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ART & LITERARY MAGAZINE Spring 2014

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CADENZA STAFF SPRING 2014: Editors-in-Chief: Norah Hannel, Caeli Smith Content Editors: Annika Tucksmith, Brooke Safferman, Margret Wiggins. Peter Burdge, Phoebe Corde, Shatrunjay Mall, William Shadbolt & thanks to Dave Shanfield for help with design, and the Connecticut College Print Shop for its support! QUESTIONS? COMMENTS? SUBMISSIONS? cadenzamag@gmail.com conncollcadenzamagazine.wordpress.com

COVER:

Miguel Salcedo Intrusion, 2013 nails, styrofoam ball

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ETTER FROM THE EDITORS: From Norah: The word “cadenza” typically roams concert halls. It designates the time in which an orchestra stops playing so that a virtuosic soloist can musically paint over the silence of the room. Cadenza Magazine, however, focuses on the orchestra rather than just the soloist. We’re a family devoted to presenting work by and for our peers. Though the daily grind often asks us to be soloists, taking the reins on our own majors and extracurriculars, we undeniably rely on the support of those around us—and that support was abundant among the Cadenza Editorial Staff this year. At the beginning of last semester, we went around to introduce ourselves and say what sea creature we would be; my answer at the time was narwhal or tiny, tiny octopus… Now, I feel as though I belong instead to a lovely and wise school of clownfish. I’m so thankful to everyone who came to weekly meetings and those who have contributed to the existence of the Magazine in one way or another. Looking back on my four years here, I realize how greatly my worldview has been enriched by all the conversations I’ve been lucky enough to have and all the academic cookie dough I’ve gotten to chew on--already

missing you like crazy, Conn! And the past two years were especially rewarding because I was part of the Cadenza family. For that and everything else, I’m endlessly grateful. Hope you enjoy the Issue! This summer, drink buckets of lemonade and be in the world. From Caeli: Thanks to the Cadenza crew! I’m looking forward to seeing how the magazine continues to grow in future years. We’ll miss you Norah! Can’t wait to see everyone in the fall. keep writing. keep arting.

LOTS OF LOVE,

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ABLE OF CONTENTS

ISOTONIC PRINT SERIES | Dave Shanfield | page 5

MASONS | Bobby Guntil | page 24 PAST MIDNIGHT IN NEW HAMPSHIRE | Julia Burgdorff | page 25

DON’T FALL ASLEEP | Amy Williams | page 6

LOCOMOTIVE | James O’Connor | page 26

JERRY GARCIA | Anna Peterson | page 7

HOLES IN THE CITY | Juan Pablo Pacheco | page 27

UFA | Jyoti Arvey | page 8 LEAVING HOME | Kaitlin Fung | page 9 HOW COULD YOU | Sam Norcross | page 10 THE TREE | Valerie Urban | page 11 QUECHUA BOY | Ines Finol | page 12 LOOK | Will Stoddard | page 13 LINEARIS | Hailey Quercia | page 14 RABBIT | Mauri Connors | page 15 BOMBOLLA | Miguel Salcedo | page 16 SHIMMERING REVERIE | Brooke Safferman | page 17 FROM LANDSCAPEBODY | Mauri Connors | page 18 WRINKLE HIEROGLYPH IV: MARGE | Cody Chase | page 19 UNTITLED | Anna Grofik | page 20 I LOVE YOU | Kathleen Radigan | page 21 THE SCENT OF A SUDDEN TRANSFORMATION | Molly Bienstock | page 22 UNTITLED | Steph Gorman | page 23

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2H | Juan Flores | page 28 DISSONANCE | Jake Summers | page 29 A CHILLY SEPTEMBER NIGHT | Peter Burdge | page 30 DINO BABIES | Kaitlin Fung | page 35 STILL STANDING | Erica Stockwell-Alpert | page 36 A SINGLE HUT | Norah Hannel | page 37 YOU, ME AND TUNNELS | Juan Pablo Pacheco | page 38 CINCO VUELTAS AL RELOJ | Juan Pablo Pacheco | page 39 A LITTLE SONG | Kathleen Radigan | page 40 GAZING | Juan Pablo Pacheco | page 41 UNTITLED | Steph Gorman | page 42 SQUID | Annika Tucksmith | page 43 ANANKE | Phoebe Corde | page 44 HE IS THE MORNING | Jyoti Arvey | page 48 LOMAS DE LACHAY | Ines Finol | page 49 MAYBE THE INTERNET RAISED US | Ariann Holden | page 50


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Dave Shanfield Isotonic Print Series, 2014 ink jet print on cotton rag paper 20 x 20“ and 18 x 24�

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Amy Williams Don’t Fall Asleep, 2012 charcoal on paper 30 x 22”


Anna Peterson jerry Garcia, 2014 woodblock print 15 x 12.5�

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Jyoti Arvey Ufa, 2013 Lomo LC-A

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LeavingaitlinHome K Fung one by one each slid into place so that my house-my house became a museum where the living carried the dead and I carried the images I carried them in my head

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You How amCould S Norcross Mansion all chandeliers precarious and opulent Carpets (slippery things) grand Piano or two, a few dining rooms, parlor Just for tea, parlor just for Billiards, a Ballroom, portraits all over the library, And lounge With roaring fire. You know the one. Lovely house— An armed suit of armor in some hall And all the couches must have claws. —furnished with lovely people. Eclectic bunch gathered for Who knows. Old Countess in the gardens, Cook in kitchen with his knives Fit for cutting all manner of things. Maid cleaning God knows where, And Butler polishing steel cold candlesticks. Man and Wife Ballroom waltzing, Explorer (retired) shoots Some pool, Heiress sharpens Her eyebrows, Professor reads Christie in the library, while Detective Reads Doyle in the lounge.

Cook! Says Maid Me? No! Says Cook. I was cooking! Maid: Old Countess?! Old Countess: In Gardens! And you Maid? God knows where! Maid attempts indignant Chokes on words And also hemlock Man: Hemlock in Gardens! Old Countess! Wife: He’s right! Old Countess: Why I never! Said another word. Piano Wire round her neck. Explorer: Butler! He tunes! Butler: Professor! He plays! Detective: Stop! Not us! I know who! Can’t have that Sword through his back. Professor: But we’re the only ones in here! Two jabs from a sharpened billiard stick. Man: Run! Man runs. Slips on rug. Oops. Not dead? Crack on head with candlestick Gets job done.

A Murder! Heiress is stabbed With a kitchen knife.

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Wife: No! What do I say?! Nothing more, love. Shove into the hearth. How many? Three?


For the cook, another kitchen knife. (Irony? coincidence?) Explorer forcibly retired by, let’s see, Heart attack. And Butler gets the chandelier Atop his head. Clean work, old chap! What’s this? Final words? Detective: If only you had stopped at twenty-four… The rest is silence But we know he’s wrong. You had the tools. You knew the deeds You would commit. Perhaps from line one. Murderer.

Valerie Urban The Tree, 2013 charcoal 6 x 3.5’ 11


Ines Finol Quechua Boy, 2013 Canon Rebel XS

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Will Stoddard Look, 2013 pen Mailbox Contest 2nd place 13


Hailey Quercia Linearis ink 10 x 11�

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RM

abbit auri Connors

What makes you real is that the parts don’t fit together but still come to make a whole.

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Miguel Salcedo Bombolla, 2013 Canon T3i

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Reverie Shimmering Brooke Safferman Shimmering reverie, Where the statuesque mountains tower over uncharted streams as alert as you did Those vivacious, pulsating nights as the stars did shine, Though not as bright as your wildfire eyes And though not as bright as your electrical mind Nothing can compare to the impulses of within The internal itches that make one roused with a perverse delight, Nor the external urges that make one tremble with anticipation of the indefinite, the unguaranteed. One time you instructed me to follow your lead I agreed, dutifully, loyally, stepping along My bare feet made ever-lasting prints upon the marshy rapture My steps were to the pace of my own rhythm But the sweet, sweet melody in the background,

ticulation of your right arm All that the world is composed of, From the arcane way that blades of grass can be split down their centers And create two out of what previously was only one To the way moss grows upon pavement built of brick, Creeping into crevices and finding itself a new home in the spaces I had never known to previously exist. I suppose, in theory, you hadn’t provided me with too much But yet, you thrust upon me a landscape, un-gated, A world of boundless expansion of the mind, Reaching further and further into the nebular abyss. All you ever did was introduce me to life But without such an overture as enchanting as yours, I would have never known how simply sweet the melody is:

Well, that was all yours.

(The melody that we stepped to on that dazzling, radiant evening)

You showed me, with a grand, sweeping ges-

The Anthem of the Living.

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f rom LandscapeBody Mauri Connors my skin

is a sac stretch tight

from all the pressure

over breaking bones

(from within) Bursting out

waterfalls each day add allure

to the Sensation

of not breathing knotty back

textured tree bark clinging animals

begging to be freed from a cage of anxiety breeds tightness.

We Need To Be Larger. than you could ever imagine

a storm this gigantic, crushing wanting to be free is a universal desire deep breaths tell me how

hollow

the empty spaces are and how small. I need to be Larger. and soon.

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Cody Chase Wrinkle Hieroglyph IV: Marge graphite 11 x 14�

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Anna Grofick Untitled, 2013

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You I Loveathleen K Radigan It’s actually easy to say goodbye. Climb into your car, foot to the pedal,

Goodbye is like squeezing the last sigh from a blue balloon,

and go over the paved cat’s tongue

Or maybe the trigger’s pointed at you,

which yawns into hills

and goodbye is an aftertaste

and sleeps at the feet of garage doors.

like salty carnival air

On patios: empty wine glasses with lipstick-clouds

or your mother’s hands.

where mouths cracked wide

You could hang up the phone right now

collecting moon-wine.

if you wanted, or quit reading this.

It’s easy to say goodbye.

You could catch a bus to a town near a cobalt sea

Think of the way trees bleed and release red leaves. Scrape your knee and a spring bursts into being. It’s easy to replace the things that kept you breathing.

There are harder things to say.

which shimmers with pictures of people you’ve never seen: A lady in a yellow windbreaker will take your hand.

For some, goodbye is choking

She’ll dip it in the sea like candlewax and all at once you’ll say

on a chicken bone. Others wither

the hardest thing, without thinking.

in wheelchairs while the loved ones gather at the white bed, blowing words around.

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of Sudden Transformation The Scent Molly Bienstock

Rage on little ones, For your spirit is eclectic, your imagination palpable, your energy genuinely forthcoming. Inspire on elderly wise ones. For every story leaks secrets from another time, a distantly connected life, a sincerely non, yet hopeful surreptitious season. For both, your energy is understated, misunderstood, and stands alone.

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Steph Gorman Untitled, 2013 35mm film camera

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Bobby Guntli Masons, 2013 oil over graphite on canvas 18 x 24�

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Midnight in New Hampshire Pastulia J Burgdorff Henry, where do you roam in your dreaming yips and twitching? We come outside to find stillness where there is no stillness. Grand incineration, and all that. Someone’s voice in the wind through the screen door. I could throw my hands up in the air but then there I am, hands in the air, in the dark. In the dark, you become an absence for a moment. And loons out here. I could swim out towards their cry, into the black lake where wide-eyed fish roam, geometry of vessels and cold blood, and disperse, if only. How far until the door shuts behind me. Forgive me, Henry, later I will wake throwing myself against a wall and you will think there’s some danger and we’re trapped.

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Locomotive James O’Connor

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The teller wears a suit

Soon, I too will travel

and waits for the train.

by rail to Back Bay

The train goes to Boston

with a dark umbrella

where everything else is.

and a sandwich in a bag.

For all I do not know

Now, I am sitting

Boston may as well stand

watching The Muppets

at world’s end: a harbor

waiting for my father

to end all harbors.

in his suit to return.


Juan Pablo Pacheco Holes in the city, 2012 Canon AE-1 Program

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Juan Flores 2H, 2013 acrylic on canvas 36 x 40� 28


Jake Summers Dissonance, 2013 collage Mailbox Contest 1st Place

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Night AChillyeterSeptember P Burdge “Two adults, and three children, please.” Mark’s voice is scratchy, and is flat with disappointment. He tries to give it a little manufactured life, a little juice to show anyone around him that he is happy to be there. He doesn’t want to seem uninterested, as if he were a bad father. Because he knows that he isn’t a bad father. Maybe the car will break down. Maybe it’ll be too crowded. His mind had been stunted by overwhelming anxiety all afternoon. But it’s too late now. The tickets slide through the hole at the bottom of the window, and he slides back a pile of cash. Mark’s sunglasses are still on the bill of his cap even though the sky is a faint pink and the moon is beginning to yellow. He turns to his family, the four of them waiting under the tall flyspecked lights humming unnoticed overhead. The twin brothers play “rock-paper-scissors,” just for the innocent thrill of competition, and their sister Nicole stands silently holding her mother’s hand. Mark smiles with his lips only and motions with a playfully extended arm

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towards the gate, pretending to be a courteous butler welcoming a wealthy dinner guest. “Let’s go,” he says. Once through the gate, Mark and Allison allow their bubbling children to walk ahead. This is their night. The hill in front of them opens up to a confusing and condensed landscape of lights and moving shapes. As they walk down, the family can hear the faint mixture of beeps and shouts that seem to identify a carnival, as if they come from no one source, but spout up as one entity from the mass of man-made fun itself. Mark walks with his elbows jutted out, making his light windbreaker tight around his shoulders. He shivers as a thick breeze picks up. “I hate this jacket,” he mumbles to his wife. “Come on, relax.” Allison’s long brown hair blows behind her. Her overcoat protects her from the chilly September night. “See, I said that tomorrow night’s going to be warmer.” He looks down at the colors and adds quietly, perhaps to himself, “And the game’s at one tomorrow, so I wouldn’t be missing it.” “Well, we’re not here tomorrow. We’re here tonight, and we’re going to enjoy tonight.” They near the bottom and Mark calls out


for his children to wait. The small group circles around him, and he leans in. “Alright, you guys ready?” This time he gives a toothy grin and bounces in place a few times to show that he’s a fun dad. All three children nod their heads. The twins look around them and prepare to run when their father frees them, but he feels like he should say more to them. “Now, wherever you go, make sure that you can see us.” “So don’t go too far ahead,” Allison chimes in. She leans down to meet the children’s height. “Let’s have fun.” The buzzing alleys lined with booths attract the twins, and they race ahead. Their sister stays behind and holds her mother’s hand. Allison looks down. “You don’t want to go with them?” “No,” Nicole answers while shaking her head. “I know. It can be scary.” They enter the meat of this game land where grey-whiskered men sit needling passersby, trying to pull them in and gamble away their spending money. They shout about giant stuffed animals and cheap toys. They brag that their game is a piece-of-cake. They know that they can wrap their wrinkled fingers around the crowd, because the crowd will keep coming.

People always keep coming. Colors flash, children shout in exhilaration, hollow toy gunshots pop up over the din. Mark checks his iPhone as he walks past that living wasteland of games. Nicole walks beside the hip of her mother, watching in nervous awe at the spectacle of lights. To her left, the Ferris wheel peeks out above the booths, and she pulls on her mother’s hand. “Mom.” She motions to the giant looming above. “Can we go on?” “You want to?” Nicole nods her head. “OK, let’s do it.” Allison nudges Mark, who looks up. “Yeah, what?” “Nicole wants to go on the Ferris wheel.” “Oh, good.” He smiles at his daughter. “That’ll be fun.” “Can you watch the boys?” Allison smirks. “Yeah, sure. Where’d they go?” “Mark.” “What? I was just checking the score.” Allison stares at him, sighs and then points down the alleyway where the twins stare at a man tossing a softball into a booth. “The twins are right up there.” Mark raises his hands. “OK, I’m sorry. I’ll look after them. Don’t worry. Have fun.”

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Allison leads her daughter away from the alleyway as Mark walks to the twins. He pats them both on the shoulder from behind and then leans in between them. “Hey guys, what’s this?” Zach looks up at his father. “You throw softballs into a bucket.” “Do you want to do it?” They look at each other and shrug. Then Zach speaks up. “We want you to do it.” “Oh, OK. See if your old man can play softball.” Mark pats them on the shoulder again and walks to the counter. An old man stands behind the counter, sporting a thick, pepper mustache. He smells of cigarette smoke. He stares at Mark and barks, “It’s five.” “Five dollars?” The man nods. “If you get three softballs in the bucket, you can pick one of these.” He points to the stuffed animals spilling over the inside of the booth. Mark turns and smiles at his sons. “Not too hard, huh?” He takes the first softball, rubs it in his hands, and tosses it underhand over the counter. It lands with a thud in the bucket, which hangs at an upward angle on the far wall. Mark takes the second softball, tosses it, and it lands

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in the bucket as well. He takes off his cap and rubs his hand through his blonde buzz cut. The old man turns to Mark and says, “Now calm down. You got just one more. Nice and easy.” The old man takes a spare softball and tosses it in to the bucket. “Just like that. Nice and easy.” After the man puts the softball back on the counter, Mark picks it up. He reaches his arm back to test the flexibility of his windbreaker. He reaches back again, and then lets the ball go. It hits one of the softballs inside the bucket and bounces out. Mark hesitates, and then says, “You know, I think it’s the angle for me behind the counter. It’s tough to get it high enough.” The old man takes the softball and tosses it in again. “You just got to do it nice and easy.” “But you’re standing in front of the counter, see. It’s the angle that does it.” He turns around. “What do you guys—” Mark stops but doesn’t panic. The twins are not behind him, but he knows that they must be nearby. He turns to the old man and asks, “Did you see them leave?” The old man shrugs and shakes his head. He wanders away from the booth. They must be nearby. They’ve got to be nearby. But each side of the alleyway is too crowded to


pick out the short boys. Before calling Allison, he has to check every spot, every booth where they would be. He knows they just went on to another game. They got bored and went to another game. He doesn’t want to bother Allison. And so he keeps walking with his sight focused only on the crowded booths. He cares nothing about the people who have to sidestep around him and hop to get out of his way at the last second. He doesn’t care that they expect him to be courteous. That’s not important right now. He doesn’t want to call their names either. It’s not time for that yet. That would be like giving in, as if something were wrong. As he nears the end of the thoroughfare; though, Mark runs out of booths to check. Now he begins to panic. His options have run out. He still does not want to bother Allison. He will be able to find them before she finishes her ride on the Ferris wheel. She does not need to know about this. Another swift breeze races through the alleyway and Mark shivers. The boys do not have jackets. They said that they wouldn’t need them. After turning around to do another sweep, Mark quickens his pace and keeps his head on a focused swivel. His elbows bump into people’s sides as the crowd tightens

around him. The cacophony of the games becomes louder, and the rusted voices of the game attendants become meaner. He nears the other end of the walkway of yellowing trampled grass and strains to believe that at one last booth he will see them in the heavy thickness of the growing crowd. But the last booth at the end of the line, the last chance to save the night, is empty. Mark gives up. Could something have happened to them? Where else could they be? A sinking panic begins to overwhelm him, the realization that there is nothing left within his control. That he has to put faith in chance, in the possibility, and only the possibility, that they will turn up somewhere else. He can’t do anything else to make sure that they are safe. He knows now to race to the lost-and-found. But before finding the lost-and-found stand, he should call Allison. She should not have to hear her sons’ names called over the loudspeaker without knowing what’s going on. With a sigh and a slump of his shoulders, Mark dials his wife’s phone number. It rings several times, and then he hears her voice barely over the background noise say, “Hey where are you?” “Well, I’m near the turkey leg stand. But—”

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“Oh, we’ll look for you. We’re in line right now.” Mark hesitates. “You haven’t gone up yet?” “Nicole and I already did, but the twins want to go now. They said that you didn’t want to.” The twins want to go? He pauses and, with a newfound relief that has just popped up and surprised him, manages to squeak out, “What?” He doesn’t want to sound panicky, but he is shaking. “The twins said they want to go up. Do you want to go now, though?” “Oh, no, no. I’ll just wait.” “OK.” “Where were they?” His voice cracks. “They’re with us. They were waiting outside of the exit. Why?” “No, I was just wondering.” “Hey, what’s the score?” “It’s uh, it’s tied at one, I think.”

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Kaitlin Fung Dino Babies (Twitter Series), 2013 graphite 11 x 14�

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Erica Stockwell-Alpert Still Standing, 2013 acrylic on canvas 16 x 24�

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Hut ASingleorah N Hannel A Single Hut Norah Hannel

It stands there, crepuscular beneath a silver froth of snow.

In the side garden, a gnarled army of crocuses prepares its coup d’état against the jeer of winter. A green finch steals chary glances at the family inside, moribund and bronzed by speckles of a high voltage sun that capriciously lay siege to their farmhouse. Just beyond the prickling Black Forest, a train goes by, as it will, and the passengers wonder at the lonesome hut. a mirage of caffeinated hebetude? a smudge on the sullied window? A crooked crow, perched upon the Totenbaum that carries the memory of a freckled, pert grandmother, almost boyish as she slumbers there, off the twig.

(Totenbaum, literally translated from the German, means “tree of death,” but is also the word used for a coffin made out of a tree trunk)

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Juan Pablo Pacheco You, me, and tunnles, 2012 Canon AE-1 Program

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al Reloj CincouanVueltas J Pablo Pacheco Todos esperando una estrella de aquellas que llegan en los tiempos de desespero, nadie sabe realmente por qué accedió a venir a esta congregación, llena de ojos que miran llena de vacíos que pululan llena de ideas que según el sociólogo, van a cambiar el mundo Qué ingenuidad Cinco vueltas al reloj Decirle al tiempo, que nunca le perteneciste Que todas las putas injusticias y desigualdades de este mundo te afectaron una a una, y que cada llanto de frustración se sumó al desespero existencial que sentiste aquel día en que, como una hormiga, decidiste poner una piedra más en el hormiguero, destruido años más tarde por la locura de una reina que nunca existió y unos callados que en realidad siempre hablaron más fuerte que nadie mas.

donan con facilidad. La lingüística de tus referentes la construiste a partir de unas ideas salidas de cabales, donde supiste imprimir tu frustración de no poder ser feliz Una combinación de caos, desespero e ingenuidad viciosa e infantil. ¿Qué quedará una vez hayas salido de nuestras cuevas, pensando que el apocalipsis ya ha pasado? Nunca hubo apocalipsis, nunca hubo cueva, nunca nos escondimos. Todo siempre estuvo destruido y nuestro miedo pudo más que nuestro amor.

Tengo pensamientos oscuros, y no me aban

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A

Little Song

K

athleen Radigan

Because crickets’ throats dry up like dunes unless they sing, the rest of us must listen to white whistling. All summer, petals of paint snap off the porch steps. The sky slides open. Pauses spill onto the grass. My sister and I are breathing without sound. The porch feels our breath on its neck. It sighs back and wind whines in our hollows. My heart’s heat thunder. Our ears to the sky. Listening to stars’ quiet piles of light. We sit and chirp for birds on power lines. We’ll probably both be lonely for a long time.

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Juan Pablo Pacheco gazing, 2013 Canon AE-1 Program 41


Steph Gorman Untitled, 2013 35mm film camera 42


Annika Tucksmith Squid, 2013 graphite 2 x 1.5’ 43


A

nanke

P

hoebe Corde

Death’s hands were warm. The weather in New York was below ten degrees, able to turn every breath of the passing pedestrians into steam, and the sudden heat of Death’s fingers around Aisa’s wrist sent shivers up her arm. “Quiet,” Death hissed. She had to bend at the waist to make her lips meet Aisa’s ear. A young woman turned the corner ahead of them. The wind tangled her tight brown curls with her scarf as she struggled down the sidewalk. Her arms were folded tightly against her chest. “That’s her,” Death whispered. “I know,” Aisa said. The girl bumped into the man walking past her and muttered a quick “sorry” too late for him to hear. Aisa could imagine the girl’s finals hours winding toward final minutes as she came closer to death with every step. Aisa’s free hand curled around the golden thread and shears in her pocket. “Stop staring,” Death warned. Name: Ananke (Ana) Nicolo. Time of Death: 11:42 PM.

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“Aisa.” Location: Pelham, New York. Gunshot wound to the neck. Final words: “I think I see them”. “Aisa.” The girl, Ana, looked up and caught Aisa’s gaze. It was only for a moment, but even a moment was too long. Her eyes were dark and tired. A scar ran through her right eyebrow. Coils of her hair were dyed gold and caught the light of the streetlamp. Death’s nails dug into Aisa’s arm until she glanced away, and only dug deeper when Ana smiled politely and quickened her pace. Aisa allowed herself to breathe again once Ana was past her and well into the crowd. She pulled her arm from Death’s grasp and rubbed at the marks her nails left. “That was close,” she said, trying for a smile. Death stared at her for a few long seconds before turning and starting down the sidewalk. Her steps were quick and heavy enough for Aisa to tell how upset she was. Aisa swore under her breath before jogging after her. “I’m sorry.” Death didn’t look at her. “How close to dying do you have to get before you take this seriously?”


“I said I’m sorry.” “I heard you.” Aisa pulled the piece of thread from her pocket and held it out for Death to look at. “The end is still intact. I didn’t change anything.” “Put that away,” Death said. She stopped at the corner and turned to Aisa. Her face was red, but she managed to keep her expression calm. “We don’t need more people staring.” “Staring because I have a piece of gold thread?” “Staring because you’re waving it around like that.” “I’m not waving it around.” “Please put it away.” Death continued down the sidewalk with Aisa tailing behind her. “Don’t be mad,” Aisa said. Death let out a short, exasperated breath. “I will be mad, especially when you’re being so careless. Haven’t your sisters warned you, haven’t I warned you not to interfere with the fate you create?” “I don’t think catching a girl’s eye can be qualified as interfering with fate.” “Do you know what your job is as one of the Fates?” “Oh, come on–” “I’m starting to doubt you do.”

Aisa sighed. “To decide the end of every life.” “And to make sure that end stays fixed. You know who the only person who can change a death is?” “Me.” “You, even inadvertently.” Death’s calm expression didn’t reach her eyes anymore. “And wouldn’t you think that someone with that much power would be a little more careful when interacting with people, especially when interacting with a certain girl who is going to die in less than two hours and has hundreds of other fates riding on her death.” “All I did was look at her.” “And all she did was look at you, but what if she had stopped? Even a moment’s delay could have changed everything, especially so close to her time of death.” Aisa crossed her arms. “I’m sorry, okay? She’s gone now, so don’t worry about her too much.” “It’s not just her I’m worried about. One slip in her fate can change the destiny of every person she interacts with afterward.” Death’s eyes scanned the crowd around them. “We would lose control, and as soon as that happens, we become vulnerable. We could die just as easily as they all do. I’d rather not have to

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reap you and your sisters because you made a mistake.” “Okay.” Aisa considered telling Death she was being a bit dramatic, but she let it slide for the moment. “Okay.” They walked in silence for a few blocks. Name, deaths, dates, and locations flashed in Aisa’s mind with every person they passed. Lung cancer. Car crash. December 27, 2086. Stone Harbor, New Jersey. Tristan Ross. Next Halloween. Westport, Connecticut. Fire. Fire. “That one’s a good one.” Aisa looked up to find Death watching a man crossing the street. June 25, 2049. Explosion. “Stop staring,” Aisa said with a smirk. “I’m not.” Aisa didn’t have to look to tell Death was smirking, too. She was never very good at hiding the smile in her voice. “I, uh… I have an appointment in a few minutes up in Samarra.” Death pulled her coat sleeve up to check her watch. “I should get going. I wanted to visit the marketplace beforehand.” “Okay.” Aisa put her hands in her pockets. “Buy me something cool.” “Mhm.” Death smiled and backed toward the people pushing through the street. She

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was never very good at staying mad at Aisa, either. “Be careful, please. I’ll be back soon.” “And I’ll be here. Don’t worry.” “I won’t worry as soon as you don’t make me worry.” Death turned and disappeared into the crowd. Aisa watched as people shoved onto her side of the sidewalk. Her hand fiddled absent-mindedly with the shears in her pocket. Ana’s thread was still coiled beneath them. 11:49 PM. Gunshot wound to the neck. Final words: “I think I see them”. No. 11:42 PM, wasn’t it? Aisa kept watching the crowd for a few moments before starting back toward where they had first seen Ana. 11:42 PM. That was right. The weight of the thread in her pocket felt a bit heavier than before, now that she thought about it. Was it 11:52 PM? She turned the last corner and glanced at the people around her. Car crash. Stabbed. Overdose. No gunshot wound to the neck. A hand tapped Aisa’s shoulder and she felt silly for jumping. She stopped. Her hands trembled as a girl with brown and golden threads of hair stepped in front of her. Name: Ananke (Ana) Nicolo. Time of Death: “Why were you watching me earlier?” Ana asked.


“What?” Blood rushed in Aisa’s ears. Time of Death: “I saw you staring. Are you one of them?” “No. One of who?” The weight in her pocket was definitely heavier. She could feel the thread growing and fraying. Aisa looked to the people around her. She could see no deaths, no dates, no locations. Time of Death: “Look at me.” Ana grabbed Aisa’s wrist, sending a shiver up her arm. Ana’s hands were as cold as ice.

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Morning He isyotitheArvey J My frustration looks like wine splatters on a white page. I feel it when I get drunk or when I listen to a recording of my own voice. He may be the morning, but I am the darkest moment of the night. I burn with the glow of the moon, lightly and hidden behind the trees. The shadows of leaves obstruct the image and I fragment. He is the morning. His coffee mug leaves half circle stains on my memory. Things forgotten include the sound of my voice and the taste of a grapefruit. I dig my spoon into the fruit and the citrus stings my burnt tongue. Raw pink flesh intermingling. I am not sure what I heard. It was a grating and a flushing sound. My ears peeled in response, but my arms kept hanging. The sound looked like a rotting cabbage. The harvest came late this year. Someone planted me deep in the earth.

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Ines Finol Lomas de Lachay, 2013 Canon Rebel XS

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Ariann Holden Maybe the Internet Raised Us, 2014 Projected installation

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Artist Statement: I live in a generation obsessed with Tumblr, technology, and twerking. Therefore, I use my iPhone as my source of information and imagery for my subject matter. By exploring diverse social media platforms, particular iPhone functions, and the materiality of the iPhone itself, I intend to dissect my hype-enabling generation. I find myself questioning the odd behavioral tendencies I have through social media, the music I listen to, and the way I communicate via text, all of the time, perhaps this is because I’m looking at my iPhone 50% of the day. I’m not preaching about our attachment to technology as much as I’m trying to reveal the reasons for why we do what we do. I aim to critique hype culture by placing myself at the forefront and making myself vulnerable to my viewers. Through the exploration of media and a key awareness of the self, I hope to create a body of work that reflects the transitory nature of the present. Don’t believe the hype, just create it.

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Profile for Cadenza Magazine

CADENZA Spring 2014  

CADENZA Spring 2014  

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