Search Results for: rutkowski

Thad Rutkowski/The Ore Hole

    THE ORE HOLE   By Thaddeus Rutkowski During a school day, a science teacher took my class on a field trip. We hiked to a patch of trees growing in a crater in the ground. “This was an ore hole,” he explained. “Iron ore was dug here; then it was blasted in a furnace and shaped into pellets. That’s what made this area rich.” All we could see were trees growing in a pit. In one section, people had dumped their garbage. Bottles, cans and other non-degradable items lay on the surface of the fill. As we walked through the leaf cover, a girl announced that she saw a penis. “It’s sticking up,” she said. “Where is it?” the teacher asked. The girl pointed to a whitish, erect object on the ground. Around the base of the object was a dark-brown sheath. “It’s a mushroom,” the teacher said, “It might be edible.” On closer inspection, the mushroom turned out to have an unpleasant smell. No one would touch it. We left it where it was. * In the evening, my parents started to argue about something—I couldn’t tell what. I tried to watch television with my brother and sister and not listen to my father’s voice. “You’ve turned them all against me,” my father said. “You’re all against me, you and your chink children.” I knew what...

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Thad Rutkowski/Hard Biking

HARD BIKING   by Thaddeus Rutkowski It’s raining, and I’m on foot, heading for my parked bicycle, when I see a bike go by with two umbrellas attached to it. One umbrella is over the main rider, and the other is over the back wheel, as if to protect a small passenger. Maybe there is a child in the jump seat, but I can’t see any passenger as the bike rolls away. I have no umbrella. I have only a plastic jacket with a hood. Light rain falls onto my face as I start to ride home. “This isn’t so bad,” I think as my pants get soaked. “At least the air is warm, and I don’t have far to go. I ride through deep water at the side of the street. With each pedal downstroke, one foot gets wet. Maybe I should get two umbrellas for my bike. They could protect me and my daughter, if she were still small enough to ride on the back. * Between the traffic and the curb, a taxicab door opens in front of me. I’m too close to stop. My front wheel hits the door, and I fall off my bike. I pick the bike and myself up as a woman gets out of the car’s back seat and walks away. I get back on my bike and ride, but when...

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Donors & Contributors

Give it up… Send us your stuff Tired of the same old thing? Think you can do different? Send us your stuff. You an emerging artist? An undiscovered musician? Genius with a photographic eye? Thinker? Drinker? Cosmic dreamer? Picture this. And send us your stuff. Rich and tired of sharing champagne with strangers? Send us your stuff. On the road with nowhere to go but straight ahead? Send us your stuff. Stuck in a room in a port hotel with spiders in the bed and cockroaches on the walls? Send us your stuff. Lying on a beach beneath a searing sun with occasional dips in a transparent sea? Paint a picture and send it to us… Choking on ash in the air of an open market in Cairo? Send us your stuff. A cop on the street or a crook on the beat? Send us your CV… and some other stuff. Feeling oppressed and under duress? We’re gonna get strange, so send us your stuff.     Our contributors and editors have worked from the beginning for free. We would like to change that. With this issue, we are offering unique advertising opportunities for businesses, foundations, theaters, institutions, and others. No pop-ups; no litter; no wasted space. We are looking for partners seeking marketing opportunities to audiences that share our interests in presenting the most diverse collection of creative...

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Barbara Rosenthal/Art Review

This is an understated series of stately whimsicality. It is beautiful to look at and fun to walk amidst. The pastel and royal colors, pinky coral, soft aqua, pale yellow, deep ultramarine, sometimes against black, sometimes with a subtle white-line texture, sometimes on a bit of cloth, are subtly mixed and matched, and the conceptual and visual delicacy of their combinations is supremely refreshing to the eye and mind in an age of so much harshness in painted forms.

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The name Ragazine was coined in the mid-’70s in Columbus, Ohio, as the title of an alternative newspaper/magazine put together by a group of friends. It was revived in 2004 as ragazine.cc, the on-line magazine of arts, information and entertainment, a collaboration of artists, writers, poets, photographers, travelers and interested others. And that’s what it still is.