THE CATALYST

CONTEMPORARY LI TERARY ARTS MAGAZI NE

ISSUE 2 // SPRING 2014
special edition: INCITE ISLA VISTA
BULLSHI T // MATHEW JAVI DI
ODE TO HOLLY // ADRI AN GRONSETH
JAR // TOMMY ALEXANDER
SALT OCEAN CHI LI MANGO // GI ANNA STODDARD
ALBI ON // ADAM DE GREE
a beauti ful young nymph. . . // natali e o BRI EN
JUST ANOTHER GHOST STORY // HALEY PAUL
COUCH SURFI NG // SEAN NOLAN
ON ARTI STS // VI JAY MASHARANI
CURMUDGEON // MATTHEW MALMLUND
DROPLETS // SI MONE DUPUY
ADRI FT I N OBLI VI ON // YI BI NG GUO
DEAR I SLA VI STA // BRANDON PI NEI RA
FI RST THI S BESTI AL MARK. . . // DANI EL PODGORSKI
ESPRESSO SHOT THROUGH THE HEART // ANJALI SHASTRY
A WORLD OF LI TERATURE MAJORS // CANELLE I RMAS
EVERYTHI NG YOU SEE ON TV // RYAN MARTI NAZZI
WI NTER NEVER COMES // JOSH GOODMACHER
WHEN THE BI RD FLI ES // BENJAMI N MOSS
AFTERMATH // KATHLEEN BYRNE
THE RI SI NG // DYLAN CHASE
FEBRUARY // DEVI N BI ERMAN
CONTROL // CHRI S CUBBI SON
ONE FRESH FOOL // ADRI AN GRONSETH
LACK OF ALCOHOL // JOSEPH LEGOTTE
AMTRAK // STEVE AUGUST
TOGETHER I N I SOLATI ON // MAYA JACOBSON, NI COLE HYMOVI TZ
OI L RI G BOY // MOLLY HAMI LL
A MORNI NG STROLL // SEAN NOLAN
BULLSHI T // MATHEW JAVI DI
ODE TO HOLLY // ADRI AN GRONSETH
JAR // TOMMY ALEXANDER
SALT OCEAN CHI LI MANGO // GI ANNA STODDARD
ALBI ON // ADAM DE GREE
a beauti ful young nymph. . . // natali e o BRI EN
JUST ANOTHER GHOST STORY // HALEY PAUL
COUCH SURFI NG // SEAN NOLAN
ON ARTI STS // VI JAY MASHARANI
CURMUDGEON // MATTHEW MALMLUND
DROPLETS // SI MONE DUPUY
ADRI FT I N OBLI VI ON // YI BI NG GUO
DEAR I SLA VI STA // BRANDON PI NEI RA
FI RST THI S BESTI AL MARK. . . // DANI EL PODGORSKI
ESPRESSO SHOT THROUGH THE HEART // ANJALI SHASTRY
A WORLD OF LI TERATURE MAJORS // CANELLE I RMAS
EVERYTHI NG YOU SEE ON TV // RYAN MARTI NAZZI
WI NTER NEVER COMES // JOSH GOODMACHER
WHEN THE BI RD FLI ES // BENJAMI N MOSS
AFTERMATH // KATHLEEN BYRNE
THE RI SI NG // DYLAN CHASE
FEBRUARY // DEVI N BI ERMAN
CONTROL // CHRI S CUBBI SON
ONE FRESH FOOL // ADRI AN GRONSETH
LACK OF ALCOHOL // JOSEPH LEGOTTE
AMTRAK // STEVE AUGUST
TOGETHER I N I SOLATI ON // MAYA JACOBSON, NI COLE HYMOVI TZ
OI L RI G BOY // MOLLY HAMI LL
A MORNI NG STROLL // SEAN NOLAN
DEAR READER,
Isla vista is one living breathing ocean organism. You touch
it and it responds to you. We cant pretend for long we know
what were doing here, that we know what to say. Amidst the
insanity, the utter disbelief we all must be feeling right now,
what words will make it change? Ryan Yamamoto wrote Te
Catalyst, a poem in our last issue, that challenged us to change
our community from empty handed torch bearers searching
for our Prometheus to igniting the fames of passion in creative
collectivity. Tats not an easy task for anyone. How do you paint
confusion? How do you arrange pain on a Word document? As it
turns out, a lot of us generated fame imagery with the frst crop
of submissions for this special edition.
We know fre. Te California fres burning elsewhere are but
a backdrop to the war happening here, on our home-front. Tis
will always be our home, transient as it is. Tough many have and
will call Isla Vista home, those currently living here will always
share a bond as a result of the events we have endured together.
Its impossible to look at this place, and the work in this issue,
without a new perspective. Professor Alan Fridlund, in a lecture
on May 27, 2014 told us that we would never quite return to the
normalcy we experienced before Friday, May 23rd. We will tell
our kids, our friends twenty years from now, and we will never
be able to explain the way this feels to anyone. We will be forever
tied and connected to our Isla Vista kin.
Tis past year has been hard, and indiscriminant in its
tragedy. Te media has already tried to pin the ailments of an
entire society on our small backs. Yes, there are problems.
No, Isla Vista is not just the picturesque sun kissed image we
uphold it to be, but a place of growth and decay. Generations
shufe in and out, take a stake and grow roots. But eventually
the tide turns all away, sending us back to a strange unknown
world outside our bubble. Yet as much as we struggle to, we
cant ever fully rip ourselves from this breathing, growing,
strengthening ecosystem. A part of us will always remain here,
a few infnitesimal grains of the sands immense store once the
waves have worn us in.
Have you ever gone skinny-dipping while youve lived here?
Have you ever joined a club? Did you watch the eclipse? Have
you been up Storke Tower? Have you ever called an ofce, annex
or building on campus home? Do you call a professor by frst
name? Could a restaurant employee in IV guess your regular?
Have you crashed your bike? Have you listened to KCSB?
Have you seen a live performance of any kind? Did you go to
Extravaganza? Have you become a member? Have you ever ran
to catch the sunset? Did you take pictures? Did your freshman
dorm have a twilight smoking group? Did you ever break into the
faculty pool? Did you ever play at an open mic? Did you ever get
a Woodstocks bottle opener? Did you ever break anything? And,
have you made something here? If the answer is no, you may be
viewed as lucky. You, unlike these poor barnacles, might have a
cleaner break from this rock we call home. But for the hangers-
on, how do we begin to cope with leaving?
Tis last weekend has revealed that our foundations run
deep here. Like so many of my friends I found it impossible to
abandon IV this weekend. Yet, without the words, without the
Facebook statuses and tweets, the links to media sensationalist
garbage, we are one. And one we will remain.
Tis particular issue, Incite Isla Vista was initially a DIY
response to the failure of the lock-in fee for funding. It has become
much more than that. Now more than ever, we need something
to uncover our beating heart, warts and all. Te voices here
are many, and varied. As my content weenies put it: So we got
together to share how we see it, which is what you see spread over
these pages. In spite (or, maybe because) of its narrower scope,
this issue has a diversity of perspectives on display: shitstarters
and arsonists, tweaks and catatonics, star and seagazers, fools
and fossils, the green and the overseasoned, drifers and anchors,
turkeys and dodos.
In this square mile of ours, our faces become the streets, the
storefronts, the houses. Without us, only ghosts would remain.
Perhaps our issue crosses lines. It defnitely crosses boarders
the very same we cross daily from campus to IV. Tis issue is
defned by the month-old words within its own bindings. I
recommend that you read this thing out of order, since chaos is
what got us here. In the words of Brandon Pineira youll fnd that
Isla Vista is not just a means to an end, and that we are ready to
be looked in the eyes.

-N
May 28, 2014
LETTER FROM ONE EDITOR
cover photos //
haley paul, Natalie obrieN, megaN fisher
Wake up, motherfucker.
Tats right, Im talking to you, you mindless,
helpless, brainwashed drone of society. Wake up.
Its about time somebody told you that. Look away
from your Apple Handjob 7 or whatever the fuck
its called and listen to me. LISTEN TO ME. YOU
HAVE NO IDEA HOW IMPORTANT IT IS THAT
YOU LISTEN TO ME. Okay, good. Now wake up.
Youre about to get a life lesson from someone who
knows better. Its okay, you can trust me. Im in
college.
You cruise along throughout your day without
a care in the world. You go to work at some job
that you hate, and you take orders from some guy
you hate, and then you go home to a house flled
with stuf that men in suits told you to buy. Youd
probably hate those guys too. And why do you
do it? Because its easy? Because thats just what
everybody does? Because its the safest, most secure
way to get through life without having to confront
your impending death on a daily basis? Because
it pays your mortgage? Let me ask you this, then.
What the fuck is a mortgage? Seriously, I have no
idea what that word means. Never in my life have I
been confronted by the deeper concept or gravity of
a mortgage. But fuck you for paying one.
Youre in a stupor, drunk on a substance so pure
yet so synthetic that even the men who create it fall
victim to its potency. Im talking about bullshit,
man. Its in our food, its in our water, its in our
make-up and our lotion. Did you take a shower this
morning? Did you use shampoo? Guess what? Tere
was bullshit in that too. I know this because I read
a lot of Phillip K. Dick and Sartre last year while
my idiot roommates (who are just as brainwashed
as you) just kept going to the bullshit fountain and
taking long swigs. But I knew better. I knew better
because David Foster Wallace knew better. Tats
why he killed himself, man. Because he didnt want
to keep eating, drinking, and breathing bullshit.
Now, Im not going to do what he did because Ive
got a mission to complete, but he had the right idea,
you know? Defnitely made him a hero. In fact, I
dont think I ever would have read Infnite Jest if
DFW hadnt killed himself.
But why am I even telling you this? You know all
about bullshit. You love bullshit. You spread bullshit
all over your morning fucking bagel and eat it with
some bullshit fakes in bullshit milk. Youre the
one who keeps paying for high-speed Internet and
cable in one package. Tats like installing a bullshit
waterfall in your own home. Why would you do
that to yourself? So that you can be with people
and alone at the same time? Youre killing yourself,
buddy. Youre rotting your brain cell by cell. But hey,
if you are going to stay online, you should like my
Facebook page, If Corporations Are People Ten
Tey Deserve To... We need likes, dude. Otherwise,
nobody is going to get the message. Im trying to
free people here, and I can only do it if they like the
Facebook page. Its really easy. You should do it now,
before you forget.
I know it makes you angry. It makes me angry
too. But thats why I have to scream at you about it.
You wouldnt be angry about it if I werent screaming
at you. You wouldnt wake up if I didnt bombard
you with performance art, spoken word, and Jack
Kerouac poems in a venomous, spit-laden rant at
BY MATHEW JAVIDI
B
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GAUCHO MARKS MAGAZINE
three in the morning. Im making sacrifces here. It
takes a lot of my little brothers Ritalin to organize my
thoughts cogently enough to hit you with this. Tat
shit fucks with your brain afer a while, but thats
the price Im willing to pay to save you. Because you
need my help, friend. I am a social justice warlord.
As a member of the upper-middle class, I am the
best person to rip it from the crisis of identity and
philosophy its currently experiencing. I am the hero
you both need AND deserve.
I am your Bullshit Batman.
PHOTO//MICHAELA VACHUSKA
ART//CHANEL MILLER
Through these turbulent years
youve kept me afoat
with an enduring example
Seas and cities swirl
but you remain unmoved,
a fxture in the fathomless chaos
of growth and pain
senility and madness
discovery and death
all the absurd sub-clauses attached
to this lease on life
Man-made, true,
but I cant imagine the sparkling blue without you,
contrasting the earthly palate
with cool raw steel,
complementing the landscape like any noble
monument
For four years now Ive tried to decipher your mystery
Ive heard all the rumors of rape and violence,
the accusations of lust and plunder,
the cries that claim you represent a culture depraved
beyond redemption,
with no regard for planet or progeny
And surely they cant be false
But Ive also seen another dimension,
studying,
pacing these twisting angles
of sand and rock
From afar youve continuously morphed in my
imagination:
one day the peeking periscope
of a Japanese submarine,
a frozen invasion
foundering in the riptide of time;
the next,
wandering the coast on more mushrooms than
Morrison,
Ive spied a clear crystal fst
illumined like a jack-o-lantern,
middle fnger stretched straight to the sky;
sometimes at sunset
the apparition of a pirate ship emerges,
tattered sail of pink lemonade clouds
hovering above,
a raucous melody rising
from your ghostly decks
Entire days and nights spent watching you
Gray meditative mornings,
shrouded in Melvillian mists,
your face only visible in memories or stolen moments
until the fog foats by
Te stark clarity of high noon
when even the endless ocean seems stagnant
and the stink almost overpowers my unenlightened
mind
Yet it always drifs away with the light,
the rush of day imperceptibly
fading into evening
Our sun reclines
behind your caged silhouette,
bursting its show to a close
(the way we all should go),
shedding its dying rays on streaks of clouds,
slicing open the sky
like fresh rhubarb pie,
bleeding bloodorange juice
on the glassy shore
Dazzling alike the mind of man bird and dog,
every starfsh surfer and log
strewn along the beach
in reverence,
worshipping
A new moon rises to rival your light,
glowing deeper in the enveloping cloak of night
All sounds ebb away
middle fnger stretched straight to the sky;
sometimes at sunset
the apparition of a pirate ship emerges,
tattered sail of pink lemonade clouds
hovering above,
a raucous melody rising
from your ghostly decks
Entire days and nights spent watching you
Gray meditative mornings,
shrouded in Melvillian mists,
your face only visible in memories or stolen moments
until the fog foats by
Te stark clarity of high noon
when even the endless ocean seems stagnant
and the stink almost overpowers my unenlightened
mind
Yet it always drifs away with the light,
the rush of day imperceptibly
fading into evening
Our sun reclines
behind your caged silhouette,
bursting its show to a close
(the way we all should go),
shedding its dying rays on streaks of clouds,
slicing open the sky
like fresh rhubarb pie,
bleeding bloodorange juice
on the glassy shore
Dazzling alike the mind of man bird and dog,
every starfsh surfer and log
strewn along the beach
in reverence,
worshipping
A new moon rises to rival your light,
glowing deeper in the enveloping cloak of night
All sounds ebb away
ODE TO HOLLY
BY ADRIAN GRONSETH
Were alone
Interrupted only by the occasional raccoon
and adventurous love-locked couple
whose kisses cant compare to what we share
the deep unbroken unspoken bond of
acknowledgment,
exchanged through knowing winks and sof
chuckles
in the midnight calm
Dawn breaks as before,
purple pages inking the foor,
saltmorning scent wafing my soul
with the desire to strip down
dive in
swim out to you
But now its fnally farewell
We knew it couldnt last,
this secret sultry afair
was it really four years
or just the four seasons of a day?
Ah, either way it must be adieu,
unknown winds and waters whisper me away,
beyond that western horizon
youve faithfully guarded like a gate
Silently standing sentry:
you know your work and place
Now I must fnd mine
Perhaps well meet again in distant days,
afer continents have shifed,
surfaces risen,
but times inexhaustible barrage of blows
somehow still gliding by you,
melting in the warm breeze
You will raise your spire
and a toast with a smile,
lighthouse of our hopes,
dependable as the bubbling tar
and the urgency of youth
Humbly doing your duty,
shimmering,
buoyant
anchored deep outta sight,
puzzling and protecting each class
of passing dreamers
on the waves.
BY TOMMY ALEXANDER
Jar,
a big glass jar flled with hot black cofee and lef in the fridge to cool,
gradually, slowly,
forgotten until i need a cafeine fx and reach into the fridge
to fnd the glass frosty to the touch
and drink it all down in a few thirsty gulps.
its like when my father would give me water in a tall square mason jar during
prepubescent weekend visits, gnocchi pasta boiling on the stove
rolling big handsome meatballs in the kitchen of that cozy pink house
thats swallowed in the gob of years.
i drink out of jars now because it takes me back
to a time when i could still change everything that happened,
and how i acted,
and how i took that mason jar and drank down the water
and pissed it all over the foor
consumed with this baseless faceless simmering solipsistic rage
and lef
and made my father cry.
i could smash all the mason jars in the world
and it wouldnt change fuck all
so here i am drinking whiskey out of a jar at three in the morning
and my father was supposed to call again today but forgot or prioritized
and i couldve prevented this all in that pink house on valparaiso.
PHOTO // MARIAH TIFFANY
JAR
PHOTO // MARIAH TIFFANY
Salt Ocean Chili Mango
On nights warm enough
we slip out of our clothes,
toss them onto unlit sand,
trip and run and stumble
for the dark, open-armed ocean
rippling skirt hand-stitched
with starsto dive and rinse
the stickiness of the Mango Mans
fower-carved fruit from our skin.
Te burn of brine always recalls
the chili-salt caught on our
nostrils and mouths and chins,
edging our tongues in sweat.
P
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BY GIANNA STODDARD
ALBION
ADAM DE GREE
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ALBION
ADAM DE GREE
As I lay down to sleep last night
my eyes beheld a curious sight:
an endless scale of space and time
played out across my unfolding mind.
Luckily for me and you
my role was just a sideline view,
but I pray that these words sufce
for I had no camera
and there were no lights.
Only Black
as I fell back,
Gravity released me,
and with no ground beneath me
I began to fall in place,
sufocated by dark proto-space.
Back and back through the terrible Black
until there was a mighty crack
melodies came pouring out
fountains of sound and light did spout
into glistening glorious song:
the stars announcing the frst dawn
As the eons swifly passed,
galaxies crumbled, ran out of gas,
with no one out here to miss them
until I arrived in our solar system,
where a creature crawling on ground
heard just a whisper of the stars sound,
and suddenly thinking himself wise,
she proceeded to map out the skies.
Finally, grown swollen with Pride
at what hed done with those little eyes,
she cried Behold! Te glory of my handiwork!
No longer do I play with sticks in the dirt.
Tis greatness is now all now my own,
Mom, can I fnally move out alone?
Mother Earth replied with a smirk,
Not quite yet, youve got unfnished work!
Lets just say that by the look of your room
Id be sending other planets to their doom
if I said yes.
And while youre here
let me address
some issues Ive been holding
close to my chest:
Tese constellations that you see
are just conventions,
connections constructed
by your invention.
You think you can see
the stars in their dance?
Why, you dont even know
when to take of your pants!
Consumed by wet dreams of Power and Fame,
Uncontrollable ejaculations of shame.
See, I too was once 16,
My valleys have also been pierced by streams;
Ive had my share of bedding disconformities
caused by last nights faults and orogenies.
But you are still young,
your orgasms come
at the point of your gun.
Ten Albion cried out:
Ok I get it! You dont need to shout.
Even so, I disagree,
in my body there is no unity.
Still, I swear, that isnt me!
Tose are just deviations,
growing pains, abbreviations.
Trow out those hormonal sighs
and Im still here
without the lies.
Im not sure if I should laugh or cry,
came Gaias sighing reply,
Your lie begins
With the simple word I.
Other life on Earth
is part of the cycle
of death and birth,
of food and fuel.
But you with your I sit there and rule,
Perched above, alone on your throne,
As you blindly burn down your home.
Now you want to leave me
alone here to bleed,
again I say No!
Do you not see
you are part of this rock?
I am your mother,
from none other
could you come to be.
So if it fnally comes to pass
that when you say me
you mean more than your various incarna-
tions,
more than color, language, and nation,
more than the products of your history,
the words you use to chain Infnity
If it comes to be
that your me
includes the earth, the sky, the sea,
all the things that gave you birth,
when you realize that your worth
with them is inextricably tied,
when they are included in your I
Ten no more will you wander alone,
no more will you burn down your home,
no more will your hormones control
the fres you start with the sparks of your
soul;
no more will your creations bring hate,
bringing you to your enemys gate;
and no more will you have need of me
berating you with these words.
For then you will see
that you, human, make things sacred.
Te power I have
is the power you give.
I am a story, a manifestation
of themes youve experienced
since your creation.
One day, maybe, youll see the Truth
that I, Mother Earth, live in you;
when you include me in your I,
then, my human, then you will fy.
What happened next I cannot say,
for it had passed the break of day,
and as my alarm released its scream
the dream at last took its leave
and lef me wondering what will be
So afer all thats come to pass,
well, next week, Im sleeping through class.
And even now, I have some hope
that though humanity can be a sad joke,
we still will hear and echo the stars
in the furnaces of our hearts,
until the Earth burns not in damnation
but with the Fires of Creation.
photos // ava mortoN
Te only things now lef to do
to send her on her way:
put on her gloves and tie the mask
So she can slip away.
Jewels in place, faade complete
Te games will soon begin.
Tough Julianna doesnt know,
Tat no one ever wins.
Shadows growing on the wall
Inviting in the Night
Tey crowd the room and whisper soon
To the Days waning light.
Where did Julianna go?
She drank all the champagne.
All is fair in Love and War
Sing chorus and refrain.
Palm fronds to talons, shadows curl
Waiting for their prey
A picture perfect paradise,
In Carnival, betrays.
A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG NYMPH GOING TO CARNIVAL
B
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A lullaby to Juliana,
For her the night awaits.
She spends the afernoon preparing,
Gluing feathers, trimming lace.
She works under the lamplight while
Te sun is growing dim
She only has an hour lef
Before Carnival begins.
She takes her time before the glass
Symmetric lines she draws
Carving shadows along her face
To accentuate the jaw.
Next she takes the rouge in hand
and gently scores her cheeks
her eyelids marked, the hairs removed
her lips are plumped and sweet.
In a certain tower above a lagoon lived
a young girl who never felt quite right there. On a
night like any other, with a friend, she travelled to the
neighborhood nearby, where the masses gathered in
somnambulistic vagary, to wander til dawn in the
misty streets. Policemen stood about like animalistic
stone statues in a park, feasting their eyes on the
crowd as if they werent even there, yet ready to
awaken. Te girl and her friend were growing tired
of the cold night when a peculiar thing happened.
Tey werent planning to meet anyone in particular,
but they didan entertaining young man with
bright white hair and an exotic voice. He insisted
they follow him, and to push the long walk home
further down their itinerary, the girls accepted.
He led them to his house on the corner where
inside there were many other white-haired, tank
top-clad men with strange voices throwing balls
into cups. With uptmost politeness, the man ofered
drinks to his lures and both accepted, though the
nightly craze was alive in them already. With the
mans mixed concoction in hand, the young girl
consented to an invitation to the balcony where
conversation and people-watching could manifest.
JUST
ANOTHER GHOST STORY
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BY HALEY PAUL
With every sip, though, the girl fell farther and
farther away from the material present into her own
world, her own mind, where the scenes recorded by
her eyes erased faster than she could watch them.
Up the stairs and down the hallthe
girl could not remember if she had made it
there herself. In a bedroom, there were two
large mattresses on the foor, beckoning
her to the inevitable prospect of sleep. But
the sweet cold arms of fresh air grabbed
her and pulled her onto the balcony and
soon she could feel her weight become
pathetically dependent and her fesh raw,
sof, juicy! A fragrant little tangerine she
suddenly became! And he was no longer a
man, but a beast ready to feast. Her skin he
unpeeled, and into his hands fell her sweet
tangy pods ready to burst. He had her now,
inanimate, and so he ravaged and ripped
her apart from inside out. He devoured
each saccharine slice, hocking and slurping
her zesty skins. In her mind, she screamed
and cried NO but just like in her dreams,
nothing came out. When he was fnally
through, he ofered the last bits and pieces
to a friend, or two, and they tore the rotting
fruit from her bones til nothing but a
carcass was lef.
Slowly returning to her human state,
the girl searched anxiously for her clothes.
She didnt dare look up at the two men who
stood conversing in the corner but their
gaze pierced right through her, and it wasnt
just them. It was the walls, too. Yes, the walls
had eyes! Wallpaper eyes were engrossed in
her sufering the way people always stop to
indulge in car accidents and public arrests.
She felt hollow beneath her skin, paralyzed
like a hunted rabbit. She was terrifed: of the men
watching her re-dress, of losing consciousness, of
everyone in this cold, cold world. Before she could
fgure out how to lace up her boots, the thought of
her feeble state drew her to the bathroom down the
hall. Afer heaving the contents out of her body, only
humiliation was lef, buried eternally deep in her
stomach. To her tower by the lagoon the young girl
returned to forget the whole event as she fnally laid
her head to rest.
Her story doesnt end quite yet, for a couple years
later she lived just around the corner from that same
grim apartment, though the ghastly beast was but a
ficker in her memory. He must be gone forever, the
girl thought and she was at least somewhat right.
Tereupon, she met a friend to whom she told
everything, because the two shared similar stories
and manners and an understanding of what it feels
like to be devoured. One day, she was invited to her
friends house, and like a reoccurring nightmare,
she drifed right back into the belly of the beast.
Unbeknownst to the young girl, her closest friend
ate every meal in that very same kitchen, showered
in that very same bathroom, slept all through the
night in that very same room. How could her friend
call that wretched structure a home afer what had
happened there?
Truth be told she couldnt wait to return to that
place, to rehearse her emotionless reaction, to stare
right into the face of her shame and feel nothing at
all, a skill shed been perfecting all her life through
various painful situations. She wasnt afraid of
the big bad beast anymore. And so, the young girl
scurried inside her old hungry menace and with a
grimace, it murmured, remember me?
Suddenly a pale cold clarity swept over her
the windows and the walls and the foors were
possessed. Te kitchen, it menaced, would you like
another drink?, and the staircase, it probed, back
so soon? Te outlines were perfectly preserved and
all that had changed were the residents and a few
belongings, the same old fesh and bones with a new
spirit. Everything that had vanished from her mind
had at once come home and she felt the great burden
of her memories like silence in a crowded room.
In the months that followed, the young girl
returned many times despite her fear of the ghost-
ridden house, and afer each occasion, a stone was
lifed from her heart. Tus, the healing began, and
the house was slowly cleansed of its monstrous role
in her memories. Afer all, the ocean spends its life
erasing footprints on the sand.
Tis very same girl lives now in a land far away
where she happily belongs and doesnt bother to
forget anything of the past and at night she falls
to rest humming Blues My Naughty Sweetie Gives
to Me. To feel something is better than to feel
nothing at all.
JUST
ANOTHER GHOST STORY
S
iting in the rain on a Sunday morning
waiting for a man to give me a lif
somewhere.
Yeah, somewhere.
Anywhere.
Maybe back to another warm-lit hostel.or to a
lovely home for a family of four. Maybe to another
beer-stained roach-infested living room where Ill be
condemned for eternity to eat the ashes of the foor
and collect stoge burns with fervent gusto. More likely
theyll just take me back to the cosmic shit heap.
Either way, the kind of sagging worn low a man
feels in the rain when hes been ditched, beaten,
burned, stepped and slept on, will be a grinding
feature.
It was cold and the sky bled fat-bellied drops of
smacking sputum. It had been pouring for about four
hours now and the possibility of them coming back
for me was quickly petrifying into a defnitive wrong!
I sat half of the curb, straddling the guter and
sidewalk, polyester skin steadily growing swollen
and soaked, swamping across my rickety wide-
starved frame.
Te fuckers just lef me here!
No warmth no love no gridlocked goodbyes, they
had essentially thrown me from the back of the truck!
Fuckers.
Tats all I have to say about em.
God damned fuckers.all of em.
I guess you could say Im a bit biter, but you
would be too if youd been shufed from holy land to
hell hole the way Ive been. Six families in four years,
all downhill. Like I just came of the factory line and
immediately began the slow decay of all.
Te rain picked up and I stared defeated into the
now raging guter glut.
BY SEAN NOLAN
PHOTO // MARIAH TIFFANY
Couch-Surfng
And all I ever did was try to be supportive.
A ravaged dog yowled down the street.
I used to have it made.
A loving family, albeit not my own, shelter, care,
fabric sofener and oh I can smell it now!
SWEET FEBREEZE!!
I always loved that therapeutic candle shit that
they used to doprety ritzy compared to my current
predicament.
We would all curl up and watch shity rom-coms
and the occasional craptastic Tyler Perry fick. Te
kids were awesome. Wed jump up and down and
tumble to foor while Ma made boiled veggies and
fried chicken. I didnt even mind when they swept
their litle fngers clear of grease all over my arms. I
swear it was afectionate!
It never lasted.
Never did.
Tey got a cat and the fucker hated me.
DID I MENTION THEY WERE FUCKERS??!!
Yes. Te bastard cat hated me.
Te second they brought this litle shithead home
he lunges on top of me and proceeds to tear me to
shreds!
I freaked the fuck out. No one noticed. Tey went
about their business.
Everyday this would repeat ad nauseam. Te
door would open, early morning, patpatpatpat
REOAWHHH! And cue the claws.
Every once in a while they would shoe the rascal
away and I would get a brief taste of what used to be.
Until the hairtriggertabbytempered demon stopped
tearing at me and started pissing.
ON ME! I say the furry monster was pissing.ON
ME!!
It wasnt long afer that that they started to want
nothing to do with me.
Eventually they asked me to leave and with
the help of two rather belligerent and smelly men
tramped me out to this familiar place. Te curb.
Yeah, kicked to the curb. Well, not this one.
But one like it. Teyre essentially all the same,
these curbs. Barely hanging on, one foot in the grave
and the other in a heaping pile of dog shit. I still
cant believe they found me another home. I guess
it was a fnal gesture of good will, you know, no
harm, my bad, sorry things didnt work out. From
there I bummed around a youth hostel, and afer that
a geriatric old womans house, then the Curb again,
then an alleyway, then an apartment flled with
drunken universitikes. Ten Curb, then another apt.,
Curb, yet another apt. and there and back again.
Te fucking Curb is my best friend!
I called myself Greg.
Te last guy I lived with was a prety bad stoner
He would corner me in the room and atack me with
a vacuum and a cofee flter, hoping to fnd dust to
smoke his day away. He would have sex. Relentlessly
Never once asking me to leave the room.
Hey dont judge me I swear Im not a pervert I
closed my eyes really!
Besides he would have locked me out. If I could
fnd a way out. I was prety beat by then. Tired,
wasting and weathered. My skin took on the ash-dirt
hue of the grimiest of vagabonds. My legs cracked
and developed hairline fractures. I was couch-ridden.
Did I mention he would have sex on me?
Te hound was only ten feet away now. I shooed
at him wearily. He smacked his chops and closed in.
Yawp! Yawp! Yawp!
He began licking my leg in a spot where my last
roommate had spilled a girth of soy sauce that had
stained me deep. Tat was his last straw.
Te licking turned to gnawing. I gave a great
shudder and collapsed into the guter-Seine. Te sky
cracked simultaneously and the callous canine gave
another defant Yawp! before scampering of.
I cried.
But just when I had decided to lay and decay here
forever, the storm broke. Clouds busted aside, a shard
of sun shearing through.
Te fuming clods of grey stepping aside for the big
blue and ole Sol.
I swear the heat was instantaneous.
It bore over my sunken and ragged frame and
enlivened me.
I had been here before.
On the Curb.
In the guter.
Down in the dumps.
All that Jazz, but now it seems to me that its all so
transient and feeting. Te streets look good. Kids are
walking out of their houses to see the quickly brilliant
post-storm masterpiece that always makes the wait
worth it. Who knows, maybe theyll see me here and
take me in. Make me one of the crew,
PHOTO // MARIAH TIFFANY
one of the gang. A local, yeah, a real mensch
Maybe.
When the storm fnally subsided Dave and his
friends got together with the old gas can and walked
outside. Tey had been planning this forever and today
was the day. Afer a storm? No one would expect it!
Sure, it was soaked solid through, but gasoline would
take care of that! GLORIOUS DAY Dave howled.
His friends snickered and they clotheslined down the
street whistling an easy tune and grinning long. Daves
roommate Tyler began chanting. Burn motherfucker
burn motherfucker burn. He began in a whisper and
took up a sadistic timbre, Burn motherfucker burn!
Tey drew in a semicircle around a glistening verdigris
couch glossed with ashes, cum, and wine stains. Half
of the curb straddling the guter and sidewalk, it
was already gasping heat in the days light. Burn
motherfucker burn motherfucker, motherfucker burn!
Dave began re-soaking the new hope sofa. Te acrid
smell shimmered like mirage in the crisp air. Daves
eyes glowed senselessly, Tyler was in a feverish trance,
BURN MOTHERFUCKER BURN MOTHERFUCKER,
MOTHERFUCKER BURN! Dancing like impish fantod
witchmen screaming and howling.
Tey poured out the whole gallon jug and ripped a
match.
ART // VIJAY MASHARANI
HOW DID YOU DO THAT?
HOW DID YOU THINK OF THAT?
Youre such a hipster!
ARE YOU SINGLE?
T
his separation between MERE MORTALS and ARTISTS is kinda good for my ego, but its bad for
art in general. Im not a god, nor am I signifcantly naturally talented. I do have a solid, obsessive
work ethic. Im also very critical, which means that I dont plateau very easily. On behalf of people
who make art, Im going to have to ask you all to stop deifying us, and start engaging with us. We
are the same. You probably make art and dont even realize it.
In the documentary of his life Te Radiant Child, Jean-Michel Basquiat is described as frustrated with the
New York gallery scene when he was on the come-up in the 80s. Minimalism was the predominant aesthetic,
and Basquiat believed that these highly conceptual works were alienating the art sphere from the general
public.
A similar phenomenon is illustrated when I talk to people about my own practice. Viewers of my work arent
interested in their own interpretation because they view themselves as unworthy or unknowledgeable. Tis
phenomenon is frustrating for artists who are trying to engage in an honest dialogue with their audience.
Perhaps the art sphere is in a similar phase to what Basquiat observed, or perhaps society is still trying to
fgure out the alienating nature of some conceptual works.
Not only is the disconnect between the art world and the real world harmful and frustrating, it also
doesnt make sense. Art is inescapable in the real world. Every building, every article of clothing, every
advertisement, and every piece of furniture comes from the same mental place as the paintings and drawings
that seem so nebulous and unreachable to the general public. Furthermore, artists, while somewhat deifed
by many, are also paradoxically disrespected, and viewed as the botom rung of society. We are called
stoners, bums, future baristas.
Te arbitrary barriers between regular people and artists are torturous to me because they distinguish
categories that dont exist. Normal people are artists, and vice versa. Im done talking. Lets make something.
BY VIJAY MASHARANI
i wish i could do that, i cant even draw stick figures!
HOW DID YOU DO THAT?
HOW DID YOU THINK OF THAT?
Youre such a hipster!
ARE YOU SINGLE?
B z z z z z z z z
I feel the sonic oscillations in my jaw
and watc my eyes follow themselves around the mirror.
Tey wince at hints of light
Still red as if I cried last night.
B Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z
But I do not feel beyond that
damn throbbing in my head.
But I do see the motions
Getting up, brushing, swallowing.
B z z z z z z
In the refection my face is wrinkled
and despite my callow eforts
my teeth are the same
Xanthous yellow they will always be
B Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z
In the refection,
but behind the water spots,
I am half asleep and Im the same
stoned fellow I will always be.
B
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PHOTO // MARIAH TIFFANY
Te clouds are billowing overhead
and droplets obscure the pane.
I watc them fall and run together
as Im driving home again.
At frst they all resist eac other,
then attract and cling on tight,
rolling down the slanted glass as one
until fnally out of sight.
Like Vladimir and Estragon,
instead of holding their own,
they band together to ease the fear
of facing the unknown.
Droplets
by simoNe Dupuy
PHOTO // MARIAH TIFFANY
Te light flters through the shutters of the blinds
And I remember those Autumn afernoons staring at that
very same light,
Filtering through leaves and infnite tree branches,
And those withered leaves rustling with the breeze.
Te echo of your departure reverberates of the walls
And it resonates within the darkest depths of my being.
I walk through these streets full of life
With the sound of the waves guiding me.
At night I hear the wind whistling
As its whirl shakes everything up.
And the mysterious light of that ship perpetually lost adrif
Telling infnite stories
About dreams and illusions,
Raised on your mast,
Spread out amongst the foam
Living adrif from the fugacity of things themselves.
Eternally returning and beginning anew.
I sit on the edge of my bed,
My feet swinging on the edge of oblivion.
I look at my surroundings,
Te sky and the Earth,
And these roads that seem so familiar,
Yet so distant.
Innumerable lives have walked these paths.
Halls that house ideas from other times.
A recycled life. . .
Like the drawers that hold my secrets.
Like the silverware I use to swallow this nostalgia.
Tiny conch from the shifing seas
Tell me how many peoples ears you have whispered to.
How many stories do you keep in that eternal spiral?
Share your secrets with me
About the oceans and waves
And all the tracks that theyve erased.
i.
ADRIFT IN
oblivioN
ESCRITO POR
yibiNg guo
La luz se fltra por las rendijas de las persianas
Y recuerdo aquellas tardes de otoo, mirando esa misma luz
Filtrndose por las ramas e infnitas bifurcaciones de los rboles
Y esas hojas marchitas crujiendo con el paso de la brisa.
El eco de tu partida reverbera en las paredes
Y se propaga en lo ms profundo de mi ser.
Camino por estas calles que se llenan de vida
Y las olas me guan.
Por las noches, escucho el viento silbar
Alborotando todo a su paso.
La misteriosa luz de aquel barco
Perpetuamente perdido a la deriva
Cuenta infnitas historias
De sueos e ilusiones que se alzan en tu mstil
Y que terminan esparcidas como la espuma del mar.
Viviendo a la deriva de la fugacidad de las cosas mismas.
Un eterno regresar y volver a empezar.
Me siento a la orilla de mi cama
Y mis pies tambalean en un abismo de olvido.
Observo mis alrededores:
El cielo y la tierra
Y estos caminos que parecen tan familiares
Pero tan distantes.
Incontables vidas por estos rumbos han pasado.
Y estas aulas que encasillan las ideas de otros tiempos.
Una vida reciclada
As como los cajones que guardan mis secretos.
As como los cubiertos con los que me trago esta nostalgia.
Conchita de altamar
Dime a cuntas personas les has susurrado al odo.
Cuntas historias guardas en esa eterna espiral.
Comparte tus secretos conmigo,
Acerca de las olas del mar
Y todas las huellas que han dejado atrs.






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ii.
DEAR ISLA VISTA,
It is much harder to write a love poem
about somebody you know well.
You are a stone that has not stopped skipping,
Each bounce punctuated erratically,
like a brisk set of footsteps.
I watch across the way,
looking for what threw you.
Tere was always a sweetness to your weekend strangers,
the bleary smiles on their faces
that say,
today might as well be yesterday.
Tough some flled their bottles with the sun
and never stopped drinking,
and some lost their intentions below sea level.
PHOTOS // TREVOR MAUK
PHOTOS // TREVOR MAUK
But you are not a means to an end.
You are not an ant farm,
and I wont be entertained
by watching others shake you.
I dreamt
you were the headless statue of a former hero
championing an empty case of Keystone Light
and a membership to Chase Bank.
People stood next to you in hilarious poses
and took photographs,
leaving their litter by your feet.
I spent the rest of the evening
Searching for your face
So that someone might look you in the eyes.
BY BRANDON PINEIRA
first this bestial marK
& THEN THAT
G
aunt, bespectacled Tom Weber paced
with purpose the university-adjacent
slum, feeling with every step the adrenal
high of betrayal. Certain half-deserted streets. From
some stark-lit student tenement emanated steady
pulses of bass.
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God's ways to man.
"Take your word for it," Tom mutered.
He brushed his fngers through the sparse hair
on his chin, then cupped his hands and breathed
them warmer. Four women crossed Tom's path at
the corner, each more scantily clad than the last.
As they went, they profaned the temperature of
the night. Behind them some distance, walking the
same direction though more generously dressed,
were Aja Wilson and James Nasim-Pemberton.
Tom donned the hood of his sweatshirt. Blending.
"Tom!" called Wilson. "Hey, Aja."
Tom exchanged a perfunctory nod with James.
"Something going on thataways?" she returned.
"Yeah, something. You?" responded Tom. "Sack's
place. What something?"
Making all his nowhere plans for nobody.
"Hey James," Tom asked with a measured calm,
"did Sack ever get around to giving you the money
for bowling?"
"I'm hiring a collection agency."
Wilson chortled and said, "Break his thumbs?"
"Probably his knees."
"I'm telling you, he forgot," Tom ofered.
James shrugged. A bus full of lowing
matriculates crossed the intersection. Somber,
lighter bus some time later, peopled by fuzz-minded
vegetables. Disgust the slaves with freedom. A few
streets over, a siren howled and barked for peace.
Meat on a nearby grill kindled Tom's hunger.
James nudged Wilson.
"You could come," she said. "I'm sure he has
enough."
Tick air in a pungent room. Aja Wilson's contented
face glazed over dreamily; she talked about her love
for Jesus. Maybe I ought to. Tat's the only net I have,
got to eke out what art I can. Declined, the pair
slipped of, and Tom resumed traipsing.
More sirens sounded in possible supplement to
the frst. Pulling his phone from his pocket, Tom
noted that he had been walking for almost seven
minutes. No posts to drape duration on. Te litle
mailbox symbol was greyed out. Another pang
of adrenalized discontent coursed through him.
Obviously. Seven minutes. Just keep walking.
Te unlit western streets of the area were a
bastion of anonymity. Keeping his hood on, Tom
could be no one. If you want to reduce violent crime
in the area, street lights would be a start. He caught
fragments of conversations from passerby:
"put calc into calc, and they're teaching us
their baby."
"Freddie was so gone." "Never seen him that
gone." "Right?-
"It's cold as balls."
"gota eat something or I'm gonna literally
die tonight. Need to down enough vodka to stop
thinking about Casey's stupid"
A greasy lump on a disused bus-stop bench
shifed to reveal the deeply lined face of a
homeless person asleep. Mulaney may've been
right about me, like that, thirty years on. Aqualung
my friend. And someone'll take a photo of me, like
BY DANIEL PODGORSKI
the Irish mushrooms. Not to think of people as just
symbols. Everyone's an end. A sad-faced young man
in a fannel shirt sat on the edge of the sidewalk,
holding a guitar but not playing it. I gave my love
a cherry . . .
Looking up, Tom realized that he had drawn
near his home, so he turned back, heading now due
south. He checked his phone; no messages, ffeen
minutes. Surely, it would be hours yet. Dropping
her of like her father. Maybe I should just head home.
She would not call him as she said she would.
Rather, she would appear at his house, wavering,
and crawl into his bed to sleep. How he desired
not to be there when she slunk in! Just for that
moment, later, when she would ask where he had
been, so he could not answer her.
Tom stalked down the street, the air sufused
with sewage and alcohol.
Filth of all hues and odors seem to tell
. . . Something something by their sight and smell
Te ofal of a culture of abandon.
"Hey, is that Tom? Look, it's Tom! Hey Tom!"
spouted the familiar voice of Calvin Trout. Tough
his idiosyncratic greeting implied a group, he too
was walking alone. Te pair clapped hands.
"You're going out?" prodded Trout. "Just not in."
Trout smiled and asked, "Like a rolling stone?"
"Like a complete unknown? Just trying to be a
rock, and not to roll, actually." "What?"
"Nevermind. Did you just come from Katie's?"
"Yeah, man, she's a trip. She was just telling me
about how . . . something about genes. Anyways,
she's knocking out already, so I'm hiting up Phil's
party, if you want to come with."
Aja and Cal inside of thirty minutes. And just
before, the frst declined invitation.
"Not really feeling it right now." "Meeting up
with your lady?"
Innocent enough. He'd ask that any night. Anyone
might; Tom had been seeing her for over two
years now, an exorbitant commitment in his
acquaintances' estimation.
"Yeah maybe," replied Tom. "Which way're you
headed?"
"For now, toward the beach." "Felicitous," Trout
joked. "Most felicitous then."
Sticking to the darkened western road, the two
soon reached the street nearest the blufs, whereon
they turned east.
"She's there without you, yeah?" Trout asked,
leading. "It's no big deal. She knows what I'm like."
"Okay."
"What? What okay?" "Just . . . you know." "Yeah,
I know."
Human, on my faithless arm.
"Tell that bitch to be cool. Say, 'bitch, be cool,'"
Trout recited. "I'm Tim Roth? And you're Samuel
L. Jackson?"
"Yeah."
"No way. If Samuel L. Jackson's taken, I'm John
Travolta or Bruce Willis." "You're maybe Steve
Buscemi."
"Buscemi's in it for all of ten seconds!" "You
comin' in or not?"
"Nah, maybe I'll get something to eat."
Trout beat-boxed as he walked away, fading
down a long sof-lit driveway. As soon as he was
out of sight, Tom pulled the phone from his pocket:
no notifcations. Could've sworn it buzzed. Just over
twenty minutes had passed. Tom walked another
BY DANIEL PODGORSKI
few blocks and turned onto the old wooden
stairs down to the beach. He descended into
a black, breathing maw. Belial's wide womb of
uncreated night. Or his king stepping out the front
door. Bye, dear. Bye, honey. Bye, lad. See you this
evening. Mwah.
Te tide was in. Tom stepped carefully on
rocks against the blufs, heading now down the
coast, feigning purpose even to himself. Spare
lighting doted the scene from a wooden balcony's
spotlight and the glorious, luminous spirals of a
few ofshore drilling platforms. None descended
from on high; a general dark grey mass above
provided no hint of star or moon. A man and a
woman on the balcony looked down at Tom as he
stepped through the spotlight. Move, move. Don't
worry, you're nothing to them. Outside their life. Te
stale freshness of
beachside wind tousled Tom's person. In an
octopus's garden, in the shade. In the shadewhat'd
he mean by that? Sounded good, anyway. Big nose.
Tim Roth.
Tis is where. Claims I can't write a nice poem
about her. Maybe she's right. Ten empty night took
us, with a moment prepared for each. Not such a
bad line, maybe. Back to that very beach delivered.
Prophetic I guess.
To his lef, the long tan stone of the campus tower
pierced the grey night. Proud. To every institution
of higher learning, a rod of higher sticking. How far?
Not to the pier again. Still hearing bass. Train wheels.
Riding on 'Te City of New Orleans.' Going back, but
never really. Bringing the new me to the old them.
No sufcient theodicy. Poor pa. Just wants his soul.
Materialist for a son. Unlucky. Her too. Unbreakable
kernel of atomic optimism. I wrote that. Nothing nice,
true enough. Something crunched underfoot, and
Tom, startled, hoped it was a dry plant. Te chances
it's not. Chance. Maybe that's the trick to going with
her next timefake it 'til it's sincere. Both wagers
break with multiple faiths.
Now a diferent balcony, stone, sof-lit, empty,
rose on his lef. Tere, Tom had spent many nights,
two years prior, when he had lived near. Phone
conversations had been had as he looked out over
the dark, low waves. He had brought her there to
profess his love. Just one in a series of professions.
Tree ages of love. One gone. Pangs even now for
the second. Prety sad. Sadder still, the frst; though
funny now. Tragedy plus time. Ten, a theist's love
for a heathen. Now, atheist love for a deist. Guess
neither works in the end. Tom sat on the dry top of
a smooth boulder.
Panoptic philosophy. So many long nights, just
hoping to be understood. Teir fault, not mine. If
only everyone would set aside given knowledge until
they'd got more given knowledge. All you lived and
live by is a lie. Fault not in our stars but in ourselves.
What am I now? Socratic. Know nothing. Know all.
Tey know other things. Me, some eclectic, thorough
catalogue of arcana. Alone. An indistinct, mufed
sound came from one of the nearby grooves
in the bluf. Reasoning that this was either an
animal or another homeless person, Tom began
his trek back.
Limping back up the wooden stairs, Tom
removed his hood. Blending. An hour had now
passed in total.
"I like your jeans!" a stumbling girl called to
Tom while her friend atempted to silence and
steady her.
Tom smiled and nodded without stopping.
He passed a closed cafe. Elaine. Can't you have
cofee with people? Always blamed Hamlet and
Portrait for making me see things as they are, but
the spark was there even then. Prety existential for a
sit-com. A crowd of disinterested students, as
always, swelled like so many fies about the
perennial noontime patio of the burrito joint.
Tom paused at the next street corner. Having
exhausted his usual haunts, but only managing to
waste a litle over an hour, he recognized suddenly
that he would not be able to whitle away an
indeterminate further amount of time, estimating
at least two more hours to be necessary. Maybe I
could leave again, later. Never works.
Having no alternative.
Beginning to move once more, Tom passed a
man seated on the pavement, entirely still, his
head in his hands. A ratling from an alley called
Tom's atention, and a raccoon jumped from a tin
garbage can to the ground, scutling away.
To his surprise, Aja Wilson shouldered past
him, walking with her arms crossed. "Aja!"
She turned, glancing back and forth between
Tom and the ground. "What happened at Sack's
place? You alright?"
"You can believe what you want to believe."
Bloodshot.
"Yeah, I guess that's true. You okay?"
"And I can believe what I want."
Several cracks rang through the air. Probably
freworks.
"Also true. what happened? Did Sack say
something?" She coughed.
Tom continued, "Don't worry about Sack."
"It was James."
"Oh." A pause followed, punctuated by rhythmic
electronic music from a sidestreet droning a
single lyric about time again and again. "What
happened?"
"Doesn't mater."
"Why not?"
"Ending it tomorrow."
What should I? No more turn aside and brood?
Just cruel. Everyone knew it? Worse.
"So?" she asked, staring at Tom.
Him not you. Plenty of fsh. Meant to be.
"Okay," Wilson said blankly, turning to go.
"Wait."
She's come too, sure it's over. Talked it out. Decided
love's still there. Love. Wilson stepped away; Tom
followed.
"I'll walk you."
"Don't."
"Feel like I should."
She turned, pushing him away, and exclaimed,
"Don't!"
People looking. Tey must think I'm.
Tom turned down a sidestreet toward his house,
moving perpendicularly away from Wilson's
march with haste. A singular shout in the distance
betrayed some primal iniquity in the life of some
other scholar.
Can't keep my eyes from the circling skies,
Tongue-tied and twisted, just an earthbound
misft, I
What's the diference? I'm Vladimir and that guy's
Estragon. So what? Te stuf I don't get to see. Tat's
the worst of it. Toughts unhad. Art unmade. Truths.
But like Nietzsche says about truths, they
A buzz from Tom's phone ended all thought, and
briefy all circulation. Another pulse flled every
limb with instinct, a fuller reaction to the same
betrayal felt throughout the night. Tom clawed
manically at his pocket to free his phone like an
ape opening a nut, hoping with it to free himself
from himself. Please.
PHOTO // MEGAN FISHER
I had two weeks to write a paper, so,
as one does, I waited until the night before. At
11. Well, I started the research at 11. Somewhere
around 1, I really regreted all the decisions I had
ever made that had led to this point in my life.
With an unhinged look in my eyes, I wrote out
sentences like, Te protagonist is an especially
lugubrious one.
Lugubrious: adj. Overly morose and
depressed.
An inspiring thought: I am the protagonist
of my own life. A depressing thought: I am an
especially lugubrious one.
Afer dragging my sorry ass out of bed (dont
sleep even for an hour afer an all-nighter. I
swear it will make you feel more like hell than
you already do) and geting to work by 9:30 a.m.,
I was sending out texts trying to make amends
with my friends, for death was near. Texts that
went, To my dear friend, I am so sorry I ate your
croissant. In my defense, it looked delicious,
and so on.
At 10, my friend walked into the Writing
Lab and greeted me with, You look like hell. I
fgured it was time to get some drugs.
Te SRB cofee cart carries the most important
study drug that college students need: cafeine.
I was greeted with, Good morning! It was a
particularly not good morning, so naturally, I,
Clint Eastwood-style, grouchily demanded the
drink with the most cafeine possible that was
not black cofee. What abouuuuuuuut.. she
started, stretching out her vowels. Whaaaaat
abouuuuut. a late with a triple espresso shot?
Te words espresso shot instantly made her 40
times more beautiful.
A few minutes later, afer she recounted her
own experience earlier that week staying up
all night studying for a midterm, I was given a
large cofee with a triple espresso shot. Wait, I
started. I think you charged me wrong. You gave
me a large with espresso shots. You charged me
for a small late.
She smiled at me. No, no mistake. Scratch
that, shes one-hundred times more beautiful.
It's astonishing how difcult it is
to pack a lunch and take it to campus. You have
to make a sandwich, put it in a sandwich bag,
put it in your backpack, take your backpack to
campus, take out your sandwich at lunchtime,
and eat the sandwich. I had, as usual, failed to
do that this morning, and so, in the afernoon,
afer trying to convince myself I could stay alive
until dinner, I was standing in front of the baked
goods in the Arbor.
So theres banana bread, cofee cake, blueberry
mufns, chocolate mufns, donuts, bagels, and
croissants. Hmm, maybe a croissant. Right, so
theres cheese croissants, almond croissants,
spinach and feta croissants, ham and cheese
croissants, chocolate croissants, and of course,
plain croissants.
Breathe in, breathe out. What were meant
to be calming breaths turned into heavy duty
hyperventilating.
Tis croissant decision was crucial. Te
cheese croissants were obviously Berkeley, and
the almond croissants Northwestern. Spinach
THROUGH THE HEART
a n d o t h e r c o n v e r s at i o n s w i t h s t r a n g e r s
ESPRESSO SHOT
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Y and feta is University of Maryland, ham and
cheese croissants Syracuse, chocolate croissants
Columbia, and plain croissants USC. What was I
going to do?
I felt an arm brush past me. Te beverage door
was open, a SmartWater selected. What makes
this particular water smart? Does it make you
smart? Is the water itself intelligent in some way?
Ten minutes later, afer contemplating the
nature of SmartWater, I was still struggling with
picking a croissant. I started to doubt whether
I even wanted a croissant at all as I checked
out the banana bread (moving back in with my
parents afer graduation) and mufns (dropping
out of school and living in a cardboard box next
to a highway) as viable alternative options.
I was still staring at the goods when the guy
who picked out the SmartWater came back for ice
cream. He paused, obviously recognizing I was
having some issues. Hey, you okay? he asked.
Without hesitation I looked up at the stranger
and started to wail, Its not about the croissants
at all! If I cant pick a croissant, how can I pick a
grad school?
Oh boy. He came over with his ice cream in
one hand, StupidWater in the other, and fung an
arm over my shoulder. Okay, we can fgure this
out. He motioned to the baked goods, Sweet or
savory?
I gulped, and then yelped out between ugly
sobs, Savory! Savory sounds delicious.
He pated my arm, and we slowly went
through them, one by one, eliminating almond
and chocolate because they were sweet, ham
and cheese because Im a vegetarian, and plain,
because by virtue of being a deranged human
having a mental breakdown in front of the
croissants in the Arbor, Im anything but plain.
A few minutes later, we ended up with a spinach
and feta croissant. Perhaps that SmartWater
worked.
As I was paying for my croissant, he walked
back up to me. I looked it up, University of
Marylands mascot is even dumber than ours.
What even is a testudo?
A turtle, I think.
He contemplated it for a minute. Okay. Well,
go Testudos! He walked away with his Santa
Barbara swiggity-swag.
Go Testudos, indeed.
When I was touring the UCSB
campus my senior year of high school, my tour
guide mentioned to the group that Psych, one of
my favorite shows, takes place in Santa Barbara.
I thought about this and logically concluded that
this was a perfectly good reason to become a
Gaucho. A few months into my freshman year,
I looked up Psych and which of the cool places
featured on that show I should visit during my
time here.
Its flmed in Vancouver.
I am a mature adult. I maintain this,
despite the ever increasing mountain of evidence
that suggests the contrary. But its just that the
gangly British guy siting next to me at Caje was
particularly irritating me, so I had to resort to
imitating his accent.
Tahts ah rahther gewd idear, I drawled. Sew
loverly.
Are you mocking me? he asked.
Auf cohrse nawt, I gasped, mock ofended.
You cant mock me, he snapped. You guys are
the idiots who pronounce schedule skedule. How do
you even get that? Its obviously shedule!
Its got a c! And cs are pronounced like ks,
except for when theyre pronounced like ss I tried
desperately to justify the stupid pronunciation of
schedule.
And laboratory, he cut me of. Why on earth
do you guys say labratory? Tat makes no sense!
Teres an o there. Its lab-o-ra-tory, he carefully
enunciated, just a few inches away from my face.
I could see a baby pimple on the right side of his
mouth. An angry red dot desperate to earn its pimple
street cred and turn into an angry red mountain.
Tis is why we dumped the tea into the harbor,
to avoid you Brits hating on our pronunciation, I
snapped. And nobody likes Marmite.
YOU TAKE THAT BACK!
We sat next to each other in silence for 20 minutes,
then I felt bad about insulting Marmite, even though
really, I dont think anybody likes Marmite. I think
we dumped the tea over taxes or something, I began
in an efort to reconcile with this perfect stranger
whose favorite snack I just insulted, which, frankly,
is a ridiculous situation to be in. And we really
wanted to establish ourselves as a cofee country.
Also, red isnt really our color. Were prety much
anti-anything red communism, John Boehners
face, and red British soldier uniforms.
He looked up, trying to suppress a smile. I think
he wanted to have this amused look on his face, but
he just ended up looking constipated. You guys still
say laboratory wrong.
Yeah, I blame Reagan for that. I mean, hes to
blame for trickle-down economics and probably Alec
Baldwins meltdown, so.
I stopped and awkwardly focused really intensely
on my laptops desktop background (a picture of a
seductive duck, if you were curious). I felt someones
eyes on me, so I looked up to see him staring at
me, and as we made eye contact, he hastily looked
down at his own book. So I looked back down too,
and when I turned to sneak a peek at him, I could
see him grinning broadly at his economics book. Eh,
who needs maturity anyway?
Missed Connection: To the man with
the long hair and the fannel shirt eating an apple
on the steps of Storke Plaza, we made eye contact
the other day, and I havent been able to forget you
since. I still remember how carefree you looked, how
easily you leaned back on the stairs holding your
apple, completely comfortable as other students
scurried past you with their worries and agendas.
You soaked up the beautiful Santa Barbara sun; I
think youre the only person on this campus who
seems to understand what life is all about. When
the wind blew, your hair few everywhere, and you
casually brushed it back and swept it up with one
efortless movement. You magnifcent human, I
have only one thing to ask you:
What shampoo do you use? Seriously, thats one
luxurious mane of hair. You have beter hair than
I do, and frankly, its insulting. You give Simba a
run for his money. Keep on keeping on, my man.
throughout history, people have
goten up at the crack of dawn to go out and till
their farms, milk their cows, and whatever else is
done that early in the morning. So it didnt seem
like it should have been that difcult to take a 6
a.m. bus from Santa Barbara to San Jose for winter
break.
Wrong. Te wind was so strong, I thought I
could actually see the air twist in front of my eyes,
ending in litle wisps that seemed like something
out of Frozen.
I was freezing, Id had about four hours of sleep,
and I had the heaviest bag ever stufed to the brim
with laundry. I couldnt remember where I had
accidentally packed my glasses, so, to see, I was
wearing my prescription sunglasses. Te morning
was pitch black, so sunglasses rendered me prety
much blind. I probably would have been beter of
wearing no glasses at all.
I crankily stumbled onto the bus, dragging my
oversized dufel. Afer much judgment from my
fellow passengers, I managed to get into the bus
and dropped heavily into my seat. I looked around
and saw that there were perhaps about fve other
people on the bus, so I could easily spread out
and be alone. Relieved, I set up my sweatshirt as
a pillow, stretched out my legs, and lounged back.
Hey! Can I sit here?
My eyes snapped open and my head jerked back
out of surprise. Nursing the bump on my head
where I hit the window, I stared at him groggily.
He was wearing a bright neon blue headband that
held back long wavy hair, a red tank with Te
Endless Summer printed on it, and green Bermuda
shorts. I was shivering and wishing I had on boots,
but he was wearing sandals that looked like Doctor
Scholls insoles tied onto his feet with pink elastic
bands. I looked him up and down, then looked
around the bus. Te fve other students had set up
shop in the other seats the way I had, and there
were about 50 open seats. Of all the seats in all the
buses in all the cities in California, he had to pick
the one next to mine.
Right, okay, I said. Are you kidding me?
Im Dom, he said, grinning. I was the epitome
of cranky, and this guy was fashing his teeth at me
at six in the morning. I was not in the mood.
Santa Barbaras great, isnt it? he continued as
though he couldnt see that my eyes were drooping
and my eyebrows were narrowing. I went surfng
yesterday, and took a night hike last night! I wanted
to go for a run before this bus, but I just couldnt get
up. I usually get up at fve, so four was kind of a
struggle. I was geting tired just listening to him.
Im so excited to get home, because my buddies
and I were thinking of going out surfng in Santa
Cruz. I know the water will be cold but I think itll
be refreshing. Please stop talking. Have you been
surfng? Youre in the best place on earth, you need
to go surfng! Okay, kid, time to shut up.
Te hours started to pass in this way. As the sun
came out, his already sunny disposition became
blindingly bright, and his storytelling became
more animated. He would bounce up and down
in his seat, tapping his leg on the ground and
playing air drums out of an inability to stay still.
Te more he smiled and told his stories, the more
he grew on me. His stories ranged from life plans
(joining Doctors Without Borders and saving the
world one kid at a time) to how he got all the
scars on his arms and legs (one from crashing
hard into a rock while surfng near Campus
Point, another from trying to make friends with
a squirrel near Inspiration Point).
Afer about two hours of us chating up a
storm and flling the bus with noise, he noticed
the girl siting in the seat diagonally in front
us, curled up into a tight litle ball and reading
a book distractedly. He stopped mid-story and
bounded up out of his seat and plopped down
next to her.
Hey! Im Dom! So, Fify Shades of Gray,
huh? He referred to her book. Ive heard thats
terrible. Im dying to read it!
Christina looked confused and actually a litle
terrifed of Doms incredibly high energy. I felt
pleased that I was not as confused as Christina
anymore. Yeah, me too, I said. I bet itll be
hilarious!
May I? he asked her. She wordlessly handed
it over. He fipped to the frst page and started
reading out loud. If there was anyone who
would commit to reading Fify Shades of Gray out
loud on a bus, and probably follow through on
the whole thing, it would be this hippie creature.
He did voices. A low, gravelly one for
Christian, and a high pitched falseto for Ana,
again his free hand gesturing to nothing in mid-
air. As he got louder, he atracted the other people
on the bus, who were almost exclusively college
students. Tey all started moving towards us
and we pooled our snacks, laughing and eating
as we listened to Dom.
As people got onto the bus, they wondered
what was happening and everyone collected
around us. At our peak, we had about 40 people
eating and hanging out. Dom and Christina
started reading it together, with him playing
Ana and her playing Christian.
San Jose rolled around a few short hours
later, and I was disappointed to reach the end
of my journey. We had fnished Fify Shades
somewhere near Salinas, and had moved on to
Te Fault In Our Stars, Dom managing to seduce
a few girls with his firty depiction of Augustus
Waters, picking a girl and winking afer every
line. I couldnt stop laughing, even when I was
supposed to cry.
As we pulled into the station, Dom read the
last line as dramatically as he could, and snapped
the book closed with a fourish. He grabbed his
backpack (handmade and burlap), fung it over
his shoulder, and sauntered of the bus.
We have reached the end of the road. It was
a pleasure, my friends! He bowed, bounded of
the bus, and his curly hair and blue headband
became a speck in the crowd of people on the
platform.
ILLUSTRATIONS//ANGIE SHEN
I don't know about this, but apparently
UCSB is a party school? Forget the fact that
were the 11th best public school in the world,
and ranked 2nd in the Leiden rankings. Were a
party school, so you know how it goes drunken
shenanigans, fghts over girls, and furniture
breaking, all in the pursuit of a good time. So,
as a UCSB student, I decided to go to one of our
famous UCSB parties.
I entered the house on Trigo excited for a night
out, ready to paint the town, prepared to boogie
and jive with all the cool cats out there. As I
stepped foot in the door, I heard this huge smash
and then the stampeding sound of footsteps
all rushing towards the backyard. Curious, I
joined the hoard out to the backyard, where two
guys were going at it, tossing lawn chairs and
punching each other. Toroughly freaked out, I
asked the girl next to me, Whoa, whats going
on here? Why are they fghting?
Well, Chris thinks that Ophelia killed
herself because she was desperate to be with
Hamlet and he spurned her, while Trevor thinks
that Ophelia is actually much more of a feminist
character than Chris gives her credit for, and
that the reasoning behind her suicide has to be
much more complicated than just a rash reaction
to a spurned lover. I stared at her, mouth agape.
She continued undeterred, Im personally
on Chriss side here. As much as I want Ophelia
to be feminist, Shakespeare doesnt have the
greatest track record with feminist characters.
I mean, look at Juliet. Shes a total idiot. YEAH,
YOU GET HIM TREVOR! GET HIM! She turned
back to me. What do you think?
Nope. No way. I started backing up slowly,
hands out in a gesture of peace. Once I made it
to the front door, I yelled, Everyone in Hamlet
is a litle bitch! and then bolted home, vaguely
hearing the crashing sounds of Hamlet-induced
hysteria and backyard lawn chair target practice.
Ah, college.
Poets that write about sex and cooking,
peach fuzz hugging legs,
and bras that dont ft.
Mad hair and voices that ooze,
reading sof and smooth
like talking dirty.
Te quiet ones that look like pianos,
cool and contrasting
fair white skin
with big eyes and dark hair.
Freckles lean back in broken chairs,
speak low, chin high
as eyes slide
round a wooden oval,
chair to chair,
slouched back and intoxicated
by ink and Shakespeare.
Lean forward on elbows
delicate batting eyelashes
that will never fail to write a memoir.
An ofce job is a crime
to deprive the full-fedged
You
Crossed legs atop a spinning chair,
never use at a desktoo predictable.
Rather wreck with wildness,
our great wide world
of words,
contained and uncontained
in just enough walls.
Rooms that smell like smoke, candles, and paint,
outdated chalkboards that dont quite erase,
dark stubble that never conforms to a
direction
and eyes that consume and devour,
laugh distinct and loud,
echo through halls, tripping on
bathroom tiles and carpeted walls.
A sign begs you not to smoke,
but the stall still smells like dope.
Woodchips and park benches,
pre-symposium cigarettes;
screw the ban
Im addicted to the secondhand smoke.
A

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BY caNelle irmas
art//natalie oBrien
BY caNelle irmas
art//natalie oBrien
t
he two of them lay on a sloped hill. To his lef
was a half empty packet of cigarettes: to her
lef was a purse full of birth control and Zolof:
between them were blades of grass devoid of green,
crunchy and uncomfortable. A light fog made the
streetlamps amorphous. She looked pretty. If hed
noticed, he hadnt said anything. He drank from
the ffh of vodka that had been on his stomach, and
placed it on the dried grass between them. Tey both
stared at the skys night. Neither of them spoke to the
other. In her skirt and the fog, she shivered. She did
not ask for his jacket, and he did not ofer it. Tey had
not brought a blanket. Te stars were not apparent in
the sky. Tere was to be an eclipse.
I cant see a thing she said.
He, too, could not see much, though he did not
express this. He reached for the pack of cigarettes,
extracted one, and set the end afame. He could now
see the lit tip. She, too, could see the glow, though
neither expressed this. She pulled her knees towards
herself, huddling for warmth.
Whats supposed to happen she asked.
Umm he responded. She took a drink of the
vodka. Well, the earths gonna be right between the
moon and the sun so the moons going to be basically
invisible She gazed back up at the sky.
So, like, right now she asked. Is this it?
No he responded, looking at his watch. Tats just
the fog. We got a half hour his exhalation dissipated
into the fog, unnoticed.
Whys it so special? she asked.
Refection he answered. Or maybe refraction. . .
No, refection, I think. All the sunsets and rises going
on right now are gonna make the moon light up red
he took a drag. Like a cigarette.
Oh she said. Te vodka helped ease her shivering.
She looked at him. He looked at the sky, which had
become clearer as the fog dispersed. Tey were not
fucking. Her gaze landed on his eyes, then followed
them upwards. She looked at the as yet unshadowed
moon, and the newly unfogged stars. He watched the
moon, hopeful that the fog not return and she not say
it. He did not say it. She rufed her skirt, shaking of
the lawn. Her movement tore away more dead grass.
everythiNg you
see oN tv
BY RYAN MARTINAZZI
To both East and West were hundreds of thousands
of others doing the same thing. Hundreds of
thousands of other human beings were sat down, or
standing, alone or with friends, spouses, lovers, all
with their head tilted heavenward, all waiting, all
watching for the Earths shadow to slowly crawl across
the moon, some using telescopes, professionals and
amateurs, most unaided, or aided only by the lenses
of their prescription glasses, all waiting, hundreds of
thousands, some speaking, speculating, gossiping,
others listening, patiently, sipping wine, beer, water,
having fun, bored, passing a joint, looking up, hoping,
hundreds of thousands, looking around, exchanging
glances, happy, smiling, in good company, alone,
laughing, sad, jealous, angry, bitter, exhausted,
paranoid, confused, alone, in good company, hundreds
of thousands, expectant, exhaling, inhaling, thinking,
cognizant, unaware, perceiving, feeling, full, bloated,
overwhelmed, nonplussed, content, empty, anxious,
waiting, watching the Earth slowly rotate around the
Sun, quickly rotating around the Sun, alone, hundreds
of thousands staring at the moon together.
He hoped that she would not say it. Te fog had
lef a clear sky. Many stars could now be seen. She
identifed to herself the Big Dipper. She knew no
other constellations, though she thought he might.
He did not. She did not ask. He stared at the stars,
uninterested in constellations. He did not look for
them. He considered whether he should say it, though
it was not true. So many times, on so many screens,
he had seen it said. When hed seen them say it,
actors, they seemed to believe it true. He wondered
if they really did believe it true, the actors themselves.
He thought they might. Maybe the writers did. He
wondered, if they did feel it, if he and they were really
the same species. He wondered if his inability to feel
it meant that he was somehow diferent, incomplete,
broken. He lit another cigarette and peered at the
cosmos. He wondered if there were other people
peering at the cosmos. He wondered what other people
PHOTOS//TREVOR MAUK
felt as they peered at the cosmos. He wondered if there
were other people. He wondered, if there were other
people, if they thought about it. He wondered if other
people discussed it when they peered at the cosmos
together, as he had seen so many times on so many
screens. He wondered if other people discussed how
the discussions on the screen were bullshit, untrue,
fction. He wondered if these fctions disturbed other
people. He wondered if he was disturbed. Te sound
of the wind flled the silence. He hoped that she would
not say it. Te fog once again obscured the view. Tey
waited, watching. Tey both took a drink from the
vodka. He hoped that he was not alone in his belief
that it was bullshit. He hoped that he was not alone.
Hundreds of thousands stared at the moon, waiting.
She put her hand on his leg, and smiled at him. He
hoped that he was smiling back.
It really makes you feel small she said. And really
shows just how big and amazing everything is, doesnt
it?
He said nothing. He wished she hadnt said it. He
looked back up at the moon. And the Earth slowly
blocked the remaining light.
B
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Winter never
comes.
photo//mariah tiffaNy
PHOTOS//TREVOR MAUK
Is this really what has become of Us?
Tis white powder courage and
these remix war cries
Maybe, all that is lef of holy human savagery
is spray-tanned creatine-flled muscle wielding 40 oz. battle axes
And this enemy, molded of plastic capsule cops
with plastic shields and rubber bullets.
Men and women just trying to do their jobs.
Te old gods are dead abandoned forms.
And the sacred stars are balls of gas.
And the once mighty sun is gas.
And lightning is nothing but simple friction.
And we, we studentslocalsoutsiders, are feeble things.
We are children playing History Channel Vikings and
Che Guevara t shirt revolutionaries,
And all that is real, all that is lef
when the smoke has cleared,
Are injured bleeding friends and a deserved feeling of pettiness.
- epimetheus
Apparently, college had taught Pat
a lot about turkeys. He came home for
Tanksgiving one year and discussed them
at length. Farm raised turkeys cant fy, he
said, but wild turkeys can, as fast as 55 miles
per hour in short bursts. Tats why when Dad
and Phil go hunting them, they leave all that
food on the ground. Tey want to keep them
on the ground. Turkeys feed on the ground.
It was all exciting. Pat was six years older than
I was, so it was all so damn exciting. When
years later I checked his facts, I found that he
couldnt have been more right.
But Pat knew more than turkeys apparently.
He had learned about an Asian pepper sauce
that was ubiquitous on the West Coast. He
needled Mom about it for ten minutes straight
until she caved and sent me to the market to
see if they had some. Tey did not. He had
learned about regional dialects, and he told
Elise that if she ever wanted to move to LA,
she would have to ditch her New England
afectations. He had learned that the proper
indoor temperature is roughly seven degrees
lower than we had previously imagined.
Pats learning thoroughly pissed Dad of.
Not the learning, I guess. Te whole way
of his face. Te bounce he had acquired
at the expense of tact. Te smell of ocean
on his breath. I guess you could say he was
Californianno, he had become Californian.
In his Californianness, he was like the
nouveau rich. You know, dont you? Te
way new money is somehow worse than old
money. Pat had become a foreigner, but that
wasnt the problem. He had become too damn
proud of it.
I was playing chess with Uncle Phil afer
dinner when I heard raised voices. Dad was
saying a lot of fucks and Pat was saying a lot
of cocksuckers. Mom was crying. Tere was
the clinking and clanking of pans, and the
rufe of clothes going on. I heard the squeak
of the screen door swinging open, the thud of
the full door slamming closed. Pat was out, in
the wet snow and dirt, pacing his way down
WheN the
birD flies
BY beNJamiN moss
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Te birds bicker
At the end of Sunday
Below them
Te waves crash against the shore
Just as they always have
Just as they always will
I can only imagine
How it feels
To be as ancient
As a bird
If I could fy
I would
Into that infnite darkness
But I cant
So I wait
Under streetlamps
Because there is nothing
Else to do
While the lateness
Turns into early morning
aftermath
the sharply sloped driveway. Dad was afer
him still yelling.
Uncle Phil tried to edge me out of prime
real estate by the window, but he was not a
strong man. He refused to give a full push,
and so I was able to hold my ground. Able,
that is, just long enough to see Pat blushing,
walking backwards, full fury into the cold.
Apparently, college had taught Pat how to
check into a motel.
Te next morning, Mom went alone to see
Pat of at the airport. I dont know anything
about that exchange. I just know that when
Mom got back, I was waiting for her in the same
spot by the window. Now it was full daylight.
I saw her taking slow and dizzy steps through
the snow and dirt, up the sloped driveway. I
heard a much more delicate squeak from the
screen door, a sofer thud from the full. Her
cheeks were rouged. Dad was out, working.
I can imagine, though, that the bird few.
Some 747 turkey, large and imposing in the
sky. Pat no longer had a reason to stay on
the ground in New Hampshire. Tere was
nothing to eat in the driveway. Te next time
we met for Tanksgiving, Pats whole life was
in Japan.
Te birds sleep
As Sunday turns into Monday
And all those people
Tat have never seen
Te sunrise,
All those people
With predators
For eyes,
Are hoping
Te birds
Just might
Be touching earth
ART//MAYA TRIFUNOVIC
photo//mariah tiffaNy
BY
D
Y
L
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C
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S
E
I guess they smelled him frst
my father says
between gnashes of
thanksgiving ham
and cranberry.
good lord
aunt mary says
laying down her fork.
He must have been
in his house
two,
three days
dad says.
We focus our eyes
on food
but try
not to
smell
Te Rising
Fried onion, Velveeta, garlic.
His things are in back,
dad thumbs to the hallway
afer dinner.
I pad across wood foors
to the spare room,
fnding a mad stack of cardboard
boxes to rife through.
Reach in one, pull out
a whole array of playing cards
from 1981
Steve Mura, Rick Wise, Ruppert Jones
All frayed and faded.
In another box,
a charcoal barbeque,
a bag of briquettes, unopened
I take an hour looking
at toasters, tea plates,
Books on Golf.
An inventory of everything
he couldnt take with him.
In the morning
exhume my bike
from the garage
old smell of turpentine
and rust rising
through the settled air.
Wheel down to the salty bay
toward his old house,
seagulls lining the sand
By the path,
squawking over some crust.
Te path gives to gravel
and nicer houses.
Scold myself
for not making the bike before
in the last year
when he started to forget
our names, unplug his phone
when the sun went down.
Stage one, my dad had said.
I fnd the old house
on the quiet street
not like it used to be.
Wood slats all arrayed
like playing cards.
I fnger Wise in my pocket,
start up the walk
and confront the fshbowl
windows where he used
to look up from a book
and wave when
I would arrive.
Tey glare, I glare back.
Knowing the house took him
In the last months, when our names
started the frst Rising
frst up from his head
and then settling, deep
into the wood, somewhere.
Long before anyone smelled him.
the risiNg.
It got to the point where we were
swimming naked in the ocean
nearly every Saturday night.
Tere were usually fve or six of us,
always me and Trevor
and a rotation of cameos.
We were cold and kicking
and forgot the stale
taste in our mouths.
Morning found tar in the bathtub
and sand in the bed sheets.
BY DeviN biermaN
February
ART//TIM ROSSI
ART//TIM ROSSI
for myself
Make me better,
I tell myself in the morning.
As if speaking to the
ideal Platonian self.
Someone to work towards.
Drink less, smoke less,
smile at passing strangers
so that someday they
are neither strangers,
nor passing.
b
y

c
h
r
i
s

c
u
b
b
i
s
o
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coNtrol
PHOTO//TREVOR MAUK
FOR A FRIEND
I spent
the better part
of this morning
trying to fnd
the cold spot
of my bed.
When I gave up
and retreated to the bathroom
to brush last nights
cigarettes and cheap beer
from my mouth, I could not
for the life of me,
fnd my toothbrush.
I have a feeling that it
is gone forever.
In the shower,
while thinking of the
consequence of circumstance,
I instinctively put a palm
of body wash into my wet hair
and sighed.
Lather, rinse, repeat
My Mother says
not to sweat the parts of life
you cannot control, and my
Father sweats too much.
Circumstance controls him.
I am unsure of my Brother
because he is unsure of himself
Tere is solace in uncertainty.
It is better to bask in it while you
can
before the particulars force you to
start keeping score.
Were out of cofee,
and nameless friends of friends
occupy my reading space in an
alcoholic slumber. I leave them on
the lime corduroy couch,
where the light hits the pages
and not my face.
When will I count my strokes?
Yesterdays sorrows
foat still like a
thousand-year old moss
on the surface of the lagoon in
October afernoon.
How does the light gleam
from the bottom looking up?
Understand the privilege
of eating. Rid myself
of toxic distractions that
aim to shrink the apertures
of the creative self.
Stop shaming myself
for past mistakes, missed
opportunities, slips in
judgment still hanging
in the air
and instead make right
with the demons ofended,
with the elected silence
that is too easily, too
frequently self-prescribed.
Understand that
to be human you must
be wrong from time to time,
and thats alright as long
as you know you are.
Over three and a half years ago I fell
fat on my face. Not quite a blackout, because I
can still painfully recall the rapid succession of
fst-skull-asphalt, but pretty damn close. My
frst hysterically failed attempt to navigate
this treacherous world alone ended with nave
freshman blood trickling onto the asphalt of 65
DP. I hadnt even been one of those overprotected
underexposed highschoolers who cant open
a bottle of wine, but those frst few whifs of
freedom sure fred up my blood.
Afer all the excitement and commotion of
move-in dayshopping trips and foor meetings
and fnal farewellsa strange stillness descends.
I remember hugging my crying mom and shaking
hands with my smiling dad before returning to the
silence of an unpacked dorm room in the corner
of San Nic. Staring out the window, studying the
palm fronds gently waving in an early evening
autumn breeze: alone. Just like thousands of my
suddenly foreign neighbors, Id been plucked
from a familiar life that would never return and
dropped of at the beginning of a new journey.
Tat nervous feeling of novelty was inescapable.
Any road I chose to travel would be new and
utterly unpredictable, and the paths were pouring
out of every corner. I wanted to do it alljoin
every club, meet every person, explore every nook
and cranny of my vast new home. But there was
also a quiver of trepidation, a hesitation that held
me back far too many times, the incessant chorus
in my head forever whispering but what if?
Which is what the alcohol was forat least in
theory. Id smuggled in a ffh of Jim Beam at the
bottom of my suitcase, cushioned by socks and
fading t-shirts, hidden from the eyes of a mom
who always seemed to discover my secret vices. Id
bought it the day before at a rundown liquor store
surrounded by crackheads on the seedier edge
of my hometown. Te proprietor, a middle-aged
Chinese man, knew that my friends and I were
nowhere near that absurd American drinking
age, so he charged us a few extra bucks on every
purchase. Win-win. Now Id have to fnd a new
avenue for booze, not to mention another job to
fund the illicit habits I increasingly depended on.
Once the room darkened, the door suddenly
burst open and a grinning face few in, shattering
my solitude.
You Adrian?
O
N
E

FOOL
FRESH
by aDriaN groNseth
You Tim?
I stood up and shook hands with the guy Id be
sharing this strange place with for the next nine
months. Short and broad, with light brown hair
buzzed in an orderly rectangle, he bounced around
the tiny room, exuding a natural confdence that I
could never fake. He looked poised and powerful,
unpacking his few possessions with a fashing
white smile that rarely lef his face.
I got this from our R.A., I said, pulling out a
slip of paper. Its a questionnaire were supposed
to fll outsleeping habits, favorite color, diets
and allergies. Meant to break the ice.
Tim grabbed it from my hands, shot a quick
glance over the contents, then crumpled it into a
ball and tossed it over his shoulder.
Fuck that, he said, lets just play some music
and talk. You like the Pixies?
Afer that, I knew Id landed a lucky one.
You like bourbon?
Ten shots and a couple albums later we were
already best friends, laughing and telling stories
as Black Francis crooned through the portable
speakers.
Shit man, I said, taking another hearty slug.
I have a good feeling about this place.
Tims eyes lit up.
You wanna walk around IV? My sister lives in
an apartment on Sabado Tarde.
Isla Vista. Even the abbreviations and street
names sounded exotic at that point. Id only
been there once before, getting lost in the car
with my mom afer a campus tour. We were both
overwhelmed and disoriented by the apparent
mayhem, and mom got so fustered she started
driving through Pardall Tunnel, almost taking
out a few bikers before slamming on the brakes.
Tis place is nuts! shed cried in prophetic
warning.
Im down, I said, smiling at Tim.
We weaved by the lagoon as Storke tolled his
hourly chime, and when we clambered up the hill
and passed Manzanita, IV loomed ahead large
and loud in the night. We both paused before
crossing that eucalyptus threshold separating
order and chaos, reason and madness, academia
and anarchy. It felt like there should have been
a sign hanging from one of the branches: skull
and crossbones blowing above the words Lasciate
ogne speranza, voi chi intrate. We smiled at each
other and charged through.
His sister was a senior Comm major, a gorgeous
golden goddess hammering out a thesis while we
were fumbling with iClickers. She gave me a warm
hug and welcomed us into her place, introducing
me to her other sexy senior housemates. Tey all
seemed so much older, wiser and curvier than
any girls whod given me the time of day before.
Fully-formed women. Sweet butterfies started
swarming in my stomach, merging with fear and
excitement to increase my insatiable thirst.
Luckily, there was an open bottle of tequila on
the counter.
photo // viJay masharaNi
Margaritas, like champagne, are dangerous
you dont know when youve had too much until
its much too late. When I fnally stood up to say
buenas noches and receive some swaying besos
on the cheek, I was feeling pretty invincible
ofcially a college man.
Tim and I laughed and hollered our way to
the 66 block of Del Playa, where some of his high
school friends were partying at a house above the
ocean. A house above the ocean! Its one thing
to see pictures and read about it, but to actually
take shots over the sparkling moonlit mass is a
surreal experience (especially when the alcohol
has already skewed reality long ago).
To the best four years of our lives!
Raise, clink, gulp, repeat. Id already danced
with more people that night than during my
entire high school tenure, and my rising high
seemed to have no ceiling. When the music
transitioned form Motown to Dubstep, however,
my feet were itching to keep exploring.
Ill see you at home, roomie, I told Tim,
giving him a sloppy hug. Tis is just the frst
of many.
Be safe, man.
His words were quickly drowned in the
fowing Lethe of Del Playa, the river that
swallows all streams and empties into oblivion.
I staggered east, intoxicated by a cocktail of
newfound liberty and ego. Gone were the nights
when Id have to slip in the front door, silently
praying that our Springer Spaniel wouldnt wake
my parents with yips and howls. Hell, I didnt
even have to go home right nowI could watch
the sun rise over the sea with one of those blonde
girls from the fyers!
Tud.
My right shoulder shot back, colliding with
an unseen chest.
Watch where youre going, motherfucker.
I swung around and saw a bulky bearded
form blocking the streetlight.
Fuck you, man! I shouted, continuing down
the street.
Why you walking away, pussy?
Without thinking I turned back and pufed
up to within an inch of his face.
Lets do this right here, then.
Id never started a fght before, but this
sounded like the right thing to say. At that
moment, two more large fgures strode out from
a nearby driveway.
Whats up, Phil? Whos this skinny little
bitch?
I shoved Phil in the chest, knocking him back
a few steps, before something fashed in my lef
peripheral. I turned right into itobviously,
I wasnt a boxer. Bone-on-bone, like getting
knocked blank by a baseball bat. I was so drunk
the street broke my fall. A classic one-two
punch, frst the fst and then the asphalt, leaving
no side of my skull unscathed.
I lay spread out on the street, far beyond
the point of shame, surrounded by a growing
crowd of onlookers. Numb and confused, I
almost called it a night and fell asleep right
there. Blinking, drifing away, my jumbled brain
somehow made out the image of approaching
colorful car lightscops. All my previous
misadventures with authority must have sent
a jolt through my body, because I immediately
mustered my remaining strength, jumped to my
feet, and started sprinting away. I followed the
North Star of Storkes red lights all the way home
until I collapsed on my top bunk, staining my
new sheets with dirty blood.
My dad says life is all about fux, and its how
we respond to the endless changes that defnes
who we are. Te frst impression I made on
neighbors and classmates in college was of a
scarred, black-eyed, brainless kid who couldnt
handle his liquor. And that was spot-on. But,
looking back now, I think I got pretty lucky.
Compared to an arrest or a stabbing or worse,
a minor concussion and a permanently red
pillowcase seem like pretty light consequences.
And, almost four years later, Ive avoided all the
other mindless mayhem that shakes this town
almost every night. Not that I havent kept
making mistakes, or wont continue to screw
up, but I have learned a little about watching my
step. Sometimes it takes the force of a fst for
that to really sink in.
art//tim rossi
LACK OF ALCOHOL
by JOSEPH LEGOTTE
We flter in, laying claim to spots,
which henceforth fags raise and
defend with relentless vigor.
Tose foes vying for your prime place.
As the infux of bodies slows,
and the room flls with eager minds
dulled by the monotony of
syllabi and the fdgeting
nervousness commandeering social
skills each mind has built up
over countless years of schooling
all in preparation for extension of
knowledge, thought, emotional capacity
is efortlessly forced out by the
quickening silence difusing into each
mouth as eyes fnd screens
in attempt to repress the awkward
phantoms that possess each glance,
and the tongue, strongest of all
fbres, fails words to fnd
or utter and shatter the silence
for fear of
It was late Spring, Memorial Day weekend,
and I looked through the smudged glass of the train
as I rode through towns I had seen a thousand times
and never touchedtowns like San Clemente and
Fullerton and Santa Ana that whispered by briskly
without ever making much fuss of themselves. It
was a holiday, and the train was flling quickly as it
passed through Los Angeless lower territories.
Te privacy usually aforded to me by an empty
seat to my lef and an open window to my right was
in jeopardy. Filipino families speaking Tagalog, big
men in business suits, and college students looking
for anywhere to sit but next to me all streamed by
and threatened to derail what had thus far been a
pleasant trip. I tried my best to give an uninviting
air, with my newspaper spread on my lap and music
in my headphones.
Suddenly she leaned over my seat and asked to
sit down, smelling of vanilla fowers in that unjustly
ofand way that women sometimes seem to. I
nodded and presented the open chair with a sweep
of my hand. Her hair was short, a bright blonde pixie
frock that swept her small forehead sharply and grew
shorter in the back. She wore plastic heart-shaped
sunglasses with magenta lenses and when she pulled
them up to talk to me her eyes were spearmint green
and it was praise to Allah and Vishnu and the Zodiac
that she had sat down next to me.
How are you today? I asked.
She smiled and let out a long sigh.
Ah, Im good, just exhausted. Had a really fun
weekend.
Oh yeah? I said, what were you up to?
Oh, um, I was at Lightning in a Bottle, this
festival out in Skinner Lake.
Really? and I suppose I really was awed,
looking at the severe dark shape of her eyebrows
cutting against a pale brow. Ive always wanted to
go ever since I went to Coachella. Te lineup looked
so good this year. I remembered seeing a poster, but
I actually recognized very few of the artist names.
Oh my gosh, it was so much fun. She talked
about some performers, and I asked,
Did you happen to catch an artist named Baths?
Tat was the only one I could recall.
Oh my god yes! I was waiting for Bonobo and
I had never heard of him, but it was so live and
dancey!
Yeah, I can only imagine,
I honestly havent slept in like three days, I
probably look like a crazy person right now.
You dont look too crazy, I said, but three days
is a while. What were you on? If you dont mind my
asking,
Well, we did acid Friday and yesterday and
some molly all three, she said, and then giggled a
little with a hand over her mouth, glancing across
her shoulder as if suddenly aware of the other
passengers,. But yeah I was getting like the craziest
visuals all last night and barely got any sleep.
She leaned down to set her bag on the foor and
I glanced behind her ear, where a fading tattoo of
musical notes curved around her cartilage.
I learned that the notes belonged to Sublimes
Santeria, and she had other tattoos on the inside
of her arms, polite cursive script of an Elizabeth
Gilbert quote. I couldnt help but see the tattoos she
had and imagine them set against her milky skin as
she unfurled on bedsheets. My ears burned.
She had other things, toopiercings in the inside
cartilage of her ear (industrial piercings is what
theyre called, I think), a job at Ben and Jerrys, and a
VW Jetta that didnt run. I dug for details, continued
to ask questions, knowing that if the conversation fell
to silence the gap between us would be too awkward
to bridge. I chipped away at our strangeness. I was
half-listening as she spoke, trying to fght the quiver
in my throat. I wanted badly to touch her.
When I learned that she, like me, grew up in
San Diego, it seemed I had found a clearing of
connection, a world of potential do-you-knows and
have-you-ever-beens.
AMTRAK
BY steve august
Whered you go to high school? she asked.
Castle Park, I said, its a crappy little school
in Chula Vista.
Suddenly she lit up.
Chula Vista! Tats where my boyfriends
from!
My ears burned again. I had already fallen in
love with her, somewhere in the distance between
Burbank and Chatsworth.. But Id have to give her
back.
We talked idly for a half hour more or so, and
disembarked together in Ventura to share a quick
cigarette. It was camaraderie, if nothing else, and
I found you could expose a lot to someone whom
you knew you might never see again. I told her
about my family. She told me some of hers. She
had a brother who was deployed and a mother who
had been through rehab a few times. I wondered if
life could be the same way between all strangers, if
only everyone had their fnal destinations marked
so clearly on their tickets.
Later, afer she fell asleep, her knee came to rest
against mine. I let it be.
I watched the drivers on the interstate from my
window as she dozed beside me, a thousand red
lights blinking like satellites out in dark space. Tey
looked so lonely out there, carved out in their little
metallic bubbles. I thought that if the train crashed,
Id at least have her, at least have a hand to hold or
a mouth to kissboyfriend notwithstanding--if
there was a last moment of panic as we barreled of
the tracks. None of the drivers could say the same.
When we reached Goleta and walked down to
the platform, I did something cowardly.
Hey, whats your last name, anyway? I said,
maybe I can add you on Facebook or something.
You know its tough to make new friends around
here.
She smiled, gave it to me, and turned to a
separate taxi.
Later, I added her on Facebook. She was still
beautiful, smiling in a hundred profle photos with
her boyfriend. We never met up, never messaged,
and never made plans. She just added me back and
there we were, two profles in empty space. I knew
that I should have let it be. I knew that I should
have preserved her in an old place, placed between
the pages, a little inscription in my life that I could
trace the outlines of, again and again.
A
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/
/

N
A
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P
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loNely
FUCK FT! Once again the words carry through
my window where I sit, already in my pajamas with a
laptop balanced in front of me. I hear the laughs and
shouts of glee as the carefree upperclassmen drive away
from paying homage to their former home. I listen to
my fellow freshmen run along the hallway drunkenly,
professing their love for one another and excitedly
exclaiming their plans for the evening. I look down to
my phone to see one new message on the usually blank
screen: a friend from high school asking about college,
because surely I must be having a great time at UCSB,
right? How can I even fnd any time to study, with the
nearby beach and beautiful people and crazy parties
and nonstop fun? I push down the loneliness, the regret,
the jealousy, the fear that nothing will ever change; I
tell her that everything is great and I have awesome
friends and I am just so happybecause nothing could
be more pathetic than the truth. I am just an eighteen-
year-old girl sitting alone on a Saturday night, because I
am too scared of being judged and overwhelmed to join
the happy people passing outside my door.
ENGL 162: Milton
Tey say that when you die, heaven is a bright light. Go
towards the light and youve made it. Its not a lie, but
theres a crucial detail that no one warns you about:
Hell is a bright light too. Te two lights are almost
indistinguishable. Te decision you make is your fnal
test. Youre given two choices: structure or freedom.
Seems simple enough, right? All your life youve lived
as an underling. Every day has been a deadline for a step
to reach a goal that you never even set for yourself. Tis
freedom is real freedom. Its not the freedom to set your
own goals, its the freedom from goals. Its the freedom
from responsibility and its the freedom for fun. Its
a never- ending party, no alarms, and no standards.
Libations and hospitality provided upon request,
everyone is always asleep or always awake (its hard to tell
the diference because either way everyone is smiling),
and bottles are free to pile up into immense mountains
casting vast shadows. Tere is the freedom to say and
do what you want, whether you want it or not. Its the
obvious choice, so you make it. You step into the light
and realize that this one burns you. And then reality
scars you. Turns out it was a trick question--it was really
a choice between safety and peril. Its the freedom to
have anything said and done to you, whether you want
it or not. Libations are always a yes, everyone is always
asleep or always awake (its hard to tell the diference
because either way everyone is drooling), and bottles
are free to pile up into giant unstable mountains casting
inescapable shadows. Youre an idiot and you failed the
test. Because there is one type of freedom that does
not exist, and that is the freedom from consequence.
Freedom is dirty and smelly and loud. Freedom is
walking the tightrope without a net. Welcome.
hopeful
I nervously check the message on my phone, verifying
that Im standing outside the correct room. I knock
quickly, hearing loud laughter and quiet music pulsate
in the air, while I stand rubbing my sweaty palms
against my jeans and trying to calm the butterfies in
my stomach. Finally the door swings open and I am
admitted, walking into a crowded room in which only
one face is familiar: the face of an hometown friend,
the one person at this school who seems to know that I
exist. I take a seat next to him on the foor and watch as
the others joke with each other good-naturedly, hoping
that I appear calm and at ease. Finally, the moment
that I have been dreading arrives: I am ofered a shot.
I decline politely, choosing not to explain that I dont
drink, that I never have and probably never will, that I
have such a fear of it that I almost didnt come tonight
at all, that my desire not to is why I was almost alone
again on this weekend evening, hoping that I wouldnt
be ridiculed or judged. Te one who ofered asks if Im
sure, and I laugh nervously, saying that I dont drink.
Flashes pass through my mind of past instances like
these, responses that made me feel tense and alien and
otherWhat do you mean you dont drink? Why?
Tats so weird! What do you even do to have fun? Yet
this time I dont get that responsea girl exclaims how
cool I am, how she wishes she had my self-control. For
the frst time my lack of interest in alcohol doesnt feel
like a source of shame, but pride. I fush with delighted
TOGETHER IN
isolation :
Two Experiences
BY
maya jacobson
//Nicole hymovitz
embarrassment as the entire room raises their drinks
to me, toasting to my sobriety, giving me well wishes.
Tough I am not fully accepted, though I am still a bit
uncomfortable, though I still know none of them and
they soon leave me to roam the drunken streets of IV, I
feel a little bit happier.
Spring Break
You hear a pounding but youre not sure if its the bass
of the crappy music at this crappy party or maybe its
the precursor to the headache youre gonna feel in the
morning because you had one too many drinks but you
think its your heart because you found the one decent
boy in the whole place and with every passing sentence
hes been leaning in a little closer. You didnt quite catch
that last sentence but you did catch his smile and his
hand around your waist and holy shit you might be
wasted but when was the last time you felt this happy?
You dont know where your friends are but you know
theyre around and even though you were taught to be
afraid of men and drinks and men with drinks and
men when you drink you feel safe because hes only a
boy but he makes you feel like a woman. And then you
see it in his eyes, that certain glimmer, that twinkle,
that sparkle, that spark. And you know hes going to
kiss you. You know it on this whole other level, this
drunken, pounding, unearthly level. So you close your
eyes but all of a sudden the music begins to change. Te
beats turn into laughs and the lyrics turn into Tis so
isnt like you! I never thought you were that kind of
girl. And you start to hear tomorrows jokes and the
ridicule and you can no longer feel your friends gentle
presence but you feel the stabbing of unwavering eyes
and all of a sudden you begin to lose your breath but not
in the amazing way like when you dive to the bottom of
the pool and have to shoot up for air but in the awful
way like when you hear everybody whispering about
you and your head spins but its not from the alcohol
so you open your eyes and you turn your cheek to this
beautiful boy who only wanted to give you a taste of the
clouds. I think I should go home.
accepteD
I walk nervously alongside the other girls, pulling
uncomfortably at my borrowed dress and adjusting my
hair repeatedly. I wonder what Im doing here, I worry
that I made the wrong choice, Im scared that Ive made
the worst decision of my life; yet I continue to take one
step afer another, following the girls ahead of me as
I fght the thoughts that Ive battled with all morning.
Suddenly I see the chalk writing on the ground: my
name, as well as those of the other girls, leading us in
the right direction. A bit more heartened, I enter the
yard and see all of the girls waiting to surprise us. Tey
sing joyfully and wear welcoming smiles, laughing
together and handing each of us a sign made just for
us, showing how excited they are for us to become
their new sisters. And as I take the sign, as I take my
pledge pin and become surrounded by this welcoming
group of girls, I fnally leave behind my suspicions and
doubtswho really cares if I dont drink? Who really
judges a persons character on how they like to have
fun? I realize that no matter our diferences, they are
just happy to bring me into their family. And for the
frst time, I see a glimmer of hope; for the frst time I
feel like I may have found a place where I belong.

GEOG 3A: Oceans and Atmospheres
Pushed and pulled back and forth, chipping and
sanding and smoothing and shaping. Working hard
to create thousands of miniature masterpieces. Feet
tread by, indiferent and unappreciative. Tey dont
realize that if even one piece was gone the entire world
underneath them would have a diferent structure,
questionable stability, and would probably crumble.
Crashing and smashing, the massage continues to
mold each and every individual piece until they ft like
a puzzle. Always astoundinghow each piece receives
the same treatment and yet they turn out so diferently.
Orange, grey, strikingly white. Shells constructed with
character and solidarity. Teyre all part of that same
landscape, being formed equally by what impacts them
as by what supports them. Its an entire ecosystem, a
highly complicated network where one part informs
another, one part supports another, one part becomes
another, and no part can exist without the other. Te
part we see has been here a long time. We see it as a
network complete with whats already here. But what
we dont know is that were just part of a part of a whole,
a vast unseen cycle, like the water and soil we live on.
We can put a bottle in the ocean on one side of the world
for someone on another shore. Without anything new
there is only sand, which slips through your fngers. A
beach is nothing without the little treasures that stay
in your hand. But the things we hold in our hands will
eventually turn to sand, to be replaced by the new.
In roughly four years, the new shufe in, and the last
traces of who we were are pressed in the sand.
Tortoiseshell cylinder curls framed the oil riggers face
and I knew
his honest slate eyes
saw Orcas in the morning
And a meth addict fopping on deck
like any other fsh out of water
in the late evening.
Sometimes the rig felt like it was moving,
other times it actually was.
He brought moonshine to my house.
No you dont understand, he said Im just happy to be back
on land.
No one made me appreciate my living space as much.
His voice was tired haggard wind
spent his days in the kitchen
but he told me once
that baking was his true passion.
So I spend afernoons
daydreaming of him
three miles of coast,
surrounded by starfsh
and a million pecan pies.
O
I
L

R
I
G

B
O
Y
BY molly hamill
ART//MICHAELA VACHUSKA
A Morning
Stroll
Te Sun has nearly cleared the roofops.
lif
Crows &
dive
Talons scraping at the rotted tarmac.
Clutters of glass and milk-cartons,
shards of yesternights laminate bravado
Decaying
in sweet solace,
rustling in the gust.
Barefoot and tired,
She marches amidst the haze of early morning.
Jeering jackdaws from crumbling balconies cat-
call
Stale beer lining their foors and bellies,
Barely steadied by a cast iron rail.
Eyes ahead and head high.
Backbone to the Heavens,
Smeared make-up clouding proud Eyes.
She laughs,
Shaking her defant hair,
Lifing her chin,
Upturned,
Above the mosquito Suns seething beat.
His voice was tired haggard wind
spent his days in the kitchen
but he told me once
that baking was his true passion.
So I spend afernoons
daydreaming of him
three miles of coast,
surrounded by starfsh
and a million pecan pies.
ART//MICHAELA VACHUSKA
BY seaN NolaN
THE SKELETON CREW:
THE BIG CHEESES
natalie oBRIEN
SEAN NOLAN
CONTENT WEENIES
ADRIAN GRONSETH
RYAN MARTINAZZI
PARISA MIRZADEGAN
DANIEL PODGORSKI
DeSign hooliganS
HALEY PAUL
NATALIE OBRIEN
MARINA WOODBURY
SARAH WILSON
ETHAN REUL
MURPHY QUINN
the homieS
GABBY AGUILAR
MEGAN FISHER
TIM ROSSI
SuppoRt Staff
EMILY HERNANDEZ
special thanks
IS A STUDENT PUBLICATION OF THE ENGLISH DEPARTMENT
OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SANTA BARBARA.
UCSB Student Veterans Organization
Te University of California Santa Barbara English Department Faculty: Candace
Waid, Jeremy Douglass, and Department Chair: Bishnupriya Ghosh.
John Arnhold & the Arnhold Program
Dean of Humanities & Fine Arts, David Marshall
Tim Roof & Scott Gordon of Haagen Printing/Type Craf Incorporated.
Ellen Anderson & Ye J. Ahn of Isla Vista Arts, Nic Alward, Eileen Joy, KCSB
ART//MEGAN FISHER
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IS A STUDENT PUBLICATION OF THE ENGLISH DEPARTMENT
OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SANTA BARBARA.
CONTEMPORARY LITERARY ARTS MAGAZINE
ART//MEGAN FISHER
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