University of Houston - Houstonian Yearbook (Houston, TX)

Text from Pages 1 - 358 of the 1972 volume:

peace — a beginning i am the ocean lit by the flame i am the mountain peace is my name i am the river touched by the wind i am the story i never end. © Copyright 1970 Enthovcn Gaydon Co., London England. TRO-TO-TAl MUSIC, INC., Now York, controls all publication rights lor the U.S.A. and Canada. Used by permission. diversity of houston houston, texas □lume xxxvii 9 10 o H -H 03 O Ch registration 12 13 i9}nduioo son DVAINfl cti N 16 18 19 7} Zl WWi parking plot fall, 1971 23 “relationship” “re-la-tion-ship . . . All things are relative . . . as man relates his body to his mind.” “to understand is to stand under, to give support” “responsibility is the ability to respond.” “freedom, yeah, freedom.” richie havens September 4, 1971 pete gorish 26 coffee house opening September 10, 1971 don sanders 17 regional peace rally September 26, 1971 28 29 30 31 “homecoming” September 28, 1971 32 3 34 35 imb- m Empty days and lonely nights . . The moon is my sun. I do my work — to the music of air conditioning. With only my reflection to keep me company. I try to rid myself of the smell of soap by smoking a cigarette. I'm on my own. But the trash around me serves as burning evidence. America is the land of plenty. 40 ] reach jesus rally September 30, 1971 41 Tkrs tfV ( lAs j2-4 f C X- - - J £SU 5 UO' SAJI p,t-e-l-£crr _ £3J. PTUS i o T o F imd ca SddiA ( e-£LHcr tf. iCH eD NIXDM ' H r t f-er o oF Al o M lAnjO J fte-ZLECT JX K , i Af r1 — f . ' i. I f dave brubeck, October 3, 1972 4 44 45 pat paulsen, October 13, 1971 46 47 art buchwald, September 23, 1971 lllllllldllllllllBiiailllllllliC llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll 111 min iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii iiiiiiiiiin'iiiiiiiiuiiiiiiiii iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii 'mini MiiiiiMiiiiiiiiiinnr ] IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII1IIIII13 1133I lllllllllllllllllll lllllllllllllllllll lllllllllllllllllll lllllllllllllllllll miimiimiainii min 48 moratorium, October 13, 1971 “oh say, can you see 50 51 diving for dollars October 27, 1971 55 ralph nader October 28, 1971 56 ■v 57 student skeptic traffic and security versus students October 27, 1971 58 59 jesus christ superstar September 12, 1971 60 russ kirkpatrick October 29, 1971 61 62 nitty gritty dirt band October 29, 1971 63 wmmmfi i ••.: ;� V11r !£.'-X « X X X-X X X X,,£ Ij,.Z, V-1 f f 1 j;; f «.x x 5 i xx x x � ViVi'vt !}i :x xx x x x x xxx x x x, I f:l ■ i !:.!1:! 5 X X X X - X X X X- X X X X X X x X X x5, t i Vxi xl ■ 55;xXX XXXXXXXXXxxx 1,1,VxixS ■ ,. : ,:::ixxxx,� ’ ’,„.XX« X XXXXX-XXXXXXXXIXXXixl ■ •..; ,M,J J{ I x x x x; ■ xxxxxifXHiniiiitn x x x x i x!,Vx-l x x Util I It XX'l [iimxxxxxxxx'x xxxxxxx � } xxxxxxxx xxxx x xxx?j nimxxxxx: [JJSXIXXXX-X-I ;,jxxrxxx x-x-: nxxxx x x x x-: sxixxxxxx-x IJXXXXXXXX homecoming October 30, 1971 b 67 69 70 74 75 76 A 77 vember 5, 1971 1 multimedia, fall, 1971 80 mayoral election fall, 1971 82 83 wv mohammed ali A dollar isn't going to buy you much entertainment nowadays. Unless, of course, Mohammed Ali is in town. His work-outs in Astrohall may be attended for the small sum of one dollar, for which the spectator can expect at least one hour of top entertainment. You won't find many places where you'll find bargains like that; even a decent flick costs at least two bucks. And you never have to be afraid that you're going to miss him, because the arrival of the greatest always comes well prepared. Ali is always in some kind of trouble, and the media is always there to record it. Ali is truly a great performer. Even fights he ran t possibly lose begin to worry Ali-fans af- ter the former heavy-weight champion is through telling all those things that could go wrong. So by the time the bell rings for the first round, the Astrodome is packed with Ali-fans, all waiting to see how he is going to win this time. That he is going to win is not even in question. Ali is one of the few people that can lose a fight and still be the winner. After Frazier succeeded in beating Ali, few people regarded Frazier as the real winner. This is all the more remarkable, if you consider that normally Americans don't love a loser. But off-stage, away from the cameras, Ali is a modest guy who doesn't want much else than to be left alone with his family. 85 86 mA pul winter consort, december 3, 1971 mi 87 coogs-colorado 17-29 ■ ii ■ i in — r spiro agnew January 24, 1972 92 93 94 rock ’n roll revival January 30, 1972 96 101 103 “one child grows up to be one that loves to learn, and the other grows up to be one that just loves to burn, it’s a family affair.” — sly the family stone 107 108 109 through the eyes of a child What concept did you have of college life when you were seven years old? First graders at Louisa May Alcott elementary school see college life only as an extension of their own school experiences: Ronnie: You could go with pretty girls if any are around. Sandra: It's a big place . . . and all you do is go to classes all day, at least that's what my big sister told me. Sheryl: Yes, all you do is work. Ronnie: You can't go to college unless you know how to cook. Cook? Yes, they teach you how to cook in college. Do all of you want to go to the University of Houston or leave home to go to school? Sandra: Oh, I don't want to leave my family. Ronnie: I do, I won't have to share a room with my baby brother anymore. Sandra: Maybe if my big sister went with me . . . Sheryl: Who would feed my kittens? no “the resistable rise of arturo ui” february 16, 1972 112 114 115 “looking through your third eye, mama” first houstonian photography contest 116 Christopher me earthy honorable mention — ecography garry zabel first place — art graphics 119 120 george craig, “love in italy” first place — art graphics V| Bvid castano, “musician” Bmorable mention — art graphics richard n. Williamson first place — ecography 122 123 eva s. garrett honorable mention — ecography david castano, “our gang first place — people 1 125 richard n. Williamson first place — experimental 126 amador rodriguez first place — people 128 zn enior pictures, 1972 129 t c L greg frazier 33 joe slovacek george carlin, march 19, 1972 137 139 140 sly and the family stone, april 8, 1972 Ml vanity fair, 1972 142 mfi 'W l I' v 1 ♦ • fl I .w, ■ I va • V colonel william b. bates Col. Bates has retired. Yet it is doubtful his work at UH will ever cease. During his 36 years of service to the university. Col. Bates has served in many capacities. From 1957 to 1971, he served as Chairman of the Board of Regents. Last year in an interview. Col. Bates remarked, I'm at least two generations from you folks, and I suspect I show it somehow. But Col. Bates has an interest very much in common with all generations of students. That interest is education. Starting in a one-room school, later teaching and working his way through law school taught Col. Bates a lesson no school administrator should ever forget — To teach is to be taught. 149 mrs. gus s. wortham secretary board of regents 150 j. a. elkins, jr. vice chairman board of regents “what do the regents do?” “they play monopoly — student a. j. farfel chairman board of regents 151 mark collins student representative board of regents travis c. johnson board of regents 152 153 154 j. davis armistead board of regents robert 1. grainger board of regents t “ . . . [they] get money for the school, watch football, and fight communists.” — student mark h. hannah board of regents 155 THE HOFFMAN MYSTERY JH) — President Philip Guthrie iffman was reportedly last seen Aril 1, %9, in his office in an exclusive interview fright photo). In that interview he discussed 4c upcoming installation of a riot nntrol cruising to help a cougar'' in. He said, With this new mo- ile riot unit and the previously Walled surveillance helicopter, I Par nothing. Reports since that time have dif .'red as to his whereabouts. One urce revealed that Hoffman urs the campus annually in his rmored Cushman. Strong rumors have it that Hoff-nan no longer exists. Some say he is retired to a home for past um ' rsity presidents. Others claim he is emigrated to Rra il and now pxe.ts only as a composite figure nt press releases and promo pictures. emmett b. fields executive vice president dean of faculties “isn’t emmett fields the cougar baseball diamond?” — student 158 159 c. f. me elhinney senior vice president and treasurer 160 161 “tough? — isn’t he a tight end for the jets? —john q. apathy coulson tough vice president facilities planning and operations 162 douglas g. mac lean vice president staff services 163 164 james b. whitehead associate dean of students connie Wallace © assistant dean of students 165 cheerleader tryouts, april 12, 1972 166 167 170 manse lipscomb 171 mike murphy reb smith ★ ae o 1- •3 ¥ ★ jy. a moon shot by Charles carper Hollo, my name is Christopher Lee Moon. I'll toll you what ... I'm not the type to say I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it, she bomb shebop Zappacrappa, etc. but I would be interested to know if you felt as weird as I did while pausing in between the key strokes, wondering, Am I sinking in a sea of unsaid words? I type on, dropping words and phrases like crumbs for the birds to devour as I stalk out into the desert of my mind, knowing that where there's fire, there's smoke . . . which is what I went and did . . . and then returned to type. It goes on. How odd the causes are, I sit and think — what's there to think about? So, I think about . . . oh, you know. Hahaha! I know you still have to sur mise, or hypostatize; you'll never know because I'll never tell. But that's a selfish, negative attitude. So, instead of getting entangled in that fiber of thought, I'll instead relate a beatific vision. It is about the final days of a relationship that I'd thought might allow for a lifetime together. As it dissolved, my eyes, which are very much linked with my mind, gave me the following viewpoint, that of each incident being pearl-like. Our experiences formed a jewelweed which I now wear like a crown of crushed hopes while she has twined a transcendental rope and has hung herself far out of my reach. 177 i� ,1JAM B MARY � «Q4 m And as that thought ebbs from my mind, this one (lows in . . . Oceans of quarrels islands of peace and pearls strewn on the seabed personally, we are all pearls lambently pulsing in the light of the Lord pearls rounded by being drug through life by woe-laden waves each pearl living alone on the sea's shelf alone, we glow unseen individual baubles babbled over by collectors of bits of creation with time the tide has turned pearls are swirled and rise above the clinging muck we rise floating in a sea of dichotomy each pearl penetrated by a light fingering through the greenness a light line runs through the pearls pulling us together we now lace the neck of God who has gone underwave God's eyebrows are peeking through the choppy froth and they're beautiful. I wrote that because of her, and, because she's gone, have kept it for myself. I'm writing this because of an assignment from those in control. They expectorate myself to reduce the simple to the context, the complex evanescently becoming the next movement; that of one wind blowing softly through the mind. The corporate body is dis piece of junk; a rusty relic propped against a sandstone shelf, a trailside altar niched in the Sierras, open to a wall of wind. Your one wind can't be felt. It is now only an undetectable segment of the wind totality. . . . Bluegold dust filtering, falling from a slit in the sky's side, fanned by windy fingers, thoughts filagree and flake off, forming icicles as they fall. Numbness now in control, only an idea of warmth. A conception of life . . . Another chain of thought which has bound me to my purpose: It is to instill some sort of re-genera-tion of interest in our fellow being, for a person, a communicator, to inform those who require information that it is time to increase their amount of human contact. Not withstanding the fact that communicators are socio-moralistic police — But, age has assailed that thought, the chain rusts and flakes around my fast-moving feet in a coppery cascade. First, or next. I'll briefly describe my surroundings. I live in Houston — in the loft of a vacated office building. Have you seen your mother lately vaguely dancing there in the peeling paint of the hallway. I'm not color-blind, but the interior of my place is definitely black and white; very contrasty divinations occurring between the cedar posts and old mortar-speckled bricks. I feel strange there, so I've furnished the place with various items to allow for some interpretation of comfort and security. I hung Swiss flags over the windows. Now, blue sun motes bounce across the floor. I did cave drawings on the walls; saber-toothed bi-sons, pygmys dodging lightning. There's a king-sized bed with an orange and black crushed velvet bedspread set in the middle of the loft. It's surrounded by stuck filing cabinets and roll-top desks. I use some of the desks; to type on, to eat off of, to do herbiolo-gical experiments on . . . As you no doubt noticed from my somewhat supercilious start, I won't be too easy on you. But it'll be no harder for you to understand what I'm writing than it is for me to do so as I write it. Think about it. You probably understand without having to think about it. Therefore, you understand what I'm writing; you understand me. Sometimes it seems like I'm talking to myself. And, being on such understanding terms, I momentarily thought about doing another story which begins: How do you do? Oh, I'm fine. Well, said Kelly, the new stenographer, my jaw's as sore as a ruptured sphincter muscle from all that dentistry recently inflected upon my ornate jawwork. Jabbercocky, said the Hair, lest he be without a reference point. (See Alex in Worryland by Library Carrel) but, as I've mentioned, this story is to be a revision of another version of my past life, a memory that carries me into the future searching for its source. I occasionally envy the artist's lot, the painter's predictament. He may choose whatever size and shape of canvas he feels is necessary to serve as a medium for his imagination. When I write, there's a predictable sameness in the implements involved: a typewriter full of the Anglo-sexist alphabet and piles of paper, each and every two-sided sheet being 8 Vi x 11 inches long and wide, and only as deep as I can make them. Ever try diving off a one-dimensional cliff into an un-thought-of-ocean? Bound to strain or break something, knock a hole in the emptiness of it all; let the silence drain away to burst into emotionally-charged flame as you're rubbed raw by the friction outside . . . If this were a piano, would I be playing a melody? In When Cathedrals Were White, Le Corbusier says that they . . . have virgin ears, a fresh curiosity. The sound of life echoes in them ... the grinding of the street-cars, the unchained madness of the subway . . . from this new uproar around our lives they make music. But, there are no subways in Houston; other things are underfoot. And this is a typewriter. Here I punch, and wonder, am I practicing the world's oldest profession, onanism? Do I indulge in that counterfeit art of prostitution for the masses so that I may experience the dubious honor of having screwed myself? Or, to be less alienated about the whole thing — is it an honest, if somewhat unfulfilled attempt to justify one's experience by departing information, perhaps in an entertaining manner (drollery, anyone?). Another fleeting thought . . . Juanita the stranger the latenight lady asphalt ranger she's a danger sandwitch lettuce tomate her ... but that reeks of sulfuric dioxide, or possibly acid. OK, Lee Moon, throw your cold blue light, the only light you've got on the trail taken by The Time Traveler I once walked in the early afternoon blending past the night's mourning. I walked through the park some hours before the dark would drown the everlasting goldenday's sunbeams and couple's dreams. Under one tree, a young man balanced on his knee and slowly strummed his guitar. I care that you care that I care, he told a fairfaced girl who threw back her starry-spangled hair and laughed large notes that rose and broke in the crisp chill air. They had each other and needed no other, so I walked on. I saw a man so full of himself that the side of his head gave way and a chute sprung out. Words washed down this polished priceless trough; words piling on words, jammed into words forming a continual stream of every colored shapely word not yet spoken but felt by someone at sometime when saying what you felt wasn't a crime punishable by having to live with only your words and nothing more. A small gathering gathered around the trough, and they sifted and seined for what each thought was a nugget of wisdom that couldn't be bought for any price less that life itself. They picked among the pouring polysyllables and staggered away under their unbalanced load, then goaded themselves to go back for more. And as the sun burned into the cold hard ground, the man sagged, toppled, drained of all he'd been and done and seen and hung on to up until now; now, all his crystal castles were exploding into novas newer than tomorrow; an untapped bank of yesterdays formed a darkened pool at the outer edge of his shrinking world. And the gathering broke apart and left him alone in his apparent emptiness. I started to leave but thought that first I'd ask if there was anything left in which he believed. Although his bent, spent body didn't stir, I could faintly hear the fine whir of his massive mind. Hey, bub, I said, squatting down and looking 175 into his tired eyes. There really wasn't much I wanted to know, other than how to act upon what I already knew. Where do you go when you're out of love, I asked. He rolled over on the winterbritlle grass and handed me a mental road map. A canoe on the River of Sorrows drifts around driftwood holding back tomorrow the sky cries translucent tears and fills the canoe with sorrow a paddle pushes back one whose back's been pushed to the wall the paddle digs into the flat-faced wall of water aiming for a dam up ahead on the rough flowing River of Sorrows beyond the dam rolls a land reserved for all tomorrows only one thing's not allowed within — all the causes for mortal man's sorrows. I thought about that the next day while pricing canoes at the Clearcut Answer Sportinglife Store. How much? I asked. All you have, said the clerk. I'd been wanting to give someone all I had so I took him up on it. It was hard getting the canoe home because there was just enough left of me to drag it up the stairs. It fit nicely, leaning into a corner in my loft. On second thought, or perhaps it was the first time I'd given it any real conscious attention, I stared at the canoe. I realized that I'd done most of the initiative thinking in our recently defunct relationship. I was curious as to what sort of action my musenem-esis could originate and initiate; that is, if she cared to do so. As far as I was concerned, the River of Sorrows had overflown its banks and had flooded the globe. So, anyplace is a good place to be, as long as you know where you're at. I went to the men's room downstairs and unbolted a commode from the floor. I pulled it back up the stairs to my loft, huffing and puffing. I've leaned the canoe against a volatile scene splashed against one of my walls. I set the commode in the canoe's center, then printed a small card declaring Washington Cursing the Pot-o-matic. Time being what time is, I've decided for the time being to allow my place to become a repository for arty facts, genuine commas in life's otherwise unbroken sentence. 176 WEEKS! (OR YOUR MONEY BACK) ORDER IN TEN DAYS AND RECEIVE Your Own Personal Set Of Works Don't compare NAR-KA-TIQUE with any of the other so-called miracle cures or body builders. NAR-KA-TIQUE is the ONLY CURE for physio-mental deficiencies. Make YOUR BODY into something people will stare at in two weeks or your money back. MAIL TO: NAR-KA-TIQUE 4377 RIGG AVE. TRANSYLVANIA, WISC., 773396 Rush Me-----hitsof NAR KA TiQUE in the liquid capsule- form I have enclosed S5.29 per hit. (CircleOne) Don't forget to include my FREE works! NAME ADDRESS Wow. I moan Geez! It’s like '©ally man. like raally. I moan Gael, you know, like.... STATE CITY. amazing, isn’t it? 179 a day of birth by john rice Mrs. Berthea Hartung was 84 years old today. She reclined in an amply stuffed rocker, relieving her feet of the tedious burden of one hundred and eighty-five pounds of ill-proportioned weight. Setting her feet in two worn depressions of a footstool, Mrs. Hartung wriggled her toes a bit to relax her feet, sighed a simple sigh, and eased her head back slowly, letting it come to rest gently against the cushion back of the rocker. She rested in this position for perhaps five minutes, then reached to the table and picked up a small flat cigarette case. She snapped the lid open, and thinking she wouldn't have to replenish the supply come Sunday as she had for many past Sundays, extracted with pleasure one roll of marijuana. The home roll was carefully made by her practiced hands; it was incredibly slim and long with no bulges, tapered at each end almost to a point. She slid the roll into an equally thin ceramic holder and placed the holder between her lips, holding it there with her teeth while she struck a match. Touching the flame to the end of the roll, she inhaled briefly, gently, and calmly held her breath. It was Saturday. Mrs. Hartung had finished the day's routine with the grace and reserve with which she had performed each day's routine for many years. That morning she had arisen at 9 o'clock, fixed a small, satisfying breakfast, cleared away and washed the few dishes she used. At about 10:30, she went for a walk six blocks long, acknowledged Mrs. Palmer and Mrs. Mason sitting as usual on Mrs. Palmer's front porch, and spoke a few friendly words to the Irish setter on the corner who barked a happy greeting in return. She stopped the postman in the next block, and he gave her two letters; to him she gave a letter addressed to her son. On the way back Mrs. Hartung stopped in Mr. Rochow's grocery to buy a few items. The usual? asked Mr. Rochow as he checked her groceries. No, thank you, Mr. Rochow, she smiled. I won't be needing any marijuana this week. She carried the small sack of groceries back to her house, appreciating the warmth of the sun which heated the black shawl across her shoulders and enjoying the slight nip of the air on her face. Mrs. Hartung went outside later to tend the row of flowers in the garden along the west edge of her four-room frame cottage. The flower garden was immaculate. Its outline was perfectly straight and Mrs. Hartung treated each of the twenty plants within its confines as separate and individual lives; she knew each plant's temperament, likes and dislikes, needs and wishes. She spoke softly to each as she worked the dirt loose around each, calling the plants by name and performing the individual work required by each. When she was satisfied that her plants had received the necessary attention, she rose slowly to her feet and brushed clinging dirt from her clothed knees. Back in the house, she opened one of the pac k- 180 it was Saturday, mrs. hartung had finished the day’s routine with the grace with which she had performed each day’s routine for many years. ages she had purchased at Mr. Rochow's grocery that day and poured the powdered contents into a large bowl, stirring the powder into liquid as she added ingredients. When she finished, she poured the batter into an oblong pan and placed it in the oven. Mrs. Hartung heated the last of the vegetable soup she had made the Saturday before, and ate it for lunch. After lunch, she rested until the sun settled itself into the west and then got up to work in the garden lining the east side of the cottage. Before going out, she took the golden cake from the oven and placed it on the kitchen window ledge to cool. She worked her east twenty field, as she called it, equally as perfunctorily as she did her other garden, and when she was sure that each plant had received adequate attention, she went back inside to prepare icing for her birthday cake. After icing the cake, she placed a solitary candle in the center, lit it and let it burn briefly while she squinched her eyes and wished, then blew it out and cut a piece. She ate slowly, relishing the flavor and texture. When she finished she set the plate aside and picked up the two letters she received that morning. One was an advertisement; the other was from her son. She opened the advertisement first and read the form letter. Greetings, it read. You, too, can be young again! Send five dollars today for full information on this exciting breakthrough of medical science. We offer you full satisfaction or your money will be cheerfully refunded. Mrs. Hartung laughed softly over the letter and set it aside. She picked up her son's letter then and turned it over several times, trying to feel its contents. Failing in that attempt, she unsealed the envelope, took the letter out and began to read. Dear Momma, it began, I feel great joy today. I feel the battle is over, and I've won ... She read the words and nodded her head slowly, warning him softly of the war which continues, wishing briefly she could fight the battles for him, allowing a soft droplet of tear to fall from her eyes as she read the conquest he described . . . I'm writing consistently now Momma, and it's such beauty. I cry when I reread some passages'' . . and as he told her of his masterpiece ... of his contribution to the beautiful animal humanity ... of his flow of life onto page after page. There's no conclusion yet, he wrote, I don't know how it will end . . . the substance is laid out, your quiet, beautiful struggle through the years and your final conquest . . . There's so much yet to do but it is a masterpiece Momma, it is. You bet it is, Robert; it's your soul, and every soul is a masterpiece, Mrs. Hartung said lightly. You will have your ending. The sun set and Mrs. Hartung relaxed in her rocker, letting the deepening gloom envelop her and her world. She sat very still looking out the window until she could not see any longer. And in darkness she sat, until it was complete. 181 it was the last of the past, there was now no need for tomorrow To the silent air she said, Darkness is perfection. In darkness, all is one. Then she lit a lamp and slowly smoked the marijuana roll she had so carefully made the Sunday before. And when she finished it, she submerged herself in recollection and let her life pass through her mind in smooth transition from beginning to end, as she knew Robert was describing it on paper. The inner struggles, the conflicts, the conquests. She paused briefly on her husband's death, and on one comment he had made to her while their lives were merged. Bertie, Mitchell had said, you have the grace of life; you have adaptability. You are at peace with yourself while I fight. It's almost mystical, and it scares the hell out of me. It sometimes makes me jealous and spiteful. Your peace is my torment. And Bertie had cried, her peace shattered by its completeness. A conflict persisted in her mind until Mitch's death ended it. There was a son. Mrs. Hartung knew her son, and Robert knew Mrs. Hartung. They knew each other so well that Robert could relate to no one else in society, a withdrawn, isolated boy. Knowing and wanting the best for Robert, Mrs. Hartung gently forced him to move away; eventually to coexist with another woman, to father a child, to write his masterpiece. When Mrs. Hartung's memories caught up to her, sitting in the rocker, she arose, lit a light, and walked to the bedroom, carrying Robert's letter in the pocket of her robe. She opened a cabinet and took a small jar of white pills from it. The bottle bore the tradename Nirvana, a medicine doctors prescribed for elderly patients. The drug granted peace to aging humans on a daily basis. Mrs. Hartung had never needed the drug, but tonight she would put it to use. Mrs. Hartung had begun smoking marijuana on her eighty-third birthday, one year ago, when she no longer desired living in the present, but preferred to relive the past, and she knew from the first time she smoked it that the threshold had been crossed. Defeat was signalled; she no longer coped with life on a daily basis. She lived for the past and knew the end was nearing. But she wanted to be sure she was ready for it. Each night she smoked and relived a little, alienating herself farther from the present. She had never told Robert, until today. It was all in the letter. She had recollected her life in three hundred and sixty-four parts, and tonight she pieced them all together, reliving her complete life. It was the last of the past, there was now no need for tomorrow. Now Robert has an ending, she thought and smiled. Mrs. Hartung emptied the bottle of small white pills into her age-softened hand and ate them all, one by one. She drank a glass of water and went into the bedroom, laid her body down on the mattress and took her son's letter from her pocket, rereading it. Happy Birthday Momma, it said at the bottom. Yes, Robert, said Mrs. Hartung softly, it's a very happy day, a day of birth. 18? 183 THE UNIVERSITY UlE IF You're ( C|f n?Le: ,TA.K.E Yoo Otl MCE WITH THE university iKll ,t VC, ttoMEY f NV PUfltfUJC . Xo r PlN-TO-WIM. V THEY ?AY ONTV. 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CM SCOlslTl NUE P' 189 COVStO’ FUN SIGNS—MAKE YOUR OWN ASTROLOGY BUTTONS AQUARIUS PISCES TAURUS GEMINI CANCER VIRGO LEO LIBRA SCORPIO 191 Jm. -rm 193 194 195 196 alpha phi omega 197 american institute of industrial engineers alpha pi mu 199 200 201 203 204 205 Ill'll ! ftACE CORPS L22288WS � ON trA 1 Arts Educa IT THE PEACE CORPS nppi opportunity reprint PEACE CORPS Join the “ace Cor 5!0 UOor i-ce 206 delta sigma Pi 207 208 gamma sigma sigma OPe v 1 House FIND YOURSELF 209 THE COMMUNITY BOOK SERVICE WE SELL OUR BOOKS FOR LESS THAN ANYONE san jacinto sonora room university center 8-4 7-9 daily thru Jan. 28 StUWST SUN SOSPKORI 212 213 214 india students organization iNOtA 215 216 217 218 interfraternity council 219 220 222 223 224 karate club kuhf 88.7 fm 227 228 • � . latin american student organization 229 230 231 232 233 234 235 236 237 238 239 241 242 243 244 society of electrical engineers 245 student optometric association 247 248 249 250 251 4 tm 252 service 254 256 25 7 sx 260 761 x a 5 4 4 266 K) a 4 O M O mm PMMB PH il,i|iri� « iiila .. kUIMwM . 3hme O M [ sharon schmetter delta sig sweetheart 270 the people who brought you the rice owl w ® 777 N 274 276 ■iv’zm e -e k 278 e w 282 284 H M 286 X M 288 290 291 X M 292 293 294 296 HN ? y jr ■ the ship of fools —library archives 300 I Stulriftra Haute Harragonice pfcctotue ttutup fatis laudata Nauts:pcr Sebaftianu Branttvernaculo vul-gariq fermonc C rhyrhino pc clofp mortaliu fatuiratis femifaseffugcrecupictiu dircclione fpcculo comodoq 8C falutetproq? inernsignauecp faulting gpetuamfaniia exe-cratione SCconfiuatione nup fabricata: Atq? lampridem pcrlacobum Lochcr cognometo Philomufunv.Sueuu in latinu traduftaeloquui: per Scbaftianu Brant: denuo fcduloq; reuifa noua quadacxadfcaq; emedatoe elimata atq? fupadditis qbufda noui'sfadmiradifqjfatuogj generic busfupplcta:foelicicxordicurprmcipio. .1 -S .4 0« Nihil fine caufa •lo.deOlpe. 301 303 304 305 306 307 • 08 3)0 311 O N 0 T '� 'ODC H 313 314 315 316 317 319 320 322 ut nsqjui i r jiUJ ---m— 1 324 - rff XJ Cl I 325 326 327 328 329 330 emerson, lake, and palmer, april 23, 1972 elton john, april 28, 1972 331 332 curtis graves ■ e Republican ixon Is Right UNITED MAKING GOVI MNVI NT NEW DIRECTION NewChapter in History richard iii, april 28, 1972 336 Xu 340 341 344 345 I [ ' houstonian 1972 jamie bermingham palko lakatos diane miller buddy miller kathy bell kerry jordan ann marie hall rhoda jennings andy sharp rupert trevino jill redmond margie laminack bruce meyer gene Constantine william ashley mike callaway bob jonas chris ware pat covert 346 ;n juju photographers: ravi arya william ashley kenny baker lorraine bonney lames r. brown, jr. mike calloway charlie carper gene costantine ron j. dusek sieve farr bob jonas kerry jordan lloyd mat .ner bruce meyer Charles pape andy sharp kathy singleton chris stone michael taylor chris ware robert watson greg wood jim zanelli —the cover designed by Tom Ellerbee The evolution of human consciousness was built, atom by atom, into a configuration of matter and mind. The 1972 Houstonian cover depicts the natural form that links the most basic biological structure of a DNA molecule to the psychic structure of man. From the five shapes discovered by Plato, the spatial movements of the mind can be translated into the only regular forms possible in three-dimensional space. These forms now known as the Platonic Solids are: FIRE, the tetrahedron EARTH, the cube AIR. the octahedron WATER, the icosahedron, and THE SYMBOL OF THE COSMOS, the dodecahedron. Through these forms we seek to describe the chief characteristic of the mind — to be ceaselessly describing itself. The mind is in a ceaseless flux, a ceaseless weaving and unweaving, and its activity, in this sense, is an artistic activity. OT O-Zwcn wjoo-Zwcn cn� o«Zwcn c 3 jo o - Z m w s m 0£ P r-k • t '“ mi m ►1 ST :m IT -w. • _i . r _ K 1 r -.1 r.. ITE S E N I O R S W P1� MW II rmsa?wm' vsm fiailipefi a IS II 1 IP aj Ssa?TT 1 ®P? TiSi fMSM ■■■ SES1MS i© M s peace — an end peace is a word of the sea and the wind. as you smile peace is the love of a foe as a friend; peace is the love you bring to a child. peace is a stream from the heart of a man; peace is a man, whose breadth is the dawn, peace is a dawn on a day without end; peace is the end, like death of the war. C Copyright 1970 Enthovcn Gaydon Co., London, England. TRO-TO-TAL MUSIC, INC., New York, controls all publication rights for the USA and Canada. Used by permission,