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Volume 8 / Spring 2013


Conor Doolin Visual and Media Arts 2015

Michael Schuck

Writing, Literature & Publishing 2015

Anna Sullivan

Writing, Literature & Publishing 2015

Julian Rome

Marketing Communication 2015

Alexandra Fileccia Journalism 2015

James Murray Theatre Studies: Acting 2015

Dan Salerno

Communication Studies 2015

Janine Moody

Visual and Media Arts 2015

Tania Rios

Writing, Literature & Publishing 2015

Alexandra Stills Journalism 2015

Courtney Tharp Journalism 2015

Ady PiĂŠ

Visual and Media Arts 2015

Claudia Mak

Journalism 2015

Nancy Valev

Writing, Literature & Publishing and Political Communication 2015

Ean Ryan

Visual and Media Arts 2015

Karen Lindsey Professor

Lauren Scovel Performing Arts 2015

Julianna Buck

Marketing Communications 2015

Emily Smith

Theatre Studies: Acting 2015

Carlyle Thomes

Political Communication 2015

James Hausman

Visual and Media Arts 2015

Brandon Cardwell

Visual and Media Arts 2015


Remember how it felt to stumble into breakfast each weekday? In the closeeyed haze of morning, we seemed to communicate more like moles than people, pawing blindly over food and bodies, recognizing the smells of individuals amid the overwhelming stench of us all. There was an emotional rapport among us, brought on by three months living in the same quarters. The same emotional substance dripped from each of us, and when it combined in the air, it became one collective feeling. Whether it was happiness, frustration, homesickness or elation, each of us experienced it. I would explain it through nocturnal telepathy. Marinate enough American adolescents in the same alien culture and they are bound to have the same dreams. As we slept, I believe we melted into one another, and our subconscious spoke with one voice. We created our own concentrated spirit here, our own small zeitgeist. I hope this book reflects, not only the individual points of experience, but the bleeding together of them all; I hope it captures our spirit between its pages. Best, Anna Sullivan Editor-in-Chief


This cold and., for Dutch terms, extremely snowy Spring 2013 semester, the castle was inhabited by a group of intensely energetic students. Various European countries were visited and experiences were shared with new friends. It did not take long for you all to make the castle your own, and your own it will stay. When you go back through the “rabbit hole” to venture home, you will not simply turn back the time. As Lewis Carroll put it: “I can’t go back to yesterday because I was a different person then.” This document will hopefully serve for you to remember this experience by. I would like to thank all people that have made this magazine possible. My final word of appreciation goes out to the Black Swan staff, who have put a great amount of effort and teamwork in this magazine. Robbert van Helsdingen Advisor


Pope Fish

8

Illustration // Anna Sullivan

Dilution (White Ink on a Blank Page) Text // Michael Schuck

Almost Ninety

12

Text // Anna Sullivan

Fenced In

15

Photo // Brandon Cardwell

Six Million

17

Photo // James Hausman

Dissolute

18

Text // Julian Rome

Working With Locals Text // Alexandra Fileccia

In Ratio

22

Text // James Murray

SM

23

Text // Daniel Salerno

This is Madrid

25

Photo // Joshua Waterman

20

10


Doolin

26

Text // Conor Doolin

Doolin, Ireland

31

Photo // Conor Doolin

Tuna Melt

32

Text // Julian Rome

Polo on I Got Horsepower

35

Photo // Carlyle Thomes

Silence is the Music of the Desert Text // Janine Moody

Zangar, Morocco

39

Photo // Janine Moody

Sculpture Garden

40

Text // Tania Rios

Enchantment

43

Photo // Claudia Mak

The Red Woman

44

Text // Alexandra Stills

Diptych

46

Photo // Daniel Salerno

Notre Dame

49

Photo // Emily Smith

Entering La Sagrada Familia Text // Courtney Tharp

50

36


On Frequently Finding Yourself Out of Place in Church Text // Ady Pié

Nun

55

Photo // Julianna Buck

The Bearer of Your Sins

57

Photo // James Hausman

Time for Church (A Found Poem) Text // Anna Sullivan & James Murray

Heated Tiles

60

Text // Claudia Mak

London Bubbles

63

Photo // Janine Moody

A Tune of Discovery

65

Photo // Claudia Mak

Sweet & Solitary

66

Text // Nancy Valev

A Coward’s Curse

68

Text // Ean Ryan

Rebel

71

Photo // Carlyle Thomes

Arctic Cathedral

73

Photo // Brandon Cardwell

Sophie’s Ghost Text // Anna Sullivan

74

58

52


Anna Sophia

79

Illustration // Anna Sullivan

Found Object 1 & 2

80

Scanned Images // James Murray

Consummation

82

Text // Julian Rome

Mismatched

85

Photo // Courtney Tharp

Bell Tower

87

Photo // Daniel Salerno

Living Carnaval

88

Text // Beth Treffeisen

The Magician

90

Text // Karen Lindsey

Voetpad

91

Text // Lauren Scovel

Black Swan

93

Photo // Daniel Salerno


Anna Sullivan ‘Pope Fish’

9


Dilution (White Ink on a Blank Page) by Michael Schuck

I should have gotten my hair cut before I left because I think the unwanted memories get tangled there after I try to kick them out of my mind. The plan was to go away so that maybe I could see the big picture and myself within it, but I left and I left again and again and again and again and I still remember vividly the formal attire you wore for my miniature going away party when we hugged and I could smell the tropical shampoo in the curls of your hair. And I remember what you said one week later and how neither of us wanted to think of it as a twenty-first century version of a ‘Dear John’ letter. So I left again and went everywhere I could to try to fill myself with beauty, enough of it that you would be forced out of my memory. Then I could shave my head and be rid of you forever. I saw such beauty: ancient walls losing their paint, young hands holding each other under flashing multicolored lights, a portrait on the wall of a bar of a girl with long, dark hair drawn from memory, cigarette smoke exhaled in bursts of laughter, a boundless sky reflected in a wide river. I packed the images into my little camera and then spent the evenings memorizing each one, putting them into motion again, inflating them into imagined stories, and the stories had happy endings. The hands remained faithful to one another for the rest of their lives. The artist got back together with the girl he remembered well enough to draw. I tried to convince myself that I knew these happy people, because then maybe I could believe that I’d never known you. But it didn’t work. The shadows of the moments we spent together found somewhere else to hide—maybe in the soft space between my amygdala and hypothalamus. I remembered you, and the beautiful fragments of you and everywhere else in the world got mixed together. I thought back to Florence and saw you browsing in a basement bookstore. In my memories of Budapest you ordered something strong in the bar with the tattooed walls. In London I stood in front of Big Ben for a photograph and you were just outside the frame, crossing the street.


Then you were everywhere, thanks to my efforts to forget you. But it takes a lot to be everywhere, too much even for you. You were spread thin, so thin that a too-tall girl with brown eyes and long porcelain fingers made me forget that maybe one day she’ll too make me want to cut my hair.

11


Almost Ninety by Anna Sullivan

Submerged in the sarcasm of almost ninety brilliant sentences before bed each night, the kind brimming with platitude, and sleep, and sighs no more. Swimming in the snot of almost ninety bacterial screenplays each time the clock circles, the kind browning with plaque and heavy smoking and lies no more. Succumbing to the salience of almost ninety brilliant synchronies; each look in the mirror is a look out, the kind bursting with a happiness you’ve never felt before. Sleeping in the subconscious of almost ninety beaming dreams of riptide and jade each nocturne, the kind breaking the lock between you and I and opening the door. Sweating in the sanity of almost ninety beached dolphins flopping desperately, the kind burning behind your knees with a pain you cannot moor. Sailing from the solidarity of almost ninety berry dripping children eating lunch from a paper sack, the kind bending with its contents, crumbled, littering the shore.


13


Brandon Cardwell “Fenced In� Auschwitz-Birkenau State Museum, Oswiecim, Poland Electrified barbed wire fencing leads to a guard-tower at the former Auschwitz Concentration Camp.


15


James Hausman “Six Million” Berlin, Germany This captures Berlin’s famous memorial to the murdered Jews of the Holocaust. The memorial is purposefully ambiguous so each viewer can form a unique impression of its meaning.


17


Dissolute by Julian Rome

i displayed no feelings face, stance, stare - stiff knees locked, shoulders back, alpha as always i fixed onto you, left my marks beneath your eyes, my effort deliberate then my face followed the index figure on my cheek to your chest— not in control, i shifted cowered and dug miles into myself you watched so deeply i broke, cracked in the sheets as i knew i always should


19


Working With Locals by Alexandra Fileccia

In the Prague 1 Municipal District, across the Legion Bridge, there is a quaint shop with a goat sculpture that sits on the nearest right side corner under the blue, green and red letters of the store name, Zdravíek. A young man stands idly inside, hidden by the windowless entrance. From the outside, it doesn’t look like anything more than a cute place to eat; the chalkboard above the goat advertises soup and sandwiches. Once inside though, the little eatery unfolds into a colorful farmer’s market. Jakub Holzer, 27, stocks a shelf of local, homemade desserts. Occasionally, he knocks some over and rights them again. He walks back to the cash register and hovers for a few seconds. When he sees that no one is ready to pay yet, Holzer retreats into the back room where his colleagues are gathered in conversation. When he hears the door open, he peers his dirty blonde haired head into the room and returns to his post greeting incoming customers with a smile and a timid head nod. Holzer speaks perfect Czech, having grown up in Nová Ves nad Lužnicí, Czech Republic. To foreigners, he speaks broken English, hesitating before each word. From his backpack he pulls out bilingual a copy of Don Quixote, one page in Czech and the opposite page translated in English. “I have taken four years [of English] in school, but without active speaking, it is poor,” says Holzer as he flips through the pages of the book. He says that reading literature with English text along side Czech text is how he keeps the Anglo-Saxon language in his head. As a customer approaches the checkout counter, he slides the book back into his backpack and rings up the fresh vegetables grown organically on local Czech farms; an involuntary action after the years spent as a cashier. Though his smile hides his annoyance with such a simple task, it is clear that the young man is capable of much more. Being a cashier at Zdravíek is only a part-time job for Holzer, a way to make some extra cash as he says. Though he studied design in school, he is a paid journalist for Nový Prostor, a magazine sold by the homeless and those in social distress. The title translates to New Space in English. “Writing was always my hobby,” says Holzer, who says he got this job by chance. The magazine fo-


cuses on social issues and alternative culture. He has written about a variety of topics ranging from squatters in Cibulka, Czech Republic to Greek mythology on death. Though he currently spends his time among organic cabbage and potatoes, and shelves of locally jarred honey and jams in the Czech Republic, Holzer has traveled to Spain, Italy, Albania, France, Germany, and Romania. He plans to stay immersed in the history of his home country. “I love the nature here,” says Holzer as he hunches over the checkout counter, “and the Czech people.” He says that Czech people have a certain ironic humor he couldn’t live without. He makes a motion of opening a book and says that by picking up almost any Czech book, you would be able to pick out the humor—that it’s hard to explain. He would miss his culture too much to move away. “I feel like I belong to the Czech Republic,” Holzer says and stiffens his posture. He looks around the store for something to keep him busy, lingering around his post. With no customers around, he rejoins his coworkers in the backroom.

21


In Ratio

by James Murray

//I count five hours to where you’ve gone. My hand ends in a fist. I turn my arm right over and draw clocks on my left wrist. Four months have passed three times with you And still I count the ways; Still, your noises echo And one image yet remains: Our love is as two passing trains As life is to but one– September, October, November, December, To conjugate the word ‘Remember’ I dream of turning back to you Of numbers counting up. I hope you’ll see me if I turn, How sad and warm it is to burn.


SM

by Dan Salerno

orange peel stained thumbs dig into skin separating the barrier between us an attempt to meander across the field of you consume your reluctance we leave flaws intact in hopes of proving we have acquired taste ability appreciation

23


Joshua Waterman “This is Madrid” Madrid, Spain


25


Doolin

by Conor Doolin

The bus goes around yet another roundabout and I think I’m going to be sick. It’s been three hours since Galway, and I’m the last one remaining on the bus. The driver is amused. “Not usu’l dat I see people goin’ this far this season,” he chuckles. “Rains too often and nothing to see with the fog.” True, Ireland has been nothing but an intense downpour so far. A foggy overcast blinded the landscape when it wasn’t raining. Today is different however. The sun is a perfect circle and the sky is the clearest I’ve seen it since coming to Europe. “Looks like ye lucked out,” says the driver still chuckling. I want to respond, but the car sickness and a full bladder forces my mouth shut. I only laugh, and nod in acknowledgement. After a few minutes I force myself to speak. “What can you tell me about Doolin?” I ask. “Aye, not much,” replies the driver “Good for music and surfing I’d say. I don’ drop people much off ere’ much.” Surfing and music are the most common replies the Irish give that question. Doolin is one of hundreds of small towns that riddled the west side of County Clare. Usually, a tourist only comes to Doolin because of its proximity to the Cliffs of Moher or the Aryan Islands; it is a haven for those who need gas or a bite to eat. Every summer, though, people from all over the Emerald Isle come to Doolin to sing and dance the songs of their ancestors. Doolin kept many of the old Irish traditional music and language. In the eight years since my previous visit, I remember that part of Doolin more than any other. “What bring ye’ te’ Doolin?” asks the driver, “Ye been here befer?” “No,” I lie. For some reason, I can’t admit I’ve been so far south before. My first trip to Doolin was when I was a child. I barely knew who I was and why I was there. I was twelve then, and now I am twenty. Identity has become so clear and important. Doolin was where my family lived presumably for hundreds of years. They have seen some of the toughest parts of the wars and massacres to the south from the English. “I’m here to—to pay my respects,” I say. That much is true. The driver glances back at the comment with a confused look, but decides not to pursue it. I am glad; my head feels light. Though I regret drinking so much coffee before boarding the bus. I curse myself quietly for drinking so much coffee earlier. “How long would you say until we arrive?” I am getting desperate. “Aye, not long now, d’ya need to use the toilet? We can stop somewhere if ye like.”


“No.” I lie again. The bus system has officially two stops for Doolin: One at the Hostel a few minutes out of town, and the other next to the tourist department. I tell him I need to get right to the center of town, which as it turns out, happens to be absolutely nothing. “Be sure to be back round’ 2:45 er’ else ye’ be staying the night,” the driver warns. We exchange our thank yous and I walk off the bus. It feels like I am escaping from some dizzy prison. The green grass and blue sky of Doolin seem to burst far past the earth. The wind blows perfectly; it brushes upon my face, not too hard, not too soft, but enough that I acknowledge and appreciate it. The ruins and homes of old are scattered across the countryside; I am aware of how ancient the land is. I look to my right and see an array of pink and white houses in the distance. To my left seems to be a cluster of different shops and pubs, which just happen to be a tad closer. Since my bladder is close to bursting, I go left. As I move closer, I see there is a hotel, two closed shops, and a pub branding Doolin’s Irish Red. I enter the pub timidly. None of the lights are on in the entrance, and on first glance the tavern seems to be empty. As I creep toward the back, a Korean woman suddenly bursts out from the door next to me, fannypack on, talking on her cellphone. We both jump at one another’s presence, and she scurries away. I take a deep breath, and continue toward the sign that says “toilets.” When I exit the restrooms, I realize how anxious I am to be here. My eyes dart nervously around, only to see a few confused Korean tourists staring at a menu, and a bartender cleaning glasses and doing general cleanup. I approach her nervously; she sees me coming, puts the glass down and smiles. “What can I help ye with?” I don’t know exactly what I want so I ask for a menu. She disappears for a moment and returns with menu glued onto a hard wooden board. The food is simple: Corned beef, lamb, potatoes and sausage. I choose the lamb and sit down. The food comes out fast, and I eat quickly. Before I leave the pub I ask the bartender for directions to the cemetery of Doolin. Like the driver, the bartender only gives me a strange look, and draws a makeshift map on a napkin pointing me in the right direction. I thank her and say goodbye to the Korean tourists I was eating with. They don’t speak English, but they smile big smiles and wave me goodbye. The map puts my trip around a fifteen minute walk east of Doolin to a church by the coast where all the surfers would meet to surf and have tourists take photos of them or with them for a price. As I walk I can hear the sounds of waves crashing in the distance. Seagulls fly above looking for scraps left behind by tour groups or pubs. As I continue down the hilly road, the church reveals itself in the distance. A modest building made of brick; it is very fitting with the rest of the scenery around it. Next to the church lies a vast cemetery, sprawling with dozens of different gravestones and mausoleums.

27


The door of the church is open. When I enter, there are two men inside. The man closest to me is lighting candles in front of the statue of the Virgin Mary, while the other is at a desk writing. The man at the desk looks up. “Can I help ye’, child?” he asks. I don’t know how to explain why I am here. “I was curious if I could visit the graves outside,” I inquire. The man lighting candles looks up when I speak. The man at the desk scratches his beard, fixes his glasses and finally says “Do you have business there, or is it photos? We don’t condone the taking photos of the graves here.” “No,” I say, “not photos. I wanted to pay my respects to someone” “And who would that be?” asks the man at the desk curiously. Despite my objections to his prying, I decided now would be a better time to be honest. “I’m here to visit my great grandfathers grave. His name is John Doolin. He’s buried somewhere with his family outside.” The confession comes out so fast I am not sure if he heard it. “Oh!” the man said surprised. “Oh course ye’ can, there’s a lot of em’ Doolins out ere’, feel free to look as lon’ as ye take no photos, respect the ones buried.” The man lighting candles asks something in Gaelic to the man at the desk. He responds in the same tongue. I stand confused for a moment, and then leave. Outside, wind blows blissfully on my face. The sun is in that perfect spot in the sky. The warm rays fill my face with heat and shine over the bright day in Ireland. It would make for a great picture, if such a thing wasn’t so offensive. I pass the gate that has words encircling the entrance. The language is Gaelic, but I assume welcoming words of comfort. The cemetery is huge, and not well organized. There isn’t a path, so I had to be careful not to step on others’ resting places. The gravestones are ancient, spanning from ancient biblical scenes, to different Gaelic and Celtic symbols that I don’t understand. Etched onto the stones are names, some are Doolin’s others are Tooles, Crottys, O’Connors, and various other Irish names. I am interested to see that some of the Doolins use the original spelling, Dolan, and its variant. O’Dolan. Whether or not these people were my ancestors I can’t say. I am not here for them, I am here for John. I can tell it’s going to be a while until I find him. After a while, the beautiful sun begins to lower itself, blinding me as I look up, and making my hunt all the more distressing. The sight of me jumping from grave to grave searching frivolously must look quite strange to people passing by. Going through row for row of the dead looking for names seems futile until one rather unparticular grave reads John Doolin. I am astonished and relieved; John Doolin’s grave stands on an Irish Cross. It reads, “John Doolin, 1889, 1922.” There is no information about who he was,, what he did with his life, or the children he had with his wife, as is customary of American graves. Here, it doesn’t matter who John Doolin was, it only matters that he lived, and here is where he rests. I take a deep breath. I don’t know what to say: had John Doolin stayed here in Clare County, the entire history of my family would have changed. I think about all the tales of bravery I have heard of John Doolin: how his rhetoric inspired the people of


Clare county, how he stood in direct defiance of the English, who branded him and his friends rebels and traitors. The verity of these stories don’t appeal to me; for me, John Doolin is a figure in some King Arthur story. Despite his untimely death, he was still respected enough to have his body sent back for burial in his hometown, in his real home of Clare County, and not Chicago, not the home that wasn’t chosen for him. The wind is blowing again, I can hear the waves crashing onto cliffs; the Korean tourists cheer and take photos dutifully. I kneel by his grave. My shadow begins to overcast in the afternoon sun, and the two men from the church come outside to check on me, presumably to make sure I wasn’t taking any photos. I know it is time to go. The bus back to Galway will be leaving soon. I stare at John Doolin’s name one more time, and give thanks to the man I never knew, who will never know me. As I walk back into town, I realize I have about twenty more minutes until the bus reaches the tourist stop., I want some evidence of my time in Ireland. I walk to the knit store to pick up a Donegal cap, something I know my family would’ve worn. When I check out, the man at the desk says, “Not much people es’ season’, fraid we don’t got much ere’.” “This one’s fine,” I say, smiling. “Aye,” says the man in agreement. “Eis a good, one, wut bring ye te Doolin anyways?” At this point, I feel that I have nothing to hide. “I am a Doolin,” I say proudly, as if I held sovereignty over the lands of Clare County. “Aye, m’leige,” the man bows laughing. “An honor you’ve r’turned.” I laugh at that. “Does your lord’s return also grant me a discount?” We now were both laughing together. “Fer askin’, might’ have to charge ye double.”

29


Conor Doolin Doolin, Ireland


31


Tuna Melt by Julian Rome

everything should be kept together, intact until the day of consumption but my days feel so slight, melted, cold in me, so masked, next to the content. a break or chance only achieved in retrospect. warm and okay as they stride away, i’m trapped draped over my plate and seat convincing myself the fourth wall is set for a reason. dealt a cold melt served on the shoulders of my previous self the technicolored melt inside me radiates out, never received.


33


Carlyle Thomes “Polo on I got Horsepower” Bruges, Belgium This horse was just killing it pulling a cart with mad people in it. He was sweating like a pro athlete and I thought it’d be chill to capture his accomplishments.


35


Silence is the Music of the Desert by Janine Moody

Barcelona Airport My suede boats are soaked. But I’m going to the sun. My debit card got declined. But I’m going to the sun. I slept for three hours. But I am going to the sun. I sit at my gate watching the rain pour down in Barcelona. As a child of the sun, I crave what I haven’t had in so long. This trip is one I should be very nervous about. Don’t get me wrong I have absolutely been anxious leading up to this day. Going to a country that is so vastly different from anything I’ve ever seen before. A country which I have been strongly advised not to go to. Yet, I bought my ticket. I need a wake up call. On the Plane, Flight VY7332 I try to rest but I have tiny shoes being thrown at me, and apologetic French parents hoarsely yelling at their two children. But I can see the rich colors of orange and green. The Atlas Mountains shadowing buildings that are lined up in rows as massive plots of foliage intertwining one another. Marrakech, Morocco At the airport, I meet my friends that I will experience the next three days with. They are ready for any adventure, my type of people. We get to the city of Marrakech and there is so much going on. The open door structures look like large sand castles made on top of bricks. In the streets, old men carry wheelbarrows, mop heads whiz by bringing back memories of bicycles in Amsterdam, and street vendors heckle anyone who walks by. I am overwhelmed in the best way possible. We walk through the famous medina with wooden planks sheltering this maze of shops selling vibrant colored fabrics, dried fruits and beans from all over the continent, and little touristy trinkets. At first, the people here are intimidating. They are overly ambitious in their goal to


sell you something you don’t need but make you feel like you do. It works. We are called Lady Gaga and Shakira and physically pushed into merchants’ tents. They offer to make us food. I have never laughed so hard as I do walking through the food market that night. Good, cheap food is made right in front of us, the best shrimp and squid I’ve ever had in my life. I wake up in the early morning to get ready for the day. I climb to the rooftop where I see my first Moroccan sunrise. Shades of pink and blue shed around the sun as it forms from the horizon. Right above is the crescent moon on the outskirts. This place is remarkable. I head to the lobby where mint tea, bread, and apricot jam is served. My friends and I snack a little and hint at all the stuff we may have forgotten while packing. Five minutes after seven, we climb into a bus to the greatest adventure of a lifetime. Mountains and Valleys of Morocco It is not far into our journey that we see the Atlas Mountains over the little towns we drive through. Mountains with snow on them soar above men picking cactus off the side of a dusty mountain. I see giant water falls flowing from beneath cliffs. Though the scenery is unlike anything I have ever seen before, I do see similarities from my hometown; big trees, large mountains, forests. These are things I loved to explore back home and now I explore them in a whole different environment. On a bus driving through the mountains, my friends are joined by a diverse group of people. None of us really know each other and we come from all parts of the world. Yet on this tiny bus we are connected. We are connected by the mountains. We are connected by the sun. We are connected by the moon. However it’s not only the people on the bus, It’s every single person I come across. From the woman laughing to herself in the bar in Barcelona to the man who took advantage of us in the markets of Marrakech to the Israeli club promoter in London to the bar tender in Belgium who sat with at three o’clock in the morning to talk about love. We all live on this planet together. I had a hard time dealing with being a tourist in the countries I visited. I felt like I was invading with no knowledge of what the culture is like. Until now. In Morocco, I learned that some people are openly willing to inform you. They want to share their food, their knowledge, and the beauty of their country with you. I discover this as I travel to a thirteenth century Kasbah, eat the best couscous and dates I’ve ever had, and interact with the people in passing. We continue on the road to our destination, observing the everyday life of the people. I notice there is no importance of time here at all. Moroccans live from sunrise to sunset and beyond. They work hard all day no matter what your work is. Men on donkeys carrying crops causally stroll by. Women climb the hillsides herding dozens of goats and sheep Children kick a soccer ball in a sandlot. I see scenes like this multiple times, yet every time I feel as if I am seeing it for the first time.

37


Zagora, Morocco Eight hours later, we jump off the bus and get right to the camels. These camels are such majestic creatures, something I never thought I would say. We arrive just in time to ride our new furry friends into the sunset and on to our campsite. We dine on vegetable tangine and green tea. We circle around a bonfire and listen to traditional Moroccan music. We befriend one of the Moroccan guides who accompanies us up to the sand dunes to watch the sky. He answers our questions about the culture, teaches us constellations, the geography of the area around us and phrases in Arabic. Looking up, the stars are absolutely unreal; I have never seen anything like it before. Countless of tiny bright lights flood the dark sky. But it is the silence of the desert that strikes me the most. Our friend said something I will never forget, “Silence is the music of the desert”. There it was, my experiences wrapped into one quote. I discovered that we often become obsessed with the excess. Life does not always have to be so much about the description and the extravagant. One can live on just the essentials or even survive on nothing at all. Yet still find a reason to wake up to a beautiful world. A beautiful sky and more green tea start off my day. We ride camels again and I allow myself to just breathe. I breathe in the clean, fresh air. I breathe in the sun. I breathe in the heat. I take the moment in and allow it stick. Marrakech, Morocco Being brought back to Marrakech is bittersweet. It signals the glorious end to the windy mountain roads that make me car sick. But it also signals the conclusion of our stay in Morocco. We spend our last night walking through plaza. Marrakech is alive. People crowd musicians playing in front of lamps, families sell souvenirs on little mats, woman young and old lure tourists with picture books of henna, young men try to persuade others to come into their food stand, and a man stands by the ATM, picking up the receipts that had fallen to the ground below. Glamorous young people get ready for the night life. This is what makes Marrakech on a Saturday night. This is what makes my Saturday night. I get back to the hostel and repack my bag. It doesn’t hit me that I’m leaving. Morocco feels like home, a feeling of warmth I haven’t felt in a long time. Everyone told me that I shouldn’t go to Morocco. I shouldn’t experience a place filled with constant threats of danger and filled with the unknown. But I’ve been afraid of the unknown for so long. It was time to overcome this. My reward? These everlasting visions of the mountains, the deserts, the villages, and the people that are indescribable. “Silence is the music of the desert.”


Janine Moody Zangar, Morocco

39


Sculpture Garden by Tania Rios

The moment he dipped his fingertips into liquid alien remains, I swear, the air in the sky room changed. Babies’ breath fumes brood in soil. Just about one thousand moments ago, a new babe was born from a fever that poured and poured. Stone asparagus tower reigns, adjusts his razor prongs and yawns. The others respond yawning in unison. I see the face reflected in dandelion plastic. I see a shadow, cracked pavement from which childhood spills. Take pity, water planet of mosaic dust, on the cracked surface of dawn. The primordial fragment clockwork knocks his head against your frozen winter blanket.


41


Claudia Mak ‘Enchantment’ Antwerp, Belgiium


43


The Red Woman by Alexandra Stills

I sit in her room of red velvet. There are posters of beautiful women on the wall, black lace borders the curtains. I press the red button on my tape recorder. She exhales and says delicately, “In the early eighties, it was hard to get a job,” she rubs her tired eyes without smudging her silver shadow. “I wanted to lead a life of color and glamour, and prostitution was the answer.” Prostitution. Prostitution. The word normally slams into my stomach because of my own negative associations, but when she says it, I didn’t even blink. She is so comfortable with the word. I set up this interview with Miriam, the 45-year-old ex-prostitute, because I wanted to know why this word didn’t slam into her stomach like it slammed into mine. Does she have preconceived notions of me the way I do of her? - Clumsily running into the Prostitute Information Center where she works, trying to look smiley despite the nerves and cold running up my legs and spine. I want to slip my chilled feet into her little black flats. I look at her feet and imagine them in red stilettos; I am sure they once danced in such shoes. “How did you feel about being a part of the world of prostitution?” When I say it, the word still hammers at my abdomen. “I loved it,” she seems almost nostalgic. “Not the sex, but being outside society and having lots of money.” Miriam glances out the large window towards the center of the Red-light district. “I got nice dinners and fancy drinks- riding home in taxis and not stressing about the meter.” Grey curls bounce as her head turns in my direction again. “Here is the whole world in a square mile,” her red chiffon shawl rolls off her sweater as she points out the window, explaining the district’s layout: “Criminality, prostitution, crazy drunk men, but also a neighborhood of families and beautiful houses.” Miriam goes on about working in a sex club where the atmosphere was dark and relaxed. Unlike many, she did not have a drug habit or a debt. She could afford to be selective about her clients. “It was cool to be pretentious,” she chuckled to herself nostalgically, “It was cool to not care about anything and feel


powerful,” From her tone, she might be talking about the house she grew up in or her first dog. The lightness in her voice as she discusses such a taboo subject makes my face hot, but I maintain composure. I realize she didn’t screw just to screw men, but screw up the world. I begin to envy those silver eyes, smiling at me and holding up swollen bags beneath. But as her eyes drop to the floor, my jealousy vanishes. I ask the inevitable: “When did it all change?” “I wasn’t happy just working for the money anymore,” she sighs. “It wasn’t enough,” Her red polished fingers tap anxiously on the red velvet tablecloth. “Once you take money for sex, you can’t go back,” she gazes out the window again. “You are always an ex-prostitute. You are always going to be reminded of it.” Miriam was exactly my age when she began- twenty. I suddenly see the image of myself dancing naked, but shake away the thought. I feel an even deeper punch hit me again. The jabbing pain settles, and I am able to ask, “but didn’t you say you didn’t care what society thought?” “I wanted to then become a good citizen.” Miriam quit the club in 1984. She realized she still cared about society in certain ways, so she worked various small jobs for a normal wage, and attended University for two years. She huffs and puffs like an annoyed teenager describing this adjustment, still frustrated with how rapidly the glamour was eliminated. She began volunteering at the Prostitute Information Center a few years ago, feeling inclined to come back into the world of prostitution from a new angle. “I want prostitutes to be respected as workers. It’s not about being a pathetic, stupid victim. It’s about making money,” My eyes widen for some reason. I am sure not all current or former prostitutes feel as powerful as she does. I am truly in the presence of a strong woman. “It should always be a women’s thing,” she continues. “If they’re going to exploit themselves, it might as well be in their own control.” I thank Miriam for sharing her story with me and leave for Centraal Station. I pass a few windows along the way. Neon women pose, or talk on the phone, standing with sprawled legs. Instead of looking at their tits or bellybutton rings, I look at their eyes. I want to see if they shimmer silver.

45


Daniel Salerno “Diptych’ Bologna, Italy


47


Emily Smith ‘Notre Dame’ Paris, France


49


Entering La Sagrada Familia by Courtney Tharp

Antoni Gaudí. I have never heard the name before. I can see it, looming over the blooming trees, scaffolding dripping like honey from the structure’s tilted walls. The Passion facade hangs over my head like a bad dream, plucking convex shapes and angular faces and tucking them in the shadows. Minimalistic creatures dot the stone background of the entrance, like holes punched through cloth. The Augustus Gloops of Barcelona tourism stand slack-jawed, fannypacks hanging, surrounding an emancipated Christ, brutally roped to a stone pillar. Inside is another world. Trunks sprout from the marble floors, pinning the roof where it hangs in its pristine clockwork position. The cogs turn the ceiling if you look at it too long. Christ hangs from an umbrella of light, his bare feet not touching the ground. But he’s not the center of attention anymore. Heads roll like pebbles in a river’s undertow as captured audiences attempt to embrace the vaulted forest canopy. Cubes of glass shed shrapnel of light on the floor and spirals of stairs twirl towards the angels’ choir. Their voices cannot be heard over the continued crash of construction, but the melody is all the same. Gaudí’s unfinished jewel is Barcelona’s pearl, not yet ripened. Cathedrals are supposed to bring you to the gates of heaven, intimidate your sins with godly structures. God may have created heaven, but Gaudí created something supernatural.


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On Frequently Finding Yourself Out of Place in Church by Ady Pié

Religion fascinates me from an anthropological perspective. I have never once truly believed in God, however, I seem to find myself voluntarily in churches these days. Sunday school was a regular event in my household for roughly two elementary school years. I remember sitting on my dining room floor in an uncomfortable puffy dress one Sunday afternoon, flipping through my illustrated Bible, and thinking to myself, “why am I supposed to believe this and not fairy tales?” I still wonder. I must ask myself, why, then, was I moved to tears two days ago upon entering Gaudi’s Basílica y Templo Expiatorio de la Sagrada Familia in Barcelona? Why did I spend three hours in the Santa Maria Novella discussing my personal concept of God with an old friend? Yes, my love of art history has brought me to many of these spaces, yet there is something more than simple historical significance that draws me inside. Study abroad inevitably leads to reflection.

I have begun to think of

God as a collective force, fed by humanity’s various perceptions of it.

It’s more

of a concept we’ve all helped to create, and because humans have put so much faith in this idea we have begun to observe it as an independent force. I felt this force inside the Catedral Primada Santa María de Toledo when I looked into El Greco’s “The Disrobing of Christ,” or when I stared up at the enormity of St. Peter’s Basilica. Entering the silent prayer room here felt like the moment before you jump off the high board for the first time. I felt so small, yet I felt significantly touched by the intensity of humanity. I was in awe of my fellow beings’ devotion, even if I did not understand it the same way they did. Perhaps “atheist” is too strong a word. I generally define myself as agnostic, noting that I believe there is no concrete way for us as humans to possibly understand in full why the world works. Science comes close, but there is only so much equations and evolution can answer.

I think our collective

unconscious pulls on each of us, and perhaps this is God. I do not know for I am only human, yet I know I felt an energy within these spaces, some intangible force that none of us can fully explain. Perhaps it’s meant to be that way.


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Julianna Buck “Nun” Vatican City An Italian nun attending Wednesday afternoon mass in St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican City. On the other side of the altar, the College of Cardinals is present, receiving mass and reciting prayers in Latin.


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James Hausman “The Bearer of Your Sins” Madrid, Spain


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Time for Church (A Found Poem)

by Anna Sullivan & James Murray

The clock strikes fear into my soul however many times it likes. I love to count it down. (Hurry up, please – its time). I don’t remember what it is, the art of the ego what a great excuse. (A metaphorical mistake, perhaps) I think it’s sad we worship in churches Where the paint has faded from the walls.


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Heated Tiles by Claudia Mak

The world shifts leftward I overcompensate my right weight To lift my heavy head up To aim true towards the porcelain void Yack It has been so long since I have thought of you This wine has replaced my blood cells I am dancing through lighted streets of a dream city I apologize because you do not exist here Yack Nerves in my neck snagged back My inner thigh melts on these heated tiles I am almost at the end of my stomach How much more can I rid myself of rid myself ofYack -you? I am retelling the same old broken tale About the girl with endless energy Willing to absorb telltale signs of trouble Yack


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Janine Moody “London Bubbles” London, England


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Claudia Mak ‘A Tune of Discovery’ Madrid, Spain


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Sweet and Solitary by Nancy Valev

Sweet and solitary. I said shhh. Let the salient strawberry sink its skin into the very grooves of your tongue. Close your eyes and listen to what you have never heard. You’d be surprised at what reaches your ears. Take those words from the wind and put them in a glass jar. Keep them there for a few days and then let them out. Side with yourself. Let the words float up into the crisp air and watch as the breeze carries them to the place past the horizon you can never seem to reach. Your hands. As far as they can go. Reach out and take whatever is yours. Look down and trace the lines and read what is not in your native tongue. Decipher the code and paint it in the brightest color you can. Brush away any tears before they dry on your cheeks. And if they should dry, use them as a smooth canvas with which to paint a smile. Prod softly and watch the deer bound. With a tight golden ribbon, your packages are sealed. The tighter you tie them the harder they will be for someone to open. Your heart and do not be afraid. This world has taught you heartache and deceit but you must overcome this spell. The words out letter by letter and everything’s meaning will become clear to you. Soothing and suave. I said shhh. The cool crooning of the night owls pierce the starry night shine. Your way back and do not be afraid of what you cannot see. Me, making my way to you with my hands outstretched. The jar is open and I ask you before you put any more words in, if you are now happy.


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A Coward’s Curse by Ean Ryan

A picture likes and a name Vapid pixilated first A primal moth to a flame Dopamine receptors thirst A weekend of hopping trains The death siren wails her trident call Down the depths of fairy tale pains Lustful longing an opulent fall Nymphic fantasies danced in the brain The Romantic charms had waned Imagined ecstasy feigned Maelstrom of neurons to be tamed Voyeuristic screams of passion came Regression to apathy Pitiful shadows of the same Rational drowns in myopathy The fluorescent flickers its worst A primal moth to a flame A drunk masochist to pain His verse was a melody Mine a coward’s curse


69


Carlyle Thomes “Rebel” Amsterdam, The Netherlands


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Brandon Cardwell “Arctic Cathedral” Tromsø, Norway The modern design of the Tromsøysund Church makes it a top attraction in the city. The striking angles and beautiful chandeliers complement the church’s simple design.


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Sophie’s Ghost by Anna Sullivan

Note: Sophie died in the castle in the mid-1800s. Dead people are eternally unconscious, like when you sleep. Perhaps ghosts are dreamers who have forgotten they have no body to return to. It’s easy to forget things in dreams. It’s easy to get lost. I. Sophie experiences Anna’s dreams “You can be anybody in a dream. You can do anything you want.” I am in the dining hall of the castle laughing with my young friends who are all the same age as me. I can see some faces clearly; most are people who used to live here, but some faces are in darkness. Then there’s a girl I’ve never seen before with brown eyes and metal in her nose and she’s saying something funny about peanut butter and red jam—oh yes, yes, put it on a rice cake and you’ll never go hungry again! We laugh together. Then something is the matter. She looks up at with tears on her face. Our teachers come in and take her out of the dining hall. I follow them to the library. A stone building supported on muscular legs of granite, the library’s ceilings are so tall I can see clouds and daytime sky on the roof. The brown-eyed girl is gone. I am standing by the giant glass globe in the center of the library with a boy I love. We rest our elbows on the railing of the spiral staircase. He shows me pictures from a book; a green moth, a pretty woman, and with each page he turns we laugh and laugh, until he looks up and his face breaks. I turn to see what he sees: the brown-eyed girl is being led past us by the teachers, crying, and I hear her say my name—oh what was it? “You were supposed to come to class with me!” she cries “You said we would meet before class but you never came!” I hear myself cry her name—“Tania!” I shout, trying to run after her, but already she is gone behind another door. The boy I love is broken, splitting at the seams, leaking from himself. His words bubble blue from his throat, clogging his breath. He shouts in a language I can’t understand and throws the book at my feet, and he is gone in a puddle of his own mutilated colors. I pick up the book. It is my handwriting, handwriting from several years


ago, when I was a ten-year-old practicing penmanship at the desk—the desk! I remember I need to find something. Something behind the desk. I move the desk aside and press my fingers into the wall of book spines; they relent against my pressure easily, pages coming off in my hands like the husks of a ripe orange. I keep digging into the wall, clearing a hole the size of a window, and climb in. On the other side, the ground is painted black and I smell sawdust. Back stage at the theatre? On the left, there is a vast white bathroom, a porcelain tub and bubbles like rubies. On the right, there is the dark hallway of my aunt’s house, dusty and unilluminated, and in a bed pushed up against the wall, my aunt is dying. Yes, it’s this way, I remember it. But to the left or right? II. Sophie unconsciously communicates with Anna “Some people believe déjà vu just means you’ve dreamed it before.” I turn to the bathroom; it is light and gloss and attractive. I touch the bathtub; it is smooth and clean and white. It is nice here, lavish, expensive. I go to the sink; there are endless bottles of product; soaps, perfumes, colored salts and fragrant powders. I reach out to put my hands on them when, in the mirror above the sink, I catch my reflection. The solidity of it startles me; so deep and rich are the colors, so thick the lines that create my face. I can see myself breathing, tiny movements of my nose and throat. My eyes twitch as they look to different points of my reflection. My eyelids are low and sensuous. I sink into them like water. A green cloth is tied around my neck, and my mouth is tinged up at the corners, suggesting something, something… what was it I was supposed to find? Oh, but I’m so glad my hair is brown—look how it glows golden in the light! I reach up to touch it, but something stops me. Something I forgot: hadn’t I always wanted my hair to be brown? It never was brown. A stone drops from my throat to my gut; I do not have brown hair. I’ve only wanted it. No, I have blonde hair! My reflection sits behind the frame of the mirror, watching me; I am her reflection. No, no, my hair is like ugly straw, dead yellow grass, dead grass, dead grass. I cover her face with my hands, and seeing them, gasp at their thinness! Their softness and grey flatness under the bright round lights above the mirror frame. I touch her face, the rhythm of her cheekbones, her jaw. I unhinge it and touch the teeth, the molars, the tongue. I remove the tongue. I wipe her face skin away like almost-dried paint, stretchy and flesh colored. It drops heavily into the bowl of the sink until the sink is clogged with her dripping skin. She does not move. I pull away, stand back. She no longer breathes or sees. Her eyeballs are marbles in the sink. Ah, there, my reflection—is this what I look like? A skull stares back at me. “Tragic,” I say aloud. “too young, only a girl.” I make a sad face at her. She makes a sad face back.

75


Suddenly, someone else runs into the bathroom calling my name—oh, what was it? We both look up, my reflection and I, and then she disappears. The someone rushes in and sees that I have spilled all the fancy shampoos into the sink—they clog the sink, their gelatinous purple and pink sliding around the basin, and round bottle lids like marbles. “Those are my step-mother’s birthday present!” shrieks the someone, pulling me away from the sink, wiping the glut of soap from my hands, wiping the evidence onto her own. “You need to leave before my dad arrives!” III. Anna wakes up on Carnaval morning “Dreams are always the most accessible to the waking mind the moment after waking. From there, they fade, until something sparks them back.” Anna wakes up in her room at the castle. Does she smell soap? Ah, she remembers- it’s the morning of Carnaval. It’s a festival each year in Well; the citizens dress up and paint the names of dead people on paper mache coffins. Sophie’s Ghost. It’s a time of spirits, of awakening. The way Anna got it, she’s supposed to dress up and walk in a parade and drink all day. That’s what she’ll try to do. Only thing is, she has no idea what to dress up as. Well, someone whispered it in her ear last night. She felt it buzzing at the stem of her brain all morning, but the realization didn’t crack until breakfast: paint a skull on your face, Anna! You can wear all black. So she stole the face paints, and a mirror from the boy’s bathroom, and painted for an hour. Just black and white face paint and a paintbrush, dipped in water every so often to blend. She marveled that the paint seemed to turn her face to clay, seemed to turn her face flesh soft, transformable. When she got to the mirror, it looked real, convincing, except for one thing: suddenly she felt, for no clear reason other than a soft permutation of déjà vu, that the eyes must be sad and not angry. “I feel like a young girl who died tragically. That’s what I’m going for. Am I doing it?” Her friends nodded, friendly, almost solemnly. As she repainted the eye sockets, turning the shadows up at the edges, she felt something leave her and something else enter her. Who’s death was she rendering? Something laid its spirit against the warmth of her beating heart and looked through her eyes all day as she walked through the castle gates, down the road and into the parade. A young boy stuck his hand out of a hole in a wall, and as she touched it, his little fingers tickled her palm. A ghost of a sensation, it was, but so close to real. Later, a teacher tells Anna about Sophie. She died at age 16, said Ms. Lindsey. So tragic. The knowledge of Sophie’s death went to sleep that night as Anna did.


IV. Sophie remembers what she forgot “When a person drifts off to sleep and, semi-conscious, dreams of falling, the body confuses it with dying and jolts itself awake.” Oh, it’s Anna. That’s not my name—it’s the stranger there with the heavy body, the brown hair, the one who dreamed she was a skull. Her mother calls her upstairs past the double spiral staircase of her grandmother’s house, but I let her go. She is not me. She is not… I turn, resolved in my understanding that it is not the bathroom I was searching for—that’s the someone’s step-mother’s bathroom! I’ve never been there before, jamais vu, jamais vu. I turn to the right! Towards the hallway of my aunt’s house—no, Anna’s aunt’s house—and I can still smell the rotten cabbage soup and feel the sticky dust on the hardwood floors. I trace former footsteps through the kitchen into the hallway, the dark hallway that scares me, ice in my spine, but also a fishhook in my throat that tugs me towards the hallway, towards the bed where she lies. The bed is made of rusted metal and its headboard rises before me abruptly in the darkness. Anna’s Aunt Jean is there, dying. I can see her white-grey hair puffing like smoke across the pillows. I can hear her rancid breathing, rattling rocks in a tin. As I come behind her, she moans and her moan creates a heat in my mind and my body. I feel her moan within me. I know what I’ll see when I turn to look at her. I think I’ve seen it before in a dream: beak nose, bloodshot eyes melting into a white skull draped in flesh fabric. Aunt Jean—terrifying, the very memory of her, always pulling her last tortured breath from the abysmal hallway air. It terrifies me and yet I step forward to look at her, pull the covers back from her body— Sophie. It’s me, a young body in a wooden bed. Yellow hair like straw, like dead grass, dead Sophie pulling her last breath constantly from the still air of the castle room; Sophie dying. The memory of the fever takes me over again, and it is my own body now. My limbs feel all too heavy, like hot stones beside my burning body. My mother stands over me, crying “tragic, Sophie, she was such a young girl,” and my father takes her away, and the breath pulls out of me finally, suctioned out, leaving a terrible nothing in my body. The last thing I remember is a sudden jolt, the feeling that I’m about to fall.

77


Anna Sullivan ‘Anna Sophia’


79


James Murray “Scanned Image 1” and “Scanned Image 2”


I work a lot with adhesion – particularly with the two-dimensional stage. I like to sew things to canvases, glue things together, etc. I'm fascinated by the presence of a work of art, its gravity and the space it occupies. This series of scanned images is a product of that interest.

81


Consummation by Julian Rome

i think of you every time i cum. the moment i sat back in your grasp, there was no way to know how hard the fall would be. so familiar, welcoming within, without. us, some comfort ago evoking prodigious wonder within in each other and trenchant silence shrouded in black and white stares. now, we are just a performance, a retired connection— plugged in far past our prime. you sit next to me, still deep in talk and thought, and i just want the ability to stand without you. looking back at where we stood, the stage of what we had, i disconnect i fade. still, in those moments of flawless ecstasy, it is only you that i see


83


Courtney Tharp “Mismatched” Brussels, Belgium


85


Daniel Salerno “Bell Tower” Bologna, Italy


87


Living Carnaval by Beth Treffeisen

Prince Henk’s raspy voice apologizes as he answers the door letting me into his colorfully decorated house. Sitting down next to a fire lit wooden stove he appears empty without his feathered hat and royal blue cape. A portrait of the Prince smiling in costume hangs on the wall behind him as the smell of food wafts in from his wife cooking dinner. After attending every event of Carnaval, a week of non-stop partying did a number to him. “This year was special,” he reflects. Becoming Prince of Carnival was a complete surprise, one that he will never forget. One midnight in early December he heard a knock on his door. Outside, four members of the Carnival Committee informed him of his position as Prince for 2013’s Carnaval. Henk asked to think about it, but the Committee wouldn’t leave until he said yes. “I don’t know how it happened,” he says, “but it was more beautiful than I thought,” There are four other neighboring villages of Well that are under one Mayor. Each village selects their own Prince of Carnival. There is a small committee that choses the Prince but they listen closely to what the people in the village vote for. To become Prince, one must be popular. He has to be a big part of the community, participating in local clubs and activities. Henk has been living in Well for 22 years. In the last three years he has been voted fifth, fourth, than first by the village. “I never thought I would be Prince of Well,” says Henk. As Prince, he is required to attend every event of Carnval. The events started on Dec. 8 with a party during which his title was announced. In January, he visited Carnaval Club receptions in the villages that neighbor Well. They, in return, came to the receptions held for them in Well. Then comes the week of Carnval itself. Saturday, Feb 9. the Prince went to the Mayor of the five villages who symbolically hands him over the key to the village of Well. “When you get this key you are the boss of this village,” says Prince Henk. The Prince always has to be in front of every event. On Sunday, the morning of the Parade, his friends revealed the float he would stand atop, ahead of everyone else. “It was a very beautiful moment,” says Prince Henk. “It was super.” The float was inspired by his work, clubs and interests and made by his friends in his


mountain biking club. Now that the celebrations ended, Prince Henk is exhausted. “You hear my voice,” he says, “it is not that good.” Although Carnaval is characterized by a lot of drinking, Henk says that he refrained from getting too drunk. Everyone was watching him. He kept busy by dancing and doing the conga line. This also helped him sweat out a lot of the alcohol. “I can drink a lot before I become really drunk,” he says. Prince Henk gets up from his chair saying he wants to get something to show me. He returns after rummaging through the closet located in the living room holding his staff. During Carnaval the Prince has to always hold his staff he says. If he left it somewhere and somebody takes it they will make the Prince drink a lot beer in order to get it back. Five years ago Prince Henk said a friend of his was Prince and he had to drink four quarts of beer in order to get it back. Some people, like in the northern parts of the Netherlands do not have Carnaval and consider it foolish. Prince Henk says that in order to understand it, you have to have grown up with it. It starts early in school when kids start dressing up and celebrating. “You must have it from your roots,” he says. Children have their own Carnival celebrations to themselves. This year, Henk’s two sons were part of the children’s adjudanten. They celebrated Carnaval separately from him because, as Prince Henk says, being a 13-year-old is not so popular to been seen with your Daddy. Outside of being Prince of Carnaval Prince Henk works nearby at the water community where there are little rivers and dikes. He manages around 20 people who work outside as he works inside. Along with being in the local mountain club, he is part of the Children’s Holiday Club. There he helps organize a week vacation for the kids in Well to be in the woods for five days of games. Prince Henk also takes part in the Carnaval Club where he writes and reads comedy scripts at one of the Carnaval shows put on. As well, every year he helps create a magazine of pictures and stories of the past years Carnaval. The week after Ash Wednesday, Prince Henk is free. On Monday he starts work again. Although he isn’t looking forward to it, he said he would try. Looking back on this year’s celebration, of Carnaval Prince Henk says, “At last it was a very nice, very nice time. I wouldn’t have ever imagined.”

89


The Magician by Karen Lindsay

In the Tarot card deck, the Magician is card number one—the potential for empowerment. The World is card 22: the achievement of everything.

You have it, the power, laid out, neat as death on the plain wood table. What will you do with it? Clutching your wand, you reach skyward. Your other arm stretches toward the earth. You do not touch the vines above, the flowers below; you do not touch the table. A snake devours itself around you, you do not move. Stasis. Motionless, you are everything. Touch the sword and you must fight, the cup and you must drink, the coin and you must spend, the branch and you must grow. Eternity hovers above you. Move, and you shake everything. Will the snake hiss, or bite, or slither away? Will the cup spill, the sword cut? The neat elemental balance shifts to chaos. The World begins.


Voetpad

by Lauren Scovel

On Wednesday nights, the Voetpad sags beneath our eager feet, though we may be less inclined to follow its mortared lines. We have ten hours to absorb our poisons before Florence or France. Though the smoke may cloud our lungs, and the legality our judgment, we will buy a shot to toast the challenge. Without our brains, we use our bodies in calculated, polarized ways. Free hands for dancing or photographs to taunt tomorrow. Free mouths for shouting or to reward the staring Dutch. Like humans, we equalize. For every bond we do not break, we break a glass. Frantically, we change positions, trade sexualities, and with our music, shift the decade. Tomorrow, we will tally the night’s success not by the money in our wallets, but by the bodies at breakfast. So tonight, let us defy the laws of nature, the laws of embarrassment, and, later, the laws of gravity. We won’t care about the consequences, because in weekend planning and class attendance, we’ve simply run out of time to regret.

91


Daniel Salerno ‘Black Swan’ London, England


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$46*666


Black Swan  

A Literary magazine I designed while study abroad in Well, The Netherlands

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