THE CATALYST

contemporary literary arts magazine

issue 4 // WINTER 2015

ART // NINA HEIDEN

COVER ART // MEGAN FISHER

the team
EDITOR IN CHIEF

EDITORIAL BOARD

DESIGN DIRECTOR

Natalie OBrien

Adam De Gree
Alex Manrique
Alexandra Dwight
Ali Van Houten
Allie Kent
Andrea Oh
Audrey Ronningen
Derrick Duren
Emily Balaguer
Emily Hansen
Hannah Atkinson
Jacob Kirn
Jonny Moens
Josh Ortiz
Kimmy Tejasindhu
Leah Bleich
Madeline Lockhart
Maya Jacobson
Michael De Maria
Sam Arrow
Sam Goff
Selena Ross

Julia Marsh

MANAGING EDITOR

Samantha Perez
ASST. EDITOR

Alberto Lopez
SR. COPY EDITOR

Parisa Mirzadegan
ADVISORS

Candace Waid
Bishnu Ghosh
Rachel Levinson-Emley

Shanthi Guruswamy

ART DIRECTOR

Natalie OBrien
ART + DESIGN TEAM

Annabelle Warren
Chinelo Ufondu
Cindy Belkowiche
Emily Rogers
Leslie Zhang
Luis Bondoc
Madeline Lockhart
Max Goldenstein
Maya Trifonic
Megan Fisher
Michael Dayan
Natalie OBrien
Rochelle Rebucas
Shaina Goel
Sophia Barkhudarova

part i :

PROSE

TABLE OF

CONTENTS

Love in the Time of Ducks // Kenneth Orvatez

Phoenix // Kimmy Tejasindhu

part iI : : :

golden daughter // ellen jane wirth-foster

The Toilet // Alberto Lopez
What is the perfect beginning? // Melanie Keegan
Columns // Jacob Kirn
Towards a Distant West // Alberto Lopez

POETRY

The Hypotheticals of Us // Kali Deming

Mr. B. // Patrick Harrington
Sunday Morning // Claire Nuttal

,
A One Sided conversation // Natalie O Brien
octopus part 2 // helen irias
Eleventh Dementia // Alexandra Dwight
Henry // Oakley Purchase
Can You See Me // Trevor Crown
Carmichaels Gift // Sean Mabry
The Tole Mour // Emily Hansen
Funes el bibliotecario // yibing guo

We must all // joshua goodmacher

This Lazy This Young // Canelle Irmas
These Days // Selena Ross
Ice Cream // Mathew Javidi
Shadow Memories // Samantha Perez
Remember // Yibing Guo
Rhone Alpes // Aubrie Amstutz
Newbury Street // Leslie Zhang
Windows // Ryan Mandell
Catal // Satine Iskandaryan
Flight // Cassidy Green
Speaking // Peter Folsaph

letter from the

editor
Dear Reader,

You are holding the fourth edition of The Catalyst. What exactly is The
Catalyst? you ask. With almost two years running, we still couldnt give you a
definitive answer. I hope to keep it that way.
One answer: Were a collective group of students who dream up ideas,
then we figure out how to make them tangible. The Catalyst isnt just a
magazine were an initiative.
Another answer: Art is an investment. Its a living, breathing,
interdependent world that takes nurturing and love. Have you purchased paint
before? It will always take more to create art than consume it. The payoff? You,
the reader, the viewer, the writer, the poet, the painter. This is a non-profit
venture designed to bring you that love. And what is the product we turn
out? Well, youre holding it. But we want you to feel it. Were not in this for the
money, the glory, the resume bullet point. Any ideas about glamour quickly
fade away when submissions start to flow in, and deadlines approach.
Heres why I do this. I have always believed people should share in the
wealth of knowledge and experience. Youve got something great? Tell us about
it. Its worth it to put your name out there and connect. There are so many
talented students in Isla Vista who should be given a platform to express their
voice, their vision.

Waiting for a train // helen irias

A Life-long walk // Peter Folsaph
The Day After Rapture // Selena Ross
At Birth // Alberto Lopez

Working with these artists, writers, and designers has taught me that
collaboration is delicate work. I would like to take this opportunity to remind
you that this magazine strives to showcase a variety of styles and artists, which
is why we are submission based. This quarter, we tried something a little
different. Our class conducted blind readings to decide on the material for this
issue. Youll see an array of tastes in here.
How it works: We put together and edited this magazine in under a
month, and unfortunately we dont have the ability to publish as much work
as wed like to. If your submission was not selected this round, I encourage
you to resubmit every quarter. Keep working on your craft. If youd like to get
involved, we offer a class called The Catalyst Collective Writing Course. Check
out our website, get informed, and reach out!
Personal request: This spring quarter will be my last at UCSB. And what
a long strange trip its been. (I never did one of those yearbook quotes). I invite
you to join me in the last Catalyst magazine Ill be doing, ever. Every spring
will be The Isla Vista edition. Start thinking about your experiences here. Start
documenting. Start asking questions. Start writing.
Cheers,
Natalie OBrien

of
in
Love the Time
by KENNETH ORVATEZ

Rachel and her boyfriend had relationship issues. Specifically,

a duck.
It started with a post on Free and For Sale.
"Hey guys! I have this duck that needs a home. He's a
loving pet that needs care and attention. I'm graduating
this quarter and won't be able to take him with me. Can
anyone provide him with a home?"
While most sane people skipped over the post,
laughing at it, clicking the little like button and moving
on with their mundane lives, Rachel's boyfriend Chris
thought differently.
"I need this duck in my life. It calls to me. It needs
help. Look at it! Isn't he cute?" Chris said.
"Um..." said Rachel.
And so it was that the duck came to
live with Rachel's boyfriend at the little
apartment on Segovia road.
It was then that the issues began.
Rachel liked to cook for Chris.
They would push whatever papers,
empty beer cans, and old joints lay
on the kitchen table onto the floor so
they could have a romantic spaghetti
dinner together, alone.
At least, until Chris brought the
duck home.
"Isn't this great?" said Rachel,
wrapping noodles around her
fork. "It's so hard to have a nice,
quiet, peaceful time in I.V. Time
spent together, with just the two of
us. Don't you like it?"
"Hold on one sec," said Chris.
"Morty needs to take a shit."
"Um..." said Rachel.
As date nights drifted
away like a boat to the
promised land, one that

Prose

Ducks

left Rachel on shore, wondering what happenedseriously, why is Chris on that boat and
why is there a flock of ducks circling overheadduck nights became the norm.
"Ooooh Chris! Let's take a weekend trip to Jalama beach. Camping is
discounted this time of year," said Rachel.
"Sorry, I can't do that. I need to feed Morty every day. And you
know how he gets when he's alone. He pines for me," said Chris.
Rachel tried to think of a time when Chris left Morty alone
and couldn't. She tried to think of how a duck would pine and
couldn't do that either. "Can't you bring it with us?"
Chris looked horrified. The blood drained from his face,
turning white with shock. "Do you realize what the seagulls
would do to him out there? It's not a safe place for a duck!
He needs to be home where he's comfortable. And don't call
him 'it'! He has feelings too. Imagine if someone called you 'it.' You
probably wouldn't like that, would you?"
"Um..." said Rachel.
Rachel loved Chris and didn't want to leave him. Chris loved
Rachel, but he also loved the duck.
"Why did you name him Morty?" asked Rachel one Saturday
afternoon.
"Because I love him," said Chris. "My Grandfather's
name was Morty. He died three years ago."
And that was that.
The worst part was when Rachel tried to sleep
over at Chris's apartment. When they made
love she could ignore the quacking, for
the most part. But it was afterward
that the duck really got on
her nerves.
Chris woke up at 3
a.m. every night. He tried
to get out of bed without
waking Rachel up, which was
impossible, because cuddling
post-coitus involves high
degrees of entanglement.

"I need
around. He
around every
his pulmonary

to walk Morty
needs to move
night to keep up
flow or he might

ART // LESLIE ZHANG

"What are you doing?"

mumbled Rachel groggily.

"Here we are!" said Rachel, and they turned off the

highway, following a barely paved road to a sign that said
clearly, FARM.

asphyxiate," said Chris, putting on socks.

"Um..." said Rachel, too tired to say anything else,
particularly what was on her mind, which was: what the fuck.

At this point Rachel realized she was in a bit of a pickle.

There was no way Chris was going to let the duck out of his
sight. It meant too much to him. She pondered what to do.
She pondered hard.

And so Rachel stopped sleeping over at Chris's apartment.

---------------It was around this time that Rachel decided the duck had
to go. Things had gone too far. She called a local farm.

"Why are you driving so slowly?" Asked Chris.

"Hello. My name's Rachel. I know this is an odd request,

but would you be willing to take a duck off my hands? It's
been causing problems."

Rachel thought and thought. Cogs turned in her brain

that she barely knew existed. She could feel her neurons
firing away in the great computer that her skull contained,
working away at the biggest issue in her life (at least until she
graduated).

"What sorta problems? Been quackin' too much?

Hahahaha!" said the farmer over the phone. He had three
missing teeth, but Rachel couldn't see that.

"Seriously, we're going like five miles an hour. Rachel, you

ok? I think Morty is going to have some wee-wa issues, if you
know what I mean."

"It's been causing issues with my boyfriend and our

relationship. It's creating a rift between us," said Rachel.
The farmer laughed again.

With this statement, one great thought rang out in

Rachel's head, like a gong atop a great mountain, a mystical
gong whose sound waves blast all the mist away from the
mountain's peak. The thought was expressed in neon lights,
with all the thrill of a jackpot at the Chumash casino, with
all the power of a booming bassline of Deltopias past:
ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!

"I'm serious! I'm serious! Can you just take this fucking
animal?!" yelled Rachel, hoping Chris wasn't nearby.
Fortunately, he wasn't, and instead had taken his duck to the
local vet, a small-animal specialist who was very confused.
"Between you and me, honey, you can just drop that duck
off at any farm you can see. Everyone's got a nice pond where
that duck can be mighty happy," said the farmer.

"Why are you stopping? This isn't the entrance," asked

Chris as Rachel brought the car to an abrupt halt.

"Alright, I'll do that. Thanks," said Rachel, and hung up.

"Enough. Is. ENOUGH!" yelled Rachel, unbuckling her

seatbelt.

Rachel did some thinking. She could either take the duck
secretly or convince Chris to drive it to the farm with her.
Taking it secretly, she realized, would likely put Chris into
a forlorn frenzy, and Rachel would rather not spend an
afternoon putting up "Missing Duck" posters around Isla
Vista, nor would she enjoy sitting with Chris as he sorted
through all of the random mallards that cash-strapped Isla
Vistans would bring to his doorstep with the hope of getting
a reward. So she decided to use her powers of deception.

"Um..." said Chris.

Moving with the speed of a falcon, Rachel grabbed the
duck from the backseat and flung it out her open window,
throwing it with the full force of her strength and rage.
"GO! FLY AWAY! LEAVE ME ALONE!" she screamed
after the duck amidst a cacophony of quacks, failing to
realize that its wings had been trimmed and, in fact, could
not fly but only plummet headfirst into the ground.

"Hey Chris!" she said one day. "I heard about a cool place
we should go! Morty too! It's a farm not far from here. Morty
can hang out with other ducks while we have some time to
ourselves. Let's do it. It'll be fun!"

"MORTY!" screamed Chris as he raced out of the car,

running to his beloved duck, which was now reduced to
a twitching pile on the roadside. "MORTY! NO! WHAT
HAVE YOU DONE! YOU'VE KILLED HIM!"

Chris became pensive. He feared losing the one he loved,

namely, the duck. He furrowed his brow and scratched the
duck's feathers as it slept next to him, dozing in a nest Chris
had constructed out of strips of a back-to-school coupon
book.

Rachel decided now was probably the best time to leave.

And so she did, peeling away with a screech of tires, leaving
Chris behind to mourn his one true love, and setting herself
free to find her own.

"Alright," he said after much hesitation. "Let's do it."

The End.

And so the three companions got into Rachel's old Toyota

Camry and drove up the 101, past the sweeping coast and
mostly green but rather brown mountains, driving until
the ocean came out of view and was replaced by dull rural
landscapes.
Prose

Phoenix
by Kimmy Tejasindhu

Nix came into my life like arson.

Unexpected, blazing, explosive, criminally beautiful, destructively consuming

It was like dancing around a raging bonfire,

being with Nix, careful not to step on any
embers, careful not to get licked.

She devoured every single part of me in one

fierce inhale.
I wanted to say, I love you almost instantly.
I mean, it was true: I loved this girl instantly. To
love is to want to be with a person every single
minute of every day; to want to see them under
every single phase of the moon and beneath
every possible angle of sunshine, against the
backdrop of a gorgeous sunset, sunrise, and
storm.

Im good on paper. Im damn good on paper.

Im fucking beautiful. I check all the boxes. Im
impeccable. But when I stand up, when I walk
around, when you hold me, Im paper-thin, she
yelled.
Pacing around the kitchen, she opened and
slammed the cabinet doors, and our ceramic
plates and cups shivered with each fatal impact.

I wanted to experience life with Nix from the

moment I saw her.
Alas, social constraints. Shed run away if
I said all of that, right there in the middle of
the dirty pub where Mattie introduced us,
November of 2010. Shed fizzle out, flicker
elsewhere, and leave me standing there amidst
the rainstorm Id hallucinated pouring down
around us, losing grip of my suddenly slippery
beer pint handle.
I knew that to her I was just another guy.
There were more like me everywhere. To me,
she was it. Maybe youre supposed to stay away
from people who make you put the word just
before who you are.

Im fucking nothing. Im invisible.

I grabbed her by the shoulders; she avoided
my eyes. I held her chin between my thumb and
my index; she angrily squirmed to free her face.
She kicked at my legs, screamed in my ears, tears
streamed down her cheeks.
Youre more than a page, I whispered.
Youre a book. Nix, youre a whole fucking
encyclopedia set. And Ill take each and every
volume of you. A to Z.

And thats it. Im just on your shelf. Forever. The end.

Jesus. Im only trying to tell you I love you, Phoenix, my
arms released her and fell to my side.
Yeah, she replied, her back turned.
I couldnt say anything right. Nix would twist it. She liked
me to be the villain. It made her the heroine by default.

every word, syllable, and sound of doubt, because we only

know drought if we once knew rain.
So I gave everything, hoping to fill her full.
Nix needed something more than I could ever give.
More than anyone could.
Maybe it was something only she could give herself,
something clich like that.

Her once beautifully wide eyes were sunken and dark. Her
once never-silent mouth now left slightly ajar with her perfect
teeth peeking out past her lips.
She didnt like the taste of the air. She didnt like the texture
of the water. The color of the sky was off. The sunshine wasnt
warm enough. The stars should be brighter. The moon should
be bigger. I should be better.

ART//ANNABELLE WARREN

For some reason, she never believed that anyone could love
her. It was as if she was born without the capability to be loved.
Stupidly, I loved her the entire time. I adored her through

So we'd both go hungry. We'd both have to starve.

It always seriously bothered Nix that I never wrote anything

for her, about her.
Truthfully, I couldnt find a way to wrangle her essence
and trap it within the 8 x 12 confines of paper. Chaining
her eternally to the second dimension with ink didnt seem
possible. It killed me to even imagine it.
But Nix never saw it like that. And it killed her to think that
I didnt love her enough to want her to live forever. Really, I
didnt want to imprison her.
I can write on and on about things and moments that I want
to document and remember. But I didnt just want to remember
Nix, like something that had passed and was in danger of being
wholly forgotten. Thats just it. I was so sure I would never
forget her that I saw no need to write her down like I do my
errands, my childhood memories, and my daily observations. I
wanted to be with her, not just revisit her. I wanted to have her,
not just write about her like Im preparing to lose her.
But now, as is evident, Nix is gone.
And I'll write about her as much as I have to because shes
starting to slip away from me. Ill write until my pencil point
tears through this goddamn paper, and maybe Ill find her
beneath these pages. Maybe if I keep flipping, shell be there
at the end of it all.

In the dictionary, Nix means nothing. It means the end.

Phoenix means freedom, rejuvenation, and power.
Resilience.
She set everything ablaze and then rose from it all. Never
looking down.
It didnt matter who she left behind burning in the aftermath.
So there I was, being eaten alive by fire, watching as she flew
up, and up, and up.

Prose

PHOTO // LEAH ARMER

G o l d e n
Daughter
By Ellen Jane Wirth-Foster

I would like to share a particularly moving account of a woman who ended her days in the same Home as my uncle. Before she died,
she dictated a story from her earlier years to one of their Carers, and that Carer shared the transcripts with my uncle, and upon his
death they were passed down to me. It is an odd recollection, having more in common with a ghost story that a memoir.
I scarcely saw it at firstLayla was playing outside and I
was watching from the kitchen window, elbow deep in a hot
soapy dishpan. When I noticed, my stomach became heavy,
and I tasted something bitter at the back of my throat. The
sun was just beginning to set, and as I watched, the solid form
of my daughter was touched by the oblique rays of lightand
it passed through her. For a moment I caught a glimpse of the
scrubby oaks behind her, and then she faded back into sight,
material again.
When Rob came home I tried to tell him what I had seen,
but it sounded so strange that I did not finish but changed the
subject to cover my mistakeI sensed a weakness in myself
which must at all costs remain covered. It is to his credit
that Rob said nothing about my remarkable manner, but
remained complicit in the silence.
Weeks later I noticed it again, the way the light seemed
to pass right through her while she painted at the dining
table. As her hand passed over the large sheet of paper, I
seemed to know what lay beneath it even as she painted, as if I
were watching the picture create itself like the spreading stain
of spilled water. I looked again and there she was, smiling at
me with the sun making golden bursts of light in her wispy
flyaway hair, the hair I still hadnt cut since the day she was
born. I never could explain this reluctance to Rob, but the
idea of cutting her hair had always filled me with dread, even
though all the other mothers did it, and saved the locks in
special boxes or envelopes tucked away in their desks, their
chests, their closets.
The horror was achieved one evening when Layla came
in from playing outside. I held her in my arms, her legs
wrapped sturdily around my hips, and her little head resting
on my shoulder. In a paralyzing shock of love I leaned my

head down to smell her hair, to breathe in her soft sweetness

which was the scent of my life, and I thought with the clarity
of the printed word:
I exist for you.
Unaware of my anguished, never-enough, overflowing
devotion, she lifted her head and looked right at me with that
face which was strangely like mine, only smaller and more
beautiful.
Kat? Hello! Slam. Rob was home from work, I turned
to the kitchen door and moved to the front of the house
when I was arrested by a gruesome vision: At once, and at
the same time, I was staring into the face of my daughter, and
my husbands! As the fading sun gilded her baby face, Laylas
features faded to a hazy ghostly mask fluttering over the face
of my beloved Rob. And as he strode across the room the
catastrophe of his smile became clearer and clearer as Layla
finally faded away, once and for all.
What have you done? I moaned as he wrapped his
arms around me. And as I sank to the floor I remembered
that this was not the first, nor the fourth, nor even the tenth
time he had held me together as I screamed silently into
his jacket. I remembered a visit to the dentist in May of the
previous year, when my jaw had mysteriously seized, and for
three days I could not speak or eat, but only sip warm milk
and a thin, salty broth. The dentist had sent me away with
normal X-rays and referred me to a psychologist, a series of
silent afternoons in a soft office whose intentional comfort set
my teeth on edge. Eventually I stopped the visits, and I filled
the silence with thoughts of my daughter, waiting every day
until sunset to sink into the narcotic embrace of my husband,
the man with Laylas face.
The End.
6

E
H
T

TOILET

By Alberto Lopez

It used to be that thrones were reserved

for kings. The toilet is an interesting totem of
modernity: simultaneously mechanical and
corporeal, an instrument of repression that itself
cannot be repressed, beautiful and monstrous like
human progress.
I was arguing with Frank, who insisted that
I write while under the influence, while his brother
went to the bathroom: the three of us had each taken six tabs
of lysergic acid diethylamide. He insisted that Aldous Huxley
had written The Doors of Perception while under the influence,
and I insisted that it had been some time after the mescaline
trip he would come to immortalize in his writing.
Antonio, Franks older brother, had been gone for what
seemed like hours but was really only five minutes, give or take
five minutes (a peculiar quality of Time (and it must be Time
with a capital T for it has a conscious and identity of its own
and therefore belongs to the realm of the proper noun, unlike
for example a slave or group of slaves, which is what we are, at
least in relation to Time) is that it tends to pass more slowly
when one is waiting and expectant). This was not surprising
however given our tendency to begin a new action without
finishing a former act (I have been known to begin composing
a poem before finishing sex, and even that is usually begun
before finishing a film or book or a sentence) where was I?
Right, our tendency to interrupt ourselves whilst in the process
of interrupting ourselves; this tendency towards discontinuity
meant that it did not surprise us when Antonio had been gone
for quite some time: he had gone to urinate, but perhaps had
decided halfway instead to brush his teeth. In fact he had been
trying to deal with a clogged toilet that had begun to overflow,
ultimately admitting defeat and calling us for help.
We found him in the bathroom, standing in the bathtub,
trying to avoid the bathroom floor which was covered in toilet
water and shit. As we approached he looked up at us and said,
This is not how I wanted this experience to begin! Of course it
never occurred to us that this might be how it all started, or
perhaps how it all ended, because it is much easier to imagine
the singular way in which it can all go right and not the myriad
of ways in which it can all go wrong: success is a continuum
that must be sustained, while disaster is the singular event.

Prose

If history were a map it would contain a single path, a

single black line moving towards a plexus of lines, of possible
directions this single path might take, that would disappear
into a void of white once the trajectory rendered them obsolete.
I laughed at this thought. I laughed at Antonio, stranded
on a cay of white tiles. I laughed at the toilet, at its uprising.
Frank laughed too. Our laughter had the effect of angering
Antonio.
I ran to the bedroom and pulled a camera out of the closet.
I wanted to isolate that instant from everything that preceded
it and everything that was to follow it, to pin the moment to
film like a vivisected frog pinned to a tray. I dont remember
why I wanted to do that, I only remember that I did. What I
do remember is that the sight of the camera angered Antonio
more. It was unusual to see him this angry.
Frank was in the process of crafting a makeshift snake out
of a wire hanger and Antonio was cursing under his breath.
The smell was unbearable. After taking a few pictures I ran to
the kitchen to retrieve some Mr. Clean from underneath the
sink.
I ran back to the bathroom. I poured the entire contents
of the bottle just as Frank started snaking the toilet with the
undone wire hanger: he did this vigorously, with much gusto.
Antonio screamed at the top of his lungs at the sight of
Frank assaulting the toilet with the wire hanger. He implored
us to stop: Youll fuck the porcelain up, he exclaimed. Frank and
I looked at each other for a moment before bursting into an
uncontrollable fit of laughter. This is it, I thought, and this is the
way the world should end, not with a bang but with laughter.
I closed my eyes only to find not darkness, but an array
of stars, a universe contained on the inside of my eyelids,
exploding into existence in a display of colors cascading and
colliding with each other, I was witnessing a kaleidoscope of
supernova: I realized that only our creature death is unsightly,

the decay of stars is more beautiful. I opened my eyes, imagining

it all swept away, lamenting how whether it all ends with a Big
Rip or a Big Crunch we will have ceased to exist eons before
this ultimate fate.
I realized Antonio was sobbing, all the while
complaining about the nauseating stench mixed
with the pungent scent of Mr. Clean and
profusely apologizing for being a terrible
human being. His brothers distress only
caused Frank to laugh more. I told him to
shut the fuck up and threw a plunger at
him. I turned to Antonio and assured him
that he was good, told him not to be so
hard on himself, reminded him
it was just the acid speaking.
Good and evil are a
Mobius strip, or else an
ouroboros, except the
snake has heads on
both ends, good and
evil, and this gives
rise to the eternal
battle, the question:
which head will
devour
which
in the process
of
devouring
itself. I assume
the answer is
inconsequential
as long as the
snake has devoured
itself, but Antonio is
one to lament the death
of both.
Just as Antonio was
calming down Frank started
plunging the toilet as vigorously
as he had snaked it, splashing
toilet water in the process. Gagging,
Antonio launched into a renewed barrage of
curses.
I pushed Frank out of the way and flushed the
toilet. It was still clogged because instead of disappearing, the
water and shit began to rise and the toilet bowl overflowed.
Frank and I cursed while Antonio continued to gag as he tried
to wipe himself clean on the shower curtain.
It was all too much. I closed my eyes and when I opened
them it was as though I was seeing the world through a fish
eye lens: Antonio was sobbing and gagging, Frank was cackling
uncontrollably and the toilet continued to overflow, spewing
everything which it had been forced to swallow. The fumes had
my head throbbing, but above all else it was a thought problem
that left my head pulsing with pain: my mind simply could not
reconcile the image of exploding stars with the image of an
exploding toilet, it refused to conceive of a universe in which the
8

two
could exist,
and simultaneously at that.
I decided something else must be done. I ran to the hall
closet where I kept my snorkeling gear. I put the diving mask
and fins on but left the snorkel behind. I walked backwards
toward the toilet, pausing when I felt the rim touch the back
of my legs. I looked at Frank and Antonio, gave them a salute,
took a deep breath and allowed myself to fall backwards into
the toilet.
The going was slow as visibility was non-existent in the
murky water. I had to use the pipe walls caked with years of
shit to guide myself, no trace of the actual walls left under the

ART // LUIS BONDOC

grime which collected like sedimentary rock (histories of this

apartments inhabitants traced back to its origins with each
layer). Then suddenly my forward progress was halted by a
barrier: this must be the blockage, I thought.
It took some time but I was able to break on through to the
other side. All the while I wondered how I was able to hold my
breath for so long.
Suddenly I was flushed away on a monumental tidal
wave of shit, an eternity of feces, dragged through stinking
rapids which all flowed into a Nile of filth. This river is fed
by tributaries that originate at every toilet in every world in
every plane of existence, a trans-dimensional serpent which in
theory can take you anywhere. So it was that I ended up at my
grandparents house, shot out of their toilet like water from Old
Faithful, shit like curd sliding down the bone white tile walls,
toilet water dripping from the ceiling. I stood up and listened
intently: I could hear the clinking of metal against porcelain,
it was almost musical, a quotidian symphony, muffled voices,
slow chewing what I heard and what I imagined I heard
one and the same. Yes, I could even hear my grandmothers
heart murmuring, Im too old for this shit, but she would never
say shit (unless it was an extraordinary situation). I gathered
myself, took a deep breath (bad fucking idea) and gagged:
it was the smell of decay, stagnant waters of the Bog which
filled my lungs. I quietly exited the bathroom into a hall, the
bathroom being across from the dining room.
Katia mentioned an unpleasant smell and, just as everyone
began to sniff the air in that same way you expect a hound dog
Prose

to (their noses high in the air not low to the ground however),
she turned to me, smiled and ran to me only to hesitate (midsqueal and all) as she noticed I was dripping wet and filthy.
Hello everyone, the words faded to a faint whisper. Everyone
was there: grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles, and their
extended families (their strange faces contorted in disgust).
And all I could think was how the hell do they all fit. It was a
multitude of strangers. I almost expected to see Christ turning
water into wine while his disciples handed out bread and fish
among the crowd. This explained the symphony of utensils at
least. But then there was a silence unnatural for a crowd that
size. All I could do was try not to laugh.
Suddenly I realized: The camera was still around my neck.
My mind began to wander: how do you assimilate, at the ripe
old age of twenty-three, the fact that you are a failure and have
an entire lifetime ahead of you to regret the mistakes you didnt
know you made, youll never know you made, youll just keep
traveling down a river of shit as you watch the many possible
lives you could have had drift past you on either shore, unable
to swim against the current.
The multitude spoke in unison. I was assaulted by the
monolithic voice of the masses with a single question: Where
is Maru?
She was precisely what had motivated this trip, or rather
her absence from my life.
I told them I felt dizzy, weak at the knees, nauseous,
cancerous, syphilic, bubonic. I have to find a toilet, I moaned
as I stumbled back to the bathroom I had emerged from. The

so that it lay between us. Who is that, I asked wordlessly. That

is Tadziohe responded, though upon closer inspection I saw
that it was the face of Maru, with lips so voluptuous I had the
urge to kiss them. Please dont, he said. I looked at him startled,
then smiled. Do you always carry that with you, I asked. And
before he could answer, Why do you have it with you?
This was his answer: I carry a bust of my lover since the
realization that I do not love him, but the idea of him. You could
say that if love is a sin I love the sin and not the sinner. If love
is a wild strawberry I love the juice but not the pulp. If love is
Hell I love the heat but not the fire. If love is Heaven love is
nothing like Heaven, except perhaps in the way that the promise
of Heaven is much more pleasurable than Heaven itself. He
sighed and looked toward the invisible horizon, the one that
must exist beyond the thick curtain of fog.
I was able to decode two hieroglyphs on his face, or at least
make out their general meaning if not their exact cause: fatigue
and despondence. Now it was my turn to speak: Do you ever
sit next to someone, wishing you could say the exact thing, that
perfect configuration of words, to make them smile or, at the very
least, make them understand that if you could you would help
them with their burdens, yet knowing that anything you did say
would pale in comparison to what you wish to say?
He sat in silence for a moment, then shook his head. An
intention to act does not feed you when you are hungry or clothe
you when you are shivering or fulfill your libidinal desire.
True, but solidarity nourishes the soul.
He stood up, shook the sand off himself and looked at me
through his cameras viewfinder before picking up his marble
bust.
You didnt take a picture.
No, this camera has no film. In fact it no longer works, it
fell in a toilet, but I carry it with me because I find that life is
more beautiful when framed. He turned away and began
walking in the opposite direction of the one he had come from,
disappearing into the white void just as he had appeared from
it.
I noticed the flock of gulls again now that my attention
was no longer on that familiar stranger. I thought of how
birds experience flight different from man, theirs is a constant
negotiation between their will and the forces of nature, while
ours is something more akin to slavery. As I contemplated
their movements, out of the white void of fog emerged a tall
and hunched man carrying a marble bust, his silhouette an
amorphous mass which took form as he neared. I had chosen
this beach for its solitude, a solitude so total that to match it
one would have to be a comet tracing a hyperbola through the
cosmic void. As he approached he lifted an arm and waved,
and I, reluctantly, waved back, hoping he would not take it as
an invitation for conversation. I noticed a camera hung on a
leather strap around his neck. A marble bust and a camera:
peculiar items to have on oneself on a lonely stretch of beach
sequestered from the rest of the world by a thick blanket of
fog heavy as chainmail and similarly impenetrable. Did the
camera show him the way, like a mystics third eye?

monolithic voice of the masses shattered into many lesser

voices like a vulture which disintegrates into a flock of crows.
They all cried out to me, demanding explanations for past
mistakes and grievances as well as future ones, brandishing
their cutlery like the torches and pitchforks of an angry mob.
It was all too much!
I leapt into the toilet and flushed it, not knowing where
it might transport me, but relieved that it would be anywhere
but here.
A beachs sand is its fingerprint: the composition of sand
at any given beach is unique to that beach alone. It so happens
that the sand of the beach I was now standing on was very
similar to that of a beach from my past: the key was in the clay;
that beach had clay, qualitatively no different, in quantities
similar to that other, distant beach which produced a smell
similar to that experienced on that other, distant beach. The
aroma produced by the sand was a Proustian conduit to a
time before, a past experience which for an instant existed in
simultaneity with the present one: imagine two photographs,
each of a different location, overlaid to form a composite image
of a place that does not exist, except in the instant in which it is
produced by the overlaid photographs.
I was contemplating the movements of a flock of gulls
when out of the white void of fog emerged a tall and hunched
man carrying a marble bust, his silhouette an amorphous mass
which took form as he neared.
I had chosen this beach for its solitude, a solitude so
total that to match it one would have to be a comet tracing a
hyperbola through the cosmic void.
As he approached he lifted an arm and waved, and I,
reluctantly, waved back, hoping he would not take it as an
invitation for conversation. I noticed a camera hung on a
leather strap around his neck.
A marble bust and a camera; peculiar items to have on
oneself on a lonely stretch of beach sequestered from the rest
of the world by a thick blanket of fog heavy as chainmail and
equally impenetrable. Did the camera show him the way, like
a mystics third eye?
When he was close enough that I could see his face I
realized that underneath the sagging flesh, the deeply etched
lines of old age, the distorted fabric of reality in constant flux,
underneath it all was my own face staring back at me.
Hello stranger, he said. Only I would never say that, I would
never approach a solitary stranger on a desolate beach. My
name is Aschenbach, and he extended his hand toward me. His
hand hung there, a part of a greater whole yet isolated from the
rest like a moment out of time, a page out of a compendium of
this particular self, or perhaps an entire chapter, each wrinkle
and scar and mole and hair an inscrutable hieroglyph. Imagine
that! A book that only its writer can understand, or perhaps
not even he for the book is life and it writes itself upon the
body. That hand seemed to have a life of its own, one that the
rest of the body was unaware of.
I smiled and reached for his hand after what seemed like
an eternity or, more precisely, after a suitably uncomfortable
span of time.
He dropped the bust next to me, then sat down next to it
10

What is
the

Perfect Beginning?

ART // LESLIE ZHANG

by Melanie Keegan

Prose

11

my collarbone, a reminder that what I hold in my arms is

precious and pure. I am not going to destroy her, not this one,
please no. When our lips meet, I am lost. I fall through to a
place that is new to me and it scares me, shocks me. I am
tentative and stretched out, balanced on a wire that trembles
in the simmering wind. I am without control, and for once I
dont care. I embrace it and welcome her confidence.

Is it a word, a phrase, or a sentence? Does it stop when

the middle cuts it off, or when the words no longer have that
new, edgy feel to them?
Is a beginning a definition, or a defining of starts?
Is this a beginning?
She reaches forward slowly and, almost hesitantly it seems,
the metal touches warmth.

A beginning should be solid. A dense wall of assured

compromise. A great wall with no break and a pinky promise
sealed with a kiss. Beginnings need to hold their own, they
need to have the simplicity of a water bug and the strength
and tenacity of an Armenian warhorse. Beginnings should
strike the spine with a dull echo; resound within the chest
cavity as if a Trojan soldier has delivered the deathblow to
a skeletal drum.

If this were a beginning, another sentence would follow it

and then another, like toy soldiers. They would fit perfectly
into place like gadgets on a rotating assembly line, pieces
and lumps of a pristine build. If this were a beginning, a
climax would become faintly visible, creeping over the
horizon.
She reaches forward slowly and, almost hesitantly it seems,
the metal touches warmth. Although it is natural for a young
doctor to be a bit apprehensive, I am nevertheless wary when
she places the shrill blade inside my beating skin. Her eyes
are sharp, but for all the wrong reasons; there is no trace of
compassion and I wonder if she notices my discomfort at all.
Despite my qualms, the minor surgery is a success and I no
longer have to worry about the strange pains that frequent
my hand. The white skin heals fast, and a bright scar has soon
etched itself across my wrist like a pale shadow thrown into
the breeze.

Beginnings do not imply an imminent ending.

Can this be a beginning?
She reaches forward slowly and, almost hesitantly it seems,
the metal touches warmth. I am surprised she has followed
through with her wrists, her thin, slender, feminine bones,
issuing a command I never believed, until now, she could
perform. The metal is my Kirpan, a sharpened Punjab relic
morphed from forgotten stories. The warmth is me. Completely
human, perfectly punctured and now, readily dying, dripping
blood onto the disgusting puce carpet. Its all I can think as
I sink back against the couch, like a weathered tiger, an old
samurai sick of violence. The poor, pathetic carpet, such an
ugly, ugly color. It does not deserve to be decorated by such
perverse atrocity. My body falls forward as if unconscious,
plastering my unworthy skin all over the ground. Where the
red meets the puce, liquid warmth envelops the carpet. A
sunset weeping the tears of an orange. She hovers above me,
unmoving, and as I breathe her name, caress the soft syllables,
I feel an overwhelming sense of abruptness draw its blindfold
across my eyes. An end, before it truly began.

Is that a beginning? Or, because it dives into the story it

is not a beginning at all, but a broken middle. Beginnings
imply a fresh start. A freshness reserved for French breads
and pescado. A beginning is a messy dive into trembling
waters. Ripples of malleable liquid begging to be touched and
made alive. Beginnings define creation; they are creativitys
first defense against the restrictions of predictability.
Through this perspective, must not a beginning be fresh
and innovative?
She reaches forward slowly and, almost hesitantly it seems,
the metal touches warmth. There is no other way to describe
how we meet halfway, how our heartbeats intertwine so
willingly. The metal pendant strung about her pale neck hits

Aleya.

12

Columns
by Jacob Kirn

he columns had small little fissures in them, all of

slightly different width or height or length. Little
valleys and ridges that made a web that stretched
from top to bottom. The posts weren't uniform in size
either, some were shorter or fatter than others. They split
near their tops and became more and more spindly before
skimming the sky with wispy flakes. Some had spikes that
jutted out far below the top, relics of a time when the pillars
were not yet complete. They did not appear to be weight
bearing. If Tom was a year or two older, he may have not
believed his father when he had told him that Oak trees
held up the sky. He would see that they didn't do that great
a job, as bits of the sky slipped past their papery scales and
settled on the bushes below. He would climb up the trees
to try to reach and touch the sky. He would grasp at the air
above the leaves and wonder why the trees existed at all,
since the sky seemed to be weightless.
Dad, did there used to be more trees?
When I was your age, there were so many trees you
could not see the sky at all.
What happened to all of them?
Most of them got tired of holding up the sky all the
time.
Whered they go?

Prose

13

Nobody knows.
Oh.
The dirt footpath swerved through the bushes and
fallen logs in a way that seemed infinite. Tom thought that
if he were to keep walking, the path would keep growing,
stretching away from his human presence. The end of the
path was forbidden to human eyes. It was where all the
trees hid from the sky. As he stumbled down the trail, he
was on the lookout for deer, a bear, or any other indication
of the life that his dad had promised in the wilderness.
Birds hovered far above the highest leaves, as if afraid to
come down into the rift of stillness. The only life he could
see was large, bloated flies that buzzed around his head
and termites who feasted on dead trunks that were strewn
across the ground, splintered and disemboweled. The sky
sifted down through the trees, and the grasses were stunted
and twisted under its load. The forest seemed sterile.
Alright, well take a break here, George said to his son
as he sat down on a log. How are you feeling?
Okay, Tom replied as he eyed the dead wood his father
had sat down on suspiciously, looking for insects. George
reached into his backpack and handed Tom a bag of trail
mix, then resumed his scanning for animals among the
trees. Tom accepted the bag and began to pick the raisins

allowed to visit his father during the week.

Are you sure you want to go? Well probably see a deer
if we keep walking a little further, they like to stay away
from the roads.
Im tired, and hungry. Tom guiltily glanced at the
half eaten Trail Mix, afraid the remaining cashews and
almonds would out him as a liar.
Alright, fifteen minutes. Lets just go fifteen minutes
more up the trail, maybe well see something cool. He
took the trail mix from his son, curled up the top, and
put a rubber band over it before stuffing it back in his
bag. He stood up and squeezed his sons shoulder before
continuing on up the trail.
Okay, Tom said as he walked after his dad unhurriedly.
They walked up the trail further, and Tom saw manzanita,
coyote bush, oak trees and no deer. Eventually, Toms
complaints claimed victory and the two turned around
and began to walk back. On the way back they saw the
same manzanita, coyote bush, oak trees, but no quail.
Eventually the red Civic was in sight and Tom broke into
a run, racing an invisible opponent to be the first to reach
it. George meandered slowly back to the car, throwing
glances backwards in the hopes of seeing some sort of
animal life.
No front seat.
Why not? Mom lets me ride in the front seat.
Well, Im not your mother. His son seemed to not
think this was a sufficient answer, so George continued,
Were not going anywhere until you get in the back seat.
Fine, Tom said as if he had never wanted to anyway,
and held his head high while climbing into the backseat.
George inspected the dirt on the sides of the car before
getting in the front seat. He fumbled for the keys before
sticking them in the ignition, an action that had recently
begun striking him as erotic. At first he thought of it as
chance, one of those thoughts that never bothers you until
you think of it the first time. Now he allowed himself to
admit it was most likely because he hadnt had sex in half
a year. This struck him as interesting, because his opinion
had always been that one thinks about sex less if they arent
getting it. And he wasnt getting it. He hadnt gotten it since
his girlfriend had broken up with him seven months ago.
With feelings of sexual frustration, he aggressively pulled
out onto the highway, almost causing a pileup as drivers
scrambled to make room for him. He imagined for a
moment that each little car traveling up the highway was
like a sperm, but quickly shooed this thought away.
Meanwhile his son sat in the back, playing mind games
to pass the time. First, his eyesight was a gigantic sword
rending the world they passed in two, though the cut
was so thin it was invisible from the car window. He was
too old now to ask his dad how close they were to their
destination, and they sat in silence, one in the drivers seat
and the other in the passenger side backseat.

14

PHOTO // LORENZO BASILIO

out, dropping them one by one in a pile by his feet. The

dust on the ground instantly stuck to them, giving them
a grainy beige coating. To him, they looked a bit like what
his dad had identified earlier as deer poop.
Isnt it peaceful here?
I guess, Tom replied as he collected the M&Ms in his
hand and stuffed them in his mouth. He carefully balanced
them on his tongue, letting them melt before he began to
chew.
When I was a kid I was a boy scout, do you know what
that is? Your friend Willy is a boy scout. We used to go on
hikes like this all the time, wed camp out in the wilderness.
We learned all about the kinds of birds that live in the
woods. In fact, the California State Bird lives around here,
its called a quail. It has a feather that sticks out from its
head like a horn, and it can lay as many as twenty-eight
eggs at a time! Tom, having eaten the last of the M&Ms,
began to reluctantly pick the peanuts out and eat them.
Would you be want to be a boy scout?
I dont know, Tom quickly replied, jolted out of his
Trail Mix reverie into alarm on some level by the prospect.
One of my days as a boy scout we hiked twenty-five
miles in one day, and the guy cooking the food accidentally
dropped almost all of a weeks worth of salt in the stew.
You could either eat a weeks worth of salt or go hungry.
But most of us ate. Or how about all these plants? Theres
Manzanita which has purple flowers when its in bloom,
and those bushes are called Coyote Bush. Tom gave a
cursory glance to the plants his dad referred to. They were
both short, gnarled plants with little leaves which were
sprayed about messily like spikes. In between the clusters
of leaves were large gaps through which he could see
confused branches straining for a position amongst their
neighbors.
Dad, can we go home? The words hung in the air,
buzzing around Georges head like the horse-flies. This is
boring, we havent seen any animals. George looked away
from the plants and at his son. Tom was about four feet
tall, his pale skin colored by the dirt. His face was flushed
red under messy brown hair. His eyes looked cynical and
judging. He stood in an exaggerated slump, leaning heavily
on his right leg. Tom was six years old, and it had been
two years since George and Toms mother had separated.
George had gained temporary satisfaction from scoring
a new relationship before Toms mother, but it hadnt
lasted, and since that time she had remarried. The man
she had married, Brian, had been in a band when he was
younger and had since been unsuccessful at painting,
ballet, photography, acting. He was now lending his
talents to mixed media. Toms mother, Maria, worked as
a healthcare lobbyist for a company whose name George
could not recall. Both parents lived in the same row of
townhouses in midtown Sacramento, but Maria was
extremely strict about visitation periods and Tom was not

towards a distant

west
by alberto lopez

were brothers reared by common fathers: Kerouac,

Camus, Thoreau, Bolao. We knew no shame, being
the lying, narcissistic fuck-ups that we are. I cant
tell you how he consoled himself for being such a
twisted individual, such a hypocrite, except that his
pilgrimage to the West seemed like self-inflicted
penitence. I, for my part, was able to continue leading
a double life, a triple life, an infinite number of lives,
by telling myself that the world I drew breath from
was not the same one into which I exhaled. Like a
rebellious adolescent I went against what my Fathers
taught me: from the wallets of their literature they
pulled out two coins each, and had I not been so
ungrateful I might now be a rich man whose fortune,
accumulated coin by coin, word by word and page by
page, would be vaster than that of Carlos Slim or at
least the U.S.A. This is true: Im an asshole, but Im
trying every day.

his is true: I am incapable of writing an

autobiography that is not fictitious, at least
some measure of it.
This is true: I lied. Im sure he lied too. I gave him
my name, he gave me a name. What followed was an
unspooling of the soul.
This is also true: One, two, three, four cars sped
by, but I slowed down and pulled off to the side of
the road, car horns bleating behind me. The kid ran
towards the car, back bent, struggling under the
weight of his pack, sunburned skin, bleach blond
locks, trekking to San Francisco, astonished, giddy,
tired--, from Florida, somewhere in the marshes
where the other unwanted fauna flushed down
porcelain, suburban toilets congregate: alligators,
snakes, creeping, crawling things, the red hot sun
sinking into mud and stench.

This is true: the extent of my own experience as

a hitchhiker lasted from mid-afternoon until a few
hours after sundown, and only a single car stopped
and it was going in the opposite direction (that much
was true). Next time I tell that story Ill be walking
on the 101, somewhere between Los Angeles and
San Francisco, during rush hour, and Ill be moving

As we sped on, the city became suburbs, which

became farms, which turned into empty pastures
and then lonely hillsides. Speed checked. Share the
road. I told him many things, most of them true,
and he told me many things, most of them lies, Im
sure. From our conversation we came to realize we
Prose

15

faster than the molten river of brake lights inching

forward on the highway, thumb outstretched, and
when I tell it, Ill be laughing at the absurdity, at
the irony, at the poignancy and profundity of the
situation, and knowing myself Ill explain the joke,
Ill repeat the punchline over and over.
Telling your lifes story is like quoting your
favorite portion of a novel you scarcely remember.
As we drove on I told him mine. I realized that the
things I choose to tell others are the things which
I have not yet accepted as I try to make sense of
my past, attempt to achieve closure, and thus each
iteration of my past is a result of my evolving
understanding of myself, especially in relation to
others. Each time I change my past it is a result of
a change in myself. If I possess any quality that is
valuable in my pursuit as a writer it is that I am a
liar. I keep at it, out of vanity, out of hope, and out
of desperation.
Well, this is also true: I told him I was atheist. I
asked many questions, I mispronounced Zarathustra,
and he told me God was a painter inhabiting his
creation, and we both realized the pendulums of our
dispositions were nearing a stillness at the center
of the arcs they traced. And finally we arrived at
our destination, although to call it our destination
implies a level of forethought that was not present.
We found ourselves in the parking lot of a Taco
Bell, embracing each other as the sun dipped in
imperceptible increments below the horizon, which
disappeared as the sky darkened and the highway
roared tirelessly in every conceivable direction.
And even this is a lie: we did hold each other
as two brothers reunited for the first and last time
outside a Taco Bell that was at least six hours away
from San Francisco. The highway was roaring, but
the sun wasnt setting--, in fact it was high in the sky
during that hazy time of day when nothing happens
anywhere, when the day chrysalises in a cocoon of
routine and you realize nothing will ever change for
you.
I know very few things to be true, but I know this:
I will die alone, on a hot, cloudless day, the earth
spinning as ever, planes falling, ships sinking, cars
crashing, children being born and learning to walk
and ride bicycles, training wheels off (I refuse to
part with mine), my mouth moving imperceptibly in
prayer because though our anguish seems unending
it is our hope which is infinite.
16

PHOTOS // ALEX WANG

ART // FIRST LAST & CINDY BELKOWICHE

ART // MELANIE KEEGAN

THE

HYPOTHETICALS OF US
by Kali Deming

Hypothetical One
A nervous urgency pushed against my chest as I turned the
doorknob and stepped into his oddly long, rectangular room. My
head felt fuzzy. I simultaneously felt two impulses: to run in the
opposite direction and later on make some excuse about feeling
sick, and to stand there, on the far side of his awkwardly long
room, with all the empty space between us and say what I had
to say as plain and as fast as possible before turning on my heel
and being done with it. I crossed the room and all the space and
sat down next to him on his hard bed. I casually threw my bag on
the floor.
How was your day? I asked as I folded my legs under me.
Prose

17

He had his guitar in his lap and his calculated fingers glided
gracefully atop the strings, stopping and plucking in the most
perfect places. He quietly played a beautifully unplanned melody,
the sound of which softly caressed my ears with a hollow hand. He
looked down at his instrument as he spoke with gentle enthusiasm:
It was good.
What did you do?
He continued to play as he spoke.
I woke up and went to breakfast with my friends that are in
townI took them to Cajun Kitchen. And then I just hung out
with Kayla and her friend for the rest of the day. I took them to the
beach downtown

I want to break up.

It came out impulsively before I had the chance to even
consider withholding the words. I stared at him, waiting for a
reaction of some sort, but his eyes just bore back to mine and I
remembered once hearing 'eyes are windows into the soul,' but
I saw no tales of the heart being played behind his pupils. There
was no connection. I waited for something to occur, to spark into
being, but there was nothing. I pressed on.
I was thinking about what you said, about how were maybe
not compatible, and I think that youre right. Were not.
His face remained impassive.
I think we need things that we cant give each other.
A stagnant silence stood between us, him with his soundless
guitar in his lap, which was held by his anomalously still, cool
hands.
But I think that we can be fantastic friends. Were just not right
for each other romantically.
I persisted unsuccessfully attempting to penetrate the
unresponsive vagueness of his expression with my pleading eyes
until he finally broke the lethargic stillness between us:
We can be friends, he said, with a nod. His fingers found their
way back to the strings and the music began to dance around the
emptiness of the room once more.
Okay, I said and stood up, grabbed my bag and walked
towards the door, where I paused to turn.
Ill see ya later, yeah?
He looked up and offered an easy smile, Yeah, sure. Ill see ya.
I walked down the hall and out his front door and stepped
into the world and I felt suffocated by the enormity of the night
sky. I stood there, next to my bike as I fumbled through my bag
to find my keys, as a horrible devastation crept its way into my
stomach. I withdrew my hands from my bag and looked up into
the vastness of the night. The stars had remained intact and they
shone brilliantly from their black, velvety homes. Soundless tears
fell down my face. I crouched down and wrapped my arms around
my legs and buried my head between my knees as I cried for the
commonness of it all. I remained there for only a minute before
wiping the tears, finding my keys and making my way home. I
slept fine that night, and the wholeness of my heart tore it apart.

Hypothetical two
I want to start by telling you how wonderful and amazing you
are, I sat opposite him on the far edge of his bed, one of my legs
curled beneath me as I traced circles with my pointer finger on
his comforter.
I daydreamed about you every day while I was abroad. I
fantasized and romanticized coming home to you. I began to feel
the forewarning tightness that precedes tears press down upon
my throat. I furrowed my brow and determinedly continued on
in spite of it.
I suppose those expectations, all those dreams, thats what
makes this so hard.
I looked up from the nervous circles Id been tracing and into
his eyes. His face was decidedly straight. I shrank away from the
choice to withdraw emotion from it, and returned to tracing
imagined patterns on the bed.
I just dont think we should be together. I want a relationship

in which I have fun, not a relationship thats just for fun.

I tried to recount the reasons that had fueled my decision. My
friends voices toppled over one another:
The thing is, he just doesnt understand you. Hes a great guy,
reallyhe isbut, he just doesnt understand you.
Youre in two different places and youre two completely different
people. You are wired for a relationship, and hes not.
Youre the biggest romantic I know, and youre dating a guy who
doesnt believe in love. How will that work?
Hes younger. Not in years, but in maturity, in experience. Hes
not going to see the world like you do.
I want you to think, really think, about who you are. Are you
going to be able to lay your head on a pillow next to his, and share
every part of yourself with him? Not the glazed-over this is what
happened story, the real, true this is what it was like and how it felt
and this is why Im me story.
Hes already picked out parts of you that he doesnt likeand
theyre not even real parts! Hes misinterpreted your person.
And then there was the last before they all quieted into the
recesses of my mind:
Its hard, and its hard because it could work. It could. You guys
could work things out and you could be happy in a way. But even if
he does want to be with you, he doesnt love you. He doesnt want to
love you. Hes not going to love you. And you love him...and youre
going to tear yourself apart.
There was a cold stillness within my head. There was no trace
of individual thought or opinion. Instead, I was filled with a sort
of melancholic apathy. A numbness that somehow still bitthe
moment just before the loss of feeling sharply extended throughout
my mind and heart.
And then I looked at him.
And it wasnt the way he looked or the way he sat or what he was
doing with his hands or how he was looking at me or the rhythm
of his breath or any of anything of that moment. It was the totality
of his being that gripped my heart. The totality and completeness
of who he is and what he is and how he is. And none of that could
ever be captured by words or music or a painting or anything. It
was too great. It was too beautiful. He was too beautiful. He looked
at me and spoke:
We arent compatible.
He didnt say it to be an ass or to hurt mehe honestly believed
it. He was blunt. But the sadness in his eyes held me for a moment
and slowed the oncoming hopelessness as a rope of what-ifs and
could-have-beens wrapped itself like a noose around my neck.
He scooted over and put his arm around me and kissed the top
of my head, and I was thankful. I wanted to look at him until I had
every part memorized, so that on all the future lonely nights ahead
I could call on it and maybe my bed would be a little less empty,
but I knew I shouldnt give myself such a thing to hold onto and
so I was grateful when I was obliged into the nook of his shoulder
where I so comfortably fit.
Time moved oddly while I was safely embraced by him. Minutes
were vague and the space seemed stagnant and unchanging. I
knew it was time to go.
I didnt say anything as I gathered my things, and neither did he.

I silently prepared myself for my exit. I looked at the door. As soon

as I exited his room, it would be over. In this space we were broken,
but we were still together. In this space there was still a potential
for change, however slim the chance. In this space, the perfect
combination of words could be laced together to alter everything.
The possibilities pushed against me as I walked towards the door.
I turned around and looked at him, sitting there, slightly
hunched with sad eyes, and I wanted to throw my things down
and jump on top of himI wanted to bury my head in his neck
and kiss his cheek and trace his jawline and then cup his face in
my hands and force his eyes to meet mine as Id tell him that I love
himthat I love his every part, the totality of his parts, the parts of
his parts. I love all of him. I wanted him to know.
But then he smiled at me and I knew that as soon as I chased
the emotion in his eyes, it would disappear. Or it wouldnt be
enoughor Id squander it with my own. He couldnt love me. I
didnt believe it, but he had said it and my friends had said it and I
was the only one fighting against it.
So I smiled back and stepped through the door.

torn apart by the real world and you dont even realize how lucky
you are! Youve been coddled your whole goddamned life and
praised for everything you do and youve never encountered any
adversity and its allowed your ego to swell to a point where you
cant even see yourself anymore,
I stopped addressing the ground and met his eyes, You dont
see yourself as you are!
Tears had welled in his eyes as he fought to maintain composure
and I had never felt such a strong hatred as I did towards myself
in that moment. My hatred for myself was putrid. It was flashing,
hitting me again and again. I watched him struggle against his
tears, trying to form a response. I wanted to comfort him and tell
him that I didnt mean a word of itbecause I didnt. It had been
falsified upon its release into the world. It was only ever true when
it was within me, coating my internal wounds.
But instead of reaching out and wiping away the tears, I found
myself walking around my car, opening the door to the drivers
seat, stepping in and driving away, leaving him with his head in
his hands and his shoulders shaking as he stood alone on the
pavement.

Hypothetical three

Hypothetical four

I attempted to seem casually sexy as I nervously leaned against

my car, which was speckled with bird shit. I pressed his name on
my phone and held it up to my ear as I stared at the grass, which
appeared dewy even though it was nine at night.
Hey! His voice was some odd imitation of excitement.
Hey, can you come outside and talk for a minute?
You dont want to just come up?
No, theres no parking and I have to be somewhere soon. Itll
only take a minute.
Okay.
There was definitely parking.
I continued to stare at the grass even as I heard his footsteps
echo from the stairwell and approach me. I hugged him and
allowed him to kiss my cheek, but I never broke eye contact with
those little green blades.
We have to break up. I said this to the dewy ground, which
made it easier to expel.
Why? He was collected, and I hated him for it.
Because we want different things. I want a serious relationship.
I want someone who is reliable, and if I cant have that then Id
rather be alone. You want to have fun, and thats great, and I want
to have fun too, but I want more than just that. I want much more
than just that. And I want someone who understands me and you
dont. You dont understand me.
An anger began to well inside of me as I continued:
You think Im vain and pretentious. You pointed out things
that you believe to be essential flaws in my characterand they
arent, theyre maybe behavioral issues but I am a good person!
without ever emphasizing anything good. At all. You were mean.
You dont understand how to be in a relationship. You say you
want one, but then you act as though you want to be single and its
too fucking much and you should just be single.
And you had that girl stay the night at your house the other
night, and you used to have a thing with her! You let her stay with
you and youve fucked her and you cant even empathize with
how that might make me feel. You cant empathize with hardly
anything. You were cheated on when you were, what? Sixteen?
People die! People get abused! People get raped and battered and
Prose

I stepped through his front door. He was in the kitchen,

hunched over with his face in the fridge. I dropped my things and
wrapped my arms around him from behind and buried my face
in his back. He put his hand around my forearm and rubbed his
thumb up and down it. We stood there in silence for a moment
before he closed the fridge empty-handed and turned to me. He
grabbed my face with both of his hands and lifted it up to his. He
kissed me passionately and then released me from my tippy-toes
as he wrapped his arms tightly around me and kissed the top of
my head.
He knew it was coming.
I began to cry. I didnt attempt to withhold the tears. I stood
there with him in the middle of the kitchen crying as he stroked
my hair. I was so mad at the situation, at the universeat him for
stroking my hair. For doing the exact right thing when I was so
goddamned mad and hurt. But I loved him for it, too. I loved him
stroking my hair and I loved that he stood there with me in the
middle of the kitchen and let me cry into him, and that he didnt
make me move and he didnt attempt to wipe away my tearshe
just let me be, and he stayed there with me.
I couldnt look up at him. I continued to cry until the tears
slowed and my breath steadied. And there, in the middle of the
kitchen with fluorescent lights beating down upon us and my head
buried in his chest I whispered, Im sorry. I cant do this.
He kissed the top of my head again as he said, I know.
I ran out the door crying. There were no footsteps behind me,
no desperate calls of my name, no Wait!s followed by a dramatic
kiss in the street and hurried and hushed whispers of I love you.
There was nothing.
I stood there in the street for a while hoping, until hope turned
into curiosity. The light remained on in his apartment. I wondered
what he was doing, how he was feelingwas he sad? Was he sitting
there catatonic beneath the bright kitchen light, shocked by the
loss of me? Was he crying softly with his head in his hands as he
sat on the couch, feigning to watch TV? Was he playing guitar and
writing beautiful songs with a broken heart?
My feet began to ache and I realized that whatever he was
19

doing, he wasnt chasing after me. I walked home and cried until
the sun rose, and then slept the day away so that I wouldnt have to
deal with the memory of the ease with which he had let me go, and
because the sunlight made everything too real.

conscious of her inability, but was unable to fix it. Or perhaps she
didnt try, because her romanticisms held her, and reality often
stung.
He knew she was planning on leaving, that her belief had
dwindled, that she didnt understand how he felt. She was certainly
gallivanting in the clouds, but he wasnt on the hard ground, as she
believed. He was following as best he could, but she was blinded
by the sun.
He had spent the previous day in a frenzy after receiving a text
from her that read:
We need to talk. Whenever you have a few minutes, let me
know.
His friends had attempted to distract him, but he was antsy
and it did not fade. The novelty of a four-person bike did nothing
to enthuse him, the beauty of the ocean didnt stir his great
appreciation of the world, and his laughter was hollow; there was
only anxious anticipation-- it was overwhelming-- and he had not
expected that. He hadnt realized how much she meant to him,
how much he wanted to be with herfor her to be with him.
And now he did, but he was scared that it was too late. He hadnt
noticed in time and he was going to lose her.
But, she postponed. First it was later in the day, then it was
tomorrow, then it was a few more days. The few more days never
actualized and it was tomorrow that stuck, but not because she had
asked for it or altered her mind about needing time. She had felt
sick and dizzy, and she was alone and so he came over.
We dont even have to talk about anything serious, just let me
come over and hold you, he had said.
She wanted nothing more. And so he came, and they lay
together in gentle conversation, tiptoeing around emotional
grenades. But, inevitably, there was a misstepand there was no
backtracking. The territory had been invaded and they could only
push forward, despite their desire to remain in decided ignorance.
Well, fuck, he laughed half-heartedly as she sat up, breaking
their embrace. I guess were talking about this now. Look, I
messed up. Im not great at communicating. But, you are so
important to me. Yesterday, I thought you were going to breakup
with me and I was a mess, He looked at her earnestly and his
vulnerability grounded her and she was listeningreally listening.
He continued, I want to do special things for you, I want to
surprise you, to make you happy-- just, anything to make you stay.
All she could manage was a nod, because she hadnt expected
this from up in the clouds. But, it was perfect. She saw all the
subtletiesthe way he rubbed her leg as he spoke, the uneven
rhythm of breath that indicated some nervousness, and how he
never broke eye contact...he let her see him, and that was all that
she needed.
Youre amazing, he said, and she nodded and maybe she said
thank youshe didnt know, she was too raptured by his words
and vulnerability and honesty and affection. She was consumed
by who he was and what he was and nauseated and thrilled and in
love with the romance of it all.
Im not leaving, she said, and that was it.
There was more talk of concrete problems, but this was all that
really mattered: a singular and brief happy ending had occurred,
and the beauty of that was all that needed to be seen.

Hypothetical five
I sat in my apartment in silence, thinking so much that I wasnt
thinking-- my sweaty hands fiddling around each other as though
I was externally attempting to grasp at an internal thought. I
couldnt make myself move. I looked at the clock and it was a few
minutes past nine, and I was late. I was already supposed to be
at his house. And I wanted to go, or I thought that I should want
to go because I had previously wanted to go, but I couldnt. I was
frozen except for my clammy hands, which also felt as though they
were outside of my realm of control.
Maybe if I turned off my phone I could ignore it? It could all
just fade away and end itself organically. Or maybe it wouldnt end
itself, maybe I could wake up and everything would be better. I
could just lock my door and go to sleep and then wake up the next
morning and turn on my phone and Id have at least five voicemails
and ten texts from him apologizing, telling me itll be better, he
does believe in love and its happeningand he wants it to happen.
And Id apologize, too. Id apologize for any and everything. And
maybe hed tell me that he suddenly sees the beauty in romance,
and the beauty in me. That, to him, I am beautiful. Who I am,
what I am, how I am and what Im about, and the sum of it all is
beautiful. And even if he isnt yet in love with me, I could breathe,
and I could rest assured that my heart wouldnt forever be a mile
ahead of his.
But I couldnt reach out for my phone. My hands were endlessly
intertwining and ringing each other and I couldnt move. I was
paralyzed in a universe of nothingness where neither beginnings
nor endings existed. I floated amongst a vast web of decisions,
of opinions, of thoughts and emotionsthere were so many of
themso many possible directions that felt as though there were
none.
And then there was a knock at my door. My head felt hot and
my heart was in my throat before I could remind myself that the
ideal never actualizes.
I made my way over to the door and opened it, and he was
there. And as simply as that, my faith was restored in all things.

actuality
The room was subtly lit and though there was an awareness of
the problems and the necessity to discuss such problems, the space
between them was comfortable and he didnt hesitate to reach
out and wrap his hand around her leg, pulling her closer. They
lay there, nose to nose, for a length of time. To her, the bed they
lay upon was a world apart from reality. They were alone in time
and space; there was only him, and she was filled with a hundred
sugarcoated dreams of the boy to whom she had secretly given
her heart.
He did not give in to such romanticisms-- he was conscious of
the outside world and the reality of the relationship, but his heart
was not dulled by his rejection of them. He reveled in his closeness
to herhe cherished her. But, she hadnt any idea of this. He didnt
articulate it and her mind was a million miles away, riding upon
fantasies, and she was unable to notice subtleties. At times she was
20

Mr. B
by Patrick Harrington

For Harriet.
In blissful ignorance, Mr. B happily tees up his ball and
angrily curses his drives. As is par for the course (especially
amidst the relaxation of a free game), he enjoys a cigar and a
few beers throughout the round. For no matter how any round
turns out, golf is all about the company you keep. And today, he
is with three of his oldest and dearest friends.

It is a good day for golf. Many would say that any day is a
good day for golf, especially if its a weekday. Given Scotlands
wet climate, one would not want to be caught out in a sudden
downpour, but on this Tuesday, green grass meets blue skies
in a distant haze of heather on the horizon. A coastal breeze
nips at the curly orange locks that hang from the back of a tall
Scotsmans golf cap.

Father Seamus Murphy especially enjoys these days out on

the course. He can only escape his priestly duties one day a
month, and thankfully, his friends do not mind the monthly
excuse to hit the links. They always arrange to play hooky the
same day. Just the fact of skipping out on a normally regimented
and wholly unlikable taskworkmakes the day that much
better. It brings them back to the days of their youth: skipping
out on school to head down to the pier with pockets full of
Cadbury and watching the ships and sailors bustling about. It
was a little piece of Heaven come down to Earth.

Mr. B lives for golf. He would die for it too. And he will. For,
unbeknownst to him, today is the day he dies. And the 13th
hole of the Bruntsfield Links Golfing Society is where it will
happen. Ironically, he begins the round playing a sudden death
format to settle yesterdays draw. It is an appointment Death
himself does not plan to missif you are one to believe in
such fates.
Dr. Jake Matthews settles the tie on the first hole with a long
birdie putt. Though he takes the win, the bet, and the coinciding
cash, Mr. B had hit a beautiful chip shot on his approach. Deep
in his belly (next to the buttered, jellied, and creamed scone
thatwhich he had for breakfast), he feels his day is off to a good
start. Mr. B is at home on the golf course. Most of his days
here were preceded by long business ventures abroad, so a day
on the golf course signified a return to his proper corner of
the world. Regardless of the way the ball breaks, everything
seemed right when he was hitting it. Having paid for a full 18,
they carry on with a friendly round. No one places any more
bets, though for one of the party, the stakes are incredibly high.
Prose

The good father hollers over to Mick-- the last member

of their foursome--for another beer. Mick sheaths his 9-iron
with a clanking of both clubs and bottles. Mick is a self-titled
entrepreneur, a publican of the highest sort. Really he is just a
barman who overindulges on his own stock, but none of his
golf-mates complain when his bag is bulging with bottles of
beer every round. They also do not mind concluding every
round at the so-called 19th hole, the bar Mick owns and
warmly offers to all as a watering hole. The real name of the bar
is a mystery; there are two signs out front, a small blackboard
21

ART // NATALIE OBRIEN

which reads Bills Tavern and a white Celtic-lettered
board above the door which reads McDonaghs. Seeing
as neither name is in any way related to Mick, everyone
sticks with the unofficial name. It is a warm place,
devoid of any pressure shots. They take as many as
they please.
But they are yet to reach this
happy end. And it is Mr. Bs
shot, so he turns to his
clubs to decide which
to use. The bright sun
glints off the heads of the
irons, each catching the
light in a kind of dance
like the mating moves of a
bird of paradise.
The squawk of a grouse
snaps his attention to
the brush. With a rustle
of wings and leaves, a
bush explodes and the
grouse takes flight
over the fairway
and settles on a low
hanging branch of a
fir tree. A pause, all is
still, as the two creatures
carefully consider each
other. Mr. B looks
longingly to his navy blue
bag, wishing the stock of his
shotgun stuck up amongst
his clubs heads. But alas,
such a reserve may well
make his companions
nervous, especially when
money was on the line and
the balls were flying astray.
What the golf bag does contain is a small bottle of brandy,
which he carries out of his fear of death. He does so not out
of a refusal to die sober but rather out of superstition that
whiskey-- the Gaelic uisce beatha, the water of life-- is a
remedy for any brush with death. He is the kind of man who
would believe in such fates as Deaths cold hard knock upon
ones life-door. But it wouldnt do him any good; his death
was to be swift, leaving no time for even a single reviving
drop to reach his lips.

ball so hard that

his be-wearied heart can no
longer hold on. He collapses to the ground, struck dead by
a stroke-- and by a life of too much and too great quality.
For despite his untimely death, he will have an undeniable
legacy. He is the only man whose parting act was to make a
hole in one.

Mr. B selects his club and readies his shot.

Mr. B was a real man who actually did pass away during a
sudden death round immediately after striking what would be
a hole in one. The rest of the details of the tale are purely the
authors imaginative embellishments.

Not on the final hole of the course, but on the final hole
of his life, Mr. B forcefully torques his 62 frame in hopes
of a mighty drive. And a mighty drive it is, for he strikes the
22

ART // MAYA TRIFONIC

SUNDAY MORNING

a fragment of a memoir
by Claire Nuttal

Most mornings, I will wake to my alarm. To the snooze

button, a scrambling, a silence. To pale light painting wobbly
shapes on bare legs. To quiet. Most mornings I will slide sleepswollen toes to the cool corners of the bedsheets, to carpet, to
cool tile. Tug on socks. Rinse my face with cool water. I will
blearily stumble downstairs to sugary-sweet cereals and lips
pressed to my hair and Dad reading the morning paper. To
Mom making scrambled eggs and coffee.
But some mornings are this morning.
This morning I wake in the dark of too early, to choked
screams splintering what is left of my dreams. Ache for a
snooze button to the sound of a mother losing her son, put it
off until another time. I play dead. Imagine my blood turning
to sand, heavy and stagnant in my wrists, hips, the base of my
skull. Will my body to sink back: into the bed, or the sleep, or
the silence. But some quiet part of me knows better.
Exhale, Claire. Roll over. Hurry. Obey the muscle memory
murmuring get up, go see and fall prey to the scrambling, cool
corners and carpet. Dont bother with socks.
This morning I wake to chaos and confusion and too
many bright lights and too much noise and too much hurt
for too early. I peer through the doorway of my big brothers
room. He is a broken doll, all crooked limbs. Unmoving. I hate
the sharp color of it all, the bright blue bedspread dark with
Prose

23

urine, the rosy flush staining his cheeks. Yellow yellow yellow
stretchers, blood red plastic equipment. Blue red yellow lights,
flickering outside, licking at the windowsills.
The paramedics hover over his form like flies on a
carcass, out of context in this pretty, beige home. My whitewalled home that will always be too big for the furniture, for
the thin-framed woman behind me, calling for my dad. For
the soft-faced man before me, calling for my brother, begging
him to breathe.
Roll over. Hurry. Obey. Muscle memory kicks in. Dad
tugs at his face wet with vomit before the paramedics gently
pull him away.
No one calls my name. No one asks for my help. I am
excess and unnecessary. But on mornings like this there is too
much for me to go back to sleep. I hover in the doorway and
watch my big brother try very hard to die. Shiver in limbo
between the soft dark and sharp light.
I hear screaming, glance down, and my hands are shaking.
The screaming, the screaming is me. The white walls close in
and the high roof crashes down because everything here reeks
of too much alcohol. Now he is a broken doll unmoving and
wet with vomit and I am still just excess.
Most mornings I will go downstairs for Lucky Charms,
but this morning the world ends.

ONE SIDED
conversation

with

ROLAND BARTHES
AN IMPRESSIONISTIC ESSAY IN RESPONSE TO "DEATH OF THE AUTHOR" BY R.B.
By NATALIE OBRIEN
Something about that cigarette poking out from between
two weathered fingers endears him to me, makes him human.
Barthes interrogates all life by nature, and conversation is
no exception. We doubtless both view this as some sort of
experiment. However, that does not mean we will carry the same
suppositions. I know nothing about this man other than that he
is a man who is read and discussed in virtually every modern
art and literature course Ive come across. I know he is balding,
enjoys cigarettes, and (depending on the photographer) appears
predominantly in black and white. I decided not to google him
(an appropriately inappropriate-sounding verb) beforehand
because it seemed tactless, considering the topic.
He knows zilch about meless than I claim to know about
him. I wonder what he thinks of my tie-dye pants. I wonder
if he will think these pants seem like something I would wear
because Im me, or if these pants are just crazy pantspants that
have absolutely nothing to do with me.
I vaguely remember a lecture on Balzac in a neurosciencemeets-humanities course: A sound bite, He worked himself to
death imprinted there. It seemed a bit silly at the time, being
so passionate (or crazy) as to literally write oneself to death. So
when the name Balzac tumbles off the tongue, I immediately
picture him sealed in a creaky, mildewy attic illuminated by
a single scrap-wax candle, malnourished, as droplets of sweat
soak through several layers of his manuscript. Why I picture
this, I dont know. The other thing I think of, when my attention
in this vision falls to the manuscript, is the story of a captains
wife who loses her memory. But that fun fact mentioned
tangentially was a scrap blown up to headline proportions
which got stuck by thumb into my frontal lobe.
I suppose hes taking stock of me as Im taking stock of his
office space, which is mostly in shadow and cozily insulated
on two walls with several layers of books. They arent in
24

grayscale like their master, and I find myself getting caught up

in the words while he waits for me to begin.

I went to LACMA for the first time this past summer on
my way home from school. I finally broke the hundred-dollar
bill that had been maturing in the front pouch of my purse for
the last two months on the fancy exhibit. As I let the bill slide
through clamped fingers, I tried to reason with myself.
'See, I borrowed some money,' I explain.
He settles in a low leather armchair and reaches for the
cigarette case. My eyes dart to survey the movement. The glint
distracts me. I couldnt have spent it any other wayI was
going to see the Expressionists, I add.
I had to have been the most aggravating visitor to occupy
the Van Gogh to Kandinsky exhibit all afternoon, followed
closely by a friend who, might I add, dropped his admission
ticket on three separate occasions in the Calder exhibit before
reaching the door to Van Gogh to Kandinsky.
Barthes politely stifles a yawn, closes the notebook and
banishes it within the side-table drawer.
One painting in particular, a Matisse, arrested my attention
for nearly fifteen minutes.
He perks up, so naturally I build off of his energy and try to
jazz up my story a little.
Twirling my split ends into a tight tube around my index
fingera sign of deep concentration and admirationI explain,
It was like visiting a century-old painters studio.
With one graceful finger, he signals and I pause. To my
surprise, he asks why I called the painting a Matisse.
Well it was a Matisse, I answer, confused. I cant provide the
name of the painting Im about to describe.
He waves me on.
Looking around, I realized I had misplaced my friend

entirely. In his absence, I resumed licking and smelling

the paint with my mind, repainting it several times over in
simulation. The way the browns jumped and grooved together
up the rungs of the painters stool, all in slightly varied tones,
reaching a majolica ceramic vase cradling red poppies (Id
assume, because artists like opiates, right?)he didnt nod
which made love to get the rich clay brown of the cabinet,
standing like a stoic soldier behind it. These swaying parts
invited me in closer like the seductive hands of hula dancer.

Barthes interjects again. This time he asks if were talking
about my friend or painting. Well, its the painting, I
suppose. But he corrects methe verb: to paint, not the
Matisse.
I think for a moment. Hes got a point. Im talking about
re-painting a famous work of art here. Who am I to devise a
masters technique?
I do paint, but I wouldnt say Im a painter, I admit. Why?
Well Im not known for paintings. Im not known for anything,
really. He asks me if I knew anything about Matisse.
Well... no. Well, I mean he... no I dont. While Im
attempting to scrape a Wikipedia biography off the ceiling,
Barthes takes up the pen and notebook. The verb: to paint,
peindre. I try to recollect where I am in the process of telling
my re-painting. Was I talking about paintings or painting?
The cabinet, the hula reference. Okay.

Scene: MAAM, can you PLEASE remain behind the line

when viewing the paintings, said the gruff voice belonging to a
very large, evidently bored female security guard.
Oh, I said, still absorbed, and with the elegance of a tortoise,
maintained the same distance from the Matisse with my face
whilst shuffling my toes behind the line.
Thank you, snorted the woman in a way that meant she was
not thankful at all.
Ah, here I am.
The shadow under the easel was slightly skewed from the
bottom cross beam, which was curved so that the middle of it
looked like it was alive and reaching an arm over to get closer
to the canvas within the work. Whatever image resided there
is strangely the only thing I cant picture. I guess the canvas
pictured in the painting probably wasnt important enough to
commit to memory.
Oh, because it was blank? Really? I assume.
He corrects me.
White, okay. Well whats the difference? I ask.
He says a lot of things, and unfortunately I dont have a
recording device so you're just going to have to believe me.
It boils down to the signified. What does white signify in
comparison to blank? Matisse left it blank is not the same as
Matisse painted the canvas white.
Maybe I was more focused on the construction of the
painting rather than why Matisse chose a blank canvas on an
easel for a subject. The subject blended and morphed into the

Prose

25

rest of the scene, so it couldnt have been the narrative focal

point, right?
Then I think to myself, why didnt I think about Matisse at
all while looking at this painting? Next to it, a mystery title,
since eradicated from memory, and the paintings dimensions,
date, and artist. If I were to think about Matisse, I would ask
questions: Is this Matisses own studio? A friends? Did he rent
out a space and buy materials? Or were they his objects? And
in trying to figure out the painting process, would I be able
to unravel the steps within the layers? I fantasized about my
coveted photoshop history tool.

I had an impression that all the windows and right-hand
screen were outlined first, and filled later with the glowing
green tones of painted light. My eye wandered from black
to black in the corners and under- sides of the cabinet, easel
and window, noting which blacks had more reds, greens, or
werent blacks at all. The formless forms of the marble plaster
busts were almost indiscernible from what I judged to be a
distinguished white blob atop the cabinet. I again revisited the
warmth of the clay brown cabinet and noticed a muted pink
aligned with the shape of the adjacent windowpane.

Scene: See the blacks? I asked Julian to look at the shadows I

was almost touching with my index finger. We both leaned closer,
and jumped back at the approaching sounds of the LACMA
beast.
See? Theyre not really blacks at all.
Scene within Scene: I blink back to when I was sixteen, to an
image of the bulbous, green, NYU grad student sashaying from
easel to easel. We had been asked to break figures into shapes
and colors. As a result of this, I can only see him now as a large
green oval with two horizontal rectangles outlined in black.
Towering over the desk of a small mousy girl, he smirked and
dangled a shimmery new tube of Winsor & Newtons Ivory Black
between mandibles. Rrrreal painters, he sneered, mix their
own black.

Its because its A MATISSE! I say. Barthes finally

nods.
I was wrong all along. Its not the painting that interested
me, or the way it was painted. Im more likely to dissect a
painting I find aesthetically compelling on a personal level
something I might want to replicate in my own work. I was
trying to figure out why it was there! In a LACMA gallery,
I mean. As a matter of fact, I was doing so for a lot of the
paintings in that exhibit.
I get CubismI read the stenciled text on the wall. But
there needed to be a reason for the paints to appear on the
canvas like that... Why the blacks wouldnt just be tube-black.
Because its a Matisse.
He seems amused, which I do not mistake for
satisfied.

I thought for a moment. What about another scenario?

Recrossing my legs, I shifted the conversation to an entirely
different gallery experience. Photography. What about Larry
Sultan? I had the converse experience with that gallery.
He flashes the cigarette case, and does not object.
I begin again.
This was also at LACMA, but more recently. It was a
new exhibit. I was initially attracted to the abstract painting
gallery, which justified in its entry description the unavoidable
resurgence of abstract art. I was blown away, but just out of
the sheer scale and impressiveness of each piece.
I didnt know what a single one was about.
Except for the lipstick urinals. That one seemed like it
would be a similar something to a something the average
passerby would recognize.
He asks who Larry Sultan is.
Hes this photographer who died recently, I think early
2000s? The gallery was provided in part by the Robert
Mapplethorpe Foundation (did you read Patti Smiths
memoir?)he shrugsand hes from the San Fernando
Valley. He was commissioned by Vanity Fair (and magazines
like that) to take photos, so he must have been well-known
and respected. Ive never heard of him, but the friend I was
with came specifically to see his new exhibit. He photographs
the Valley, which I thought was going to be uninteresting
because, lets face it, its the Valley. And you know what people
say about the Valley.
One brow arches up like a rainbow.
Nothing good comes out of the Valley?
Moving on.
So basically I knew nothing about this Sultan guy, and
if it werent for my friend Mariah, I probably wouldnt have
checked it out. I tend to make the trek to museums for
paintings... for, you know, the Works.
He asks what I mean by Works.
Well theres this scholar, Benjamin. Walter Benjamin. Im
sure youve heard of him. He talks about this energy around
master works of art and calls it an aura. Not the aura one gets
at a festival, but the essence of a work that encapsulates all it
has been, the times it has seen, le nom de l'artiste and all fame
preceding it. Now, whats interesting about these photographs
is in my understanding of the word aura, they qualified. But
not immediately.
Barthes asks if this photographer had anything to do with
creating the aura.
I would say so. The Matisse drew me in because it was
a Matisse, as we established, and the aura was powerful
enough to influence how long I looked at it. The fact
that it was a Matisse in a gallery of masters caused me to
ponder the painting process, so that I could qualify it for
myself.
He looks puzzled.
I had this painting teacher, who you can read more about
in another essay. She didnt like me, this much was apparent.
I like to paint photo-realistically and then add some flare. My
opinion, which has never been impressed upon me in school,

is that artists have to earn their stripes; they have to be able

to render the hell out of life before they can jazz it up. Its like
those four-year-olds painting elephants: that blob is not an
elephant, and that kid is not a genius...yet. When I saw Picasso
for the first time I felt dizzy, and not in a good way. Maybe Im
just too close to painting and I need answers... I need to know
how one makes it. This teacher did make me appreciate
color theory, and a newfound love for Degas. The painters
that spent four hours maximum on their paintings, with
mismatched tones and mutes, scanted strokes and slanted
faces, prime showing throughshe loved them. That was
fine, until I saw her paintings. Photo-tastic. Her paintings, I
thought, were actual staged photographs. Incredible. My idol,
unparalleled skill. Are we more interested in things we don't
fully understand or aren't prepared to try? But then again,
there were no people in them. And Rembrandt breathes the
ruddy life into otherwise china-doll cheeks, blotchy strokes
and all. So theres the life element, I suppose.
Barthes mutters something into a palm folded over his
mouth and scribbles in his notebook. I begin to look around
the room for Rorschach inkblots. Im sitting on a comfy
couch facing the window, theres a pleasant enough looking
man in black and white facing me, scribbling silently, and Im
opening up like a lily in the afternoon. Or maybe the word is
blossoming, because in talking this out, Im reaching new
levels of consciousness.
Anyway, she loved the big smears and strokes. The painters
who can create figures out of three decisive brushstrokes in
three block colors. Thats impressive, and difficult to achieve.
I understand the merit in it. But if were in a beginning
painting class with squared off canvases and were told to
make it like the picture, how does she expect us to take that?
It was a very confusing time for me. I looked down at my
hands, which were strangling each other.
A writing professor once wrote on a paper I turned in,
And it all dissolves into...? These words are burning rings
around my ears. What does Barthes think of me? Does he buy
my story about the teacher? Am I just completely out of my
element here? I let out a sigh.
He asks whats troubling me.
I just cant seem to communicate with the limited
vocabulary and story-telling capabilities I possess. My
adjectives are meager and my verbs are plagued with tre. Im
not confident with my voice.
He asks me if I expect writers to be naturally gifted. I
shrug, secretly believing one either has it or doesnt with
writing, but knowing he would use the P-word. Practice. Or
some Malcom Gladwell recipe.
He tells me that words are the same for everyone. He
says, the author is a more recent figure, whereas the story
superseded the storyteller gurus before. And while Im trying
to tell him whats in my head, my smithy for language is prosaic.
Im descending down the black hole of Endless Elaboration,
where millions of eyes read millions of dictionaries and live
myriad existences which conjure infinite manifestations of
the word chair. Now that I accept my imminent failure to
26

Taken at the Larry Sultan Exhibit, LACMA

express myself entirely, Im more comfortable residing in the

I know nothing box. I stole a peek into a friends textbook,
Reframing Latin America, while he steeped my tea. I remember
immediately relaxing when I read the words:
Cultural theorists reject this notion by asking what directs an
author to make her or his selections. Can authors be omniscient,
knowing every connotation, every possible motivation behind
and implication of their selected thoughts, words, and ideas? To
cultural theorists such complete awareness is impossible.
These complex, circular ideas are taking over the structure
of my story. The only explanation I can come up with is that
I am not the owner of these ideas, I am the surrogatethe
switch on the tracks, transferring information (though my own
bodily network of neurotransmitters is biased). According to
this book, modernists believe there is some larger truth were
supposed to unveil. Someone once called that romantic
a.k.a. quaintin a condescending tone. Yes, m'am I'll have
one of your thought-trinkets! How 'bout the "idealistic", oh and
the "naive" on the back shelf.
Post-modernists are more wary to accept an authors
truth; its conditional. In wading through these thoughts, I
think of death and religion. It comforts me to know everyone
dies, while it comforts me to know no one really knows
anything.
He clears his throat. Right, I'm hardly a good
conversationalist considering all the long lapses into silence
and sifting through my memories. Okay, Barthes.
Prose

27

"So in regard to conversation, out of Benjamin, Foucault,

and you, you seemed the most accessible. Your ideas were
easy enough to navigate and to apply to personal experiences.
Foucault left an impressionistic traffic jam in my path, which
led me to the exit and the coast. His words muddled rather
than magnified."
Who doesn't like to be compared? Barthes at least, seems
excited about his discovery and wants to share it with the lesser
writers and readers such as myself. Both, however, made it
about the reader.
In this case, you, reader, are the reader, and I (the narrator)
am a character the writer of this essay has created to speak for
her. This character is fallible and her language is faulty. Theres
a good chance you will not catch all her drifts, and youll likely
not tie up the fractals of fraying ropes.
Digressions, a friend once told me, are his favorite part of
conversation. Its like reaching into a bag of assorted candy, the
anticipation and hyper-awareness preceding the determining
moment: the reveal of a chocolate bar or a soft, stale lollipop.
The person opposite you in conversation will either expose
more road for your mental journey or they will make you
want to go around. Sometimes, you just have to sit behind a
big truck and follow it until the road divides again into two
lanes.
Barthes clears his throat. I've been lost in thought for a time
which depends on how long it took you, reader, to get through
the last four pages. He asks me to describe the exhibit, as if I

was writing a paper for a class. A strange request, isnt it?

Images of the San Fernando Valley, blown up on the walls
at first glance just looked like home. The gallery entrance
surrounds the viewer with suburban neighborhoods, back
yards, sprinklers going off on the lawn; the usual Edward
Scissorhands set. Because the setting is a gallery, the viewer
leans in, while perhaps assessing the interactions other viewers
in the room are having with each work. The viewer may or may
not read the words surrounding the entrance, because the text
is small and neutral in color. From the initial text on Pictures
from Home, the first of three galleries I surveyed, I recalled
the words to stop time and confusion about its meaning
the most. I found the curators choice to italicize Larry Sultans
words in juxtaposition with the journalistic text about his
work brings pathos to the exhibit text.
Usually, photography exhibits accomplish one of two
things: they challenge the viewer to ask questions and
construct narratives in order to place the visual information
in context, or the question of its relevance and subject matter
simply confuses the viewer. Sultan himself, within the first
form of writing in the exhibit expresses his own confusion and
search for meaning, which situates the viewer at a crossroads
between empathizing with the artist and trying to interpret his
perspective.
In the Larry Sultan: Here and Home exhibit at LACMA,
the work itself draws its own audience, apart from the text
that surrounds it. Or rather, it permits us to laugh and cry
before we are critical. A sense of humor glues together the
two collections, Pictures from Home and The Valley. But
underneath the inquisitive eye, the story- teller immortalizes
entire lives within framed moments. The curator, working with
the Robert Mapplethorpe Foundation, left everything as open
to interpretation as possible, save for the small introductory
paragraphs printed on the walls and selected writings from
Sultan in Pictures from Home 1983-92.
Sultans small anecdotal content is included to provide
added nuance to the intent of each piece. Sultan is troubled
with the conundrum of representing his parents, who are by
no means simple. Situated via text on the wall, Sultan and his
father discuss a Thanksgiving turkey in the foreground of a
portrait of his mothers face shrouded in shadow. Sultan is
quoted next to the painting, He accused me of creating an
image that had less to do with her than my own stereotypes
of how people age. I argued that our conflicting notions about
who mom is and how she should be represented are based
on our different relationships to her. He acknowledges the
tension between the way he frames his parents, and their
reluctance to accept his rendering.
I observed my photographer friend reacting to this portion
of the exhibit. She recalled an argument with her father as
well, on her portrayal of his aging. She had simply snapped a
picture of her fathers hands, an act that alarmed him."
Digression: Why do we use the word take in take a

picture? I think of cultures where superstition surrounds the

thought of someone stealing a persons image, or in some cases
the soul. We are taking, in a way, when we reproduce the image
of a person. We take that momentwe now possess and share
a moment of the subjects life. If the subjects are posing, arent
we taking those seconds of autonomous existence from them?
And to take down notes is to collect. Were collecting images,
moments, faces, stories, experience, memory. Photography is
stop-motion life, and often people trust photographs because
they supposedly document reality. So in an art gallery, when
photographs are accompanied by titles, stories, motifs, and
filters, arent they more than documentation?
Lets revisit aura shall we? Before we read the anecdotes
in the parents gallery, we made it personal by discussing this
series among ourselves, and dividing it into our favorites.
One, the aforementioned photographer, loved the worker
under the cherry blossoms. I could guess this is because her
work blooms with floral motifs and imagery. The other, a film
enthusiast also present, liked the pictures with obvious humor
and cinematic elements. I, identifying as a poet, liked the off
kilter or uncomfortable ones with simple titles; the pictures
that depicted a nebulous depth that speaks directly to some
buried part of us.
There was no aura until we saw this mans entire body of
work throughout six rooms. Consequently, I began to fall in
love with the people in the photographs. They began to take on
personalities, and Sultans voice, almost prophetic, guides me
through his memories from beyond the grave. It became more
about Sultan as I went back for a second look. Where was he?
How many photographs did he take? Did he have consent? And
so many of his works made me laugh. One featured a Valley
princess surrounded by dogs in downward-dog position. Easy.
The one I found more impressive pictured a massive print of a
house across a street bathed in magic-hour tint, which took up
most of the picture. Surrounding the standing print was dark
garage space. Cool blues and warm oranges divide a beautiful,
bright image from a dingy garage.
Barthes looks exhausted, as if weve just eaten a Thanksgiving
turkey dinner between the two of us. In talking about it, I have
now arrived at several destinations.
Authorship plays a role in how I personally view and digest
art. Theres a difference though. The master (who I may or
may not know anything about), a famed name, immediately
develops a string of antibiodies ready to fight it from seeping in
too easily. When I learn about the person through the art, its
a bonus. The art itself, since it is of personal narrative, excelled
with personal touches about Larry Sultans artistic process and
his life.
I get up, slowly, unsure what protocol dictates for the
circumstance. I decide on a half nod and stern eye contact.
Evidently, as you would agree, shaking a photographs hand is
a tad problematic.
Thats enough truth and beauty for today.
28

ART // NATALIE OBRIEN

By

HELEN
IRIAS
(continued from Fall Issue)

Week 4
Look what I brought! Serena sang as
she swayed through the door, a fifth of tequila
in her hand. Tess sat at her desk and reluctantly
emerged
from behind her book.
Arent you going to the meeting? The bi-quarterly hall
meeting began in fifteen minutes. Anyone who did not show
up would receive a warning, and more than two warnings
could mean expulsion from the dorm. Tess already had one,
but it was only because Serena had set the fire alarm off in the
middle of the night with her bong while Tess had been asleep.
Of course Im going, I just thought we could pregame,
She waved the bottle around enticingly. Tess had gone out
Prose

29

with Serena twice

last week, vomiting
violently each time. She could
not understand how people did this
every night.
Serena, its a meeting. Not a party. She
closed her Bible and marched out the door without a
backward glance. She mentally applauded herself as she made
her way down the hall to the meeting. Resisting temptation.
Choosing the right path. No need to pray for forgiveness,
because she had done nothing that could be interpreted as
wrong.
Serena arrived late to the meeting and refused to look Tess
in the eye. Afterwards, the two walked back to the room in
silence. Tess returned to her desk but Serena grabbed her book
satchel, putting the tequila bottle inside and turning for the
door.
Where are you going?

To hang out with a couple friends. Night!

The door shut and Tess stared blankly at Serenas side of the
room. What did I do? She knew the answer and immediately
felt awful for her judgmental behavior. Who am I to say she
cant drink before a meeting? If it gets her to the meeting, it is
justifiable.
She pictured her hanging out with other, cooler people,
taking shots and laughing. What if she likes them more than
me? Tess bolted out the door and down the hall, grabbing
Serenas arm.
What the hell? Serena whipped around and her hair
splashed into Tesss face. It smelled like lavender and jasmine.
I...I thought of a drinking game. We can use it to do our
homework. One shot every ten pages we read. And two for
whoever reads slower.
Serenas scowl melted into a mischievous grin. You are the
best roommate ever.
Tesss face and ears glowed with warmth as she and Serena
hurried back to their room. Sucks for her other friends, she
thought, ignoring the knot of guilt in her stomach.

Her heart sank when she saw the time on her phone
screen: 8:45am. She had completely slept through her 8am
Greek Mythology discussion section. But maybe this had been
for the best, as she had not done the reading. Again.
She decided she would rather have a best friend than attend
every discussion class. She glanced at Serena, dead asleep from
her rendezvous with another random boy the night before.
This used to bother Tess, but she knew that one day Serena
would find Jesus and repent for premarital sex. Serena was
innocent in that she was unaware of her wrongdoings.
Her focus returned to her studies. It would be a good idea
to at least email some bullshit excuse. She felt a thrill down
her spine even thinking the word bullshit. The clatter of her
laptop keyboard sliced into the silent morning and rustled
Serena from her hibernation.
How was class? She yawned the question.
Didnt make it. Im emailing him now.
Emailing Mister McDreamy?
Tess rolled her eyes. She had mentioned the vaguely good
looking young Greek Myth TA to Serena, who had then dared
her to take a picture of him in class. Jeffrey Peters was his
actual name, a graduate student visiting for the quarter from
some New York college.
Let me help word it. Serena rolled out of bed and scuttled
over to Tesss desk, shoving her out of her chair and grabbing
her laptop.
STOP! Tess screamed, but did not do much else to stop
Serena from writing. She was genuinely intrigued.
After some clacking around on the computer Serena
cleared her throat and read loudly,
Dear Mr. Peters,
I am devastated I had to miss your class this morning. I
woke up with such a burning fever that I had to take all my
clothes off and fan myself. Im sitting here naked as I write to
you because any extra layers will bring up my temperature.

I have done the reading, and accidentally read a bit further

than we were assigned for this week. I just find the material so
interesting. Would there be any way to meet with you one-onone and catch up with what I missed in class this morning? Let
me know, and have a wonderful Thursday.
Yours, Tess.
You are ridiculous. Now give it to me, let me write the
actual email. She reached out for Serena to give her the laptop,
but all Serena gave her was a mildly concerned expression.
Tess, I just sent that one. Thats why I read it.
Tess felt her heart swan dive downwards into her kneecaps
as her face prickled with heat.
You did not.
Its a joke! What is the worst that could happen? Dont
worry about it, its funny!
No words could express the fury boiling up within Tess,
so she remained silent as she constructed an emergency
rectification email. She apologized for her friends idea of a
joke and for the unprofessionalism and for missing class, sent
the message and squeezed her eyes shut to stop tears from
sneaking out.
I...cant.believe you did that. She whispered.
If hes cool hell think its funny.
It doesnt matter if hes cool, hes my teacher! Tess
grabbed her school materials, stuffed the jumble of books and
cords in her backpack, and stormed out the door to the library.
Sometimes she wondered if Serena was not entirely in her right
mind.
She spent the rest of the day studying and avoiding her
email, terrified of both a response and a lack thereof. On the
phone with her parents that day, she realized her white lies had
darkened to pure lies. I deserve to live my life as I please. That
is not wrong. She sat in spiteful satisfaction, acknowledging
the feeling of ease that settled over her after her dishonesty.
Why should she live her life for her parents? It was hers and
hers only. As long as she and her parents were both happy,
what did a few lies matter?

Week 5
Sometimes Serena would leave the room without speaking
and come back an hour or so later with no explanation. Tess
wanted to ask her where she went, but pushing too hard against
Serenas love for privacy seemed like a bad idea.
Serena returned from one such outing around 6pm one
night with a smirk on her face.
What are you doing tomorrow? She asked mysteriously.
I have class.
But what are you doing? She held up a ziploc bag with
three sugar cubes and waved it around.
Drinking...tea? Tess had no idea where this was going.
Its acid, you Amish woman. Check it out. Serena came
closer and showed Tess the subtle blotches of liquid staining
each sugar cubes. Each of these is one tab. Ill take two, you
take one because youre a baby. If we take them around 10:30
30

we get the whole day to trip.

No no no Im not getting into that.
Why not? Why is it any different than smoking weed?
Ive heard about that stuff. Its made in labs and my
parents say all drugs open your mind to the devil.
Is that really so bad?
Upon Tesss scandalized expression Serena broke into a
laugh. Im kidding. Its not heroin, calm down. And you wont
think like the devil--you will actually think. You will notice
all of Gods creations. She used her fingers as quotations to
mock Tess. Youll see what you overlook when youre sober.
Its like putting on psychedelic glasses.
All of Gods creations.
We can go on a hike. You will learn way more than you
would if you went to class tomorrow. McDreamy will miss you
but he will get over it. Come on, Tess. I thought you were chill,
you can do this.
I am...chill, Tess snapped, turning the tables on Serena
with finger quotes and sarcastic mimicry. I just
Serena sighed and put the bag on her desk. Whatever. Ill
find someone else who isnt scared. Have fun in class!
Ill do it. Im sorry Ill do it. I want to see everything. Tess
inwardly cursed her lips for allowing those words to escape.
YES! Serena jumped giddily and smothered Tess in a
messy hug. The lavender and jasmine filled Tesss nostrils.

Sparknotes had never been so disrespectfully ravaged as it

was in the forty-five minutes following Tesss discovery. After
aggressively scanning the plot summary she grabbed her Blue
Book and dashed to her lecture hall.
For fifty minutes, anxiety stabbed her in the chest as
her fingers trembled around her number two pencil. What
am I writing? I know nothing about this class except the
teacher who I awkwardly email. She and Mr. Peters had now
exchanged more than a few emails that Serena analyzed as
mildly inappropriate for their positions.
For example: If you ever want to chat about anything,
come to my office hours. Or Missed you in class today.
Im guessing you had another naked fever? But the ones
reading Unfortunately since you have missed more than two
discussion sections your grade is automatically one half letter
grade lower. Please come to class, Tess. It is always great to see
you were more concerning to Tess than anything else. She
was already disqualified from her 4.0, and the thought of being
booted from the Honors Program was horrifying.
When she returned to her room, she burst into tears and
explained to Serena what had happened. Always the savior,
Serena packed a bowl in her little pipe and the two inhaled
smokey peace. Tess drifted off to an early sleep, and dreamt of
a bull with the
face of Mr. Peters.

She saw Serenas face in the waves and her mothers in the
trunk of a tree. The wind whispered reassuring nothings in her
ear and the sun glowed red. Tess lay down and stared at the
slivers of blue sky visible above the trees. She was Snow White.
She was a bird. She was a seashell. What is Heaven? Nothing
else mattered but now.
For what could have been four hours or two minutes,
Tess traced the lines in the treebark with her eyes,
marveling at every indent, every flake. It turned out
tree bark was not all brown, it was subtly speckled with
every color of the rainbow. Perhaps God allowed this
substance to be created so His people could admire the
details of His work.
She and Serena took turns braiding one anothers
hair and Tess knew they were sisters. God had created
the two of them to find each other. And He had created
this moment to let Tess know.
An impossible time later the whimsical bliss began
to dwindle. The two decided to head home, and the
next thing Tess knew it was morning. She had slept or
daydreamed through the evening and night.
With a foggy head and racing heart she wobbled up to
a sitting position. Serena was gone, on one of her mysterious
outings most likely. Since she had missed her Greek Myth
discussion section again, Tess decided she might as well
demolish some homework in the meantime. She flipped open
her planner and nearly choked on the realization that today
was her midterm. Not only was it today, it was in an hour.

Prose

31

ART // NATALIE OBRIEN

eleventh
eleventh

DEMENTIA
NONE
OF
THIS
IS
FOUNDED IN SCIENCE.

By Alexandra DWIGHT

records of every being in this town. I

know your medical history. Im not god
(and god knows what god is...), but I know
a lot.

Regardless, nothing can stop
preposterous humans from professing
to know what is beyond. Some claim
to have peered into other realms
through wormholes, in velvety neardeath moments, or by way of various
tabs and pills that can unleash normally
stopped-up functions of the brain,
but these few are written off as mad
men. These few pose a threat to the very
frightened white picket fence society. Yes,
the cosmic wanderer is a danger encroaching
on the safety of Pleasantvillea needle drawing
ever closer to a very delicate bubble, swollen and just
about ready to pop. So, naturally, we turn up the volume on
the television to drown out all that goddamn noise. But, what
happens when its not loud enough? Ill tell you.

THEY SAY

there
are
eleven
dimensions
as
we
know it. Four are
available to earthling
comprehension: three
spatial, including
length,
height,
and width, and
one
temporal,
which is time. But
what about the other
seven? You can analyze
mathematical models all you
want, but I can assure you that no
amount of watching Cosmos will reveal
these to youtheyre simply beyond the grasp of
the
inhibited mind. Even I cant quite tell you what these realms
might consist of, and I know a lot. I know the birth and death

Did you hear about Lynn Cooper? Thats an example of

what happens when you start going around spewing madness:
you end up in a mental hospital, a zoo animal on Xanax. I
mean, you cant really blame anyone, they found her passed
out in Donna Warblers bathtub; you wouldve done the same.
Pardon my rant, Im only telling you what I saw. But such talk
likely makes little sense to you. Let me give you some context
peep through the misty lenses of my all-seeing eyes.

Theres an area of suburban Palo Alto, just past the 7-11
on Middlefield, just past the Winter Lodge ice rink, where
the town appears impeccably preserved, cryogenically frozen
in 1973. And its not just the perfect rows of pastel Eichler
32

houses, the tame lawns strewn with bicycles, the constant tic of
sprinklers, and the hum of AC; its the people too. The streets
are eerily empty on this 102 degree afternoon, but you can
see their figures if you just look inside the windows, past the
gauzey curtains hung for privacy. Everyone is trying hard to
fit the mold of convention here: men rise in the dark to boot
up the engine for their daily commute, women look extraterrestrial with their hair up in hot rollers and make pot roast
and Jell-O salad for dinner. But this isnt 1973-- its 2011, and
things are rapidly changing. Dick & Jane gender roles are no
longer consistent with the external world, the nuclear family
is imploding on itself, and the people of Palo Alto are filthy
carcasses, decaying from the inside out. But its all okay! These
earthlings are con men and masters of deceit, and they hold
their guise well with cherry syrup smiles at the supermarket.
Its all okay, except for when its not. Lynn Cooper is not okay.
Lynn Cooper has just about edged over the terribly delicate
threshold of okay-- her plastic is melting under the heat of this
102 degree day, May 20, 2011. This is because Lynn Coopers
brain is swimming with a veritable cocktail of bad chemicals.
Allow me to explain

The trouble began for the most part four days ago. On
May 16th, Lynn bumped her head on an open cupboard
door adjacent to the kitchen window, which perfectly framed
a view of her husband driving away for the last time in his
BMW. This stimulated a previously dormant hyperactivity
in Lynns amygdala, the walnut-shaped compartment of the
brain through which all sensory information filters. It is in the
amygdala where sensory information is linked to memories,
causing the human mind to register certain stimuli as familiar,
symbolic, or even cosmically important. In simpler terms,
since Lynns firm knock on the cranium, her twisted mind has
begun to attach extreme spiritual significance to otherwise
meaningless events.

For example, on May 17th, Lynn nearly forgot about
the violent argument with her husband the night before,
culminating in a stack of divorce papers on kitchen table.
On May 17th, Lynn headed to the supermarket in a fugue
state to buy a liter of Dr. Pepper and a Ho-Ho for breakfast
(uncharacteristic of a woman who normally skips the
most important meal of the day). On her way into the store
a homeless man asked her to spare some change. Lynn
continued into the store. She thought nothing of it until she
saw the announcement on the Dr. Pepper bottle to enter in the
Change The World Sweepstakes!. Lynn glanced feverishly at
the Ho-Ho package, Change the way you experience dessert.
She hurried to the register. It was all too real- the word had
appeared to her three times now. Dont forget your change!
warned the woman at the register. Lynn shuddered and rushed
out of the store. She needed change. She understood the
message. She begged God not to tell her again; it was spiritual
overload. Lynn shook at the wheel of her car, desperate to get
home. Once in the safety of her kitchen, Lynn wrote the word

Prose

33

change 107 times on the cover of her divorce papers. She had
just hazily stumbled over the threshold of okay.

For the next couple of days following the crisis at the
supermarket, Lynn locked herself up at home, safe within
her former suburban paradisethe haven where she had
settled with her dreams of tartan dish towels to match
handsome China plates. However, the space designed to be her
sanctuary was now reminiscent of a dirty cage, and Lynn was a
despondent, filthy animal. She had not been alone in the house
for longer than the daily span of seven hours since she and her
husband had settled down in 2005. Truthfully, theyd grown
apart long before their recent argument. The distance that had
accumulated between them echoed in long empty groans. A
kiss on the cheek in the morning and a home-cooked meal
at night had gradually diminished to stunted small talk, and
finally, to nothing at all - particles of dust. Lynn had become the
estranged housewife, too far gone to notice her own condition.
But, for her dear husband, the silence was just enough to make
him snap.
Now, isolated in the cavernous depths of the Eichler, Lynn
confined herself to the TV room. There, she nested in her La-Z
Boy recliner for two days, surrounded by empty wrappers,
crushed soda cans, and pill bottles, wholly absorbed by the
continuously blaring television set. She began to question her
place in the universe. She wondered if life was really a dream.
She wondered if it was not even her dream, but if she happened
to be a character in someone elses dream. She wondered if any
other worlds existed that might be more pleasant than this
one, and if there were portals to these realities in her house.
She tried to walk through the television screen unsuccessfully,
twice.

Still, despite her internal madness, nobody in the town
knew about the pollution in her brain.
Sure, shed been acting a little funny, watching an excess of
reality TV and letting the front lawn yellow, but its excusable
due to the traumatic divorce, which we dont talk about. Except
at book club. Except at PTA mixers. Except at the grocery
store. Except on Thursdays.

On the morning of May 20th, a voice drifted from the
airwaves of Lynns colorized Emerson television set, and
pierced through her mental haze like a harsh beam of sunlight.
This voicethe voice of an angelshook Lynn from her state
of despondency. She sat up in her La-Z Boy recliner. The high,
nasal voice belonged to Jim Norton, the face of Guru Talk, a
multi-million dollar spiritual talk show with a cult following.
Its not too late for you to harness your cosmic power! Its
not too late for you to find
G-O-D!
Norton spoke from a podium against a backdrop of pink
crushed velvet. His cream suit was perfectly pressed, hair
combed back, owlish eyes peering from behind thick-rimmed
glasses. He looked like somebody to listened to. Static shifted

O God, you are my God! I long for you! My soul thirsts

for you, my flesh yearns for you, in a dry and parched land
where there is no water. (Psalm 63:1) The childhood words of
Sunday school echoed in her mind, alive with new meaning.
And there, rounding the corner at the cross of Byron and
Tasso Street, came forth Lynns God in a rickety old wheelchair,
manifested in the form of Donna Warbler.
All this time spent praying to some bearded man in robes,
and it turns out God is a woman.

across the television screen in waves, distorting the color.

Listen, I used to be just like youa sad sack with no real
purpose.
Lynn looked down at her frayed bathrobe, perched atop her
growing pile of trash. Surely he was speaking to her.
Id say to myself, God, where are ya? But, he never
showed up. Listen up folks, Im here to share with you the
truth. God is NOT some figure in the clouds. Hes not some
great omniscient eye - no, hes not!
The sentiment spoke to Lynn. Shed been wondering herself
when some great cosmic hand might come sweep her off the
recliner and make things right, maybe nudge her back into
reality. But by now shed long lost faith in the concept. If God
existed, he was a quiet man.
Norton spoke again, relaying the solution to her qualms like
some holy messenger.
No, GOD walks with us here on planet Earth, GOD is in
every living being, GOD is the first face you see on the street
today! His voice swelled with power, its rhythm matching
Lynns pulse as she gripped the edge of the recliner. He threw
his arms up with passion, and the audience went mad.

Now, I know you havent been in town for long, so let me

introduce you to Donna Warbler.
Here is Donna Warbler at surface level:
Donna Marie Warbler is a 72 year old handicap and retired
secretary from Pasadena. Her husband, David A. Warbler former professor within the Stanford University Anthropology
department - passed away 3 years ago. She now lives with her
caretaker, April, who carts her overripe peach of a body around
Palo Alto for a daily walk at precisely 12:15.
Heres a look inside Donna Warblers mind:
Diet Hansens cream soda, tuna fish on whitebread, a ratty
macram shawl, buzz buzz buzzz mothballs buzzzzzzz, whats
that nice young ladys name again? I wonder when David will
get home from work today..? Oh, arent those roses lovely.

Lynn shut off the television, drawing in ragged breaths.

Her hair was matted and eyes were red as the devil, but she
felt great. She had appealed to the universe for a sign, and
the universe had responded, channeled through the medium
of Jim Norton. Today, she would find God, face to face, and
everything would finally make sense. No longer would Lynn
Cooper be forced to deal with the trivial matters of suburban
life. Today, she would transcend.

Theres nothing much going on in there.

Of course, Lynn Cooper doesnt see any of this. Here is what
Lynn Cooper sees:
The face of God. The face of God is soft and freckled with
sun damage. God is wearing a pastel muumuu. God has
atrophied limbs and rides in a wheel chair.

Brazen and self-assured, Lynn rose from the rats nest of

her armchair, like a phoenix rising from its ashes, steering
herself blindly into the heat wave. It was around noon, and the
suburban sidewalks were empty as the days temperature hit
its peak. Everything seemed normal: the same roses cascading
over the neighbors fence, the same sprinklers pushing up
through the dirt at exactly 12:03 to expel water upon the same
immaculate lawns, the same lemon curtains drawn to protect
inside-dwellers from the insidious heat creeping in through
cracks in the walls. Yes, everything appeared normal, but
Lynn now observed her surroundings with a searing sense
of lucidity. The roses were brilliant neon, the sprinklers shot
out ultraviolet rays, and she longed to tear down those lemon
curtains like a rabid animal, exposing her town to the truth.
The truth! God was walking in their very midst, selfishly
guarding the answers to all of mans questions in his pocket.
The pain of life, all of its triviality and aimless wanderings, were
unnecessaryif only they knew. Lynn babbled hushed curses
at all of the pathetic mortals cowering around her, operating
like rusted machinery, completely unaware of their condition.
She felt shrewd and perceptive now, as if each of her senses had
heightened to inhuman clarity her pupils expanded into tall,
sharp slits like a serpents.
If Jim Norton was her angel, she was the messiah, holding
her arms open to God, ready to accept the message.

In Lynns mind, the psalm continued to its glorious end:

Yes, in the sanctuary I have seen you, witnessed your power
and splendor (63:2)
Lynn did not speak. She wanted to cry out, but she knew
that God was protected by the harpy driving her two-wheeled
chariot. She was afraid that her human voice might cause
the vision of God to disappear. Her eyes continued to track
Donna and April on their righteous path as they crossed the
intersection. She followed quietly at a distance.


As the suburbs became enveloped in nightfall, and the
street lamps began to pop on one by one, Lynn crouched
motionless in a hedge of hydrangeas beneath the window of
Donna Warblers house. She wanted to wait until she could be
in Gods divine presence alone. She would have to enter the
palace of God discretely.
Once the static on the television lit up and April settled
into the couch to watch programs, Lynn took her cue to enter,
inaudibly clicking the front door shut behind her.

34

In the bedroom, God was resting, her eyes shut tenderly in

some heavenly dream. Lynn hovered above the ethereal body,
contemplating her move. To awake God from her most pure
stateit had to be a sin. But hadnt she suffered enough? She
deserved answers! Seven years Lynn had lived in Palo Alto,
and only 5 blocks from Gods resting place... not once had God
appeared to her before. That in itself had to be a sin.
The body shone pure white in the darkness. Lynn hadnt
the nerve to disturb the silence, so she backed to the bedroom
entryway to conspire a plan.

Do I know you?
The voice of Gods caretaker echoed unsurely across
the foyer. She had gotten up to check on Donna during a
commercial break.
Lynn froze. She said nothing and slunk into the shelter of
the bathroom, as April clamored back into the television room.

Any minute now, April would be phoning for help. Any
minute now, Lynn would forever lose her chance to convene
face to face with God.
Yet, once in the tiled confines of the bathroom, Lynn felt a
strange sense of peace wash over her, numbing her limbs and
calming her ragged breath.
The claw-foot bathtub displayed prominently in the
center of her room caught her eye. It was hard to ignore. Its
presence was a symbolic one: it lit up her unruly amygdala like
a Christmas tree and swallowed her in positive memories
those of being bathed as a child in her mothers claw-foot
bathtub, the lukewarm water trickling down her forehead and
cleansing her of debris.
The authorities would arrive any minute, but Lynn could
see her escape clearly now. Maybe there was a reason she had
not spoken to God all this time; maybe there were other ways
to reach nirvana. Maybe the bathtub was not just a symbol of
serenity, but an actual tangible portal through which she could
access that divine statethrough which she could shuttle her
body through time and space, to another realm.

There was a soft white glow in Lynns eyes now, round
and growing like the moon. Eclipsing the dark pupil, filling
up the iris, and hurtling towards earth like an interplanetary
apocalypse.
The glint in her eyes was growing, and in parallel, she was
growing internally madder.
The glint shivered and shimmered like a desert mirage. She
looked like she was seeing that illusory oasis right in front of
her licking her lips at the promise of water and cracking a
jagged smile with tiny Chiclet teeth.
She was extending her arm towards the supposed portal
of the bathtub, the promised pathway to a new world where
everything would be pleasant. Not pleasant like Pleasantville,
with its plastic hearts and organs pumping Xanax, and
wellbutrin, and oxycodone, but the kind of pleasant that only a
void, an infinite expanse of nothingness can offer.
Prose

35

No more four-door sedan, no ex-husband with the 9-5 job

at the gray desk with one weeping plant, no television, no La-Z
boy reclining armchair to rest on after endless toiling days.
No form, color, or gender; no names, no emotion, and no
self.
Only a constant, unending, and unthinking blissah.
She exhaled.
The portal - or rather the bathtub - was at her fingers now.
She traced its porcelain rim and braced her arms on either
edge, pitted against the full weight of her body. As she lowered
herself gently into the tub, the water flowed over the sides and
onto the tile floor. Her wet clothes clung to her like saran wrap.
She felt it coming: soon her particles would diffuse. Soon
the tub would be empty, only a shallow puddle remaining.
Her heart was pounding inhumanly fast, thud thud
thudding louder and louder.
Join me in heaven, Lynn Cooper.
Jim Nortons voice filled the bathroom, coaxing her from
reality.
Join me, join me, join me.
The television audience roared on and on in eternal
madness.
The glint, the little moon fully eclipsed her eyes nowpure
white, rolling back in their sockets. In her mind she could
visualize Nortons owl-eyes floating against the pink crushed
velvet as everything else began to dissolve and pass away...
The transition was complete.

Did you hear whatever happened to Lynn Cooper?
Well I guess Ive told you now: they found her knocked
straight out in Donna Warblers bathtub. You can pay her a
visit now at the Santa Clara County Psychiatric Ward. But,
I suppose thats what happens when you start going around
spewing madness: you end up in a mental hospital, a zoo
animal on Xanax.
Still, this is no great defeat for the cosmic wanderer because
in Lynns mind, shes someplace else entirely. Yes, my friends,
Lynn Cooper has reached the eleventh dimension.

HENRY
By Oakley Purchase

>>>
ART // MADELINE LOCKHART

i grew up on a Lion Research

project in the Okavango Delta,

Botswana. We had this old Toyota
Cruiser named Henry, an absolute
piece of shit that looked like it was
held together with string; ironically
it was, after I broke the latch on
the drivers door one morning. We
were in Maun, the closest town
to our research camp, and we had
just finished getting supplies. My
stepfather was furious at me for the
door. These outbursts werent rare,
though. He wasnt always like that.
Sometimes he was great; I remember
how he made up fun games with
elaborate and hilarious rules and
would play them with my siblings
and me for hours. Sometimes he was
gentle. I left Maun with my mother
in the T4 Land Rover and Pieter
chose to leave a little later in Henry
with the rest of the supplies. Our
camp was a two-hour drive away
from Maun. First, we would drive
to Shorobe, a tiny village on the outskirts of civilization, and
then continue on to the Buffalo Fence, which was the divider
between the bush and society. We had lived in the delta for
eight-or-so years and I just turned twelve. Camp was our
home. Two large tents made up the kitchen and living room,
with five bedroom tents, a reed hut that was our shower, and
a long drop on the outskirts of the camp. It may not sound
glamorous, but my mother made a wonderful home for us.
Everything had been unpacked and put away; wed eaten
dinner and made a fire. We were never really worried about
how late Pieter was. We assumed he had stayed later or had
car trouble; Henry was constantly breaking down. At around
11pm we decided we would drive to the Buffalo Fence; if he
had broken down on our side then we would find him, and if
he had broken down on the other side then someone should
be helping him already, he may even be having a drink at Audi
camp back in Maun. I elected myself as driver. We had all
learnt how to drive at a very young age, it was important we
knew how in case something happened to an adult while out
looking for the lions and we needed to drive for help. We made
it to the fence, no sign of Pieter. We decided not to worry and
to trust that he was okay or being assisted, so we began our
drive back to camp.
We were a few kilometers from home when we came
out of a Mopani brush to find ourselves in a wide opening
and completely surrounded by elephants. It was a large herd
and they were all startled by our sudden arrival. I hit the
accelerator and tried to make it through as quickly as possible.
The young ones were being the trickiest, one was charging us
from behind and I couldnt do anything to divert it because
we were boxed in. There were two running along the right
side of the car and a larger one to our left, with another one

running along the road ahead of us. A song that Pieter wrote
for us kids one day on a long drive came to mind: Elephants
to our left, elephants to our right, elephants straight ahead and
elephants right behind. What are we going to do, theyre not
going to let us through, we better just hit the floor and hope
that theres no more, HEY! If we didnt speed up or get off the
road, we would be hit. My mother, a powerless observer, had
to place her confidence in her twelve year old son. She gripped
her door and the dashboard and told me to get us out. I sped
up and rammed the bumper into the back of the adolescent
elephant in front of us, it immediately diverged off to the right
and we had a clear path to evade the rest of the herd. We got
home safely, but Pieter did not.
It was the 30th of September, Botswanas independence
day. Pieter had been hit by a drunk driver, or two drunk drivers
collided, depending on how you want to look at it. The other
car had three people in it, only the driver survived. The impact
flung Pieter out of Henrys door on the drivers side, which had
ripped open easily given the fact it was tied shut with a piece
of rope. After the impact, Henry was a ball of scrap metal;
you could barely tell it was once a car. He broke his hip, his
legs, arm, wrist, collarbone, and had suffered major internal
bleeding. I remember hearing one of my mums friends say
how lucky it was he had been flung out of the car.
After two years of hospitals and rehabilitation centers,
after my mother relocated our family to Johannesburg and
devoted her finances, her time, her sanity, and her health to
the well being of Pieter, he decided to leave. He had changed.
The redeeming factors we kept using as excuses for his bad
behavior had gone, and we were left with the darker side of
him. My memories of Botswana are beautiful, but sometimes I
wish I hadnt broken Henrys door.
36

Can You See Me

by Trevor Crown

was wearing a thin cardigan and probably turning blue

beneath it. I wasnt about to make it worse on both of us by
saying anything. My Camry had a heater, but it wouldve
taken twenty minutes to warm up, so I didnt bother. The
place was nearby.

ART // NATALIE OBRIEN

was wearing the heaviest coat I owned and still shivering.

Its one thing to complain about the cold when youve
made the mistake of going out unprepared, but I figured
that in this case I had done what I could. At the very least I
had nothing to regret, coat-wise. Lena, on the other hand,

Prose

37

She and Jordanne had roomed across the hall from one
another as freshmen at St. Joes. Neither had gone on to finish
school. Lena told me they had joked about that when she ran
into Jordanne at the Turnview Post Office in November. It
turned out that Jordanne and her husband Terry lived only a
few streets away from the space wed been renting on Warren.
She had invited us to a Christmas gathering.
Jordannes husband was dying. Cancer of some sort,
she told Lena, a tumor in the abdomen. He had chosen to
stay home and live out his last few months there instead of
spending a year or two in the hospital. Dont bring it up,
Lena had said. As if I would have asked to touch the tumor.
Though I admit, I was curious as to why a dying man would
want to throw a Christmas party in his own home, if not just
to show off.
Frost reflected streetlamp light on the strip of grass
between the sidewalk and pavement where we parked. Just
remember, Lena said. I know, I said.
The lights inside were red and gold, and there were maybe
fifteen people there, mostly couples our age. Jordanne and
Terry came to the entryway to greet us. She was short and
sturdy in a long skirt, and he was handsome. I had expected
a much thinner man, someone wasting away, but he looked
like a former athlete and shook hands like one. Lena said
it was nice to finally meet him, and he smiled. And thats a
great shirt, she said. He was wearing a pressed button-down
with a checked pattern on it.
Oh, thank you, he said. Then he turned to me and asked,
What about you, Michael? Do you like the shirt?
Of course, I said. I was unsure what he meant by asking.
Its all yours, he said. Give me a month or twoIll add it
to the will. How do you spell your last name?
I opened my mouth and drew back a few inches before
laughing. I shouldve looked at Lena first, because Lena was
looking at Jordanne, and Jordanne was not laughing.
Terry was smiling and shaking his head. He put his arm
around Jordanne and said to me, What, I cant joke about it?
Its my cancer, right? I shrugged, still laughing. I supposed
that it was his after all. But under Terrys arm, Jordanne
began to cry. She first looked down and then put both of her
hands on her face.
Terry tilted his head. Oh, honey, he said. It was a joke.
Michael thought it was funny, he said, then turning to me:
Didnt you? I found myself shrugging, not knowing what else
I could do. But Jordanne shook her head. She cupped her
hands above her eyes like the bill of a cap and said This is
embarassing to Lena and I. Lena assured her that it wasnt,
that it was completely understandable, and that she was
sorry. I apologized too. We just stood there, wincing, still in
coat and cardigan. I didnt turn to face her, but I could feel
Lena looking at me the way a mother does at a child sent
home from school in muddy clothes.
The other couples in the living room had begun to notice
the scene but had continued their conversations over the
holiday music. Jordanne must have felt the change in the

rooms pressure because she seemed to shrink into the space

between Terrys arm and his chest. Instead of glaring the
guests away as he certainly could have, Terry kept his eyes
fixed on his wife. He reached out to touch her shoulder with
his free hand, and turned her to face him, shoulders square.
She cupped her hands over her eyes again.
Honey, he said, as if no one could hear him but her. Can
you let me see your face?
She shook her head.
Please? He lowered his chin slowly.
She removed her hands and rested them in the crooks of
his extended elbows.
There you go, he said. Thats one beautiful face.
She shook her head again.
Im sorry about the shirt joke, honey, he said. It was no
good.
She nodded.
Im here, he said softly. Look up, Im here.
She raised her eyes to meet his. Her nose was running.
Then he said: Can you see me?
She nodded widely, Mhmm.
Okay, he said. Then come here.
And he brought her close to him and kissed her forehead
just below the middle-part of her hair. Their eyes were
closed, hers just barely above his shoulder when he leaned
down to embrace her. And they spent a moment like that, in
the entryway, right in front of Lena and I. A Harry Belafonte
song played from the television set. When they released
eachother, Jordanne wiped her cheeks with the sleeve of her
sweater and said, Well, welcome to the party anyway! and
laughed. She said there would be cookies burning in the
oven, and then walked toward the kitchen.
Its my fault, really, Terry said. He explained that Jordanne
hadnt wanted to do the party this year, but that he had felt
like they should. And it didnt seem strange to me then. He
asked if I wanted anything to drink. I said Id like a beer if he
had one, and he led me to a cooler by the sofa.
When I came up with my drink, he said to me with the
straightest face in the room, Michael, I hope the shirt is
worth all of that to you. Then he grinned and said he should
find Jordanne. He even patted my shoulder in passing.
When I was ready to leave, I told Lena to take her time,
that I would go out and try to get the heater running for the
drive home. She acted shocked and said, Well who is this
prince? But I didnt mind. I shook Terrys hand once more.
Thank you so much, I said. Of course, he said. Well see you
two again sometime soon.
The Camry warmed up more quickly than I had expected.
I switched on an overhead light so that Lena would see me
waiting out there instead of a shadow in the drivers seat.
When she stepped out through the front door, her cardigan
shone vibrant red in the houses pale front yard floodlight.
She looked up from her bag, and I waved to her. And before
crossing the street to our car, she stood still for a moment
on Terry and Jordannes frosted lawn, waving back at me.
38

ART // CORINNA ZANOLINI

Carmichaels Gift:
the Power of Quiet in Woolfs
To the Lighthouse

By Sean Mabry
A profound irony stands at the heart of Virginia Woolf s To
the Lighthouse. Published in 1927, the novel follows the Ramsay
family as they meet with friends at their summer home in the
Hebrides. The plot focuses on two particular days, one before
the first World War and one after. All the while, the novel
stares deeply into the interior lives of its characters, inviting
the reader to consider how each cultivates their own interiority
and tries to reach into that of others. Yet, Woolf elects the aloof
Augustus Carmichael to consecrate the novels ending. It begs
the question: in a novel of noble abstraction, why honor the
disheveled hedonist? Why end this journey of the spirit in the
hands of one whose spirit seems impenetrable? But Woolf does
not choose him haphazardly: with close attention one can see
how Carmichaels quiet powerfully creates meaning, both for
himself and for others.
On the surface, Carmichaels quiet forces the other
characters to improvise, and these improvisations help the
others define themselves. His shameless self-indulgence drives
Mr. Ramsay to always construct his world around Carmichael.
When Carmichael dares to request another plate of soup,
Ramsays anger flies like a pack of hounds into his eyes.
This animal metaphor suggests that his passion is natural. A
moment later he becomes a machine: Mrs. Ramsay sees him
clutch himself and clap a brake on the wheel as the whole
Prose

39

of his body seems to emit sparks (Woolf 95). This tiny

scene plays out as a microcosm for Mr. Ramsays inveterate
modernism. Beneath all of his categorizing thought lies
the basic assumption that the human animal, reckless and
beautiful, must be bounded and streamlined by the machine,
be it a physical machine, mechanized culture, or mechanized
thought. Later, Lily watches as Mr. Ramsays discoloring,
desperate gaze casts over the rubicund, drowsy, entirely
contented figure of Mr. Carmichael, reading a French novel
on a deck-chair, a veil of crape (Woolf 152). Perhaps the
industrial part of Mr. Ramsey obscures Carmichael in an effort
to eliminate corporeal waste and obsolete sentimentality, but
this moment also demonstrates how the former defines himself
against the latter. Carmichael is for Ramsay the image of an
impossible alternative life. For all his eccentricities, Ramsay
admits that Carmichael is a true poet. Though he loves poetry,
Ramsay knows he could never be a poet. His deep self-doubt
precludes the solitude and soul-bearing necessary of a poet,
and worse, his suspicions threaten to be true. His fatal sterility
of the male leaves him so devoid of vitality and sympathy he
must demand them uncomfortably from women (Woolf 37).
For all his noble qualities, Ramsay lacks the bedrock of pure
emotion out of which others develop empathy. Lacking even
emotional insight, he is left to beg from not just his wife but

from any woman, following the social code

that marks all women as uncomplicated
nurturers. When he tries to resolve the
debate over Scotts novels, hoping by proxy
to prove his own enduring relevance, he sets
up a tautology possibly broken his own poor
taste in literature (Woolf 118). He reassures
himself that the book is good because it stirs
him to feeling. Since he has already decided
that the book is good, this experience
confirms his sound literary taste. With his
taste confirmed, he need only approve of his
own work to make it worthwhile. Yet, for
Ramsay, a rationalist who craves hierarchy,
this otherwise forgivable tautology only
sharpens his self-imposed inadequacy. Thus,
by separating himself so emphatically from
Carmichael, Mr. Ramsay saves himself from
taking an unbearable risk.
Woolf likewise defines Mrs. Ramsay
against Carmichael, but there is a lesser
gap between them. Both characters are
more subtle than Mr. Ramsay, in action
and in spirit. Far from her husbands grand
academic musings, Mrs. Ramsay anchors
herself in the quotidian. Throughout the
dinner scene she frets over the timing of
the Buf en Daube and the arrival of her
guests. This is not perfectionism for its own
sake; the dinner must be perfect because she
deeply cares about her guests. She is a lifegiver by nature, and she tries to concretize
her immense blessing on the group in the
form of a perfect dinner. This basic effort
manifests in all her relationships; whether she is encouraging
marriages or simply going out for groceries she always seeks
to deliver material signifiers of her great love. She does so not
merely to leave mementos but to preserve loves purity. To her,
language itself risks reducing love, so she triumphs over her
husband by omitting it from her speech (Woolf 124). Thus,
the difference between her and Carmichael is one of degrees:
where she can at least express the quotidian, Carmichael
speaks only of his whims and pleasures. He wants more soup,
so he asks for it. He is satisfied to see Mr. Ramsay and crew
land at the lighthouse, so he notes the event aloud (Woolf 95,
208). Where Mrs. Ramsay speaks with rhythm and purpose,
Carmichael speaks sporadically and without any apparent
design. This difference gives rise to the tension between them,
and in turn signals a deeper conflict: they are both full of
life but have different ways of sharing it. Though she resists
speech, Mrs. Ramsay still wants, even needs, to see love and
life confirmed through comprehension. Her aforementioned
triumph comes when her husband knows she loves him,
not merely when he suspects it. Even in his most transparent
moments, Carmichael does not seem to require confirmation.
Carmichaels effect on the reader is similar to his effect on
the other characters, but Woolf offers the reader a vital degree of
extra perspective. Unlike the characters, the reader witnesses a

single precious thought straight from the mind of Carmichael:

And it all looked, Mr. Carmichael thought, shutting his book,
falling asleep, much as it used to look (Woolf 142). Here
Carmichael considers the Ramsays summer home, having
returned to it after its long abandonment. In that same moment,
Carmichael reads a book by candlelight, resuming his old habit
of being the last one awake in the house (Woolf 125). In Time
Passes, his poetry meets with unexpected success, though
Woolf attributes this to post-war Britains renewed interest in
poetry. These aspects of him, viewed from the other characters
perspectives, lend Carmichael an air of permanence. That the
others do not see him going to sleep leaves their imaginations
free to assume, even subconsciously, that he does not sleep at
all. That he was a true poet to begin with and recognized
only in the aftermath of war suggests that his success comes
from no unusual effort or change on his part. His seeming
permanence is very much linked to his seeming indifference,
all the way down to his appearance. His slippers and stained
beard are both yellow, a color of greed and rot (Woolf 40). His
opium use and corpulence suggest hedonism. Taken together,
he embodies the laughable stereotype of a French intellectual,
complete with filth and aloofness. This stereotype makes him
iconic, which adds to the permanence. Even when Lily tries to
picture his mourning of Andrew, she struggles to find an image
for it. To her, Carmichael is the same as he had always been,
through fame and tragedy alike (Woolf 194). Considering his
appraisal of the summer home, one imagines that Carmichael
himself might agree with Lilys analysis. All of these traits
affect the reader as well, leaving them equally tempted to
mythologize the man. Nonetheless, the reader knows that he
does sleep, that his post-war poetry draws from his grief for
Andrew, and that even in his god-like final appearance his
trident is only a French novel (Woolf 208). Thus, the reader
sees the illusion that Carmichael displays for all the others, but
still recognizes it as performance.
There are, of course, moments where the other characters
do witness Carmichaels humanity, but never with his
prompting. This very lack of prompting is crucially important,
as it leaves the other others free to forge their own path to
empathy. In this way, he poses the ultimate test to Mrs. Ramsay:
. . . Mrs. Ramsay could see, as if before her eyes, the innumerable
miseries of his life . . . Oh, she could not bear to think of the
little indignities she made him suffer. And always now . . . he
shrank from her. He never told her anything. But what more
could she have done? There was a sunny room given up to him.
The children were good to him. Never did she show a sign of
not wanting him. She went out of her way to be friendly. And
after allafter all (here insensibly she drew herself together,
physically, the sense of her own beauty becoming, as it did so
seldom, present to her)after all, she had not generally any
difficulty in making people like her . . . She had been admired.
She had been loved. She had entered rooms where mourners
sat. Tears had flown in her presence. Men, and women too, had
allowed themselves with her the relief of simplicity. It injured
her that he should shrink. (Woolf 41)
Mrs. Ramsay, once again, is used to having her power
confirmed. She has seen pain transformed literally (by way of
40

tears) into shared humanity. But Carmichael refuses to deliver

such an obvious display. He refuses to play into her assumption
that little acts of kindness can, with accumulation and grand
intent, undo the pain of life. Stripping her of her usual mode of
repair, he leaves her in a position of pure feeling. She must feel
Carmichaels pain and know that that is enough. She passes
this test every year she has him back at the house, accepting (if
not comprehending) his mode of quiet empathy.
If Carmichael tests the depth of empathy with Mrs.
Ramsay, he tests its connectivity at the end of the dinner party.
When Mr. Ramsay begins speaking his poem, his voice takes
on an air of commonality, with everyone at the table feeling
as though it were their own voice speaking (Woolf 111).
Though it rings true, this is a deeply mysterious moment.
Nobody can know the exact origin of this one-voice feeling. It
is a moment of suspension, one that by nature severs causality.
But somewhere in the process, Carmichael emerges and
finishes the poem with a gesture that preserves some grain of
that suspended commonality:
. . . as she passed him, he turned slightly towards her repeating
the last words:
Luriana, Lurilee
and bowed to her as if he did her homage. Without knowing
why, she felt that he liked her better than he had ever done
before; and with a feeling of relief and gratitude she returned
his bow and passed through the door which he held open for
her. (Woolf 111)
In a rare moment of display, Carmichael gives Mrs.
Ramsay a concrete example of empathy. Yet, the gesture does
not merely draw a line of empathy from him to her; that same
line extends back to Mr. Ramsay. He, after all, begins the
poem that Carmichael finishes. This three-point line is made
crucial by the fact that earlier in that very dinner, Carmichael
creates a divide between the Ramsays. While Mr. Ramsay
fumes over Carmichaels second helping of soup, Mrs. Ramsay
frustratingly wonders why the man should not have his soup.
In being first a site of conflict and later a site of connectivity,
Carmichael demonstrates the power of empathy to transcend
disputes without forgetting or devaluing them. The husband is
free to fume and the wife is free to fret. Carmichael invites both
to share in commonality, and one assumes he invites the rest of
the table as well, in his own quiet way.
If Carmichaels habit of testing seems at all cruel or reckless,
one must remember that Woolf includes far more odious tests
in the novel. In Time Passes, the war and Mrs. Ramsays death
test everyone. There are illuminating triumphs and failures all
around, but none of them are enough to excuse the horror and
stupidity of these events. In losing their matron, the surviving
Ramsays are left to more vigorously define themselves, but one
imagines they would each trade a lifetime of insight for the
return of their beloved Mrs. Ramsay. One even imagines that
Carmichael, true poet though he is, would exchange his famous
works for the return of Andrew. Andrew, who is one moment
Prose

41

a curious child learning secrets in Carmichaels study, only to

evaporate a moment later as a soldier in a bombed out foreign
trench. Unlike the reader, Carmichael at least witnesses the
intervening years between these events. Nonetheless, Woolf s
juxtaposition of Andrew the child and Andrew the soldier
remains intact, appearing as bitterly absurd to the reader as it
must to Carmichael. These tests of life are messy, devastating,
and, worst of all, unintentional. Carmichaels tests, by contrast,
are minimal and free of malice. While Woolf carefully prevents
one from reading Carmichaels mind, one may even assume
that his tests come from a place of love. How else, one wonders,
could his tests produce such beautiful effects?
Through Carmichael, subtlety becomes sublime, and
thereby points toward divinity. Lily witnesses this quality, but
her early encounters with it seem like projection:
She addressed old Mr. Carmichael again. What was it then?
What did it mean? Could things thrust their hands up and grip
one; could the blade cut; the fist grasp? Was there no safety?
No learning by heart of the ways of the world? No guide, no
shelter, but all was miracle, and leaping from the pinnacle of a
tower into the air? Could it be, even for elderly people, that this
was life?startling, unexpected, unknown? For one moment
she felt that if they both got up, here, now on the lawn, and
demanded an explanation, why was it so short, why was it so
inexplicable, said it with violence, as two fullyequipped human
beings from whom nothing should be hid might speak, then,
beauty would roll itself up; the space would fill; those empty
flourishes would form into shape; if they shouted loud enough
Mrs. Ramsay would return. Mrs. Ramsay! she said aloud,
Mrs. Ramsay! The tears ran down her face.(Woolf 180)
Onto the iconic form of Mr. Carmichael, Lily projects an
impossible fantasy: the defeat of death. By all means, Carmichael
allows this; projection is one of the great affordances of his
quiet. Yet, there is something prophetic about this passage. At
the end of the novel, in a more subtle way, they do both rise
on the lawn and find an explanation. Part of that explanation
is a simple yes. Life is indeed startling, unexpected, and
unknown. The other part of that explanation comes in the
form of Carmichaels divinity. Standing like an old pagan god
and spreading his hands over all the weakness and suffering
of mankind, Carmichael confirms and consecrates the final
destiny of humanity: our commonality. But here Carmichaels
and Woolf s subtlety becomes most crucial: if Woolf were
to make him literally a god, or if Carmichael were to speak
something so obvious as we are all one before death, then the
moment would collapse. Intellect and morality would descend
necessarily on such recklessness. Carmichael makes available
the unspeakable precisely by not speaking. He obscures his
own humanity to make it transferable and amorphous, a
mound of clay that one can shape into a god or man as needed.
Divinity is an illusion, but Carmichaels gift is just real enough
to be something we can hold and share.
Edited by Daniel Podgorski and Maya Jacobson

the tole mour

by Emily Hansen

he Tole Mour soared toward Long Beach Harbor. It'd

been three days since I'd been ashore. We rapidly
approached our destination, the motherland, a thick,
long rigid line that cut the sky and sea in half. I stood at the
stern and watched as a couple eighth grade classmates leaned
over the antique deck. Their eyes, a stinging red from the
tearing sea wind, looked longingly toward the approaching
shore, and reflected the Carls Jr. and McDonalds signs that
lined the LA streets. I remember at the beginning of the
trip how wed all stood at the bow, enchanted, gazing with
mouths agape, as the dolphin-riddled waters manifested
dreamily before us- not a single memory of suburban life to
induce any kind of homesickness.
I too was anxious for our long-awaited arrival but
like the fellows by the stern, I wanted to calm my nerves; I
decided to make a round or two about the boat deck. Over
Starboard, a few students leaned across the slick wooden
rails. They looked as disenchanted as the guys Id just seen
round the corner. I kept walking, happy that my friends
hadnt yet surfaced from the bunk room down below. In
their absence I positively radiated in my moment alone, and
pretended that I was a mermaid trapped by pirates. I was
totally bored with the classmates that slumped like sacks of
potatoes against various parts of the ship. I wanted to be a
jellyfish, floating gently beneath the sea surface, stinging all
of my classmates unimaginative rumps.
Within a half hour we pulled into the harbor. The
schooner zipped toward the undulating harbor and the
crew sprang to life. Excitement; they wanted us to help dock
the boat. Ey you bums abraft! Get those sea legs movin, we
got to batten down the hatches! And then everyone awoke!
Our minds were consumed with desire for freedom from
the unforgiving sun and sea- I couldnt tell if my classmate
Carly beamed with excitement or sunburn. We lowered the
sails in accordance with the strict training wed received
for the past 72 hours and performed as a well-oiled, mastheading machine. The trip was over! Teacher Deb promised
fast food and other land-based luxuries upon our departure
from sea!
But we still had to attend a corny little award ceremony.
The crew had prepared it for us, a final commencement
before we were allowed to heap our exhausted bodies
back into the school vans. No one other than Teacher Deb
and the chaperones seemed even remotely excited about
anything nautical or schooner-related at this point; some
of the scarier eighth graders even used some Spanish cuss
words at the idea of a ceremony. With such little interest
from my classmates, the event began to feellackluster.
I was interested, however.
We learned at the beginning of the trip about a prize-

the rainbow flag. The captain determined the winner

based on overall participation, enthusiasm, excitement and
interest in nautical vocation. I hid my desire to win the nerd
novelty because I knew my friends Stephanie and Maribel
would think it lame to pursue something so childish. Only
people who played with dolls and tetherballs sought such
stupid things. Nevertheless, I sweated profusely, a mix of
excitement and pure nausea, as I waited for our arrival.
Then the Tole Mour barreled into a narrow dock; she
was twice the size of and ten times older-looking than any
other boat floating in the harbor. She replicated a 1787 sea
vessel, and looked spectacularly out of place amongst the
shiny yachts and motorboats that bobbed around her. From
above, fat, indulgent, domestic seagulls orbited the densely
populated harbor: 3 pm, chow time. Pedestrians gawked
while we docked and exited the boat (I probably would too,
had I the unique opportunity to observe an ancient wooden
boat excrete dozens of golden-brown pre-teens onto the
harbor sidewalk.)
We were quite the spectacle. Twenty-five prepubescent
adolescents, grimy and oily, caked in sea salt and crispy as
a bag of potato chips. The seagulls mistook us for frenchfries and hovered dangerously close to our heads. Some of
us swayed unsteadily, unable to catch our footing because,
indeed, we still had our sea legs. Others hunched, doubledover, and gripped at their lower abdomens as they futilely
tried to contain their bowel movements (we considered it
taboo to poop on the boat; no one dared stay in the latrine
longer than three minutes).
Excitement boiled out of my every pore, but I contained
myself as Maribel and Stephanie nudged their way through
the crowd to stand next to me. They both looked disheveled
and fatigued, as if theyd emerged from a drug-sex-sleep
den. I wasnt surprised. These girls, who hid their faces
behind thick black veils of hair, who preferred spiky belts
over leather ones and colored skinnies over regular jeans,
who, over the delightful years of elementary school acquired
copious amounts of information about sex and alcohol, who
laughed and rolled their eyes at role-play field trips like the
one we were on...everything about them intimidated me.
And yet, they were my best friends.
Stephanie slouched against a stout wooden pole with
her arms folded against her chest, eyes closed. Her wrists
sported dozens of colorful jelly bracelets and her shirt
promoted the name of her favorite band, Boys like Girls,
which was printed in cursive above a still-beating and
bloody heart.
Inconvenienced by the closing ceremony, she tilted her
head back and released an annoyed sigh, clearly wanting
everyone else to feel the same. Like a robot, Maribel adopted
42

PAINTING // MEGAN FISHER

Stephanies demeanor and facial expressions, so I did as

I had to do and followed suit. A bug flew into Maribels
mouth and it caused her to curse profusely.
Ive known Maribel for a very long time, since
Kindergarten, in fact. Our older sisters are the same age
and best friends, so naturally Maribel and I spent much
of our childhood together. The sea air caused her hair
great irritation, making the already unruly wiry texture
to become, if possible, even thicker and coarser. Her
unfortunate hair also caused her scalp to secrete thick oils,
which birthed large scarring pimples on her cheeks and
forehead. That day she kept her eyes squinted in permanent
displeasure. She developed faster than I did - both physically
and mentally I still correlate this with the early desires
for boys and alcohol she expressed, and worst of all I blame
puberty for her abandonment of playtime with me and her
new shenanigans with Stephanie.
I tuned back in to the ceremonys thin drone, but
Maribels cussing storm continued beside me. Her more
colorful cusses included fuck, fucking, bitch, shit and dick.
Maribel is the only person Ive ever heard call a fly a dick
before. Sooner than it took for the fly to lodge itself inside
her mouth, she began to simmer down. Then, the crew
began making real progress in their closing words and it
began to feel like there was a bug buzzing around in my
stomach, not Maribels. In unison, the crew marched to a
patch of sidewalk about twenty feet in front of us, now with
authority to better capture our attention. My gaze fixed on
the folded black fabric in the Captains hands- the rainbow
flag! But Stephanie wasnt impressed. In a high-pitched
whine she proclaimed, This is so dumb.
Maribel scoffed in agreement. Who even gives a fuck
about a fucking flag anyways? I nodded and mumbled
incoherently in an attempt to express faked annoyance.
So dumb, Stephanie repeated.
It then occurred to me that Id thought the same thing
the night before, when Stephanie pulled a flask from her
duffel bag and waved it in our faces. The three of us had been
sitting in a tiny built-in bed in the girls bunks below deck.
It was located directly beneath the ships tiny classroom,
a safe distance from the crews quarters (and authority).
Teacher Deb chose to sleep outside on the top deck because
she was overweight and felt uncomfortable below the decks,
so our only other female chaperone was in bed across the
way, and she was nearly comatose. Id watched at dinner
as she downed several tablets of what I guessed were sleep
aides. The coast was clear and the booze accessible, and
maybe if we were lucky some boys would be awake too.
In all honesty, I thought it was the dumbest idea Id ever
heard. Surely we would become violently ill and die. How
long did my Dad say people stay drunk? Everyone would
be able to smell it on our breaths. Maybe wed get arrested!
How often were the night guards making their rounds? I
trembled with fear.
The flask, which Stephanie had hidden in her purple
dinosaur-print pajama bottoms, slipped from her hand and

into Maribels. She took a long swig, one lengthy enough to

fool my nave mind to think that alcohol tasted delicious.
This shit is fucking sick, Maribel even proclaimed, whats
in it?
Stephanie smiled triumphantly. Its kool-aid and apple
flavored vodka. Tastes like candy, huh? My older brother
showed me how to make it one time before I went to a
hardcore show. He also taught me how to roll joints.
I had a faint idea about what joints were but not enough
to know whether that was good or bad. Maribels answer
helped form a better picture in my mind: Dude, hell yea.
Did you bring any of it with you? Or would it be sketchy to
smoke weed on the boat?
We can just smoke sometime when we get back. Emily,
did you want the flask? I realized it was my turn to take a
sip. I smiled, but grabbed the metal tin from her hands with
reluctance. The coolest cucumber couldnt keep my hands
from shaking in that moment. I caught a whiff of fruity nail
polish remover wafting from the tiny opening. I pursed my
lips and tilted the flask back cautiously
Immediate regret. My mouth filled with the most terrible
burning sensation, with the liquid that caused my cheeks to
flush and glow like fire. My face contorted in agony and the
girls snickered at the pathetic sight.
Just one drop, huh? Are you really that innocent,
Emily? Stephanie turned my face maroon, like the crimson
of a lobster shell. I shook my head no; had I tried to verbally
convey the message, I might have puked.
To my surprise, Maribel responded in my silent stead.
Shes just got strict parents, you know? Stephanie
shrugged, she could care less.
I didnt realize Maribel could be nice to me still.
After a few more rounds, when the girls got progressively
gigglier and I more aware of my naivety, I excused myself
from the bunk room and went up to the top deck where my
pillows and blankets sat welcomingly. Students also had
the option to sleep outside and I loved to look at the night
sky and stars. I curled up into my sleeping bag, my body
still in quaking from the fear of being caught. Stephanies
probing question rolled through my mind on a loop. Was I
really that innocent? Was it because I liked video games, or
still played with Barbie dolls, or wore a size double-A bra?
Perhaps it was because I hadnt yet started my period?
I pushed the questions out of my head and looked
forward to the next day, when wed arrive back and Id win
my rainbow flag. Sleep washed over me like a tidal wave.
Out on the sidewalk stage of Long Beach Harbor things
began gaining speed. The captain thanked everyone for
their hard work and he spewed (lies) about how much he
cherished the time spent with us: we were all characters; itd
been a long time since hed met such a special, intelligent
group of adolescents. I wanted to sustain unwavering eye
contact with the captain, but two boys standing in the back
tried to hit each other with their testicles and I couldnt
keep from tuning in.
To distract myself from their graphic distraction, I
44

ran through my accomplishments once more. Id done

everything right: wiped the decks with gusto, sang my sea
shanties strong, dissected my squid with earnest curiosity,
climbed the mast (twice!), participated in all snorkeling
events- I was even on a first name basis with the captain
and the cook. And I wasnt only doing it for the sport of
competition, like some of my fellow mates. I genuinely
enjoyed every activity, every lesson, every song. I tuned
back in as the captain announced the winner.
Congratulations Paige Brady! He paused while she
sprung up and walked over to the captain, teary eyed, a
wide long smile careening across her face. We all cheered
and clapped and smiled, or pretended to at least.
Beside me, my friends: Oh my god, Paige? No surprise,
shes such a kiss-ass. Stephanie laughed at her own joke.
Yeah, who even gives a fuck? Maribel agreed. Under
normal circumstances their pessimism would have
been of comfort to me; I wouldve found their lack of
interest comical and admirable. But I was still sore about

Stephanies comment the night before, and somehow losing

the flag made me feel even worse. How was I to prove myself
as a mature young adult now? How could I prove to boys
that I wasnt some childishly nave kid when I didnt have a
rainbow flag mounted on my wall? I felt so dumb for getting
hurt about losing, but I did my best to conceal the growing
lump in my throat from my friends.
The crew requested one last sea shanty before our
departure, which Paige feverishly endorsed and my friends
abstained from. We sang Auld Lang Syne with its heavyhearted lyrics and jaded tune. Halfway through the song, a
singular tear streamed down my face. I couldnt tell if the
catalyst was Stephanie, Paige, the song, or a mixture of the
three, but it taught me that growing up is hard, and in that
moment I had a lot of it to do. I may have been well-versed
in the ways of the sea vessel, but in the land of sex, drugs
and booze the place where my friends resided I was a
foreigner, with so much more to learn before adulthood.

Funes el bibliotecario
A Tribute to Jorge Luis Borges // By Yibing Guo
Prlogo

Funes el bibliotecario

Para esta narracin, se utilizarn elementos (personajes,

tramas, lugares, eventos) que le sern familiares a usted, el
lector, pues el fin siempre ha sido satisfacer las excentricidades
de su imaginacin. En primer lugar, contaremos la historia de
Funes, un hombre lleno de memorias, al nico al que se le podra
atribuir ttulo de posesor de verdaderos y autnticos recuerdos.
El cronomtrico Funes nos mostrar por medio de sus ojos,
unos ojos que ya han perdido toda luz, la mtica Biblioteca de
Babel y el hexgono del cual era bibliotecario; nos contar acerca
de su bsqueda de una vereda nueva; una historia irrepetible
que slo se encuentra en aquella biblioteca que contiene todos
los libros posibles Todo esto, con base al testimonio de Borges.
Esta ficcin tomar lugar en algn recndito lugar de
Uruguay, o quiz Argentina; Babel.
Usted como lector, podr confiar plenamente en esta obra
porque, como lo refiere Derrida, la lengua escrita ser siempre
ms confiable. Al final, usted decidir si esta trama, los elementos
que la conforman, e incluso el autor, son tan slo una ficcin
ms que ha de definir e interpretar o si se encuentran fuera de
la digesis.
Esta interpolacin de diferentes ficciones (o quiz realidades)
Borgeanas sern narradas de forma breve pero precisa, porque
como l lo refiere, no siempre una obra extensa representa una
obra excelsa.
Sin ms por el momento, me despido.
Ciudad de Mxico, 15 de febrero de 1946

Yo nunca tuve la oportunidad de conocer a Funes, pero

un viejo amigo mo, casi mi padre, lo conoci de forma
superficial. Funes es un hombre digno de ser recordado no slo
por el hecho de haber existido, de haber sido, si no tambin
porque desempe un trabajo que lo consumi en vida. l fue
bibliotecario de la mtica Biblioteca de Babel. A l le perteneca
una galera hexagonal que contena 640 tomos, los cuales
estaban en riesgo de aumentar de forma indefinida. Durante
su infancia, emprendi numerosos viajes al lado de su padre a
aqul recndito lugar para encontrar el catlogo de catlogos, el
cual sigui buscando durante toda su estancia en el hexgono y
hasta el ltimo de sus das, cuando perdi toda luz en su mirada
y saba que ya no haba opcin, que l morira no lejos de su
hexgono, sin haber encontrado aquel tomo al cual dedic toda
su vida y que se encontraba en aquella biblioteca que contena
todos los libros de historias posibles. l siempre se pregunt si
esa afirmacin quera decir que la biblioteca era infinita.
Funes no slo era un bibliotecario, l era un hombre y
como cualquier hombre, esto implicaba que no era perfecto,
que haba algo ms que controlaba sus acciones. Algo ms all
de nosotros. Algo que se encuentra en Babilonia; la misteriosa
Compaa de Lotera, en cuyas manos residan las suertes de
todos, que pendan de un fino hilo llamado azar. La Compaa
jugaba el papel de demiurgo en esta biblioteca, este universo.
Quiz la biblioteca misma era tan slo una creacin de la
Compaa y todos en aquel universo vivan en una ficcin ms,
cuya trama se bifurcaba y segua siendo escrita una y otra vez
Era el aclamado eterno retorno de Nietzsche.

Prose

45

milagrosas. En este Universo catico, al cual Funes se refera

como hogar, bastaba con que un libro existiera para que
estuviera en algn estante de algn hexgono de las indefinidas
galeras que existan en este lugar (o al menos eso afirmaba
Funes con fervor). He de interpolar que todo en aqul
microcosmos se poda definir con la afirmacin de Galileo
Galile de que la naturaleza est scritto in lingua matematica;
todas las caractersticas de la Biblioteca de Babel eran de ndole
matemtica, tal como el azar, cuya composicin es quiz una
pizca de matemticas y lgica y otra tanta de suerte.
Al morir, Funes articul algunas palabras indescifrables,
que quiz escogi al azar; yo he dedicado toda mi vida
intentando darles sentido a dichas palabras y lo nico que he
obtenido son unos cuantos bosquejos que no me conducirn a
nada. Sin embargo, yo s que Funes haba encontrado el sentido
de este Universo al cual perteneca; haba encontrado el orden
del caos. Despus de todo, l saba la manera en la cual actuaba
la Compaa, la deidad y demiurgo; el principio activo de los
gnsticos y el dios creador de los filsofos. Sin embargo, Funes
no slo era una creacin ms del azar, no era una ficcin ms.
l era tan real como yo y como usted.
Funes muri en una tarde lluviosa de mayo de 1889, con
un libro de latn en abrazado contra su pecho, a los 21 aos de
edad, de una congestin pulmonar.
1945

Yo digo que Funes, hasta un par de aos antes de su muerte,

fue cuando realmente empez a vivir a plenitud. l, como
cualquier individuo, viva de manera inconsciente; miraba sin
observar, oa sin escuchar, viva de forma insustancial. Pero
repentinamente, algo sucedi. Quiz fue un sorteo ms de la
Compaa lo que decidi sus suerte. Quiz obtuvo un boleto
color carmn, en el cual se decida que quedara tullido despus de
un desafortunado suceso. Sorprendentemente, eso no lo afect
en lo ms mnimo; de hecho, aqul accidente cambi algo en l.
Desde entonces, haba un brillo diferente, pero indudablemente
espectacular, en su mirada. Desde entonces, todos sus sentidos
se intensificaron. De ah en adelante, el sendero que l segua se
bifurc. Ahora era un Funes nuevo: un Funes que poda percibir
todo lo que para los dems era imperceptible y recordar detalles
de una manera sorprendentemente ntida. Toda la vida que se
le haba escabullido hasta el momento del infortunio de pronto
se concentraron de una manera muy peculiar e intensa durante
sus ltimos aos de vida.
A pesar de que era joven (y que la juventud generalmente
va de la mano de la inexperiencia), Funes era ms sabio que
cualquier persona y sus conocimientos eran inigualables,
inimaginables. Esta capacidad de recordar y percibir todo lo
que se encontraba en su entorno le ayud a continuar con su
trabajo y a seguir en su bsqueda del catlogo de catlogos
(aunque al final, de todos modos fall en aquella empresa).
Muchos crean que se haba vuelto loco cuando Funes
volvi a aquel proyecto; sin embargo, l era el nico consciente
de que La Compaa acta de formas misteriosas, pero

Bibliografa:
Borges, Jorge Luis. Ficciones. Buenos Aires: Debolsillo, 2011.

We must all dissect our idols

A criticism of Borges // By Joshua Goodmacher

the once bloody ashes are in your fire place

they are mixed with the desecrated mud beneath your floor boards
they are in the dried ink of your speculum critiques and your labyrinthian experiments
they are the marrow within your skeletal ideas
all, paper ashes from a sacrificial fire
in which surely you dreamt some Behdinian forceor Dante, the madman, losing his wayor perhaps a bull that was a rose that was a blade that was
jumbled words
but which was in actuality only the fire of a surrender.
a surrender to the fact that genius is legacy,
and you could not leave behind this bastard novel,
this unworthy son.
so, that beautiful book was destroyed or maybe never written.
either way it was titled:
Cobardia

46

ART // CORINNA ZANOLINI

PHOTO // NATALIE O'BRIEN

this
lazy
this
youn g
>>>

Poetry

47

These Days
by Selena Ross

These days even Mondays make music.

It seems impossible, but they do.
Pounding out a rhythm
Even a dazed downbeat can't ignore.
These days are so bright they make you
squint,
And the oceans still cold
But it feels like home.
These days, even though we really need
rain
Were making do without.
This April our water heater broke,
And like the skies
We never showered.
And yet this May it seems our footsteps
still sprout wildflowers
We leave orange polka dots of poppies in
our wake

They take root on our dirt feet.

These days even when its too foggy for
the lunar eclipse
Well still climb on the roof
And count the holes the stars leave
And point to the ring around where the
red moon should be.
These days arent perfect,
But neither is anything else.
These days are numbered,
But so is everything else.
These days are already framed
Years from now on a wall,
On the way to the kitchen Ill stop
And remember.
These days Im wearing your socks
I found them on my bedroom floor after
you peeled them off

And in the middle of English class today

I catch myself
Admiring these stripes.
These days were listening to voices made
immortal
By scratched vinyl and fifty-cent tapes.
Turn up your amp,
This room is cramped but well make
space.
These days its midnight on the eighth
floor
But they havent kicked us out yet.
We made a dance-floor out of every desk
And turned up the music.
We were the only ones left.

This Lazy This Young

by Canelle Irmas
wake up half hungover on a Sunday
its already noon
stay in bed
not sleeping, not waking
another hour or so
roll out from the covers
onto a pile of week old laundry
and drag your feet into the kitchen
make bacon in the microwave
because the real way takes too long
and requires more dishwashing
make grilled cheese
by tilting the toaster on its side
eat neither with a plate
drink flat orange soda out of the bottle
light a cigarette with a match
smoke inside
because its a waste to go outside
especially still in pajamas
blow the smoke out the window
so as not to set off the fire alarm
drop the ashes in a red solo cup
sprawl onto the couch

watch that 70s show for 3 hours

only half paying attention
the other half glazing over
stained white walls
open a document for that essay
due tomorrow
type the heading
stare at the cursor
close the document
there will be time and thought enough
tomorrow
steal the roommates hot cheetos
she wont notice
look at the mirror
hair a mess
unshowered
dead sleepy eyes
ratty t-shirt
the clock
5:07 pm
know what it is to be
this lazy
this young

PHOTO // JULIA MARSH

ICE CREAM
by Mathew Javidi
Sunday morning in February is the perfect time
for ice cream, Michelle tells me
after I claim that brunch is just breakfast with alcohol and
excuse me but my glass is already half empty
She says thats my problem
that its either full or empty or that devastating threshold
between, the climax of a tale that ends with ice
sliding down the bridge

of my nose, the way
you would slip across my chest,
sleepy,
safe.



You are a scoop of rocky road, Michelle declares
her voice, a decrescendo

like the wail of an atom bomb

plunging into an intersection
Sure, its nice to have sprinkles, berries, stale gummies
that never mix well with chocolate, but you get them anyway.
Take em out, and youve still got sweet, lumpy ice cream.
Now she pushes the glass aside and squeezes my hand

kneads my thumb with hers
and tries to make the corners

of my mouth hop upward like meerkats
and I remember when you and I played Scrabble.
You would beat me

with words like capricious.
I cant help but respond to Michelle
with a familiar semi-smile,

the same sheepish, apologetic grimace
she wore when she met you, and saw in your petite figure,
bunny cheeks, feet kicking
when she would joke about me,

all of the sprinkles, berries, gummies,
and she regrets giving me a metaphor with which
to frame our relationship.
Comrades,

the clone I never had,

the Larry to my Jerry,
the girl who figured out
that I am rocky road,
and I want sprinkles,

not another scoop.

Poetry

49

SHADOW MEMORIES

by Samantha Perez

We lay with crumpled

sheets on naked skin, remembering
stories about close-call trains and lazy smoke.
We were told that bending

on knees and lacing our hands

would keep the damned away.
Instead we mix hot breath and

spills of tangled hair, holding

ourselves against each other.

We look up
into swirls of pink and purples,
when we walk from
Keg-N-Bottle to Deli Mart looking

for a cigarette.
A taste of relished sickness
against cracked lips.

We used to tear apart

the filters of Marlboros

burn them between us, sitting
on plastic slides and thinking

of lost beanie babies and
forgotten dripping oil paintings,
the old version of us . p

PHOTO // MARIAH TIFFANY

50

ART // CORINNA ZANOLINI

Recuerdas?
?
yibing

guo

Recuerdas aqul glorioso verano infinito?

Recuerdas esas tardes en las que platicbamos de la luna y las estrellas?
Recuerdas aquellas noches sosegadas en la playa?
Las olas se quebraban a cada paso que dbamos y salpicaban nuestras huellas en la arena.

Those voids, those silences.

Remember?

Nostalgiawhat a marvelous and treacherous artifice.

Carrying me away to intangible places,
Fugitive moments,
Existing only in the most remote places of our memory.

Recuerdas aquellas miradas?

Esa manera tan sutil en la que todo se converta en un juego.
Buscarte entre el mundo que nos separaba en aquellas sbanas,
Tu es trs mignonne, me decas cuando nuestras miradas se volvan a encontrar.

But the memory has remained in a flickering world.

Recuerdas la msica que nos alimentaba?

If you close the door, the night could last forever...
La manera tan tmida en que la noche nos envolva
Y se volva cmplice de nuestros juegos furtivos.

Do you remember those glances?

That subtle way everything would turn into a game.
Finding you in that ethereal world of the bed sheets that separated us,
Tu es trs mignonne, youd tell me when our gazes met again.

Pero el recuerdo se ha quedado en un mundo vacilante.

Do you remember the music that fed us?

If you close the door, the night could last forever...
The way the night timidly enveloped us;
An accomplice of our furtive games.

Yo lo recuerdo muy bien.

Recuerdo tus ojos y el mundo en tus pupilas,
Tus labios tan eternos,
Tus brazos tan gentiles.

I remember it well.
I remember the world in your eyes,
Your lips so eternal,
Your arms so gentle.

La nostalgia qu artificio tan maravilloso y traicionero.

Me transporta a lugares intangibles,
Momentos fugitivos,
Existentes tan slo en los lugares ms recnditos de la memoria.

Poetry

Remember?

Esos espacios, esos silencios.

Recuerdas?

Do you remember that glorious eternal summer?

Do you remember those afternoons, talking about the moon and the stars?
Do you remember those peaceful nights at the beach?
The waves breaking at the shore with every step we took, sprinkling our footprints on the sand.

By

51

>

RHONE ALPES
by Aubrie Amstutz
Two long haired dogs
stride along the fence
tracking my movement
through tall grass.

A group of skittish donkeys

their faces more real
than expected
eyes curious quickly distracted.

A boy on a lawn-mower
smiles unabashedly,
first time
he can drive it now.

One is loudly flatulent

disrupts the scene,
startles himself.
He jumps away,
the others start
like donkeys do.
With a jolt in the knees
and soft stomp of the hooves.

Along a wet-dirt road

out of the damp
backlit woods
of red-orange slugs.
A second farmhouse
with meticulous gardens
all blooming in the shiny gray light.

I have come voyaged far enough now.

This is where Ill stay.

ART // LAUREN DAVIS

A bird of prey
a view of the hills
all green
and the farms
weaving through the woods.
Brown-orange roofs of
Cour et Buis
in the distance.

52

NEWBURY
STREET,
boston, 9/26
by Leslie Zhang

i.

ii.

OVERWHELMED! Reading Philip Whalens Sourdough Mountain Lookout

Often I fear I am too young and

in a Boston caf good music good vibes quick approaching

tender to survive in this world. Moments

afternoon chocolate croissant puffed up in my belly heart puffed up

like thesesitting, reading, basking

in my chest ready to yell leap skip jump make a ruckus frantic

in a cafcan make me overwhelmed

search for pen and notebook of course the notebook is left in Neds

Got to drop everything and sit, elbows

dorm almost dont have a pen and feel a short fall in my

propped, palms cupping numb face,

gut. A walking or sitting clich, scratching thoughts onto a

to slow the rush of emotions pulsating

napkin as they come, totally organic no preservatives except I stopped

through me. The boy barista

to think before writing scratchingno! not the word I wanted

is prettier than I,

the correct word is STREAM, STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS, FLOW OF

thought he was a girl when I approached

EMOTIONlike the beat legendaries whom I idolize but

and shocked by his voice:

what do I know generations later, only had

Angel with a black septum ring!

"reefer" (the cool hip term several

decades ago) and shit bourbon Satans piss that leaves me
sick and horny. Good delusion! Couch-surfing across the country,
drop by without notice, run broke, read bookspoetry & the Autobiography
of Malcolm X, living off my parents hard-earned capitalist cash
Poetry

53

ART // LEZLIE ZHANG

WINDOWS
by Ryan Mandell

That chipper pink sweater

Cant disguise your sourpuss face
You stand there
With your lips stubbornly taciturn, like a clenched asshole
Just reading the nutrition facts on your tea bag
While the sunflower fields pass you by
The signs change
I can tell were in France now
A fleet of clouds
The fairy navy
Wheat fields for beer hop around merrily on my tongue
Airy, bready
While the sun
Warms my back through the window
And then theres rain on your head, sourpuss
Your tea is too bitter
And the train is too bumpy
Your son is waiting for you in the apartment
You have a long way to go
Two hours to Paris and then some
Sip
Sip
Sip
Sip
Sip
Pace
Pace
Pace
A field of purple flowers
Lavender, perhaps. p

PHOTO // ROBERTO PEREZ + ROCHELLE REBUCAS

54

ati
ne
Isk
an
da
ry

V V
C T L

an
i

ne

// Streaming through Flitted Texture text

Lost translating bits of text too familiar to encase in
gilded frames, pilfering
knowledge freely stuffed into not so musty literary corners,
coveting appliance-friendly portals hosting condensed drone files to inject,
carry round bottleswallowed malevolent venom pressed under tongue to
eject later,
another floppy disk discarded as this flat circle churns and the pinnacle peak stands still
deliciously &topples,
sweeping dusk-flavored eternity into hurtling black flumes as angry
reams of paper-thin thoughts spring UP spilling across hand-drawn lines
crafted taut with understanding;
binds stretch to fit the leather shape of my spine shivers every time catharsis appears in covers judged:
haiku mornings and
afternoons spent swimming with words to emerge victorious, a couplet born from the verbose
and seaming into quatrains always trailing,
assonance so askance it inevitably leads the meter to an iamb reborn in the blood:
me limbs akimbo,
morose lingo leaking from pages always screaming in forgotten folds of
forgotten libraries,
leaving folded sheaves, sheathing beating hearts against the harsh coldness,
offering shelter from the
I
of this storm
so I wrote words that wont stack up,
packing papers lucky with clover four-folded over in order to hold em together,
lone stars;
consternation laid prostrate before me,
half-crawling scurries from the Mecca of my temple in ostentatious spidercreep stretchings,
tender lids drooping translucent while beats boxed into minute compartments
loop incessantly
off kilter and skittering mine skittish limbic system
to arrive at the helms of slumber; sunk under,
smothered until succumbed to
cerebral silence

Poetry

55

ART // LUIS BONDOC

by
S

Speaking

FLIGHT

by Peter Folsaph

by Cassidy Green

I am the writer, said the writer,

Said the writer of the writer, said
The writer of the writer of the writer,
I said, said my writer,
Said the writer of my writer, said
The writer of the writer of my writer,
I said.

Shortly after takeoff

a complete engulfing of clouds,
a sudden milky blindness.
A low-level panic.
And if the blindness lasts forever?
A moment of surrender.
And then,
just as suddenly as it appeared,
an opening up

waiting for
a train

into the clear blue sky.

By Helen Irias

I find it remarkable that

We spend our lives fiercely battling age
Smearing serums to fend off the clock's groping paws
Coloring the truth with packaged dyes
And yet
The monotony of a railway station
Triggers an abrupt reversal
Spins our minds to wish minutes were seconds
Fingers tap tap tapping in impatience
Demanding time to propel at our preferred pace
To hell with youth
In the face of this purgatory period!
This makes me believe
That somewhere between life
And waiting for a train
Dwells the (im)possibility of contentment

PHOTO // ALEX WANG

56

A Life-long Walk to
the Same Exact Spot
by Peter Folsaph

Overestimated mysteries confounded the public minds

Whose oyster sensibilities pearled the least speck,
Then pointed to their fleck of dirt buried in excreted nacre
And pontificated about its elegant beauty.
Out of the nothing from whence come things
Came one un-mysterious figure.
In un-mysterious and un-unknown words,
The figure spoke to these un-intelligent.
Fingering their shiny bands of baubles and squinting
To showcase for each other their thorough distaste,
They let him speak his plainspoken reason
Before laughing lightly, sadly, at such foolish phrases.

So the figure ceased speaking and went on his way,

Living un-sadly, un-mysteriously, a life of simple love,
Creating the as yet un-created, Smiling un-infrequently,
And living with a peace un-imaginable
Until into the nothing again he went.
Ever-confused, the public minds nervously considered
How one so wrong could be so fulfilled,
While they shouted praise at mysteries.
Every day remaining tied to the certainty
That comes with sincere love for romantic falsehoods,
They never considered the obvious answer:
Miltons Satan, chained in flames, had only to stand up.

ART//LUIS BONDOC

Poetry

57

THE DAY AFTER

RAPTURE
BY
SELENA
ROSS

The day after the rapture

we all wore socks beneath our shoes
and too many people said thank you
meaninglessly, habitually
they couldnt help it,
they were taught to.
The day after the rapture,
a couple people started diets,
a few went on blind dates
and online headlines told of riots
in countries,
far, far away.
Post apocalypse,
several someones lost their keys,
and others stood in long lines

and during dull lectures,

they daydreamed.
After Armageddon,
it was impossible to find parking,
reckless elbows broke some glasses
and custodians took the trash out.
The day after the rapture,
people apologized for being late
and we all carried on,
ceaselessly,
endlessly,
despite being
all
collectively
in the afterlife.

PHOTOS // MARIAH TIFFANY

58

at birth, I did not know myself

b y A L B E RT O L O P E Z

ART // VIJAY MASHARANI

At birth I did not know myself,
I know my mother best
though scarcely more than I know myself now:
How old am I?
Ive lost count since
many days ago or years
(the difference between a day and a year is knowing)
when the calendar,
crucified and bleeding ink,
no longer had a page to turn;
now the only thing that carries me
through the days is faith
that those around me do not lie
(I know they do),
not because they care to inform me of the day of the week,
but because they need to remind themselves
its almost over
(God willing and the cost of living dont rise).
At birth I did not cry, my mother
says, she is proud, not
that I believe her
(she hung herself
with what was left of my umbilical cord,
it took her eighteen years to die).
At birth I did not know myself
and each day since then less,
until at death there will be scarce;y
any of me left.
Poetry

59

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The magazine features both submitted and
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