a82158999c3be72b
781 F20101130_AACGJW sabatelli_c_Page_15.txt
81968499dff7bf4fe4d60ea169eb2e4a
809db174b9e4204a1f4530c4820ae464121dee80
805 F20101130_AACGJX sabatelli_c_Page_16.txt
cd6564898d59e13a3424f59b6e219525
3583c10c922b427702514cdf0a8dfeb5f4635ac4
57742 F20101130_AACGHA sabatelli_c_Page_30.jp2
9ab50f7380a0b097baa40ec2073ce841
27f07684081072be435d2be2f3175839d10006ec
1140 F20101130_AACGJY sabatelli_c_Page_17.txt
c6698290bbe2ca3bf1428ae3c150f1c6
6cc6e8d5fce181db2fe9be5b945d021d6b715e46
41921 F20101130_AACGHB sabatelli_c_Page_31.jp2
7d10b6e759131974212be3f1ab62564b
213b5fd185a57ea0f7c3a3715f890fa352bec621
950 F20101130_AACGJZ sabatelli_c_Page_20.txt
e7604f9dd41047e0aabe86098f1ae87e
caadf01138e8269f4c0581bbc5c0a24fcac59acb
79552 F20101130_AACGHC sabatelli_c_Page_32.jp2
4c367d27a920006f9f5312523a2c1df6
cccfcabc625872ebf33535d5d8cae0f8f96af840
2283 F20101130_AACGMA sabatelli_c_Page_06thm.jpg
5e0c6d717ea757851b66a1a82a8c797b
0f9f9febf31e7c3ba7a7bcf47b784410e6bddf1c
52135 F20101130_AACGHD sabatelli_c_Page_33.jp2
27c964bef583433138efd0b244f7e114
b92fe5903ad6f6d2529dd04e8d3e450e50f25c2a
8882 F20101130_AACGMB sabatelli_c_Page_10.QC.jpg
19f206479a46df1f93f0ef20d76fc6df
53422e260bd3d998cb84d6f0c16e58b7466944f7
2796 F20101130_AACGMC sabatelli_c_Page_10thm.jpg
674eea761738c1c918710b957051f564
dded3b3e2a4666777fc7f3d340ee4adf15007fd6
41483 F20101130_AACGHE sabatelli_c_Page_34.jp2
634fdbf0c1b597d1341f10f94debc1b1
e3f9d3cbf0aa4ab2e229e213eeaebab529647d5c
7303 F20101130_AACGMD sabatelli_c_Page_13.QC.jpg
90d4dac64949460d726d4124398bcb5a
0f5f099a9871a0f77460ee7f5c0d8a83bf7ecb1d
F20101130_AACGHF sabatelli_c_Page_01.tif
ddcdb32cd3313d42c2bfb41d8f6bf6b3
ece0e635fce09e925f313b0c56ebabb2e48352c5
2297 F20101130_AACGME sabatelli_c_Page_13thm.jpg
a556528f3ece6a4b51ec95da70d1ac36
dfbe2057a3f8a03b70e3c40525bd495dfa826d24
F20101130_AACGHG sabatelli_c_Page_02.tif
d9a7a2278eb692daab7efd6d412e27ab
5ec0ae9a2d5ffa7d057fdaa6aed1d741908acec6
8793 F20101130_AACGMF sabatelli_c_Page_15.QC.jpg
58695c41996ca282153f0e64fae9bf21
1a02a123b72f1f366be6ac62b94948b5e384a780
F20101130_AACGHH sabatelli_c_Page_04.tif
b29e108776507709bdc5d675c7296673
894889fdd7ed0c291124224035aa84df71d70590
25271604 F20101130_AACGHI sabatelli_c_Page_05.tif
b4a09513997f6faa13696d2dfd6e780e
e904ad981f5c9d4349015925b60b38c8d861ce7f
11735 F20101130_AACGMG sabatelli_c_Page_17.QC.jpg
2192efcc46c81b61f6670a83f135cf12
3843f7911b1338e4a7463c9198cdbf619dacef04
F20101130_AACGHJ sabatelli_c_Page_06.tif
c9f8b1f294c1e581a0333b7e0f0b95a7
492b06fbedb4a2d7d14c06ddeab770ea1bfcc6bd
2947 F20101130_AACGMH sabatelli_c_Page_18thm.jpg
4bec77e5779ab5d82d61e26ef0a190ef
dcaff440679b67f3ce36038380b9b6c0c8aa7383
F20101130_AACGHK sabatelli_c_Page_07.tif
462f90c5a34b600301b87b631d63b33f
10bc9a164c3780e70c6d2ab49f0759dc051a5200
2820 F20101130_AACGMI sabatelli_c_Page_19thm.jpg
af0087f0b7218b89d70b7633f4abd9fe
9c1ca8eab3502a718dc485954c65d36c7d420f58
F20101130_AACGHL sabatelli_c_Page_08.tif
972cff16b1a5c663c142bf8bedf152ae
59a1ae1af571b4c7d79d26ec4acea6baac63c76b
F20101130_AACGHM sabatelli_c_Page_09.tif
42f1e68f6326213c4f425b7b3a2b3ab9
067901366bb70ac89fe984a0c44a17e31120c592
3001 F20101130_AACGMJ sabatelli_c_Page_20thm.jpg
fdcf07c66be5c5e4579975190f1b2688
ff26436608eaf5bd3a2a992016f08e16f543c07c
F20101130_AACGHN sabatelli_c_Page_10.tif
297f8bfae36a5f78c756719e8e0dab84
be86fd26118b5fd1245acd027de3b671beda2034
10344 F20101130_AACGMK sabatelli_c_Page_21.QC.jpg
d217c647baa9372d1f5a619d2b8b593b
4de4aec9e9545eb6470b7c1ba100c0980e7e1b53
F20101130_AACGHO sabatelli_c_Page_11.tif
ad64e96f0d24ca5c9e87f093a160c017
88241abe3ca33f79e09e1fc3abdbdbda2098b63f
3145 F20101130_AACGML sabatelli_c_Page_21thm.jpg
6a46281cfe82aaae26d74b86093bef2e
441e30381687ecab5c58dd43215170aefc128b35
F20101130_AACGHP sabatelli_c_Page_12.tif
b25a3b2fb7288fca82e88095f32b4347
3ec51acb6c3e97b844fd6446d9da2a90e34d2120
2411 F20101130_AACGMM sabatelli_c_Page_24thm.jpg
c3e3d3db044e311e20e1d4887f13a08b
a50d577ebafe960aa17b0017761eec1d377a9943
F20101130_AACGHQ sabatelli_c_Page_13.tif
86cffc74d5054177b1a6e581a7b4ae63
51cf9b96dae44d87d5ea3b46e4f908ffe8fcfd81
2190 F20101130_AACGMN sabatelli_c_Page_25thm.jpg
8fd72d9d3c00efa7265f9b73f4001748
44aaa65108563250ee01a94d9e28518720f89b93
F20101130_AACGHR sabatelli_c_Page_14.tif
81091455101367d90333b7aa328103a9
81e197831f52019413d9d9d4b2267e1ee182d3f6
6788 F20101130_AACGMO sabatelli_c_Page_26.QC.jpg
3f24839cff9b3e133bcf45117a65e040
70913686fbb639e0b116113197cd0bacb416c6d1
F20101130_AACGHS sabatelli_c_Page_15.tif
a7fc8e1d8f40156f3a848ea857b8268c
c1303e049ee5d1349d3f46caf04d2f151174a941
2766 F20101130_AACGMP sabatelli_c_Page_27thm.jpg
090b97c38d85c0c02951f8921fdd94f9
6c9668ae4d8c1c20ce451396af3bce7285c4a47d
F20101130_AACGHT sabatelli_c_Page_16.tif
f1c507e777279261f93da299d3728e06
aa00221e9734bbd0cb2e55a17643f84e51a88941
3676 F20101130_AACGMQ sabatelli_c_Page_29thm.jpg
ae7e2a50503475dd7d381c1fa4c44627
7321ca52678203113340f78634baa7d14d1924af
F20101130_AACGHU sabatelli_c_Page_18.tif
aed0a41c06945feb9fbff9a7c5f771ea
75f5d1369f9980c8550fa24faaccf6416eb2c0d1
11846 F20101130_AACGMR sabatelli_c_Page_30.QC.jpg
b5cb37cce51411974d21265cca9daebb
5d88f53241639fd1d4033a133f8b649265bbb4c3
F20101130_AACGHV sabatelli_c_Page_20.tif
595da4c9559ee5b2c33348f8bbdb778d
fcf38534e362d271da950d7f0dfd33ddc46f6c80
9341 F20101130_AACGMS sabatelli_c_Page_31.QC.jpg
cdf66f79e2d8122200de6dc337f64df8
aab6d919231a9c99607614a2fc6def020d6d4134
F20101130_AACGHW sabatelli_c_Page_22.tif
3a9cefc32903574af142fa6af84a2270
5a34ac6db532336cf9d746a40fae366b84013ffc
2956 F20101130_AACGMT sabatelli_c_Page_31thm.jpg
fbee3aa4d6ca811c7da3c73c446c2048
1e6495eae1172b1fccea2e6659554f5fdd37bf9f
F20101130_AACGHX sabatelli_c_Page_23.tif
6d7b6e00c336a45dad417fcc20698d00
a30627bbd8b75aa94293cb51bb1d6492fa9fd01f
F20101130_AACGHY sabatelli_c_Page_24.tif
8500864a574b9eb3348c45035939a940
65e9b8a853fa7bb859bd0afb7623cf950189609c
55023 F20101130_AACGFA sabatelli_c_Page_05.jpg
a61d9f78d711b5be9e49702f6b6178db
530b17cb4153e7def5885f32d9ad6455299fa972
F20101130_AACGHZ sabatelli_c_Page_25.tif
f5c051015a3cd017fc79d1e431828c66
b5f673f3583722cbe581f4776d63a08b4e826aea
23192 F20101130_AACGFB sabatelli_c_Page_06.jpg
b29e13d154dbbf76b64d7e08580b080e
03605ce14abd614e0bec49275ee622f46f783f7c
253 F20101130_AACGKA sabatelli_c_Page_22.txt
5efffa6bd9ea5b221d265d920d54cfc6
a6361096d9cab10f57230b0ac933298abd188995
28374 F20101130_AACGFC sabatelli_c_Page_08.jpg
c22a8ca64124351ad991f8413127c230
1f062a23cd8070369d9275bdf71db9188d07e253
F20101130_AACGKB sabatelli_c_Page_23.txt
8249bc9167a5f42524bf70216f5ee22e
2e7940af18ef620eaabad9a883f05119768e1816
59211 F20101130_AACGFD sabatelli_c_Page_09.jpg
6d9de23b49e86536ac9956c367a64935
f6722ba02bd4150f862cffd2ff6dd174b1296b9d
621 F20101130_AACGKC sabatelli_c_Page_24.txt
557bfadd5b1cc5dab8c3cabbeee7e078
ce98ab00ed21b806a1c67728d4260d76fab2450e
31303 F20101130_AACGFE sabatelli_c_Page_10.jpg
35c6811934c45a4eb03febd920da311d
2ce78437489c6cd3b3abda189f86687ac9d4579c
424 F20101130_AACGKD sabatelli_c_Page_25.txt
0d287e66eb65c295c7a2572988b1905a
266bcb8eae7e946a2b0c62cb0fc7c6ab7f9d854b
33715 F20101130_AACGFF sabatelli_c_Page_11.jpg
46fb5c70f71df1a0cb1c0a2a357817fd
ad93008503863b21444cb38cc12ad7d7c1b982c4
731 F20101130_AACGKE sabatelli_c_Page_27.txt
2fbd0d217be907f06dab748f7b547dad
fb58ac83753c8c14e39768fbfe74b77c0ed3a4c2
26163 F20101130_AACGFG sabatelli_c_Page_13.jpg
dbbec3f3b778a3d6d4110f5f906caebd
9001698969f31c77cbe80ec3626d263b39f84b6c
1049 F20101130_AACGKF sabatelli_c_Page_30.txt
d20ff065cc9154b422ed1c665acab12a
eddc108b45a7676368fb81660be196be03b7b585
33251 F20101130_AACGFH sabatelli_c_Page_14.jpg
52baa1f45c39b63c1c3a18c6508c0e52
8bbb51a14a4de8af47f8fcae8eb3eb9a69f3a0e1
750 F20101130_AACGKG sabatelli_c_Page_31.txt
5dd9600d70950a26b3a630d4e4511a39
5356ab868ffde0a65f5ef5f7224a6dd1e696e634
32193 F20101130_AACGFI sabatelli_c_Page_15.jpg
427b53ea48e94c4ccec471f6ee9b07bd
cab21703235730e7e59f3d249c9da9c02e9834e6
33312 F20101130_AACGFJ sabatelli_c_Page_16.jpg
60c69cee64fc3de65e069323956e714c
5e2cb3852368da12bc9a8a4c2283be4b6e4f7700
1559 F20101130_AACGKH sabatelli_c_Page_32.txt
9017ac86e806a8a293e27ba2c87dcde2
7905d4adb5cda8c0885e722031eed44b1d685a69
42986 F20101130_AACGFK sabatelli_c_Page_17.jpg
12ad11fc07f939060b8f72fce98fecce
d6076ec9ee43d43d2a7ce630cb402655b15c364d
761 F20101130_AACGKI sabatelli_c_Page_34.txt
121b4c25a627ce984ee212bfec9916ba
d931876b134dc91e89f9c54b3587bf232951203f
35090 F20101130_AACGFL sabatelli_c_Page_18.jpg
8945926066ee6eebfa084b7ef4740917
ba5b62dedf1086a33f191aa7864f56699351be12
60860 F20101130_AACGKJ sabatelli_c.pdf
03794e4179608008857e19e4d7d0d7d6
09d6902da9b237af8ad9364e93836b1f4f6b8781
30659 F20101130_AACGFM sabatelli_c_Page_19.jpg
c5aa95b9d4413afdc27460281677284e
b864fa4fe5daa2950ca2213562478a769d3ac800
10125 F20101130_AACGKK sabatelli_c_Page_20.QC.jpg
c6895512b8f3ed743e4899e254a782ff
3e50d94999d937058aef2aeaad40514fa026832b
37547 F20101130_AACGFN sabatelli_c_Page_20.jpg
fb984551765387a58428de217f286d4e
c50912d85a86e2ed203e7178bd1e2d322e65e7f9
9577 F20101130_AACGKL sabatelli_c_Page_16.QC.jpg
b820dae0459ddef3a9fae52cafede5f6
c91a28c2181cd08b5af8ac9cefb922c665b1c79a
15877 F20101130_AACGFO sabatelli_c_Page_22.jpg
20c84ea070ae2480a8b198a16e0fceea
9dd8597091944196764ec67334298fb3d878d94e
4333 F20101130_AACGKM sabatelli_c_Page_32thm.jpg
5524d772a23dc5ff96523b025aed43e7
0ee315338191f13a009dbe66b5558270787718b7
26931 F20101130_AACGFP sabatelli_c_Page_24.jpg
0ca55da27848e1fb1986690a4c71b31e
fa33bb9cdfc598efd91d73d2e3bd5854987459fb
4409 F20101130_AACGKN sabatelli_c_Page_05thm.jpg
0083cedb931772fcb23f642374a414b5
17be157e926a36b58b560bb84abdb1b052f79981
21217 F20101130_AACGFQ sabatelli_c_Page_25.jpg
a25a09e923f07801bddaa8ef743494b0
0118735ff48f7bc9b9e26b7b96a83aea8a7c5148
10274 F20101130_AACGKO sabatelli_c_Page_34.QC.jpg
762079a3cdc7274894c48137f60b0ed4
ab2b20ced77fa88faa14f31fefb79191792beddb
22747 F20101130_AACGFR sabatelli_c_Page_26.jpg
6510df6eebce9777abcc5ec76de19b44
85b51dcb417c62b22f777137f2faadb4f70a1966
6351 F20101130_AACGKP sabatelli_c_Page_25.QC.jpg
f1ecaded0be278b50bed97b497fb1b91
b0dc944c282e1790ad422563f07ffe43504d7cdf
31123 F20101130_AACGFS sabatelli_c_Page_27.jpg
040c174883e7c9aa72da92fb866bc36a
8f7445068ccefbcaec5f60d6efaa22a1e6a19ecc
12388 F20101130_AACGKQ sabatelli_c_Page_04.QC.jpg
d9810e70837fe92dc23f9280e953017e
bcdc0eb11cda28058ed7811621f2bfc173736480
29604 F20101130_AACGFT sabatelli_c_Page_28.jpg
70ab3c49f1e9b01d9048f1afcda515be
356f4dda8629cb592d9039fdc3757a889f3e9226
2685 F20101130_AACGKR sabatelli_c_Page_15thm.jpg
f770c81e1228fa150c84592e5f1d1b8c
12dd4c61807c6fbd4e9e94936795a1cea8d2629b
42314 F20101130_AACGFU sabatelli_c_Page_29.jpg
331482d5c3dbead126a324c43291a63e
a365cc822c6d7055b7bac51a117a4833da646e8a
2974 F20101130_AACGKS sabatelli_c_Page_16thm.jpg
5c4c9834f39c54c0218081cc2a03f64b
b7b213818f217aa98f508d6567577e5d911304ae
40887 F20101130_AACGFV sabatelli_c_Page_30.jpg
5506585edf48e91f3bb3dd69a5ea1b03
0e06e62386e5b27db29e408e8b2b831bdd381784
4344 F20101130_AACGKT sabatelli_c_Page_09thm.jpg
50b955a185f496c781bad7b326b0813a
b1330eed693f8cee7cfc9b2a5c7fca2852535e12
32290 F20101130_AACGFW sabatelli_c_Page_31.jpg
4bb6bc0a7a6f337f669b30cd8af1634f
cb86076365aa6e146ea0eecf1f203a6710f73a77
8825 F20101130_AACGKU sabatelli_c_Page_27.QC.jpg
4a0fe9502743504be637517cf7a8545c
a41a75fdbba99e8425a58ba8e8e31206098433d2
55162 F20101130_AACGFX sabatelli_c_Page_32.jpg
bdc5d5759ca6cc6ab27e57685a928eaa
4c8893e4d80e62440dabc8983b111684aefec6a6
3620 F20101130_AACGKV sabatelli_c_Page_30thm.jpg
bd28110bc68c8229503fa2c300c311d2
668944abe68bee4cc0cc3ca2f57c562b043ae4fc
39438 F20101130_AACGFY sabatelli_c_Page_33.jpg
bf46a2d93bf63e4ad97b553a8b669c90
471d2d01c81c53979ab8df1c996f8556eb6fad4b
9869 F20101130_AACGKW sabatelli_c_Page_11.QC.jpg
c21955bb82f9bc367c61f976aba067b2
8cd1f6ecb0ced2429d2715e0f1faa5b4e7d35498
31373 F20101130_AACGFZ sabatelli_c_Page_34.jpg
225a190109e1e81d5e16354369274e05
be0586e245c6828d8460c6581195fa9094c482dc



PAGE 1

SHERWOOD ANDERSON TOURS THE EAST VILLAGE By CHRISTIAAN SABATELLI A DISSERTATION PRESENTED TO THE GRADUATE SCHOOL OF THE UNIVERSITY OF FLOR IDA IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF MASTER OF FINE ARTS UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA 2005

PAGE 2

Copyright 2005 by Christiaan Sabatelli

PAGE 3

For Sarah Lucy Sabatelli, my mother, and Sabastian Sabatelli, my son.

PAGE 4

iv ACKNOWLEDGMENTS My mother always told me that I should be a writer, and so here I am. I would like to thank my son, Sabastian, who is my motivation for so many things. Second, for help and guidance with this project, I woul d like to thank William Logan. He has been an astute reader of my poems and has guided me away from my natural proclivity toward the sentimental. In addition, I o ffer many thanks to R. Allen Shoaf and Marsha Bryant for their willingness to serve on my thesis committee. Finally, I would like to thank my fellow MFAs for their own guidance, be it in workshops or conversat ions. Specifically, I want to thank Kachina Dominick; she and I have a great number of sim ilarities. Both of us had “hippie” upbringings and maintain an outsid er view as a result of that. Both of us still grieve for our mothers.

PAGE 5

v TABLE OF CONTENTS page ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.................................................................................................iv ABSTRACT......................................................................................................................v ii LIGHT BEFORE THE SUN...............................................................................................1 BUTTONS ....................................................................................................................... ...2 READING TEA LEAVES .................................................................................................3 DOCTOR REEFY'S SELF-PORTRAIT ............................................................................4 LINEAGE ....................................................................................................................... ....5 WAITING........................................................................................................................ ....7 VIEW FROM BOSTON: DISBELIEF................................................................................8 SHERWOOD ANDERSON TOUR S THE EAST VILLAGE............................................9 MIRACLE WORKER.......................................................................................................10 LAZARUS........................................................................................................................ .11 SMALL HANDS...............................................................................................................12 PENELOPE....................................................................................................................... .13 TSUKASA-DAYU, A LADY OF PLEASURE ....................................................................14 BEFORE CHARMING.....................................................................................................15 HIDE AND SEEK.............................................................................................................16 ORCHESTRA....................................................................................................................17 GEORGE WILLARD READS BASHO...........................................................................18 OUT OF SEASON.............................................................................................................19

PAGE 6

vi TIME SQUARE.................................................................................................................20 JUNE........................................................................................................................... .......21 IN THE STADIUM...........................................................................................................22 THE GREAT DICTATOR ..................................................................................................23 DEATH FROM EXPOSURE............................................................................................24 ELEGY FOR MY MOTHER............................................................................................25 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.............................................................................................27

PAGE 7

vii Abstract of Dissertation Pres ented to the Graduate School of the University of Florida in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Master of Fine Arts SHERWOOD ANDERSON TOURS THE EAST VILLAGE By Christiaan Sabatelli May 2005 Chair: William Logan Major Department: English This thesis is a collection of twenty-four original poems. These poems range in subject: some dealing with lineage; others with grief; some are fictions; others historical. Many of them are a combination of memory and observation.

PAGE 8

1 LIGHT BEFORE THE SUN I rise into gray light before the sun and stare around me, wondering if I have slept too long or too late. The pale light of the clock strangles everything in its color. Before I begin those tasks that consume the day, I think of my son awake late past dark, of my mother’s smile as disease crumpled her. I no longer recognize my own hands. I know that this must be what the last edge of life looks like, the grainy light framing the bulk of things. I sit, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark, but there is no miracle, only the slowly gorging light that indicates it will soon be day.

PAGE 9

2 BUTTONS So, I’m putting new shoelaces into the shoes I’ve worn for a year now, and the laces aren’t going in easy. There’s this large hole in th e heel of my left sock, and my skin shines against the gray cloth like a golden apple at dusk. So I get up, and I walk into Crowley’s store, shoes still in hand, and there is this fellow yammering on to Ebenezer. He’s trying to sell buttons or something, and I get this idea that I should scare him off. I walk to where Ebenezer keeps his guns on display, right by the front door. Anyone could walk out with one. So I grab one of the cheap revolvers from the case and begin to wave it around. “You get out of here,” I scream at the guy. “We don’t want any collar fasteners here.” Then I realize they may think I’ve lost it, or that I have something personal against this guy. So I try to make sure they know I’m not losing it. “I don’t say I’ll shoot,” I tell them. “Maybe I just took this gun out of the case to look at it. But you better get out. Ye s sir, I’ll say that. You better grab your things and get out.” Somehow I don’t think they believed in my sanity. The traveling man left, raking different colored samples of collar fasteners off the counter into his black leather bag. He ran. He was a small and bow-legged, so he ran funny. His bag caught on the door and he stumbled out. “Crazy, that’s what he is—crazy!” he screamed as he rose from the sidewalk. Inside it was real quiet. I replaced the revolver. My feet got cold, so I sat down to put on my shoes, I still had them in my hand. That made it better, even without the laces.

PAGE 10

3 READING TEA LEAVES I'll die in Bangladesh, potato farms surrounding me the stacked hillside tangled in vines, my hair gathering wind and rain. In streets, motorcars and mopeds will be unaware of my body, glittering in earthbound drops. Having taken to reading tea leaves, I can see the fields, the grimace of the pickers, saturating the countless rows of green as the water collects in their cloths. Each cup of tea tells me more than I want to know. I'll die in Bangladesh, new potatoes bulking in stolons below me, the rain making puddles of spatter-mad mud. When the pickers return, after the rain stops and the ground is firm under foot, they will find my body, bathed in leaves and vines.

PAGE 11

4 DOCTOR REEFY’S SELF-PORTRAIT Do you know all the sweetness of the gnarled apples, the slight, round bodies rejected by pickers, that hold in one side all th e sweetness of the season? Have you forsaken the apples eaten in the city, the bright fruit for display, the gloss waxed on to compensate for flavor? Do you fill your pockets with knotted fruit, moving tree to tree before the end of the day, ground hard underfoot with frost, looking for the last rejected growth of the orchard? And are you now nibbling past the skin, finding the reluctant juice, tasting flavor others reject, unable to fix your mind upon the round perfect fruit? Few have seen these bodies in the grove, or plucked such sweetness from the tree; few will ever hold on their tongues the affection for this body.

PAGE 12

5 LINEAGE 1 The Honeymoon The tree fell across power lines until the pole leaned toward the fallen tree like an injured man, slumpe d, caught in his fall. The tree, a live oak, half rotten and black, was old enough to have sprouted the year the San Marcos Record reported that my grandparents “solemnized” their marriage. The storm moved from San Salvador Island to Tampa, and then into Georgia. My grandparents traveled too, “leisurely, making stops in New Orleans and Ta mpa, Florida.” My grandparents continued on to Key West where they board ed “a steamer for Havana and after a few days in that city went on to Panama.” They lived there for years among the Kuna Indians, before the Kuna moved to San Blas Archipelago to retain their tribal identity. Hurricane Frances never saw Cuba or Panama, the way my grandparents did; it just lingered in Florida. In the morning, there we re still zealot winds. My son and I picked up shards of wood pulled from the pole and went inside. We each put on dry cl othes and waited for the storm to quiet outside, for the electric to come back on. 2 Storytelling Tonight, in shadows above my bed, I see bodies, hear the stories they tell each other as they grow grotesque and dissolve. In them the boy-body I once had shows a moment and then fades into the flickering shapes of two bodies coupling.

PAGE 13

6 These are the movements that made my son, and they too dissolve, their bulk mixing to become a man I never knew, a man who still stains my blood, a man who raised my mother. He is telling the story of my birth, of how I was born early, my mother’s water breaking before I was due, the doctor afraid to leave me in. His story trails off as a K una woman replaces him, a gold ring hanging from her nose. She is whispering to a baby all th e secrets she knows are true, she is telling him that we are all born from fear, that we are all born too early.

PAGE 14

7 WAITING I close my eyes, my car cooling under a sugar maple. From here I can see the wharves wilt into the slick river and the sun fade into the Lincoln Tunnel before it exits into Weehawken. On the corner a babushka mother toddles her girl home from school. This is Whitman’s city still, the numberless crowded streets and tall grass of buildings, the sky gorged with spires, and this side of the island is budding: playgrounds plump with strollers, fields lush with pigeons, the river blackened by thaw. I remember kissing my first girl near here, in the elevator of the beige building on the corner of 80th Street. She was blonde and more experienced. On the same corner, years later, I waited for my father at the park entrance. He was late and I moved away not to live here since.

PAGE 15

8 VIEW FROM BOSTON: DISBELIEF The cold cough of the Atlantic blows west, into Pleasure Bay. Inland, St. Matthew the Redeemer awaits its congregation; fros t grates the gulls catamaraning through the spires. Across the brackish foam, past Fort Warren Island and the hull of Cape Cod, past Gloucester Harbor and the canyon-deep nets of the Sohm Abyssal, the ship -steel body of the Disbelief sits counting barnacles. The dull anger of the bell keeps mako sharks at bay, the throated bulk of the engine cold dark, the pr opeller asleep in the water. Thick with halibut, the lower decks are littered with sleep, the deckhouse sile nt as the captain plots a path through the storm. He does not know the calm settled days before, settled above.

PAGE 16

9 SHERWOOD ANDERSON TOURS THE EAST VILLAGE This is still the city I remember. Over there, the woman, drunk and laughing, scuttles out from an after-hours bar and presses her palms hard against the smooth granite side of a bank, then crouches and pisses on the sidewalk. Or there, bent like a strawberry picker looking for blushed unblemished fruit, the frayed shape of a man rummages through the dumpster. And there, in the first na tural light of the day, like a team of insects, garbage men gather the slick black plastic bags and throw them into the hive-mouth of their truck. Even in the buildings, where we cannot see them, lovers wait an extra moment before uncurling from each other, into the day. This is the same, always the same.

PAGE 17

10 MIRACLE WORKER A block past 7th Avenue, on West 39th, the door reads “Interior Design Brought to New Levels.” There is swagger in the wording that suggests the owner would tell you, over Merlot in some brick-walled bistro, “I turn Freudian couches into day beds, making velvet settees match the color of anger. There are hours when I turn bedding into more than a place to sleep, finding the right weaves to reveal baldachins that conceal and entice. I find moir and padding to cover grasscloth. For those who want something airy, I use only light-colored linen. I have a son who could learn my trade. I watch him brush terrycloth or wrap women in Cheviot cloth and I see a younger version of me. He does not want to thread his life like mine, stitching cloth into days, patching weeks with work. He is like a sweater with a single loose strand, always unraveling from the stitch of staying. Sometimes I wish I could join him, throw everything into his Ford F150, the road dissolving into the next state line. But I have clients waiting and a reputation as a miracle worker.”

PAGE 18

11 LAZARUS After two days in the cave, Lazarus mistook the face of his Savior for a loaf of bread, the hands that had raised him for goblets. He saw his sister Martha weep for a man she would never wed, craving to smell the skin of the Savior, to feel the thorns of His beard. Magdalene, with hennaed hair that had dried prayers from Jesus’ feet, her hands scented of spikenard, lips painted with calling men to bed, was the only one Lazarus recognized. He saw the falling away of her shoulder, the dark coins of her nipples through her linen dress, the tangle of hair between her hips. He wanted to taste sweat of other men on her lips, to smell beneath her hem. He saw that to live was to sin, that even his sisters were temptation. In that moment, he turned into the cave again, knowing his flesh called for the darkness.

PAGE 19

12 SMALL HANDS I learned the sound of my parents. There were curves in the creaking sheets, fingers in my father’s whispers, thighs when my mother sighed. Hands slid across stomach as she swallowed his tongue, became damp when his lips pressed her nipples. Blood rushed raw around ribs as her fingers forced him on. Breathing was rhythm. I’m older now, and light still falls from where wall becomes door. Now it is my lovers wound in light, my sounds seeping out to creep down the hall. Now I wonder if my son’s small hands listen; fingers discovering limbs by sighs, sounds guiding hands over skin, pleasure measured by increments of my breath.

PAGE 20

13 PENELOPE In his mind, she is a river brackish with rill and desire. He thinks of her carrying the sand that becomes the soft shore of the delta. He thinks of her mingling with the ocean, the salt gathering in the folds of her skin. She is fresh water far from the sea and Ogygia. He watches the wind that gathers in a clot just before the curve breaks, before the fabric snaps back to being cloth. He tells himself the story of how he had been kept from death, of how he had been loved like the tide and lulled into forgetting. Some days, he watches the white curl of the wind on the winedark waters; and there is an echo of the way home. He struggles, then, to remember the fistfuls of stars that were a map, to remember catching the curve of cloth into a sail. Before the wind becomes a way home he hears Calypso singing, sees her body naked in the sun and decides to stay another night.

PAGE 21

14 TSUKASA-DAYU, A LADY OF PLEASURE Someone calloused his hands carving this lion’s paw shell at the center of the headboard, the single flare above the grain moving like a breeze from right to left. There, above, the woman in Eishosai Choki’s print wipes her neck, her gown close to falling away, her lips too small ever to kiss a man. Still in the darkness, arms crossed behind your head, you hang off the bed. In the electric-green glow of the clock, your sh irt is pulled away to reveal the stretch-marked ghosts of three children. On the floor the cat licks his limbs, his body stretched pa rallel to yours, his guttural purr cr ossing the room. My fingers hunt the lines around your ribs, finding the texture of your skin; your hair fans across the sheets. I have never been married, denying that history demands that sort of thing, and have never touched a married body. Your lips are the right size.

PAGE 22

15 BEFORE CHARMING She was asleep. We brothers saw poison in the apple, did not see blood beneath snow, did not read eyes rippling under dreams, did not listen to lips whispering his name. She waited for him to come.

PAGE 23

16 HIDE AND SEEK Gnats dance clouds around your face as you start to hunt for other children hiding between corn-stalk rows that seem tall enough to touch clouds. Even though you cheated, peeking through squinted eyes to watch where they ran, you pass by, and they run to the old oak-tree base. Then you hide, pressing your body into the ground behind a bush. You hardly breathe, hoping that your heart stops beating out of your ears. You lie there, a stone deep between your shoulder blades, blades of grass itching you like insects crawling over your skin. You lie there, darkness reaching out from the tree line and the air starts to glitter with fireflies around you. In the dark, you watch clouds change into cars and houses and by the time you stand up hide and seek is over.

PAGE 24

17 ORCHESTRA From silence only the coranglais, fading as a single boy pick s up the last note still damp in our ears. His voice opening as a second boy joins the steady sound, they are the beginning of melody, the birth-spring of all the notes to follow; from them comes the spinto that mimics reeds, from them others are led into the song. And then the others are gone, the voices dropping away, until only the boy, the same boy who began, is left holding his voice in the silence, the one echo of the first reed-note, the single remnant that allows us to remember the choir.

PAGE 25

18 GEORGE WILLARD READS BASHO The sounds are stones polished until they are mistaken for glass, they slowly erode into sand and are swallowed whole by the ocean. The words lie like earth dark on the face of a fresh grave, or huddle together in the muddy palms of puddles. The poems are made of wood, ribs and rough-skinned arms, they are whittled down into unstruck matchsticks.

PAGE 26

19 OUT OF SEASON In the slump toward winter there is wood smoke out of sight, and darkness in the leaves. Wind brings little grains of cold, each grey day shorter. You wore summer on your skin long past the season’s end. Here, far from where you are, winter grows, tangled. Fish swim under the lake’s new found skin, bee-sick weeds swell past the ebb of summer’s numb heat. Even in autumn, you are present. Even in August, frost waits to be born.

PAGE 27

20 TIME SQUARE I approach 42nd Street; taxis scuttle down Broadway, snow slowly covers phone booths and parked cars. The neon garden of Times Square is no longer filled with “grinder” houses. The city is a franchise now. I stop for coffee. The waitress, young, dark-skinned, pours coffee, the steam snakes into the air. She is watching the snow. I see her thinking about her walk home; I have known that same cold. I drink, the vapor covering my sight. In the Daily News a “tight-knit family of crack dealers” no longer thrives, their run-down brownstone clos ed after two generations. Another poor woman has been found dead from exposure. Tomorrow calls for more snow, and sorrow.

PAGE 28

21 JUNE This is no longer the season of seed-cases standing above soil, or mildewed rain. Knuckled fists of fruit hang thirsty on the stem in this bronze blanket of summer, when morning and evening are the same, and breath is too heavy to carry. I turn into the shadowed end of the field. Still in the tree shade, the deer, eyes fluid with fear, pushes hooves into a run that will not come. The pavement is cool against my feet. Her breath gone, her eyes turn headlight-white and I lift her away from the road, carrying her to the field. My father’s Chevy lies gashed and broken. I lay her on the ground, next to the empty engine compartment, two bodies to rust together.

PAGE 29

22 IN THE STADIUM For Victor Jara The table was fetched by soldiers to the middle of the arena so six thousand prisoners could see. He placed his hands on the table as ordered; the ax in the officer's hands fell. "I have two beautiful ch ildren and a happy home," the officer said, days afterw ards, to the foreign press. The first stroke severed all fingers but the thumb from the left hand, a second stroke all but the thumb from the right. Like lightwood, they fell to the wooden floor still moving. Like timber the body fell, too. Twelve thousand eyes watched the officer hit him, screaming, cursing him and ordering him to sing. Hands dripping, his face turning vi olet, he raised himself. Blind from blows he turned towards the bleachers, his steps faltering, his bloody hands stretched forward like a sleepwalker’s. When he came to where the arena and bleachers met, he sang the anthem of the Unidad Popular. Six thousand voices sang with him. Then came a volley from the mouths of machine guns. His body began to fall forward, bowing long and slow, in reverence.

PAGE 30

23 THE GREAT DICTATOR Two bodies and the open road, both fading like Chaplin’s optimism; The Great Dictator his first not to have such an ending. In 1940 there was no Nacht und Nebel, no set way for a movie to disappear from view, no fixed solution on how to end a film. Chaplin’s tramp knows this, his pigeon-toed step the same as eighty-six movies before, the one thing that stayed the same. This time Paulette Goddard is the girl. Now the tramp and the beauty have married, not on screen, but in life, Chaplin habitually blurring his character and himself. Goddard, the third woman to be his legal lead, the oldest woman he ever romanced, the only divorc, was nominated for an Academy Award without him. A creature of habit, Chaplin had ended his films with the dark line dissolving into the horizon, a female body, and the chance of a happy ending. Now, always just a step out of frame, history, Goddard’s beauty become a blanket, Chaplin’s tramp fading into night and fog.

PAGE 31

24 DEATH FROM EXPOSURE Through the trees, the dark pawed from the edges. She could see it through the wa tery glass of her window, through the leafless branches that reared up outside her Garment District apartment. She should have kept herself moving, kept the cold away. There was work to be done, dusting photographs, sweeping the hall between the bedroom and the rest of the house, bills to be paid. She felt the cold folding in on her and wanted to rest a moment. She sat and watched as the sky changed, the blue-blush began to orange, yellow and red marbling between clouds. She watched as the reds faded into lavender, and then into the near-black, the deep purple of blood in her lips.

PAGE 32

25 ELEGY FOR MY MOTHER (Sarah Lucy Sabatelli 1942-1997) 1 As the moon decayed behind the horizon and your grandson slept in a bed infected with dreams, you found your death. You had fought it when you were four, a sliver of glass connecting your wrist to your brother’s hand. At twenty you flirted with it in the wards of Silver Hills. You had always known where it was. You saw it when you dreamt of Ve nezuela, of your childhood. When your husband died, you met it in dark corners of restaurants and drank with it as your liver failed. When you tired of its company you sent it out to wait for you in an ordinary hotel room, to wait as ascites bloated your skin and jaundice colored your eyes. You grew empty, forgetting it with the same care you took to forget yourself. It waited, under frayed blankets, between sheets that smelled of stiffness. It waited as the air conditioner gurgled night in that room, where nobody knew you. 2 My son wants to visit the place he last saw you. He wants to remember the coffee-colored ground and the autumn air that pressed his cheeks when we buried you. He believes he will remember your floral print, that his memories grow like dandelions from the soil. In the past winter the s now compacted the ground, and now above you there is a hollow in the ground. The trees still dress in shadows, and the beautiful stubble of gr ass has begun to grow again; but there is no marker. There are no flowers.

PAGE 33

26 3 That day your hands held the color of sickness, knuckles bent stiffly, weaving your fingers into each other, your wrists too thin to have held me. They were not your hands; they had never been your hands. Your unpainted fingernails were the purple of your dress. I remember how the hair was brushed away from your face, the gray roots like rage. The fluids that had filled your face, that had inflated your chin and thinned your lips, pulled away from your face now. There was no more bloating around your eyes. Your jaw became square with the fluid; the skin of your face became taut from the weight. Sharp bones cut across your face; your flat forehead was free of years; there was a thin-boned nose that belonged to a girl gone before I was born. This was a face I had seen only in photographs, a face that looked more like me than you. This face was yours, before you forgot who you were; it had always been yours.

PAGE 34

27 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Christiaan Sabatelli was born in New York City. At seventeen, he found out that he was about to be a father, and at eighteen he worked at his first Renaissance festival. After that first festival experience, Christiaan moved to Florida to “winter” and get ready for the next year’s festival ci rcuit. He spent five years or so kicking around the country working Renaissance festivals, then became bore d. In an attempt to jump-start his brain again, Christiaan went back to school and earned a bachelo r’s degree from New College of Florida. He still has his son; and one day the two of them will leave Florida, a place he never intended to live in so long.


Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UFE0010283/00001

Material Information

Title: Sherwood Anderson Tours the East Village
Physical Description: Mixed Material
Copyright Date: 2008

Record Information

Source Institution: University of Florida
Holding Location: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
System ID: UFE0010283:00001

Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UFE0010283/00001

Material Information

Title: Sherwood Anderson Tours the East Village
Physical Description: Mixed Material
Copyright Date: 2008

Record Information

Source Institution: University of Florida
Holding Location: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
System ID: UFE0010283:00001


This item has the following downloads:


Full Text












SHERWOOD ANDERSON TOURS THE EAST VILLAGE


By

CHRISTIAAN SABATELLI













A DISSERTATION PRESENTED TO THE GRADUATE SCHOOL
OF THE UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT
OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF
MASTER OF FINE ARTS

UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA


2005

































Copyright 2005

by

Christiaan Sabatelli




























For Sarah Lucy Sabatelli, my mother,
and Sabastian Sabatelli, my son.















ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My mother always told me that I should be a writer, and so here I am. I would

like to thank my son, Sabastian, who is my motivation for so many things. Second, for

help and guidance with this project, I would like to thank William Logan. He has been

an astute reader of my poems and has guided me away from my natural proclivity toward

the sentimental. In addition, I offer many thanks to R. Allen Shoaf and Marsha Bryant

for their willingness to serve on my thesis committee. Finally, I would like to thank my

fellow MFAs for their own guidance, be it in workshops or conversations. Specifically, I

want to thank Kachina Dominick; she and I have a great number of similarities. Both of

us had "hippie" upbringings and maintain an outsider view as a result of that. Both of us

still grieve for our mothers.
















TABLE OF CONTENTS



A C K N O W L E D G M E N T S ................................................................................................. iv

ABSTRACT ............... .......................................... vii

L IG H T B E F O R E TH E SU N ................................................................. ......................... 1

B U TTO N S ........................................................ 2

R EA D IN G TEA LEA V E S ................................................................ ......................... 3

DOCTOR REEFY'S SELF-PORTRAIT ........................................ ......................... 4

L IN E A G E ..................................................................5

W A IT IN G ................................................................................. 7

V IEW FR OM B O STON : D ISBELIEF ....................................................... .......................8

SHERWOOD ANDERSON TOURS THE EAST VILLAGE ................... ................9

M IR A C L E W O R K E R ......... ..... .......... ...................................................................... 10

L A Z A R U S ............................................................... ... ......................................... 1 1

SM ALL HAND S .............. ....... .............................. ........... 12

P E N E L O PE ......... .... .............. ...................................... ............................ 13

TSUKASA-DAYU, A LADY OF PLEASURE ...............................................................14

B E F O R E C H A R M IN G ............................................................................ ....................15

HIDE AND SEEK .................... ...................... ....... ........ 16

O R C H E ST R A .........................................................................................17

GEORGE WILLARD READS BASHO ........................................ ........................ 18

OUT OF SEASON................... ................................19



v









T IM E S Q U A R E ................................................................................................... .. 2 0

J U N E ............................................................................................................................. 2 1

IN THE STADIUM ...................... ........................... ......22

TH E G R EA T D IC TA TO R .................................... ............................. ............................23

D EA TH FR O M EX PO SU R E ............................................................................. ...........24

E LE G Y FO R M Y M O TH ER ........................................ .............................................25

B IO G R A PH IC A L SK E TCH ...................................................................... ..................27















Abstract of Dissertation Presented to the Graduate School
of the University of Florida in Partial Fulfillment of the
Requirements for the Degree of Master of Fine Arts

SHERWOOD ANDERSON TOURS THE EAST VILLAGE


By

Christiaan Sabatelli

May 2005

Chair: William Logan
Major Department: English

This thesis is a collection of twenty-four original poems. These poems range in

subject: some dealing with lineage; others with grief; some are fictions; others historical.

Many of them are a combination of memory and observation.















LIGHT BEFORE THE SUN


I rise into gray light before the sun
and stare around me,
wondering if I have slept too long
or too late. The pale light of the clock
strangles everything in its color.

Before I begin
those tasks that consume the day,
I think of my son awake late past dark,
of my mother's smile as disease crumpled her.
I no longer recognize my own hands.

I know that this must be
what the last edge of life looks like,
the grainy light framing the bulk of things.
I sit, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark,

but there is no miracle,
only the slowly gorging light
that indicates it will soon be day.















BUTTONS


So, I'm putting new shoelaces into the shoes
I've worn for a year now,
and the laces aren't going in easy.
There's this large hole in the heel of my left sock,
and my skin shines against the gray cloth
like a golden apple at dusk.

So I get up, and I walk into Crowley's store,
shoes still in hand, and there is this fellow
yammering on to Ebenezer.
He's trying to sell buttons or something,
and I get this idea that I should scare him off.
I walk to where Ebenezer keeps his guns on display,
right by the front door.
Anyone could walk out with one.
So I grab one of the cheap revolvers from the case
and begin to wave it around.
"You get out of here," I scream at the guy.
"We don't want any collar fasteners here."
Then I realize they may think I've lost it,
or that I have something personal against this guy.
So I try to make sure they know I'm not losing it.
"I don't say I'll shoot," I tell them.
"Maybe I just took this gun out of the case to look at it.
But you better get out. Yes sir, I'll say that.
You better grab your things and get out."

Somehow I don't think they believed in my sanity.

The traveling man left, raking different colored samples
of collar fasteners off the counter into his black leather bag.
He ran. He was a small and bow-legged, so he ran funny.
His bag caught on the door and he stumbled out.
"Crazy, that's what he is-crazy!" he screamed
as he rose from the sidewalk.
Inside it was real quiet.
I replaced the revolver. My feet got cold,
so I sat down to put on my shoes,
I still had them in my hand.

That made it better, even without the laces.















READING TEA LEAVES


I'll die in Bangladesh,
potato farms surrounding me
the stacked hillside tangled in vines,
my hair gathering wind and rain.
In streets, motorcars and mopeds will be unaware
of my body, glittering in earthbound drops.

Having taken to reading tea leaves,
I can see the fields, the grimace of the pickers,
saturating the countless rows of green
as the water collects in their cloths.
Each cup of tea tells me more than I want to know.

I'll die in Bangladesh,
new potatoes bulking in stolons below me,
the rain making puddles of spatter-mad mud.
When the pickers return, after the rain stops
and the ground is firm under foot,
they will find my body, bathed in leaves and vines.















DOCTOR REEFY'S SELF-PORTRAIT


Do you know all the sweetness of the gnarled apples,
the slight, round bodies rejected by pickers,
that hold in one side all the sweetness of the season?

Have you forsaken the apples eaten in the city,
the bright fruit for display,
the gloss waxed on to compensate for flavor?

Do you fill your pockets with knotted fruit,
moving tree to tree before the end of the day,
ground hard underfoot with frost,
looking for the last rejected growth of the orchard?

And are you now nibbling past the skin,
finding the reluctant juice,
tasting flavor others reject,
unable to fix your mind upon the round perfect fruit?

Few have seen these bodies in the grove,
or plucked such sweetness from the tree;
few will ever hold on their tongues
the affection for this body.















LINEAGE


1 The Honeymoon

The tree fell across power lines
until the pole leaned toward the fallen tree
like an injured man, slumped, caught in his fall.
The tree, a live oak, half rotten and black,
was old enough to have sprouted the year
the San Marcos Record reported that my grandparents
"solemnized" their marriage.

The storm moved from San Salvador Island to Tampa,
and then into Georgia.
My grandparents traveled too, "leisurely, making stops
in New Orleans and Tampa, Florida."
My grandparents continued on
to Key West where they boarded "a steamer for Havana
and after a few days in that city went on to Panama."
They lived there for years among the Kuna Indians,
before the Kuna moved to San Blas Archipelago
to retain their tribal identity.
Hurricane Frances never saw Cuba or Panama,
the way my grandparents did;
it just lingered in Florida.

In the morning, there were still zealot winds.
My son and I picked up shards of wood
pulled from the pole and went inside.
We each put on dry clothes and waited
for the storm to quiet outside,
for the electric to come back on.

2 Storytelling

Tonight, in shadows above my bed,
I see bodies, hear the stories they tell each other
as they grow grotesque and dissolve.
In them the boy-body I once had shows a moment
and then fades into the flickering shapes
of two bodies coupling.















These are the movements that made my son,
and they too dissolve, their bulk mixing
to become a man I never knew,
a man who still stains my blood,
a man who raised my mother.
He is telling the story of my birth,
of how I was born early, my mother's water breaking
before I was due, the doctor afraid to leave me in.
His story trails off as a Kuna woman replaces him,
a gold ring hanging from her nose.
She is whispering to a baby all the secrets she knows are true,
she is telling him that we are all born from fear,
that we are all born too early.















WAITING


I close my eyes,
my car cooling under a sugar maple.
From here I can see the wharves
wilt into the slick river
and the sun fade into the Lincoln Tunnel
before it exits into Weehawken.
On the corer a babushka mother toddles
her girl home from school.

This is Whitman's city still,
the numberless crowded streets
and tall grass of buildings,
the sky gorged with spires,
and this side of the island is budding:
playgrounds plump with strollers,
fields lush with pigeons,
the river blackened by thaw.

I remember kissing my first girl near here,
in the elevator of the beige building
on the corner of 80th Street.
She was blonde and more experienced.
On the same corer, years later,
I waited for my father at the park entrance.
He was late and I moved away
not to live here since.















VIEW FROM BOSTON: DISBELIEF


The cold cough of the Atlantic blows
west, into Pleasure Bay.
Inland, St. Matthew the Redeemer awaits
its congregation; frost grates the gulls
catamaraning through the spires.
Across the brackish foam,
past Fort Warren Island and the hull of Cape Cod,
past Gloucester Harbor and the canyon-deep nets
of the Sohm Abyssal, the ship-steel body of the Disbelief
sits counting barnacles. The dull anger of the bell
keeps mako sharks at bay, the throated bulk
of the engine cold dark, the propeller asleep in the water.
Thick with halibut, the lower decks are littered
with sleep, the deckhouse silent as the captain plots
a path through the storm. He does not know
the calm settled days before, settled above.















SHERWOOD ANDERSON TOURS THE EAST VILLAGE

This is still the city I remember.

Over there, the woman, drunk and laughing,
scuttles out from an after-hours bar
and presses her palms hard against the smooth granite side of a bank,
then crouches and pisses on the sidewalk.

Or there, bent like a strawberry picker
looking for blushed unblemished fruit,
the frayed shape of a man
rummages through the dumpster.

And there, in the first natural light of the day,
like a team of insects, garbage men
gather the slick black plastic bags
and throw them into the hive-mouth of their truck.

Even in the buildings, where we cannot see them,
lovers wait an extra moment before uncurling
from each other, into the day.
This is the same, always the same.















MIRACLE WORKER


A block past 7th Avenue, on West 39th,
the door reads "Interior Design Brought to New Levels."
There is swagger in the wording
that suggests the owner would tell you,
over Merlot in some brick-walled bistro,
"I turn Freudian couches into day beds,
making velvet settees match the color of anger.
There are hours when I turn bedding
into more than a place to sleep,
finding the right weaves to reveal
baldachins that conceal and entice.
I find moire and padding to cover grasscloth.
For those who want something airy,
I use only light-colored linen.

I have a son who could learn my trade.
I watch him brush terrycloth
or wrap women in Cheviot cloth
and I see a younger version of me.
He does not want to thread his life
like mine, stitching cloth into days,
patching weeks with work.
He is like a sweater with a single loose strand,
always unraveling from the stitch of staying.
Sometimes I wish I could join him,
throw everything into his Ford F 150,
the road dissolving into the next state line.
But I have clients waiting
and a reputation as a miracle worker."















LAZARUS


After two days in the cave, Lazarus
mistook the face of his Savior
for a loaf of bread,
the hands that had raised him
for goblets.
He saw his sister Martha
weep for a man she would never wed,
craving to smell the skin of the Savior,
to feel the thorns of His beard.

Magdalene, with hennaed hair
that had dried prayers from Jesus' feet,
her hands scented of spikenard,
lips painted with calling men to bed,
was the only one Lazarus recognized.
He saw the falling away of her shoulder,
the dark coins of her nipples
through her linen dress, the tangle of hair
between her hips.

He wanted
to taste sweat of other men on her lips,
to smell beneath her hem.
He saw that to live was to sin,
that even his sisters were temptation.
In that moment, he turned
into the cave again, knowing his flesh
called for the darkness.















SMALL HANDS


I learned the sound of my parents.
There were
curves in the creaking sheets, fingers in my
father's whispers, thighs when my mother sighed.
Hands slid across stomach as she swallowed
his tongue, became damp when his lips pressed her
nipples.
Blood rushed raw around ribs as her
fingers forced him on.
Breathing was rhythm.

I'm older now, and light still falls from where
wall becomes door.
Now it is my lovers
wound in light, my sounds seeping out to creep
down the hall.
Now I wonder if my son's
small hands listen; fingers discovering
limbs by sighs, sounds guiding hands over skin,
pleasure measured by increments of my breath.















PENELOPE


In his mind, she is a river
brackish with rill and desire.
He thinks of her carrying the sand
that becomes the soft shore of the delta.
He thinks of her mingling with the ocean,
the salt gathering in the folds of her skin.
She is fresh water far from the sea and Ogygia.

He watches the wind that gathers in a clot
just before the curve breaks,
before the fabric snaps back to being cloth.
He tells himself the story
of how he had been kept from death,
of how he had been loved like the tide
and lulled into forgetting.

Some days, he watches the white curl
of the wind on the winedark waters;
and there is an echo of the way home.
He struggles, then, to remember
the fistfuls of stars that were a map,
to remember catching the curve of cloth into a sail.
Before the wind becomes a way home
he hears Calypso singing,
sees her body naked in the sun
and decides to stay another night.















TSUKASA-DAYU, A LADY OF PLEASURE


Someone calloused his hands
carving this lion's paw shell at the center of the headboard,
the single flare above the grain moving
like a breeze from right to left.
There, above, the woman in Eishosai Choki's print
wipes her neck, her gown close to falling away,
her lips too small ever to kiss a man.

Still in the darkness, arms crossed behind your head,
you hang off the bed. In the electric-green glow
of the clock, your shirt is pulled away
to reveal the stretch-marked ghosts of three children.
On the floor the cat licks his limbs,
his body stretched parallel to yours,
his guttural purr crossing the room.

My fingers hunt the lines around your ribs,
finding the texture of your skin;
your hair fans across the sheets.
I have never been married,
denying that history demands that sort of thing,
and have never touched a married body.
Your lips are the right size.















BEFORE CHARMING


She was asleep. We brothers
saw poison in the apple,
did not see blood beneath snow,
did not read eyes rippling
under dreams, did not listen
to lips whispering his name.
She waited for him to come.















HIDE AND SEEK


Gnats dance clouds
around your face
as you start to hunt
for other children hiding
between corn-stalk rows
that seem tall enough to touch clouds.
Even though you cheated,
peeking through squinted eyes
to watch where they ran,
you pass by, and they run
to the old oak-tree base.

Then you hide,
pressing your body into the ground
behind a bush.
You hardly breathe,
hoping that your heart stops
beating out of your ears.
You lie there, a stone
deep between your shoulder blades,
blades of grass itching you
like insects crawling over your skin.
You lie there,
darkness reaching out
from the tree line
and the air starts to glitter
with fireflies around you.
In the dark, you watch
clouds change
into cars and houses
and by the time you stand up
hide and seek is over.















ORCHESTRA


From silence only the coranglais, fading
as a single boy picks up the last note
still damp in our ears. His voice opening
as a second boy joins the steady sound,
they are the beginning of melody,
the birth-spring of all the notes to follow;
from them comes the spinto that mimics reeds,
from them others are led into the song.

And then the others are gone, the voices
dropping away, until only the boy,
the same boy who began, is left holding
his voice in the silence, the one echo
of the first reed-note, the single remnant
that allows us to remember the choir.















GEORGE WILLARD READS BASHO


The sounds are stones polished
until they are mistaken for glass,
they slowly erode into sand
and are swallowed whole by the ocean.

The words lie like earth
dark on the face of a fresh grave,
or huddle together
in the muddy palms of puddles.

The poems are made of wood,
ribs and rough-skinned arms,
they are whittled down
into unstruck matchsticks.















OUT OF SEASON


In the slump toward winter
there is wood smoke out of sight,
and darkness in the leaves.
Wind brings little grains of cold,
each grey day shorter.

You wore summer on your skin
long past the season's end.

Here, far from where you are,
winter grows, tangled. Fish swim
under the lake's new found skin,
bee-sick weeds swell past the ebb
of summer's numb heat.

Even in autumn, you are present.
Even in August, frost waits to be born.















TIME SQUARE


I approach 42nd Street; taxis scuttle down Broadway,
snow slowly covers phone booths and parked cars.
The neon garden of Times Square
is no longer filled with "grinder" houses.
The city is a franchise now.

I stop for coffee.
The waitress, young, dark-skinned, pours coffee,
the steam snakes into the air.
She is watching the snow.
I see her thinking about her walk home;
I have known that same cold.

I drink, the vapor covering my sight.
In the Daily News a "tight-knit family
of crack dealers" no longer thrives,
their run-down brownstone closed after two generations.
Another poor woman has been found dead from exposure.
Tomorrow calls for more snow, and sorrow.















JUNE


This is no longer the season
of seed-cases standing above soil,
or mildewed rain.
Knuckled fists of fruit
hang thirsty on the stem
in this bronze blanket of summer,
when morning and evening are the same,
and breath is too heavy to carry.

I turn into the shadowed end of the field.
Still in the tree shade, the deer,
eyes fluid with fear, pushes
hooves into a run that will not come.
The pavement is cool against my feet.
Her breath gone, her eyes turn headlight-white
and I lift her away from the road,
carrying her to the field.
My father's Chevy lies gashed and broken.
I lay her on the ground,
next to the empty engine compartment,
two bodies to rust together.















IN THE STADIUM


For Victor Jara
The table was fetched by soldiers
to the middle of the arena
so six thousand prisoners could see.

He placed his hands on the table as ordered;
the ax in the officer's hands fell.
"I have two beautiful children and a happy home,"
the officer said, days afterwards, to the foreign press.

The first stroke severed all fingers but the thumb from the left hand,
a second stroke all but the thumb from the right.
Like lightwood, they fell to the wooden floor still moving.
Like timber the body fell, too.
Twelve thousand eyes watched the officer
hit him, screaming, cursing him and ordering him to sing.

Hands dripping, his face turning violet, he raised himself.
Blind from blows he turned towards the bleachers, his steps faltering,
his bloody hands stretched forward like a sleepwalker's.
When he came to where the arena and bleachers met,
he sang the anthem of the Unidad Popular.
Six thousand voices sang with him.

Then came a volley from the mouths of machine guns.
His body began to fall forward, bowing long
and slow, in reverence.















THE GREAT DICTATOR


Two bodies and the open road,
both fading like Chaplin's optimism;
The Great Dictator,
his first not to have such an ending.

In 1940 there was no Nacht und Nebel,
no set way for a movie to disappear from view,
no fixed solution
on how to end a film.

Chaplin's tramp knows this,
his pigeon-toed step the same as eighty-six movies before,
the one thing that stayed the same.
This time Paulette Goddard is the girl.

Now the tramp and the beauty
have married, not on screen, but in life,
Chaplin habitually blurring
his character and himself.

Goddard, the third woman to be his legal lead,
the oldest woman he ever romanced,
the only divorce,
was nominated for an Academy Award without him.

A creature of habit, Chaplin
had ended his films with the dark line dissolving into the horizon,
a female body,
and the chance of a happy ending.

Now, always just a step out of frame,
history, Goddard's beauty become a blanket,
Chaplin's tramp fading
into night and fog.















DEATH FROM EXPOSURE


Through the trees, the dark pawed from the edges.
She could see it through the watery glass of her window,
through the leafless branches that reared up

outside her Garment District apartment.
She should have kept herself moving,
kept the cold away.

There was work to be done,
dusting photographs, sweeping the hall
between the bedroom and the rest of the house,

bills to be paid.
She felt the cold folding in on her
and wanted to rest a moment.

She sat and watched as the sky changed,
the blue-blush began to orange,
yellow and red marbling between clouds.

She watched as the reds faded into lavender,
and then into the near-black,
the deep purple of blood in her lips.















ELEGY FOR MY MOTHER
(Sarah Lucy Sabatelli 1942-1997)

1

As the moon decayed behind the horizon
and your grandson slept in a bed infected with dreams,
you found your death.
You had fought it when you were four,
a sliver of glass connecting your wrist to your brother's hand.
At twenty you flirted with it in the wards of Silver Hills.
You had always known where it was.
You saw it when you dreamt of Venezuela, of your childhood.
When your husband died, you met it
in dark corners of restaurants
and drank with it as your liver failed.
When you tired of its company you sent it out
to wait for you in an ordinary hotel room,
to wait as ascites bloated your skin
and jaundice colored your eyes.
You grew empty, forgetting it with the same care
you took to forget yourself.
It waited, under frayed blankets,
between sheets that smelled of stiffness.
It waited as the air conditioner gurgled night in that room,
where nobody knew you.

2

My son wants to visit the place he last saw you.
He wants to remember the coffee-colored ground
and the autumn air that pressed his cheeks
when we buried you.
He believes he will remember your floral print,
that his memories grow like dandelions
from the soil.
In the past winter the snow compacted the ground,
and now above you there is a hollow in the ground.
The trees still dress in shadows,
and the beautiful stubble of grass has begun to grow again;
but there is no marker.
There are no flowers.

















That day your hands held the color of sickness,
knuckles bent stiffly, weaving your fingers into each other,
your wrists too thin to have held me.
They were not your hands; they had never been your hands.
Your unpainted fingernails were the purple of your dress.
I remember how the hair was brushed away from your face,
the gray roots like rage.
The fluids that had filled your face,
that had inflated your chin and thinned your lips,
pulled away from your face now.
There was no more bloating around your eyes.
Your jaw became square with the fluid;
the skin of your face became taut from the weight.
Sharp bones cut across your face; your flat forehead was free of years;
there was a thin-boned nose that belonged to a girl gone
before I was born.
This was a face I had seen only in photographs,
a face that looked more like me than you.
This face was yours, before you forgot who you were;
it had always been yours.















BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

Christiaan Sabatelli was born in New York City. At seventeen, he found out that

he was about to be a father, and at eighteen he worked at his first Renaissance festival.

After that first festival experience, Christiaan moved to Florida to "winter" and get ready

for the next year's festival circuit. He spent five years or so kicking around the country

working Renaissance festivals, then became bored. In an attempt to jump-start his brain

again, Christiaan went back to school and earned a bachelor's degree from New College

of Florida. He still has his son; and one day the two of them will leave Florida, a place he

never intended to live in so long.