THE CHRONICLE SPRING 2022
Cover art, inside cover art, and page decals by Nicole Ammerall
ABOUT THE CHRONICLE Established in 1897, the Chronicle is Clemson University’s first student art and literary magazine. Twice a year, our staff promotes, produces, and distributes a new issue representing the best artistic and literary work that Clemson students have to offer.
We have many committees that work together to create the magazine including creative direction, layout, promotions/events, copyediting, art submissions, literary submissions, merchandise, web, and business. From art and photography, to poems, short stories, essays, audio and visual submissions, we accept a wide variety of submissions every semester, many of which are selected to appear in the magazine.
Disclaimer: The views, thoughts, and opinions expressed in this issue of The Chronicle belong solely to the individual artists and writers. It is noted, these ideas are not afiliated with The Chronicle
FROM THE EDITOR Spring 2020. The second semester of my freshman year, the second semester that I was on staff at The Chronicle, and the first semester of Covid School. Since then, Clemson and the world have been through innumerable ups and downs- the cliched “unprecedented times” have become the new normal and through it all, The Chronicle has remained constant. We have survived 125 years, and Covid was no different for us. That’s not to say that we haven’t changed. Our numbers have grown smaller- but the staff that remains is more dedicated and determined than ever to leave a legacy behind. Our magazine has continued to publish each semester, and we are beyond excited to celebrate 125 years. The Chronicle is what it is because of the staff, the Clemson students who show up each week determined to make a difference and provide a platform for the Clemson community to share their art with the world. I know that long after I graduate, I will remember the loyalty and commitment of this team forever. I am proud to say that I have been a member of The Chronicle for the past 3 years, and it has truly been my honor and privilege to serve as Editor in Chief this semester. To my staff- thank you for making this magazine happen. To the Clemson community- thank you for being an audience for The Chronicle for the past 125 years. Here’s to (hopefully) 125 years more!
Caroline Morales
TABLE OF CONTENTS Golden-Gleaming-Glowing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 warmth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 Benny in the Bushes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 A Year of Love Letters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 Time Meets the 21st Century . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 3 Flower Pots . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 I Held the World Once . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 Baltimore . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 Charleston . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 American Pipe Dream . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 ‘04 accord with a white picket fence . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 away . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Umber . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 Treasure Island . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 Someone Else’s Treasure . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 Malibu’s Life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Malibu’s Life Two . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 Mouthpiece . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 Asymmetrical Oyster Shells . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 La Virgen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Bust Bag . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 Liz’s Love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 Grieving Gibbous . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 weeding . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 over . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 PB & J . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 a girl . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 Conquering Femininity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 Disco . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 Sophia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 Abigail . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 A Cafe Before Lunch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 Intersections: See Me Succeed! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37 A Reflection . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38
Brain Fog and the Perception of Time . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 If We Had Met Then . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 Mourning Facticity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46 today . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47 Grocery Shopping . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 To Table . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 There is a Big Storm Coming . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 Beyond the Barn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52 140 Miles Per Hour Over the French Countryside . . . . . 53 Release . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 Skeletons . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 Waterfall . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56 Rot . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58 Good Morning Three-Day Migraine . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59 Memory of the Park . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60 The anxious fidget . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61 Here’s Your Current Medication List . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62 Black Goo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63 Hibiscus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64 Artifact Phase, Landscape . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 Artifact Phase II . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66 apology letter to the hearts i assume i’ve broken . . . . . 67 d.i.y. scrapbook for childhood trauma . . . . . . . . . . . . 68 The Hungry Cat Gnaws on a Sliver of Mirror . . . . . . . . 69 3 am impressions should be VIOLENTLY ignored . . . . 70 a poem about nothing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71 Malibu’s Coast . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 The Educating Space: Questions and Answers . . . . . . 73
Golden—Gleaming—Glowing Birds hold their breath at the sight as a golden sun spills paint across the world leaving a saturated sky in its wake— a bluebird sings one last tale for a temporary grave. The sun’s flaming descent excites the stars glistening to life against the chaos the temptation of mystery shines in their dance— it only takes one individual to tell the tale of the world’s soul. The moon rises with a fallen navy curtain glowing with knowledge that’s only found in man’s darting eyes owls awaken, consuming the tales and burying rumors— singing into the bluebird’s nest stories for generations who will come.
Melina Wallace
warmth As the land begins to thaw anew, shaking off frost and cardigans; And when the sky holds the long dead buffalo until they fade into those eternal fields, I used to hold onto the morning chill. Unlike the forgiving firmament, the earth used the cold to harden And won’t relent to dig up sunken graves. Her branching arms stretch out whispers; Can you miss the sun you never felt? Freckles emerge again; my spine tingles as dandelions take hold. Hunger delights instead of gnaws while I find a place to root, and stake it as our own. Still, I can’t stop myself from the future when distance unspools itself across power lines and purple lamps that sway and stutter under the unbothered stars. I’m not in the business of forgetting (grudges do lend themselves to kindness now and then.) So dogear me; crease it firm. This is what it should be. This is how we’ll know.
Amanda Younglund
Benny in the Bushes
Chloe Johnson Acrylic
A Year Of Love Letters I never liked the smell of vanilla until I smelled it on you, dear A scent I can’t quite remember, and a sound I can’t unhear. A stretch of time so lost on me, yet I now yearn so to remember Never one to go quietly. My vanilla in December. There’s something lurking in the rafters here that makes me think of you It couldn’t be that love persists. Gone, I’m sure it’s true. I’m left here crying softly, after my heart you did dismember. I ache for you, my love, left here broken in November. I cannot escape the smell in these walls. It follows like a ghost. As something’s taken over me, my heart its pitiful host. I think of us then now and again, and our parting many times over. The smell in this house haunts me. My dear, lingering, since October. The faint musty smell of the books you’d read, for which you said you would return I now cover with the smell of smoke, as those beautiful things I burn I found your fire a comforting warmth, your dazzling spirit’s ember I fear I’ll never escape our world, extinguished in September. I never did take you, at the break of a morn, to see the sun rise, dear And now I stand alone in the light, wishing you were here. Love and hate rip at hy heart, but peace grows near I trust. I fear I’m reminiscing of something long gone by August. I rarely noticed the smell of leather, its dark and musty hues Until it came with each new day, the scent of your new shoes I know not what of yours to keep, or how you left or why, But some of you remains here, even in July.
cont. on pg. 5
A Year Of Love Letters (cont.) The rush of the ocean and the smell of the sea The greatest of wonders to behold… could it be? How wrong was I, this wretched eye, longs only for a glimpse of you Adjust your sails my way, my dear, my castaway from June. I loathed the smell of coffee brewing, its gurgles in the pot But now that I’m without it here, I miss what I have not. I feel that soon I’ll make some, like you did once each day Not for the taste, but the memory, of you and I last May. I never saw the beauty, truly, in the wooded hills you loved The orchard vast and sprawling and the raging blue above The smell of you still in these trees, the ever-souring maple My love, know I still think of you, even now in April. I found the sound of songbirds, singing, annoying as can be Until I saw you loved them so, that day we left the city. You’d smile as they darted, over, under window arch I miss you more than you could know, my songbird lost in March. I find the silence peaceful, and all is quiet here. Sometimes I swear I hear you sing, a ringing in my ear. Each day I live without you dear, I feel I grow less weary. My first and only love, I fear, sings elsewhere this February. I loved the sound of wedding bells, their elegant chimes, until… Now their very thought, so bold and harsh, still sends up my spine a chill. My love untrue, and one year gone, the one I thought I’d marry My love, who ran, last January.
Julia Bonetto
Time Meets the 21st Century
Nicole Weldy
Ticking clock and paper weave CREATOR’S NOTE This artwork is a call to live in the present. Even if you work a 9-5 job, you still have a chunk of time to spend with those who love you before preparing for tomorrow. But I have observed technology distracting people from quality time spent with loved ones. A man coming home from work walking with his son is collaged with parents observing their children playing on the backyard swing set. This piece is a reminder that precious moments will you pass if you chose to scroll on your devices.
3 Flower Pots
Olivia Hueble
Ceramic Stoneware
I Held the World Once i held the world once i saw the oceans blue the green of the land the heat of the sahara the heartbeat of europe the shape of the americas. i held the world once every flower had a meaning, a smell unlike any other every sunrise held your love every sunset was a hug when you blinked the tides rose when you smiled the Moon became a bit more full i held the world once now i see through a looking glass watching someone else hold the world watching Earth gravitate to another Celestial the glass is slightly broken but i don’t take my eye off you even as the fractures expand and threaten to pierce my eye i held the world once the flowers make me sick the sunrise blinds me the sunset leaves me shaking the tides sink and draw further from the sand when you smile the Moon becomes a bit darker, a bit more sad, a bit more dull i held the world once but gravity took her elsewhere now someone else knows of the oceans blue of the heat of the sahara of the heartbeat of europe of the shape of the americas but at least i can still observe through my looking glass even though it’s broken and the glass is falling
j
Baltimore Megan Nash Photography
Charleston
Kennedy Davis Photography
CREATOR’S NOTE This one was taken impromptu a few years ago when I was in Charleston with my family, and we stopped at a pizza place to get dinner. I thought the LED’s and the reflection in the window were gorgeous, and after a bit of editing, it is still to this day one of my favorite pictures I’ve taken.
American Pipe Dream John Ortiz-Ruiz
Digital photography CREATOR’S NOTE Though the pipes are different in size, shape, and condition, they all come together to work in tandem and move things forward. Ironically it’s set in an abandoned mill as well which represents American society in a way, the factory being the last place where all workers were to be treated, somewhat fairly no matter their origin.
‘04 accord with a white picket fence i don’t ever wanna stop living in my car, i just want other people to stop getting so upset when i tell them where i stay. i got big plans for that dented old coupe, you know; i bought some land out in the country where me and my car can live in peace, where i can drive to the top of this big, sandy hill i know and park my car there and replace her groaning tires with cinderblocks and her dying transmission with fishing poles and satisfaction, this place where i can plant a garden with okra and collard greens and sweet potatoes next to my gently decaying heap of metal and i can call it all home.
every night when i sleep in there i’ll remember all that car did for me, how she remembers when i first slept in her with a raggedy sleeping bag and a dirty old suitcase, and we’ll stay up late laughing about how i used to wake up early and sing to the radio till my lungs nearly burst, how i used to croon old country songs to every lover i ever cried over, and we’ll talk with hushed voices about what a beautiful and terrible thing it is to love me, how it’s not my exes’ fault that it’s so hard to love someone who has nothing but passion and an addictive personality, and we’ll think about how far we’ve come since then
as i lay in the back seat and the sun rises and the birds start singing all those vagabond songs that we’ve come to know so well.
Houston Louis Keenan CREATOR’S NOTE “’04 accord with a white picket fence” is about remembering some of the good times I had while I was in a difficult place in my life and living in my car. It is intended to challenge commonly accepted social perceptions of those who are homeless or not in permanent housing.
away Caroline Harrison Photography
Umber I used to think that as we age, our hearts would grow cold And harden into stony fragments. The world around us seems to want That, doesn’t it? What with all its heartbreak. You changed that for me, Cowboy coyote. Whistling into the trees as twenty years of sweeping rays reflect on your freckled face. You’re blue as the ridges above. Calling to me, you saturate my soul in honey tinted eyes. I do not have a name for this feeling is all, I can only write you these words. Howling into my sinewy soul With a passion that my essence craves to know. Whose love burns like a bonfire With those umber colorings kind hands and golden gaze, I love you like I love the moon.
Browning Blair
Treasure Island Once more I stride the emerald green. ‘Neath the crescent moon whose halo sheens. There over the rolls and atop the crests, I climb the ramparts where the osprey nests. She sleeps as you and I with the sands hissing the bleached woods creaking all in beat with the black tar sky. I was once her passerby. A boy, score and five, awash in branches and vines. Her air, I’ve remembered in time I remember my father, the creak in the chains, shrill tauts of line. Nothing but a dead horse drowned in wine. Up the straight I climb, palming faces long carved, to see her hair hitch the coral, my hands the wooden fo’c’sle. I am with her now, like my father, caught in a swell.
Erik Rolfe
Someone Else’s Treasure
John Ortiz-Ruiz
Digital photography CREATOR’S NOTE A chair left behind beside a lake that was then used as a fishing seat. A play on “one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”
Malibu’s Life Malibu’s Life Two Sydney Lykins Photography
Mouthpiece I am of the beach sands in the spring, kicked by herons and soaked in brine, where the church bells hum and ring. Watch close as the lovers fling and see as their hearts wrap and whine. I am of the beach sands in the spring, Afore the gullies where the sparrows sing. Take care to watch these trespasses of mine, where the church bells hum and ring, For nature’s chaos comes smoldering, and man chews himself fine. I am of the beach sands in the spring, that allowed for your pallid pining and formed Adam before the shoreline, where the church bells hum and ring. To me you shall return, and new life will I bring. The blood of my blood, the bread and wine. I am of the beach sands in the spring, Where the church bells hum and ring
Erik Rolfe
Assymetrical Oyster Shells Chloe Johnson Acrylic
La Virgen
Samantha Shamard Ceramic Assemblage
Bust Bag
Nicole Weldy
Duct tape, found plastic CREATOR’S NOTE Children and husbands are heavily dependent on the mother of the household to keep track of their things. This artwork investigates the weight and dependence families have on mother figures in relation to the designer bags consumer culture sells for them to use. Many fashionable bags for women aren’t made for them to carry as many things as they are needed too. I recall my own mother carrying coats, snacks, and medicine for my two younger siblings and I growing up.
Grieving Gibbous How is it that shaded sunbeams can pound into blanched skin, not to caress but to pierce with hostility? Though the stone hearth provides warmth, there are no splintered logs crackling. Instead, silent ashes wane like the grieving gibbous. How is it that lovers can be so cruel in our dreams? What should shine brightly seems only to reflect misty grays. It has been said that true beauty remains everlasting, and yet I awake hotly from envisioning such a chill.
Browning Blair
Liz’s Love
Sydney Lykins Photography
weeding “go pick the weeds from the front bed.” “yes sir.” and there i am on my hands and knees, skillfully distinguishing dog fennel and pokeweed from camellias and liriope, clumsily discriminating between wholesome, home-town thoughts and fleeting feelings of obsession with everything else that’s out there. i move to a section of clover and hickory nuts, and like the hickory i find my roots secreting an acid that prevents my companions from growing close to me; like the adolescent longleaf pines, i am afraid of invasive kudzu smothering me, trapping me beneath tons of green; the aching of my knees draws me back to the moment, the sound of wind sprinting through the trees in spring takes me to a feeling of healing, a sense of atonement. it’s alright not to be anything; it’s enough just to be. i grab a handful of the sunbaked clay, crush it, and let the sediment slip past my fingers.
Houston Louis Keenan
CREATOR’S NOTE “weeding” is about having a moment of introspection while working at a summer landscaping job, but on a more abstract level it is about using nature as a metaphor to understand the self and navigate the world.
over Caroline Harrison Photography
PB & J
Nicole Weldy Crochet thread, resin CREATOR’S NOTE The artwork is an exploration of women’s work and the origins of Irish crochet lace. I crafted an exploding peanut butter and jelly sandwich emphasizing the value of packing lunch for someone else.
a girl my body, your temple you say oh, thank goodness someone loves me because I couldn’t right? I’m just a girl. my life in your world thats how you see it right? because I wouldn’t understand I’m just a girl. my innocence in your hands there’s no value to me why would there be? I’m just a girl.
Sophia LiVigni
Conquering Femininity
Chloe Johnson Colored pencil
Disco
Caroline Cherry Oil painting CREATOR’S NOTE The still life, Disco, was painted during the peak of quarantine. This piece is representative of life after the party, the disco ball is still bright and the party paper is thrown carelessly around.
Sophia
Abigail
Olivia Hueble Ceramic stoneware
A Cafe Before Lunch I believe I was somewhere in Northern Paris when I met Ivan Shulmer. It was an abnormally hot summer day, and people were generally staying off the streets, so I decided to do likewise and brought myself to a small cafe with outdoor seating. It was a neat little dining arrangement with white stone walls, grated metal for the outside chairs and round tables, and a black metal fence surrounding them. I walked through the fence and up to the bar counter inside the establishment. It was still before lunch, and as such there was no one in the cafe but myself and several employees - the bartender was not there. I instead saw a waitress cleaning down the tables. She wore a white shirt and black dress and she even had a black vest on. She was not tall, and her blond hair was tied up a little. She glanced at me just as one might expect to be looked at by a waitress who still has over an hour left before she needs to work but has to work anyway. cont. on pg. 39
A Cafe Before Lunch (cont.) I asked how their grappa was. She said that they didn’t sell grappa. So I asked how their red wines
into space. I have and always have had a bad habit of staring
were, and she assured me that they were of good quality.
at people, especially when there are no other people
Satisfied, I sat down outside, on a white chair and at a
around. That is what I had been doing the whole time:
black grated metal table. I did not take off my hat, as it
staring, every time a person walked by. That is why when
was only so early in the morning and yet it was fairly
Mr. Shulmer came into view uproad I did not look away
humid and I needed the shade. Forgive me-I know it may
from him. Now here is an interesting fellow, I thought.
have been rude, but it was required in the given situation.
And truly he was, for he had a straight faced smile upon
I did not read the paper either, for I had no paper, and I
him, so one knew he was happy, or at least content about
spoke bad French. Instead, I simply sat in the sunshine
something. His black suit was old and his coat had
and stared into the practically deserted streets. Every so
patches at the elbows. He wore no vest and only had a
often a passerby would stroll along the road - a dressed
dusty looking bowler hat on his head. Well, I could tell
up woman with her husband, or a man or two on his way
that this man was either American, British, or perhaps
to work-but that was only every so often.
Belgian, maybe, but definitely not French. There was
The waiter came to me-a tall, thin man wearing
simply something that looked distinctly English about
black pants and a black vest and tie. He had flat black
him. As for his complexion, he was short and had an
hair that was combed over and a thin black moustache
elderly face with hard wrinkles, though he did not look to
that was shaved in the middle. When he came outside
be older than sixty five, maybe.
he was smiling, and there was laughter from inside the
I attempted to predict where he would go, as I
cafe, presumably from a funny joke or anecdote that
did with all the other people who had previously passed
had been told. An automobile passed by. It was a silver
me by, and assumed that this elderly man here would
automobile, its clean spare tires on the sides below the
continue down the street until he came upon the second
headlights, a very fine vehicle, indeed. The waiter asked
block, and then make a right. Instead, however, he
me what I wanted to eat, and I replied that I only wanted
crossed the street and was now on my side. Intrigued at
a sandwich of any kind and whatever bottle of white wine
this interesting development, I then presumed that he
that was the most convenient for him to grab for me-I
wished to continue down another alleyway on this side
suddenly didn’t care much for the red. He walked back
of the road, but he skipped over all of those as well. I was
inside the cafe, and I resumed my task of staring off
quite shocked to see that this peculiar figure must have
wanted to dine in the cafe, as he strode right through the
was a writer. I asked him what newspapers he wrote in.
entrance of the front gate and inside the establishment.
“No newspapers,” he replied. “Only books.”
He remained inside the cafe for only a few moments,
“Why only books?”
and then came back out. He stood over the empty chair
“The newspapers all want something their own
across from me and asked if he could sit there, as it did
way. It’s impossible to write something for them that
not look like I was doing much. I nodded my head and
meets their ever-changing standards.”
agreed-sometimes it’s good to just talk to people you
“Hm,” I replied. I did not feel like talking
don’t know, to remind you about the other aspects of the
suddenly, but despite this I continued. “Have you ever
world that you are unfamiliar with. The old man did not
eaten here before?”
take off his hat either, as he sat down. I told him that I
“No.”
was not good at French, and asked if we could speak in
“I thought you said you live here.”
English. The man replied that his English was not good,
“I said I lived in France,” Mr. Shulmer replied
and asked if we could speak German. I agreed, German
with a smile. “Not specifically in Paris.” Some silence
being a language that I was quite fluent in, and our true
passed before either of us spoke again.
conversation began. He asked me what my name was, and I replied
“Do you live in Paris?,” I asked. “Yes,” Mr. Shulmer replied. “But you could not
that it was Woodrow Pauline. He said that his name was
have known that unless you had asked it. For all you
Ivan Shulmer. I asked him where he was from, and he
knew, I could have been from out in the countryside.” I
replied France (this surprised me). I told him that I was
soon came to ask him what books he had written, and he
from the United States, New York City, specifically. Mr.
replied that he wrote romance novels. What, with a world
Shulmer stated that he had been to New York. I asked
that was turning a blind eye to the woes of soldiers’ tales
him how it was, to which he replied that he thought it
of the Great War in this ever-evolving society, I told him
was an industrial and ugly city. I told him that he was
that this was an excellent strategy. Mr. Shulmer replied
right. The waiter - now with a white apron on over his
that it was not a strategy, but that he simply liked to
suit - brought me a glass of white wine and then took
write them. I said that this was a grand and beneficial
Mr. Shulmer’s order: a turkey and swiss cheese sandwich
coincidence, that something he loves so dearly could
with mustard. The waiter left, and Mr. Shulmer asked
ensure such stable income.
what I did for a living. I told him that I was one of the spokespeople for a major American company that produced and sold typewriters. Mr. Shulmer said that he
cont. on pg. 41
A Cafe Before Lunch (cont.) “It does not,” he stated. “Surely it must,” I countered. “No. People just don’t want to read romance
for a few moments. “I just know,” he finally replied, and continued eating his sandwich. At this point, I worried that I had
novels. They all want tales of the wealthy life and the
offended the man. Perhaps he had once married and
mafia, stuff that I don’t like to read or write.” I asked him
then divorced. Perhaps his wife had died. Who was I to
for the name of some of his books and said that I would
be the judge of fortune and misfortune? I, for one, had
definitely buy a copy. (When I finally got around to it
never had a wife, so even if Mr. Shulmer was unmarried,
about two months later, I did see a copy of one of his
his guess about what the experience is like could be no
novels in a small bookstore in the United States. I read
worse than mine. I felt like I could owe the old man some
it, and frankly, it was horrible, but it was still decent in a
credit, for what, I wasn’t sure, but I felt like I owed him
way. At least it was pure, unsponsored). Soon, the waiter
for something. The waiter came by and cleared the table
came out with our lunches. For me, they had prepared a
for us when we had finished eating, and we ordered some
ham and provolone sandwich. They brought out some
cigarettes. We smoked for a while in silence, and half of
white wine for Mr. Shulmer, as well, and a bread and
that time I was stabbing myself on the inside as I futilely
cheese plate for us to share. We ate mostly in silence,
searched for something to say to shatter that setting. But
and I asked Mr. Shulmer if he had a family. He said no,
Mr. Shulmer didn’t seem to mind, so I said nothing.
not anymore. He asked me if I had one, to which I replied
“Do you ever think about breathing?,” he asked
that my parents were alive and well in the states, but I
after a while as he took his cigarette out of his mouth
had never married.
and examined it a little, holding it close to his face but
“You should get a wife,” Mr. Shulmer stated. “It is the most beautiful thing a man could ask for.” “How would you know if you’ve never had a wife,” I asked, at which Mr. Shulmer only stared off into space
leaning his head back as he looked at it. “How so?,” I asked more or less absentmindedly. “Nobody ever likes to think about breathing,” Mr. Shulmer continued. “You always breathe, but you do it
absentmindedly. Breathing is necessary for survival. But
eager to clear us out of the cafe in preparation for the
when people think about it, they realize just how easy it
onslaught of patrons and newer customers, gingerly
will be for one day the lungs to stop working.” At this,
brought us our bill. I offered to pay, but Mr. Shulmer
I turned from gazing at the top of one of the buildings
insisted that he pay for the meal. I offered again, and told
across the street from us and instead to Mr. Shulmer,
him that I really didn’t mind - I was being paid to speak
curious. “But I like to think about it,” he continued. “It
at a business convention that very afternoon. But he
makes me feel powerful, like I have control over my body
ended the debate by pulling out his wallet and putting
and what it does, where it goes. Only I can keep myself
the money down on the table. I thanked him, and after
alive.” He stuck the cigarette into the cigar tray and sat
quick goodbyes we went our separate ways forever. I had
back in his chair.
to get back to my hotel room and prepare my notes and
“A hospital could keep you alive,” I added rather
papers for my speech later that day, but all the while I
thoughtlessly. Quickly I worried that I had just accidently
wondered what Mr. Shulmer would be up to. I imagined
implied that the man should belong to an asylum, so I
that he would go back to his empty little room. He would
hastily added that a prison or a restaurant could keep
hang up his dirty bowler hat on the coat rack just inside
one alive as well.
his door and sit down at his traditional non-corporate-
“No,” Mr. Shulmer countered. “They could keep me alive physically, but not mentally.” I could have
brand typewriter and write some more of his next romance novel, a novel that he knew no one would read.
pondered on this longer, but the streets were becoming more crowded, lunch hour nearly upon us. The waiter,
Matthew M. Ployhart CREATOR’S NOTE Not all little things in life are enjoyable, but some of them can still be insightful.
I am here. See me. Do you see me in the academe? at the academy? 5 feet 2 ¼ inches tall, 52-years-old, nontraditional Black woman doctoral candidate, graduate student representative, leader-in-training, trained leader, certified student leader, intersecting at intersections of multifaceted experiences – brought some to, gained some from – the academe and academy, Do you see me? four times degreed, persisted, persistent, bachelor of arts, master of education, educational specialist, master of science, diversely P20 credentialed, early childhood, elementary, leadership – educational AND athletic SEE ME! I see you within and beyond borders framing Ma, Miko, Tomiko, Ms. Smalls, Neesey, Tarnise, Cuz, Cousin, Sister, Sis, Sista, Soror, T, Aunt TT, Auntie TT, Friend, TT, I am who I am! I am more than eyes can see, Do you see me? intelligent, intellectual, competent, knowledgeable, capable, analytical, thoughtful, respectful, thankful, forgetful, regretful, successful, remarkable, caring, practical, unforgettable, noticeable – NOT INVISIBLE! Do you see me – an asset in the academe? at the academy? Beyond perceptions natural eyes reflect… researcher, scholar, practitioner, trainer, educator, facilitator, participator, debater, decision-maker, motivator, mediator, agitator, problem-solver, advocate, SEE ME! activist, critic, Do you see me – an equity-minded, ethical, logical, I AM HERE! supportive, flexible, student-centered, dynamically innovative, Do you see me? fun, forward-thinking, thought provoking, technology savvyloving, humorous, loud, leader in the academe? at the academy? SEE ME! quiet, Christian, seamstress, my head, my heart, my hands, my health writer, reader, baker, singer, more than a pledge – a lifestyle! athletic, athlete, teammate, fan, servant-leader, lifting basketball, baseball, softball, golf others while I volleyball, tennis, hockey, soccer, climb! Do you see me in the academe? at the academy? making a difference in the world around me and beyond? SEE ME! experienced, inexperienced, an only child-with an only child, a single mom, challenged, challenging, Do see me? gifted, strong, weak, valued, you acknowledged, a winner, champion, ignored, over-worked, underpaid, a fighter, championed, conqueror, eager, energetic, dedicated, creative, Do walls, my barriers, your obstacles, you see me? your my opportunities to prove persistence by sweat, tears, self-agency, diligence, relying only on the reliable few who see me in the academe at the academy! Do you see me? No legacy, small rural literacy-challenged southern community birthed first-generation student, humble upbringing, limited financial resources, middle-class housed, grandparentsreared, a young mother’s child, resilient, aspirational, cultural capital endowed, SEE ME! I AM uniquely experienced, successfully created for the academe at the academy! I AM HERE! SEE ME SUCCEED! Family Legacy Established!
Intersections: See Me Succeed!
Tomiko T. Smalls
CREATOR’S NOTE My inspiration came from my experiences as a nontraditional doctoral candidate who sometimes struggled to find a sense of community in higher ed. Each word is a manifestation of my thoughts about feeling invisible as a female Black doctoral student while navigating the educational space with success. The shape of the work brings both the words and image of my portrait to life.
Do you ever wonder what your favorite magazine (The Chronicle, of course) was up to back in the olden days? Did you know we used to have ads? We also used to make 4 magazines a year at some point. And you had to pay for magazines. We also once were Semantics for some reason. I’m not really sure what happened there. One of the things we have done a couple of times was poll the study body of Clemson. We first surveyed in 1969, 1985, and 2000. We will post the questions and all the results on the next page but let me tell ya, they are quite interesting. Some of these questions I couldn’t believe we even once had to ask, and the responses from it are just as surprising. You might be wondering why we didn’t poll again this year since it has been 22 years since we last polled and also we are celebrating 125 years. We tried to, and we started too. But polling here at Clemson is hard, and the big man who decides what gets polled just wasn’t understanding what we were trying to do. So if you happen to be that big man who decides who gets to poll: WE ARE NOT POLLING. WE ARE NOT DOING RESEARCH. WE ARE SIMPLY REPUBLISHING THE QUESTIONS. WE ARE NOT ASKING FOR ANSWERS. IF SOMEONE JUST SO HAPPENS TO TELL US ALL OF THEIR ANSWERS, THAT IS THEIR DECISION, NOT OURS. THANK YOU. We hope to do a lot of fun things in the future as well. Maybe we can design a whole new poll and actually get to do it. Maybe we can have a whole entire concert with our old friends WSBF. Maybe we will change our names again, I kind of like Semantics. Let us know how we can change for the better by leaving us love letters outside our door in Hendrix 307 or by sending us an email at clemsonchronicle1897@gmail.com. We might answer you. We’ve changed a lot these last 125 years, and we are glad to have you here with us. Love,
Maille Gray Social/Promo Director and Super Funny and Cool Person
NEUTRAL 5 9
AGREE 34 67
24 32
9 5
68 90
1969 1985 2000 2022
55 37 58 [ ]
4 11 13 [ ]
41 52 29 [ ]
1969 1985 2000 2022
26 6 14 [ ]
8 5 15 [ ]
66 89 71 [ ]
5. SOCIAL WELFARE LEGISLATION IS AN INDIRECT 1969 1985 METHOD OF KEEPING THE POOR POOR. 2000 2022
44 35
28 37
29 28
6. I WOULD REPORT ANOTHER STUDENT WHO BROKE THE LAW.
1969 1985 2000 2022
7. ONE HAS THE RIGHT TO DO AS ONE PLEASES IF ONE HURTS NO ONE ELSE.
1. MOST STUDENTS ARE INTERESTED IN HELPING CLEMSON BECOME A BETTER UNIVERSITY.
1969 1985 2000 2022
2. I AM ENJOYING CLEMSON.
1969 1985 2000 2022
3. AGE IS A BASIS FOR RESPECT.
4. I HAVE AN OBLIGATION TO MY COUNTRY.
DISAGREE 61 16 Not asked [ ]
Not asked [ ]
Not asked [ ]
Not asked [ ]
Not asked [ ]
Not asked [ ]
Not asked [ ]
Not asked
36 29 23 [ ]
20 28 43 [ ]
44 43 34 [ ]
1969 1985 2000 2022
26 39 41 [ ]
1 5 16 [ ]
73 56 43 [ ]
8. I CAN LIVE WHAT I BELIEVE.
1969 1985 2000 2022
19 18 8 [ ]
7 13 12 [ ]
74 69 80 [ ]
9. GOD IS IRRELEVANT.
1969 1985 2000 2022
74 84 82 [ ]
9 7 13 [ ]
17 9 5 [ ]
10. I WOULD SMOKE POT.
1969 1985 2000 2022
57 69 63 [ ]
3 7 14 [ ]
40 24 23 [ ]
39
Not asked [ ]
[ ]
11. CENSORSHIP OF ANY KIND SHOULD BE ABOLISHED.
1969 1985 2000 2022
DISAGREE 49 50 52 [ ]
NEUTRAL 3 9 22 [ ]
AGREE 40 24 23 [ ]
12. PRE-MARITAL SEXUAL INTERCOURSE IS HEALTHY AND DESIRABLE PSYCHOLOGICALLY.
1969 1985 2000 2022
43 42 31 [ ]
8 14 38 [ ]
49 44 31 [ ]
13. “WHO AM I?” IS A BIG QUESTION.
1969 1985 2000 2022
12 28
6 9
83 62
14. “WHAT SHOULD I DO?” IS A BIGGER QUESTION. 1969 1985 2000 2022
23 52
6 3
71 66
15. FRATERNITIES AND SORORITIES ARE FOR THE INSECURE.
1969 1985 2000 2022
45 52 33 [ ]
19 17 38 [ ]
36 31 29 [ ]
16. THE THEORY OF EVOLUTION PROVES THE SUPERIORITY OF SOME RACES OVER OTHERS.
1969 1985 2000 2022
74 77
11 18
Not asked [ ]
Not asked [ ]
15 6
17. CAMERAS MAKE ME NERVOUS.
1969 1985 2000 2022
66 42
13 11
Not asked
Not asked
21 28
[ ]
[ ]
[ ]
18. TO BE A VIRGIN SHOULD BE A MATTER OF PERSONAL CHOICE.
1969 1985 2000 2022
5 11
13 5
Not asked [ ]
Not asked [ ]
82 84
21. THIS POLL IS A FARCE.
1969 1985 2000 2022
43 31
24 31
Not asked [ ]
Not asked [ ]
34 20
22. STUDENT GOVERNMENT DOES NOT REPRESENT 1969 1985 THE STUDENTS. 2000 2022
34 39 45
9 14 27
40
Not asked [ ]
Not asked [ ]
[ ]
Not asked [ ]
Not asked [ ]
[ ]
Not asked [ ]
Not asked [ ]
Not asked [ ]
Not asked
Not asked [ ]
Not asked [ ]
57 47 28 [ ]
23. I AM DISSATISFIED WITH MYSELF.
1969 1985 2000 2022
DISAGREE 35 39 78
NEUTRAL 5 35 13
[ ]
[ ]
AGREE 60 26 16 [ ]
24. I HAVE CONSIDERED COMMITTING SUICIDE.
1969 1985 2000 2022
55 71 80 [ ]
5 9 5 [ ]
40 20 15 [ ]
25. COMMUNISTS ARE SLOWLY TAKING OVER THE WORLD.
1969 1985 2000 2022
37 50
13 14
52 36
[ ]
[ ]
[ ]
1969 1985 2000 2022
13 16
1969 1985 2000 2022
41 38 51 [ ]
6 10 24 [ ]
53 52 25 [ ]
28. I WOULD NEVER WANT TO LIVE IN A BIG CITY. 1969 1985 2000 2022
62 61
11 6
28 34
[ ]
29. I COULD MAKE IT TO THE TOP WITHOUT A DEGREE.
1969 1985 2000 2022
30. FOOTBALL IS OVEREMPHASIZED ON THIS CAMPUS.
1969 1985 2000 2022
31. WOMEN WITH ROUGH HANDS ARE WORTHY OF RESPECT.
26. THE REAL WORLD, AS I UNDERSTAND IT, IS OUTSIDE OF THE CLASSROOM.
27. LAW AND ORDER SHOULD BE MAINTAINED BY FORCE.
Not asked
Not asked [ ]
Not asked
1 7
Not asked [ ]
Not asked
81 79
Not asked
[ ]
Not asked
Not asked
[ ]
[ ]
52 60
11 6
40 33
[ ]
Not asked
Not asked
Not asked
[ ]
[ ]
43 34 47 [ ]
4 11 14 [ ]
53 55 39 [ ]
1969 1985 2000 2022
14 27 11 [ ]
54 44 34 [ ]
32 29 55 [ ]
32. I WOULD LIKE TO NOT SHAVE BUT AM AFRAID 1969 OF WHAT OTHER PEOPLE WOULD THINK OF ME. 1985 (1969: I WOULD LIKE TO GROW A BEARD, BUT...) 2000 2022
71 63
13 16
17 20
[ ]
[ ]
[ ]
41
Not asked
Not asked
Not asked
Not asked
DISAGREE 1969 72 1985 36 2000 Not asked 2022 [ ]
34. LONG HAIR AND/OR MULLETS ON BOYS ARE RIDICULOUS. (1969: LONG HAIR AND/OR SIDEBURNS... 1985: LONG HAIR AND/OR RAT TAILS...)
NEUTRAL 10 20 Not asked [ ]
AGREE 19 42
Not asked
[ ]
1969 1985 2000 2022
62 22 21 [ ]
4 16 22 [ ]
34 42 57 [ ]
36. CLEMSON CAN AFFORD BETTER TOILET PAPER. 1969 1985 2000 2022
6 8 4 [ ]
24 22 16 [ ]
70 70 80 [ ]
1969 1985 2000 2022
64 31 77
7 13 15
[ ]
[ ]
29 55 8 [ ]
1969 1985 2000 2022
48 41
16 26
37 33
[ ]
[ ]
[ ]
39. MY COLLEGE EDUCATION HAS CHANGED MY OUTLOOK ON JUST ABOUT EVERYTHING. (2000: ...ON LIFE)
1969 1985 2000 2022
40 36 11 [ ]
4 11 17 [ ]
56 53 72 [ ]
40. I AM AFRAID OF DEATH.
1969 1985 2000 2022
67 52 53 [ ]
8 0 20 [ ]
35 48 27 [ ]
41. CAMPUS JOURNALISM SHOULD BE DIVORCED FROM WORLD EVENTS.
1969 1985 2000 2022
87 61 71 [ ]
8 23 23 [ ]
5 16 6 [ ]
42. MOST STUDENTS ARE WILLING TO HELP OTHER STUDENTS.
1969 1985 2000 2022
33 13 17 [ ]
3 3 8 [ ]
64 84 75 [ ]
43. I AM SUPPRESSED.
1969 1985 2000 2022
25 44
6 28
69 28
[ ]
[ ]
[ ]
35. CHURCH SACRAMENTS AND TRADITIONAL SOCIAL BELIEFS SHOULD BE HONORED, NOT CHALLENGED.
37. INTER-RACIAL DATING IS OBJECTIONABLE TO ME.
38. STUDENT ORGANIZATIONS SHOULD NOT RECIEVE MONEY FROM STUDENT ACTIVITY FEES.
42
Not asked
Not asked
Not asked
Not asked
Not asked
Not asked
DISAGREE 67 71 80 [ ]
NEUTRAL 0 11 4 [ ]
AGREE 33 18 6
47. STUDENT DEMONSTRATIONS ARE EVIDENCE OF 1969 1985 WIDESPREAD AWARENESS AND INVOLVEMENT. 2000 2022
50 30
5 12
45 59
[ ]
[ ]
[ ]
1969 1985 2000 2022
2 7 2 [ ]
14 6 9 [ ]
69 28
49. MASTURBATION IS IMMORAL.
1969 1985 2000 2022
64 52 54 [ ]
20 27 43 [ ]
33 18 16 [ ]
50. I HAD ALREADY CHOSEN MY CAREER WHEN I CAME TO CLEMSON.
1969 1985 2000 2022
52 53
5 3
30 15
[ ]
[ ]
[ ]
51. THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH CAPITAL PUNISHMENT.
1969 1985 2000 2022
56 32 24 [ ]
5 5 31 [ ]
39 63 45 [ ]
52. I CANNOT UNDERSTAND MODERN ART.
1969 1985 2000 2022
39 56 36 [ ]
5 10 34 [ ]
56 35 30 [ ]
53. MY RELIGION IS A SOURCE OF STRENGTH AND INSPIRATION FOR ME.
1969 1985 2000 2022
17 16 12 [ ]
14 13 24 [ ]
69 71 64 [ ]
Not asked
Not asked
Not asked
[ ]
[ ]
[ ]
1969 1985 2000 2022
46. I CHEAT.
48. THE HUMAN BODY IS BEAUTIFUL.
54. THE CONCEPT OF HOMOSEXUALITY DOES NOT 1969 1985 OFFEND ME. 2000 2022 1969 1985 2000 2022
55. I DON’T KNOW WHY I ANSWERED THESE QUESTIONS.
43
Not asked
Not asked
71 17 67 49
Not asked [ ]
Not asked
Not asked
13 18 11 21
Not asked [ ]
[ ]
Not asked
Not asked
[ ]
Not asked
16 65 23 30
Not asked [ ]
The following questions were not asked in previous years. We included them to prompt you to consider our world in 2022. 51. MY VOTE MATTERS. 52. I SUPPORT THE BLM MOVEMENT. 53. THE COVID VACCINE SHOULD BE MANDATORY FOR CLEMSON STUDENTS WHO ARE ABLE TO RECEIVE IT. 54.WE HAVE A RESPONSIBILITY TO STOP CLIMATE CHANGE. 55. SOCIAL MEDIA IS, OVERALL, A GOOD THING.
DISAGREE [ ] [ ]
NEUTRAL [ ] [ ] [ ]
AGREE [ ] [ ] [ ]
[ ]
[ ]
[ ]
[ ]
[ ]
[ ]
[ ]
Brain Fog and the Perception of Time
Katelynne Collins
Traditional (pencil) and digital blend
If We Had Met Then I wish I’d met you earlier, Before anyone made you feel like you were the problem, Before that one guy showered you with gifts with strings attached, I wish I had crossed paths with you, Before you learned to smile through pain, Before you ever got that faraway look in your eyes, I wish that we both could have met, Before all these scars and callouses had formed, Who knows what we might have thought of each other, If only we had met then,
Erik Antonio
Mourning Facticity
Jonathan Bolton
Graphite, pastel, and watercolor on paper CREATOR’S NOTE Following the unexpected passing of a friend or family member, our values and relationships with death enter a state of constant re-evaluation. As this state grows in its command over our thinking, we risk forgetting about the existence of our physical bodies. Mourning Facticity is a self portrait drawn in response to the death of a family member. The process of observational drawing provides a way to confront the physical realm, reorienting ourselves as synchronous subjects and objects.
today Caroline Harrison Photography
Grocery Shopping
Audrey Hunt
Relief and intaglio printmaking
To Table Aidan Rhoades
Steel, Brazilian cherry, and bronze
There is a Big Storm Coming There is a big storm coming. Earlier today I gathered several tall candles and plenty of firewood. I brought out the old, creaky step stool so I could reach the top shelf in the closet. I pulled down the cardboard box labeled “winter clothing” in thick, black sharpie. Bulging. Unopened for at least a year. I took out my pocket knife and slashed across its masking tape seal. Hats, gloves, scarves all bled out. My old fuzzy earmuffs for ears that stick out a bit too much. A pair of men’s leather gloves. I shoved those back in.
There is a big storm coming. The meteorologist on TV droned on in the living room as I heated up dinner. Leftovers again. I tore through the garage earlier, looking for that old stack of canned soup. I hate soup, but the stores were all picked over, and I’m running out of the frozen meals my mom sent. I hadn’t been in the garage in a long time. The light flickers now. It’s colder than I remembered. The microwave beeped as the meteorologist gestured to an angry red blob on the map. I opened a can of food for the cat and poked at a plate of lasagna.
There is a big storm coming. I changed into pajamas silently as the wind picked up. There’s a pocket in the flannel pants where I’ve been keeping my knife every night. I listened to the wind howl as it whipped around the house. I used to love stormy nights. I crawled into bed. It’s such a big bed. I still sleep on the left side. I can’t bring myself to sleep in the middle. I lay quiet, listening to the beginning of the production outside in my oversized bed, knife in my pocket.
There is a big storm coming. And I hope it washes you away. I hope it cleans the memory of you from my skin, from my thoughts, from my heart. I imagine the big oak tree in the front yard crashing down through the dining table you built. I imagine water gushing through the hallway with framed photos of bright, smiling faces. I imagine snow and sleet and hail burying every little curio that I can’t bring myself to get rid of because it reminds me of you. And then, I imagine the storm burying me too. cont. on pg. 49
There is a Big Storm Coming (cont.) There is a big storm coming. I close my eyes to the sound of it pattering and then pounding on the roof. I think of the first winter in this house. Our first winter in this house. We lost power for three full days. We lived off of crackers and a cheap bottle of wine. You were so worried. I remember looking up at you and feeling that somehow, in that moment, you were so small. And I said we should build a fort in the living room. Because that’s what my brother and I always did growing up. So we ripped all of the pillows and blankets and sheets off of the bed. We pushed the big chairs together and brought the good flashlights from the kitchen pantry. We stayed there all night.
There is a big storm. There were many big storms before it. There will be many big storms after it. But the house will stay standing. The storm can’t wash you away in one fell swoop. It isn’t that easy. I have to do it myself. Bit by bit over time. There is a big storm, but I will weather it without you. The lights flicker out. I pull the sheets from the bed and head for the living room.
Kelly Evans
Beyond the Barn
Audrey Hunt
Digital and 35mm photography CREATOR’S NOTE These two photographs are a part of a series determining the bounds between what we perceive as real and not real. Art inherently has evolved to extend beyond what is concrete and tangible to describe a meaning beyond what we simply see. Yet I was searching for the space where the description of emotion meets the physical world through photography. Just like any other media, photography can allow the physical world to become abstracted and reformed through the lens of the artist. In photography specifically this changes with how you use the camera, what camera you’re using, the editing process after shooting the images, and so on. I used 35mm film photography and digital photography, combining them in Adobe Photoshop where I layered and edited the images. For the content of the piece, I was aiming to describe a liminal space between what is physical and what is digital, and how this relates back to the process of taking photographs and art-making.
140 Miles Per Hour Over the French Countryside There is a certain feeling, A feeling that only manifests itself when Visiting a foreign country, Traveling about 140 miles per hour, By train, Over the French Countryside, for instance. I do not know how to describe the feeling Of pure thrill of such an instance – One that I now, Even today, Experience. A bright, sunny day – Probably too hot, even, for that Part of the world. A few puffy white clouds Here and there, And priceless fields of wheat – Light brown – Creating a sea of beauty, In which village after small farming village Floats. And we Americans, appreciating all the thrill That those around us associate with the common commute… Keeping track of our speed With a phone application, In vulgar miles per hour Instead of kilometers. And today, our planet is warming, Faster than we have ever seen.
Release
Caroline Harrison Photography
I have come to accept the fact that I will live Through the apocalypse. But…This will not be like what one imagines When they think of “apocalypse.” There will be no nuclear war, or aliens from space, Or brother-turn-on-brother scenario… It will be a world – an apocalypse – In which it is too hot and miserable to travel, And where there will be no going 140 Miles Per Hour Over The French Countryside.
Matthew M. Ployhart CREATOR’S NOTE Climate change is a global threat - it does not care in the long run who it harms...We should.
Waterfall Sometimes when I lie in bed, I hear my ribs cave in, Crash down like icebergs collapse. Years past I dreamt I laid in lush grass, Let July rain fill my lungs. Cold July rain, reach into my skin, cool the corners Of my shoulder blades, vertebrae, hips. Now I dream I stand in meltwater Wade deep to my chest. Tepid waves, whisper my pulses, Splinter my roots, Crash down like icebergs
Heather Motro
Skeletons
Gavin Hunt Photography
Rot an ounce of blue two drops of red perhaps three parts yellow now smile, but show your teeth and eyes, can’t forget them, Oh so lonely and spiraled like a top. No, too many teeth. Now that needs fixing a splash of purple a pinch of orange Ah yes, a touch of green Let’s see its face and hair, mustn’t skip there! No no no! Too many caverns, all so wide and the hair? My, it’s as matted as briar! A grab of black Now two mixes of white The other stuff is gone so these will have to do. Make sure to burn the hell out of it! Now let’s see it all the chest, the stomach, the back. No, not quite Nipples too large, stomach not tight And the back: curved more like a hook than a spine Oh the work to do, So much work to do.
Erik Rolfe
Untitled
Emily Collins Plaster carving
Good Morning Three-Day Migraine There’s never quite enough nighttime out to please me. I’ve been burrowing lately, trying to make everything a little darker. I saw a squirrel holding a biscuit today. The whole thing, an entire biscuit, in its little squirrel hands. Funny how we both sleep in the dark, how we’re both soft-hearted enough to give up on morning, but I’ve got enough teeth in my head to keep my beady eyes forward. The persistent ache behind my left eye only leaves one to watch behind. What’s it like to have everything out to get you? I know how to scrounge, how to scurry and rustle up, to sit outside and eat a biscuit just before something comes creeping out of the bushes. Maybe if we both move fast enough we’ll hit a darker tomorrow eyes-first, picking up crumbs as we go.
Tate Gee
Memory of the Park Audrey Hunt
Digital and film photography CREATOR’S NOTE These two photographs are a part of a series considering how photography changes with the use of different cameras and ways of producing the image. The content of the works discusses how the way of making the work changes the interpretation of the work’s meaning. I took these images with a fisheye lens on 35 mm black and white film, with the physical developing process being a reflection of how non physical memory is. The imagery is discussing spaces that are familiar yet distant in memory. The images, warped by the wide lens are meant to guide the viewer to a nostalgic space that is distorted yet real. This is a reflection of how memory operates, in how it can seem concrete but is ultimately fabricated by the mind.
The anxious fidget
Madison Pate Oil on canvas
Here’s Your Current Medication List: One pill goes down, Wellbutrin, 150mg, slow release. Another, another, another. Busperone 10mg, down the shoot. Prescribed, prescribed, prescribed. I want to heal, I want to erase the trauma. Another session, another prescription, Another….day of hoping this will help. Up the meds, they’re not working Wellbutrin, 300mg, slow release. I take my meds, I listen in therapy I listen to the words I can’t seem to digest Wellbutrin, Hydroxyzine, Busperone. Has anything changed since your previous medical visit? No, it’s all the same. Don’t let me down, my mental health candy.
Hannah Skinner
Black Goo I wish that I could write a poem about the first time I fell in love, Or what it feels like to see the sun set over the sea, But these days it feels like my mind can only think of other things, So when I come upon a page, it’s not neat calligraphy that you will see, But rather black goo, the kind of substance that’s sticky and clings to you,
It’s the memories of friends battling demons, but now they live so far away, And all you want when you feel blue, is to drive over like you used to do, It’s war breaking out across the world, and friends who look like they’ve never slept, It’s feeling silly looking at your phone, wondering whether she really is alone,
One day I hope for you to see, a poem I wrote about the sun set over the sea, But right now my type of crew, are the people also in the goo,
Erik Antonio
Hibiscus
Kennedy Davis Acrylic on canvas CREATOR’S NOTE Another piece done as an appreciation for my love for summertime and all the plants that thrive during these few months of the year.
Artifact Phase, Landscape Jonathan Bolton
Graphite and pastel on paper
Artifact Phase II Graphite on paper
apology letter to the hearts i assume i’ve broken
let’s start with a double negative. let’s start with i meant it. let me feed the cat as an apology, even though it’s your job (because you don’t hurt somebody even if you want something else). let’s start with there’s never not something that needs to be done, like making it all about me again. let’s try one more time. the cat falls off the bed clings on tight like we’ll still make it yet makes no effort to pull itself back up. and you watch, and you don’t help (because of course you wouldn’t). let’s have a storm today. let’s have something to cry over. the cat will never not land on its feet.
Tate Gee
d.i.y scrapbook for childhood trauma [insert here a picture of your first love.] [insert here an outline of your guilty fingers after you first learned to pull enough heartstrings to break a heart completely.] [in this space, sloppily glue the pictures of your face taken after every time your cousins told you that you were a square-ass book jockey.] [here you should tape a picture of every tear you cried for reasons you couldn’t explain to anyone but yourself.] [here, insert a polaroid for every wave of insults your mother ever hurled ever at you. next to it, insert the grains of sand which once formed the rock that was your self-confidence.] [using duct tape, pine needles, and a stick of glue, attach the endless peanut butter and jelly sandwiches you made yourself when you had nothing else to eat.] [on the most obscure corner of the most obscure page, insert the photo you took of yourself when you were a skeleton that slept on bus station floors.] [on a far-away page, which you will rediscover in time, paste a yellow ribbon, so you remember your homecoming.] [on the back of your scrapbook, carefully pour several gallons of gasoline. light it with the dying coals of your teenage angst.]
[here, remember the time you burned books and watched a yellow stripe float into the night sky]
Houston Louis Keenan CREATOR’S NOTE In “d.i.y. scrapbook for childhood traumas,” I attempt to challenge poetic form by using a scrapbook/D.I.Y. format, linking the poem’s structure to the domestic subject matter. This is intended to raise questions on how we are expected to cope with the traumas of the past, and what place they ought to play in our lives.
The Hungry Cat Gnaws on a Sliver of Mirror
Audrey Hunt Silkscreen print
CREATOR’S NOTE This silkscreen print is a response to a poem titled The Wild Pear Tree by Kaveh Akbar. The image was created through a combination of photograph collage and digital drawing in Adobe Photoshop. The image was then separated into layers on a film positive and each one exposed to a light sensitive screen. The image was then hand printed in 4 layers, one each a different color of ink onto the paper. The imagery displays my response to Akbar’s poem which comes from a collection of poems discussing personal growth and addiction. The symbols I used reflected a feeling of longing, loss, and loneliness yet also becoming comfortable with oneself. The piece acts as separate from the poem, yet still concerning the same topics and my own sentiment with the content.
3 am impressions should be VIOLENTLY ignored don’t push your luck what if i want to push my luck, after a while? what if i want to feel the sun every day to lay in a bed of daisies watching chrysanthemums bloom in the distance? the random bits of gold, saxe, and lavender dancing in the outlying blurs what if i want to test the fates? nudge them a little in the direction of my choosing for once would it be such a bad thing? would it be such a bad thing to push my luck?
j
a poem about nothing one of life’s cruelest ironies is the number of things that seem like love but aren’t; things that seem permanent but remain subject to the cycles of change, things like psychedelics, like cheap beer, like long afternoons in the sun with someone you thought was the one. one of life’s greatest joys is learning to fall out of love, learning to dissociate from life; to be but to be empty, nothing but a mind of wind and bones; not to forget about the warmth of the soul but to maintain a slight distance from it so that you may consider the hot and the cold simultaneously. i was taught this lesson by birds, by scattered trees, sea anemones, my absent father, cycles of trauma, high school drama, but never by being free. the truth is there is balance in the comings and goings of the tide. remember that the most useful part of a vase is not the vase itself but the space inside it. allow yourself to be filled.
Houston Louis Keenan CREATOR’S NOTE “a poem about nothing” explores the emptiness of worldly things, and how this emptiness can be a comfort and source of inspiration. It was inspired by the works of the recently deceased Zen master and peace activist Thich Nhat Hanh.
Malibu’s Coast Sydney Lykins Photography
The Educating Space: Questions & Answers Because you mostly see me smiling and laughing, you don’t realize that I navigate the educating space with a cloud of negativity. My actions hide the true existence of the misrepresentations of My Words, My Actions, and My Motives. A kind-hearted smile and jubilant greeting that accompanies my presence in your presence conceals the negative correspondences – in writing and spoken (aloud and whispered – behind, before me) – all because I’m different.
Different – not because my quest isn’t the same as some, maybe all who seek knowledge and the socialization projected in words written about how the educating space should be, can be - in a space meant for education and educating. If you removed my skin or the color thereof, it wouldn’t change who I am or how I experience life – inside and outside the educating space. I ask questions … A LOT OF THEM!
My questions are: thought provoking, challenging, intimate, broad, narrow, correcting, connecting, convincing, convicting, repetitive, clarifiers, clarifying, time consuming, require immediate responses, timely responses, post-moment responses – just responses. They are not purposed to express my dissatisfaction or to address the faults that they find in others or the organization that encompasses my scholarly identities.
Rather, they are about Me, the things I need to know, want to know… to grow, to learn, to live, to navigate the educating space that claims to aim to educate and elevate me and individuals like me – who can’t change their glamorous external features to make questions seem like natural aspects of socialization permissible to peers who navigate the same space with privileges not available to all. My questions are for me! They require action, attention, addressing … an answer!
Trying to silence my many questions and the ways I navigate my paths to success CAN’T, WON’T, WILL NOT, SHOULD NOT, WOULD NOT, COULD NOT, ever happen… unless I am gone or chose to silence them on my own. Each question opens my eyes and world to experience an injustice that exists, persists in a space where equals of my scholarly identities are meant to be socialized in the educating space where a wall exists that didn’t exist, and a wall persists that always persisted.
The educating space … where 30 years span my initial experience from my current existence, has witnessed an educator at my level, my color, my identity, decrease by one – when only one existed. A ponderance that awakens a new question that yearns to be answered with a timely response that is greater than a promise of tomorrow. It is a question of social justice. It is my question - one that requires action, attention, addressing … an answer!
Because the difference between decreased by one – when only one began, is NONE. And NONE - in the educating space - perpetuates problems with increasing educators of my likeness. Shouldn’t questions persist or exist to challenge the work, the efforts, the difference, the claims, and the aim of the educating space?
I now question… Can I be educated before and without those who are educating being educated on how to socialize and educate someone who is uniquely, differently like me?
I have special needs: I ask questions … A LOT OF THEM! And they require ACTION, ATTENTION, ADDRESSING … AN ANSWER!
Tomiko T. Smalls
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