D e lu g e - Matthew Bo wden - Oil Paint
Mission Statement The mission of Illumination is to provide a beautiful space for undergraduate students at the University of Wisconsin-Madison to publish their creative works. Once a semester, we showcase some of the school’s best talent in an industry-quality publication, becoming an approachable portal for fiction, essays, poetry, and artworks. We also publish compelling content in our online magazine on a weekly basis, which has helped us become a valuable addition to the intellectual community of the university, and all the people it affects. Both our online and print issues have been awarded the ACP Pacemaker Award, establishing Illumination as one of the best publications in the nation.
Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, It is an honor for me to present our Fall 2017 issue. Every semester, we receive pieces that resonate with the boldness, intensity, and creativity that Illumination aims to showcase. As editors, it is very humbling for us to receive so many creative works and visual pieces, and we thank everyone who submitted for giving us a small insight into their mind. Throughout the making of this issue, I have had the chance to learn the ins and outs of our publication –I have felt the frustration of having to meet deadlines, and the doubt of not knowing whether or not I am correctly inspiring my team. I have also felt the tingle of excitement with each new submission, and the honor of having our work recognized in the ACP Packemaker Awards. Most importantly, however, is the confidence that comes with seeing all our work fall into place. To all the members of my team, know that I immensely proud of you, and that everyday I am thankful for the time, effort and commitment you put into your work. You are all the light that illuminates our journal. I would like to thank our readers and featured artists, whose support inspires us to work harder every day. This issue would have never existed without you. And finally, I want to use this space to thank my parents, whose assertiveness I try to follow when leading my own team. Mamá y papá, gracias por ser la luz de mi vida. With love, Fernanda Martínez Rodríguez Editor-in-Chief
Fernanda MartĂnez RodrĂguez
Editor in Chief
Sadeq Hashemi Nejad
Layout Editor
Lana Scholtz
Art Editor
Luke Valmadrid
Poetry Editor
Anna Rodriguez
Essays Editor
Madison Knobloch
Fiction Editor
Ryan Mulrooney
Wisconsin Idea Editor
Emma Liverseed
Digital Editor
Haley McNiff
Staff Writer
Lauren Hartman
Staff Writer
Rachel Pope
Staff Writer
Zhiyun Zhao
Staff Writer
Arina Tveleneva
Marketing Coordinator
Colin Ying
Videographer
Aida Farrokh Ebrahimi Photographer Noah Laroia-Nguyen
Malik Anderson
Photographer
PubCom Director
Sunrise City Blues Grant Yun
1
Conus and Vieuxtemps Vivi Davis
2
Here You Are and Now Cate Desens
3
New Fat 5 Ryan Maguire Nighty Night 6 Shelby Kahr Making Up with you 7 at Woodman’s Vivi Davis I Had a Conversation 8 with a Guy Boondaree Chayangpath
Grandpa Xie 9 Lindi Shi
Grandma Ji 10 Lindi Shi Oh, Nothing William Dinnen
11
Mountain 13 Tonghzhou Han Pipes 17 Lee Troz
A House Divided Matthew Bowden
22
Thank God 25 Boondaree Chayangpath Monkey Giving Birth Shelby Kahr
25
Titled 25 Brett Stratton Blues Song for the Land /Man we Fought Over Hajjar Baban
27
Wind, Blossom, 28 Snow, and Moon Kehao Wang Discovering the Magic of Brushing Your Teeth Molly Rapozo
29
Fritz 30 Genevieve Anderegg nHna 31 Tehan Ketema A Letter 32 Mariam Coker Fragile 33 Van Hai Van
Becoming Literate Through Love Anna Walther
35
Modern Romance Kayla Wasserman
36
Postmaster 39 Shelby Kahr Pancakes 41 Vivi Davis Flamingo Run Thievery Jingyu Zhang
42
Alterschwäne 43 Matt Buchholz Dulce Limón 44 Raúl Eduardo Selfish Anonymous
45
Split 46 Marissa Haegle Prototype 201X 47 William Doty Arson 48 Mariam Coker Four Seasons 49 Boondaree Chayangpath
The Aliens Want Our Turkey and We Have to Keep Them Out William Doty
51
October to Take Me Home Alexandra Pleasant
52
The Ocean Home Grant Yun
53
Every Mourning I Go to Bed Hungry Duncan Slagle
54
Everything Else 55 Alexandra Pleasant Unknown 56 Kayla Wasserman Untitled 1 57 Catherine Lungren Routine: Dress 58 Duncan Slagle
Conus and Vieuxtemps Vivi Davis I don’t think I’ve ever felt closer to you than that moment under the streetlight after I danced to Ariana Grande to get you to dance with me even though we never ended up dancing together because you ran away I don’t think I’ve ever felt lonelier than when I ruined the very first time you asked me to come over to play Bananagrams and for the first time, it was my fault we ended up okay next year but we never ended up in your apartment together because I ran away I don’t think I’ve ever felt more stupid than when we made up last spring and I thought this time would be different and then six months went by and I thought that even though I could never make you reach out to me again maybe I could make you cry by running even faster and leaving the country we’re okay now, but now I’m leaving the country I don’t think I’ve ever felt farther from you than when we were sitting on my balcony last week sitting on stiff, wooden stools speaking with stiff, wooden tongues looking forward because we never ended up together and we’re just too tired to run anymore
S u n r i s e C i ty B lu es - Grant Yun - Digital Art
Here You Are and Now Tepid metal handle pressed in handshake against your palm, you tug on the door and it opens, grudgingly, not wide enough to walk through. You brace your legs and pry, again, harried now. Another woman stands behind you. She can, you’re sure, open doors on the first try. Through the door. You expected light- the room is blurred, brown, low. Not the restaurant. A waiting area, but heat blusters you from the dining hall, buffeting your nose, springing dry tears to your eyes. The scarf was a mistake. You rush through, anxious to sit, and to stew and to wait for her arrival, and to be jittery in peace, but as you walk some flicker catches your eye, drags your attention to the left wall, where there shines a fish. A beta fish. Alone, suspended, an insoluble omen. He seems to be sunken into the wall, not in water, but in wood. You think. But you look closer and he’s not, it’s just a clever tank that he lives in. He’s motionless. Not a fin flaps. He glares at you with one sick eye. He might be dead, you think, until he turns, achingly slowly, away from you, facing into the wall. So slow. He’s got nowhere else in the world to be. Eye still dead, you tiptoe to check. The woman behind you, trapped all this time, nudges a little cough at you, polite, tired, and you start and leave the fish and rush into the restaurant. Through, finally. The light is yellow here. The hostess greets you. “Did you have a reservation?” “Yeah, I made it under Johnson, probably.” “Okay, okay-” She glances down. A moment of vulnerability. You, unconscious, unrestrained, scrape her collarbones with your eyes, fixated by the triangle of skin and shirt and subtle bone. A thin band encircles her neck. Austere. You linger on it. Not for any reason. You don’t even realize you’re doing it, I don’t think. “And the reservation was for- two, it looks like?” “Yep.”
Cate Desens “Awesome, you can follow me right this way-” She pivots and strides into the fray, taking her banded necklace with her, giving not a glance left or right. The restaurant swallows her up. You have to speedwalk just to stay behind her. Almost every table is full, you see now, and your relief is plain when she deposits you at a rickety table out of the way, crammed next to a window. You’ve got a great view of the concrete, rupturing through the snow, scabbing the earth. You sit. “Our speciality dish tonight is called the sunburst roll, and it includes lobster caught freshboff the coast of Maine, along with nori, avocado, cucumber, and crab, which gives it its characteristic red color. In addition to sunburst roll, we also have-” Her words drooped to the floor like dropped flowers. I watched them go. One almost landed in a neighbor’s soup. You are, now seated, now searching, not listening. You’ve reached your table, your scanty ring of privacy, and you are consumed. She is the only thing on your mind. I see your eyes. They’re rolling like billiard balls, too fast, scalping the front door over and over, summoning her with a wish of the mind. The hostess leaves. You jostle a leg, an arm, dance your fingers over the salt and pepper shakers. They’re figurines, both carved like a swan. Their necks curl inwards towards each other. They sit, each facing the other, in perfect union. You can’t stop moving. Electrified by the thought of her approach. Her disciple.
I’m a few tables away, under the same pale walls. My table is bare. I haven’t ordered anything but green tea and miso soup, which should arrive soon, should have arrived already. You have a monopoly on the date table, sat against windows stretching to the ceiling and back. Maybe the hostess saw your scrawniness and took pity on you. Knew you might need some extra help. I, on the other hand, am sat squashed back by the linoleum, my back almost flat against the swinging kitchen doors. Unlike you I do not bounce. It’s your life. It’s my entertainment. I watched you scalp the door a final time and relinquish your nervous energy, saw it in the slowing of your eyes as you slipped into your surroundings and fell asleep to the world, head sank on palm, thinking of her. Your eyes and cheeks relaxed. I always marveled how you- how anybody- could relax like that in public. It wasn’t like you were curling up, retreating into yourself to think private giddy thoughts of her- you stretched out, placated your bones, unhooked your arms, closed your eyes. It was like meditating in front of a crowd, like watching someone cast a spell, like music or magic, except right in front of me, bared. The magic was right here, and it was vulnerable. I was watching you when she arrived. You didn’t see her right away, funnily enough. I did. She waltzed in slow. She led with her hips. The contrast was immediate- you lead with your head, if you’re leading at all. Usually you’re following. She beamed, chatted with the hostess, and the hostess chatted
back, a newfound language. You had spilled pepper all over the table and were sweeping it onto the carpet. You swept off the last of it and straightened up and saw her then, and she bloomed from mortal to angel in your eyes. Crown of snowflakes melting softly in her hair.
She was there, Armani frames, invincible, indivisible. She caught your eye and waved, and walked closer on stilt legs and sharp hips coming closer, closer. The rapture shone on your face. You fall in love with her every time you see her. “I’ve got your tea and soup here, ma’am.” “Ah, yes. Thank you.”
“And are you feeling ready to order, or can I give you some more time with the menu?” “Oh, yeah, let’s see here,” I scrabbled for the menu. “Can I get...three California rolls, and three…” Across the room time has skipped, she’s reached the table and I hear the low outlines of greeting, rumbles of what must be a joke because she laughs, her head swings up and I saw you plumed with wild joy, blushing a little at how easy you are, how obvious you are. But there’s no need to hide anymore. You asked her on a date. She came. You thread your hands through your hair and tug on the tips and dare not blink while she’s here, not while she’s here.
“Actually, no, that should be fine for right now.” “Absolutely. I’ll get that in for you right away.” I settled in and watched you watch her. She starts to tell you a story, hesitates to see if you’ll goad her on and you do, what else would you do, and she tells you about a spider she found on her pillow last night and flung away into the abyss of her room, both of you giggling, only to have her reveal, gloating, in the throes of it now, that she found the same spider fat in a web in her window the next morning. And so on. You laugh as long as you can, trying not to think about it, trying to cement her to you through laughter and just ride the high. A waiter appears and she whispers to you: “Have you ordered anything yet?” You shiver. “No. I just got here.” Her voice scales back up to normal. “Okay, well I thought maybe you had gotten a drink, or something. My next class starts in-” A glance at her phone, clutched in her hand- “An hour, just about.” “Oh, you have another class?” You swallow hard, that means you’re disappointed. “Geez, I had no idea. I would have-” You scramble. “I would have picked a better time-” “Oh, no, it’s okay, this is just a-”
Date, you scream. This is a date. “Study session, right?” She doesn’t know. She has no idea. This date you had so carefully constructed in your head, built up brick by shining brick over long nights in your small room with its small bed. You’d been kidding yourself this whole time. Her knee brushes against yours under the table and darts away once it recognizes the skin of you. You drip into liquid under the table, collapsing only where she can’t see you.
“So you wanted some help with calc, right?” She says. “Yeah, but not now,” Not ever , says your face. I can see the bitter disappointment clinging to you. You don’t ever want to crack a textbook near her. You don’t ever want to stop staring at her, want to be with her wherever she goes, want to love her so much your rewrite her and her past and her future. Want to consume her. “Your rolls, ma’am.” “Oh, thank you.” I say. I’m beginning to lose interest. I’ve seen this before. I savor my rolls one at a time and then leave. The other girl continues to break your heart gently. You twirl your hair behind your ear and bite your lip and nod. You have nowhere else to go.
New Fat Ryan Maguire New fat My physiognomy: Life-o-suction Juice, then spray In water Coloring. All impressionists Paint in Constance My Countenance is Run me away : ( Away me way way away New word me : ) Am new word Phospholipid bilayer No stir, no just New fat Boy O boy The sauce they sauce They sauce the sauce They seem to see And Sauce about Boy O boy All impressionists U say, “Hell” is love Again again away
Nig hty Ni g ht - Shelby Kahr - Ink
making up with you at Woodman’s Vivi Davis
talking about fruit and jicama roots grasping at stale memories because we had no idea what we were I forgot how beautiful you looked when you were trying thinking about the tequila you couldn’t buy because I stood next to you because I didn’t have my ID but maybe we deserved it because our IDs say it’s five years later and we still act like we’re seventeen sitting on a tennis court at night trying to end the game volleying stories and confessions while your groceries sat in the car for hours it was chilly but not as cold as the Ice Age we were trying to leave remembering the unmoving back of your head when I told you that I wouldn’t know what to do if you dated someone else I wonder if it was pride or fear that told you to ignore me for the next six months.
I Had a Conversation with a Guy Boondaree Chayangpath I had a conversation with a guy “I love to travel I’m a wanderlust, I have a great desire for new adventures and worldly experiences I wonder what is out there in the universe we’re just insignificant specks of dust in the grand scheme of things life is short you shouldn’t waste time being unhappy what do you think love is I think it’s about trust, honesty, and loyalty when someone else’s happiness comes before yours what do you think the meaning of life is I think it’s about happiness and making a change I want to help people, make their lives better I love talking about these intelligent things and having deep conversations” I wish he would just shut up, I thought so I can finish my muffin
Gr an dp a X i e - Lindi Shi - Print
G r an d m a Ji - L in di Sh i - P ri nt
Oh, Nothing William Dinnen From her postbox Pamela was surprised to draw a cardboard box about the size of a football. She was surprised because she had not ordered anything and she was aware of no occasion that would warrant a gift from anybody. Attached to
the top of the box was an envelope. Pamela did not recognize the return address. After setting the box on her kitchen table, Pamela opened the envelope and read the letter within.
I thought you might find this useful, so I went ahead and sent it to you. There is plenty more where this came from. – Sivasubramanian
Pamela knew nobody named Sivasubramanian, or if she did, she did not remember the name. And that was a pretty memorable name.
As a result, she thought having a little nothing here and there was relieving. Once again, a week after that day, she received another box of nothing. The week after that and after that and after that it was Upon opening the box, she discovered that noththe same. Pamela actually quite looked forward ing was inside. Rather than leave the nothing on to these free gifts. She had never thought nothing her table, Pamela searched for a place to put it, could be worth more than nothing, but she was and ended up settling on a shelf of hers stuffed beginning to appreciate both its aesthetic and with magazines of gossip and un-bought items, spiritual qualities; simply lying in it made her calm next to box sets of romantic comedies and TV dramas. She hadn’t thought there was any room on and happy. In fact, nothing seemed to have more the shelf, but once she put nothing there, it seemed value or be more enduring than her stuff: if she stepped on a Blu-ray Disc, the result was shards; if to her there was less something. And really, she she stepped on nothing, the result was continued had an awful lot of something. purity. A week to the day after this incident, Pamela came A few months later, Pamela lost her job. Her emhome and discovered that Sivasubramanian had ployer could no longer afford to pay the number sent her another box of nothing. She put it on the of people who held her position in the company, shelf with the other nothing. Day after day she told and so she was cast off into the world again. In herself or was told she would watch those episodes this sea of uncertainty, Pamela searched for a new or read that article, and fill out these sheets and job. She struggled to find one, and her financial write those emails, and read that book and watch reserves dwindled ever more. How frustrating the that film. Even when her budget prohibited such whole situation was. This money, this job—simply media, she felt inclined to purchase them anystuff of another kind. And so even in this time, the way. Thus her flat filled up, over time, with what nothing Pamela received seemed pleasant to her. can only be described as stuff. This stuff occupied With nothing, she, for however fleeting a moment, every surface and lurked behind every door, even did not have to concern herself with finances, with the one on the fridge: filled with food as it was, she something, with stuff. could never find something to eat.
A few months later, Pamela lost her job. Her employer could no longer afford to pay the number of people who held her position in the company, and so she was cast off into the world again. In this sea of uncertainty, Pamela searched for a new job. She struggled to find one, and her financial reserves dwindled ever more. How frustrating the whole situation was. This money, this job—simply stuff of another kind. And so even in this time, the nothing Pamela received seemed pleasant to her. With nothing, she, for however fleeting a moment, did not have to concern herself with finances, with something, with stuff. One day, Pamela had a friend over. “Your place seems roomier every time I visit,” said her friend, Tasha Platitude. Pamela explained that somebody was sending her nothing in the post, and so she had been developing a stock of it. “At this point I’d even say I probably have more nothing than anyone else I know,” said Pamela. “I wish I had less stuff than I do,” said Tasha. “It’s so stressful.” “Would you like some nothing? I have plenty.” With some nothing in tow, after they ate dinner and watched one of those movies from Pamela’s shelves of stuff, Tasha departed from her. nothing, nothing. In certain online circles, she became almost a legend, even memetic, the first and only person to profit at honestly selling nothing.
M o u n ta in - Tongzhou Han - Oil Paint
At about this time, Pamela had an idea. Her sole steady income was not in anything, but in nothing. Why not sell it? Even if people want stuff, Tasha demonstrated that people also want nothing—and people will pay good money for what they want. Pamela discussed the idea with her friends and soon began selling nothing on the Internet. Initially, her customers thought adding nothing to their long lists of stuff to buy was strange, but nonetheless a few brave pioneers ordered some nothing from her. Their positive feedback swelled Pamela’s rating until she was a seller anyone would trust, and she even had numerous regulars, wanting, in increasing quantities, nothing, By working a few part-time jobs as well, Pamela was able to continue buying the stuff to support her lifestyle. Hearing about her success, some of her friends could not help but be rather envious. Nonetheless, they were happy for her. Congratulations came from all around. “Hey, um, Pamela,” said Tasha at lunch one day, “I’m the one who gave you the idea to sell nothing, right?” “Yeah.” “Maybe you could sell me some nothing? I really appreciate what you already gave me, but I want more. It gives me such an ecstatic feeling, like my problems don’t matter. You know, I’ve been reading about nothing, and it has a lot of cool properties. Some Eastern philosophers advocate returning to the void…” Selling to friends seemed a bit questionable, but Pamela was not one to decline income. Soon enough, other people she knew solicited nothing, for even the poorer among them had long had their fill of stuff. “Stuff,” as Tasha mentioned once, “is what makes them poor to start with.” Through word of mouth, more and more people around Pamela’s flat and the surrounding streets started counterbalancing their stuff with nothing. But Pamela had a problem: nothing was being sold faster than her patron was sending it. Desperate, Pamela sent a letter to the return address found on the boxes of nothing:
Sivasubramanian: Thank you so much for not giving me anything! All my life, all I’ve ever gotten was stuff, and this is really a happy change of pace. In fact, our town is glutted with more stuff than any town should be, like a lot of towns are, so I’m even more thankful. Please send even less, if possible, perhaps three times less a week, assuming this isn’t too much trouble for you. If you want, you could of course have a percentage of my profit. Your humble partner, Pamela Andersen Pamela agonized over whether Sivasubramanian would concede. Making the request at all, she worried, would dissuade her benefactor from sending her any more nothing. Every day up until the day of the delivery was filled with concern— without nothing, even if one had somehow done without it for so long, how could one continue living? At last the day arrived, and in her postbox, Pamela discovered a box filled with three times as much nothing as usual. She literally jumped for joy. Within the next several months, Pamela’s nothing business had elevated her income to heights she would never have thought possible, and there was even nothing left for herself. There was so much nothing she occasionally wondered why she ought to bother working—jobs were nothing but more stuff, and she could buy plenty of that with her money anyway. Among Pamela’s neighbors were Mr. and Mrs. Greenblatt, both plump and dedicated to their work. Ever since Pamela started her nothing business, Mr. Greenblatt believed there was something suspect about her. He noticed her receiving many packages and living more extravagantly than he felt one of her economic status would be able to. That his wife told him spying on Pamela was “creepy” and “stupid” did not deter him. As Pamela went in and out of her flat, Mr. Greenblatt could sometimes catch a glimpse through her open door, and seeing how little stuff there was, he grew wary.
Eventually, Mr. Greenblatt, mustering his nerve, confronted a woman he had once observed speaking with Pamela, hungering to know the details of Pamela’s no doubt malicious schemes. Because Pamela was hardly scheming, Mr. Greenblatt had no trouble learning that Pamela was selling nothing to supplement her income. “Nothing?” said Mr. Greenblatt slowly. Later that evening, over their hamburgers, kale, and wine, Mr. Greenblatt said to Mrs. Greenblatt, “That crazy woman’s been selling nothing! Have you ever heard of such nonsense?” “Young people are weird these days.” “What dopes! You and I—we spent our lives accumulating this stuff around us. It’s the reward of our toils, what we’ve reaped for our labors. Aren’t you happier streaming all those movies than you’d be without ’em? Aren’t we better off with our cash and credit cards? Aren’t we happier living now instead of pretending there’s a life after this one? And these kids not only think nothing is better, they’re willing to pay money for it!” “I don’t know. Maybe there’s something nice about nothing, if these kids are—” “My own wife, speaking that way! We should get all we can, while we can.” Since Pamela continued handsomely profiting from her shipments of nothing, and more and more people began purchasing nothing, began thirsting for nothing as an imagined source of purpose for their dull, stuff-addled lives, she found herself hiring a few employees to deliver and advertise. The first of these was Tasha Platitude, whose skill with PR and passion for nothing soon propelled Pamela’s sales figures higher than she ever expected. Sivasubramanian had to up the shipments again to meet the demand. Now Pamela even had the professionalism to package complimentary towels with the first orders of new customers. Mr. Greenblatt, concealing himself around corners
and behind utility poles, bitterly watched Tasha persuade ever more people that they needed nothing. “When we’re born, our minds fizzle from nothing into neurons,” he overheard Tasha saying, “and when we die, we fizzle out into nothing. Reality can’t even be objectively proven to exist; reality is nothing. In other words, all that stuff is only clouding your understanding of what’s real, what’s truly human. Why listen to all these stuff-peddling fat cats when you could get right to the nature of things with our nothing?” Another sale for Tasha! And once a single sale is made, if the person was not too involved with their stuff, nine times out of ten, the customer was hooked. At last, Mr. Greenblatt, sulking in his leather chair one day, files stacked on either side of him and shelves of unplayed computer games behind, decided he would purchase nothing, see what all the fuss was about. Pamela did not expect to find Mr. Greenblatt shuffling around at her door like a man defeated. “Can I buy nothing?” he asked. “Sure. How much?” Mr. Greenblatt dumped his new nothing out on the floor in front of his leather chair. Not sure how to use it, he tried placing it on his shelf with some stuff, on his coffee table, even on his head. However, he found this repugnant, a waste of his time and effort, for there was neither any success nor any productivity he could imagine from nothing. “Nothing—that’s what comes from nothing,” he said. Later that week, Tasha Platitude happened to be leaving Pamela’s place when Mr. Greenblatt tapped her on the shoulder. Upset, he berated her and her generation for putting so much stock in nothing, nothing, nothing.
Pipes z - L e e Tr o k n I - Pe n &
“Nothing is wonderful. Nothing is more real than your stuff!” said Tasha, indignant. “A century from now, how much of your stuff will be left, huh? None of it! But there will be nothing, there’s always nothing. Nothing exists except our perceptions, and maybe nothing exists.” “You’re insane,” said Mr. Greenblatt. “Life’s not worth living without stuff. We’d still be living in mud huts and caves if nobody ever did stuff—no, we’d all be dead if we never did stuff, never wanted stuff, if all we had was nothing. Nothing doesn’t even exist—all there is anywhere is stuff.” “With all this stuff, Mr. Greenblatt, we’re only deluding ourselves. Life is simpler and happier with nothing, and what else do we need but happiness?” “If stuff is so bad, then why do you want to make money off of nothing, eh?” Fury flickered in Tasha’s eyes. “I’m not in this for the money. I’ve realized that nothing is the ultimate truth. I accept money only because our society forces me to have some amount of stuff. Someday, I’ll escape from stuff and live in pure nothing.” At this point, hearing shouting outside, Pamela intervened and persuaded Mr. Greenblatt and Tasha to leave each other be. However, Tasha
warned her that this fatso had to be stopped from badmouthing her product. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret later,” said Pamela. She retired to her flat, meditating in the nothing there before going to bed. Her personal pile of nothing was expanding with her bank account. At one of her other jobs, Pamela discovered that her manager was missing. Over the course of the next several days, she learned that her manager had, in fact, disappeared. A search party eventually discovered him, gamboling about in a field among and going on about nothing, nothing, nothing. “ ‘Who cares about my job?’ he said,” Pamela read in the newspaper article detailing the incident. “ ‘Nothing is so much easier and happier. Careers, money— all that’s only artificial. Nothing is real.’ ” Pamela felt responsible, but surely this was an isolated case. Yet as she carefully considered the behavior of her customers and neighbors, Pamela realized that all of them were creeping further and further from stuff and nearer and nearer to nothing. Not wholesome nothing, but absolute nothing, or so she thought. Consequentially, Pamela started packaging a document with the nothing she sold cautioning against overuse.
But cases of overuse only increased. Soon enough, half of her block practically shut down, enveloped in nothing; bills went unpaid, films went unwatched, books went unread. As long as they were confident in nothing, who cared about that stuff? Pamela endeavored to break their addiction, but most refused to cooperate. All their lives, they were burdened, exhausted, and abused by stuff— among nothing, all was peaceful and all were equal. Which was better?—was it even a choice? “Don’t feel bad,” Tasha told Pamela, who was plaintively sulking back from one of her other jobs. “This has been humanity’s goal for millennia: to find peace. This Sivasubramanian is practically a savior. I’ve found the purpose of my life thanks to him!” Sivasubramanian! Pamela’s eyes widened, her pace quickened, and bidding Tasha farewell, she hurried home. She wrote Sivasubramanian a new letter, asking him to stop sending nothing—she’d had enough. With the letter sent, her chest fizzed with anticipation. If this didn’t work, she could be the one who doomed the block. Meanwhile, Mr. Greenblatt was startled to find Tasha Platitude ringing his doorbell, a box of nothing in tow. Telling Mrs. Greenblatt to hide in the wardrobe, Mr. Greenblatt opened the door and demanded to know what Tasha wanted. “If stuff is so much better than nothing,” said Tasha, “then I should be able to figure that out if I lived with it for a while. I did for years, but never analytically, you know.” “Eh? You want some stuff from me, is that it?” “Yep. Let’s have a contest. You have to live with nothing for the same amount of time that I live with stuff, let’s say a week. We’ll analyze the merits of each; if we’re both rational, we should be
able to figure out which one is best, shouldn’t we? If a guy who had always been on fire and thought that burning was swell had the chance to be not on fire, he’d have to be able to tell which state was better, right?” Mr. Greenblatt rubbed his chin, crinkled his forehead, and massaged his flabby neck. At last, he agreed; he would be proven right once and for all. With each day Pamela grew increasingly wan as she dreaded Sivasubramanian’s response, and Mr. Greenblatt settled in with nothing Tasha lent him, while Tasha started dwelling with stuff Mr. Greenblatt lent her. As Mr. Greenblatt’s doubts awakened, so did Tasha’s. Initially, she was confident that stuff could not tempt one as schooled in nothing as she was. As the days went by, however, she recalled the time when she herself had enjoyed stuff, so many years ago, before its many iterations overwhelmed her. Firing up her TV again, she stayed up all night watching whole seasons of her favorite dramas and comedies, and remembered all the pleasure these had given her once, even if their purchase had brought her certain anxieties. She realized that, for all the negative aspects of humanity’s development of stuff into its present vast and sprawling state, there were positive too: people were brought together, people were more informed, people were more capable. Maybe, with stuff, people were more able to handle their problems. And without stuff, she would not even be able to appreciate the value of nothing. Did nothing even have value, though? Was nothing even real, after all? Or was it only a narcotic that ensnared the wearied—ensnared her? A narcotic that clouded her perception of reality? Was reality something?
Each day at her other employments, Pamela had became more conscious of the dwindling number of customers and coworkers. A few were out on holiday, but what pulled most of them away was nothing. Pamela had been hesitant to close her nothing operation out of trepidation over how Tasha might respond. Tasha had vanished the last few days. Pamela wondered if even Tasha hadn’t fallen victim to nothing. The town seemed to be on the brink of a catastrophe, or a ponderous shift. Sad as she was that her friend might be in trouble, Pamela felt that Tasha was no longer the Tasha she once knew, and that this might be the only chance to close the operation. Pamela sent apologetic letters to her many regular customers and closed the business. Her other employees would forgive her, and if she had to be impoverished, fine; she understood that stuff was only nothing. However, once the nothing stopped coming, many of her loyal customers were quite upset. Initially a few, those with somewhat greater inclinations toward their stuff, only appeared at her door and sent her emails to offer constructive criticism, but soon she understood how upset her decision had made the others. The very individuals whom she intended to help by closing her business were, as they were jolted from their cosmic stupors, confused and upset. They wanted nothing, and they stormed to Pamela’s place to get it. Pamela first encountered this group while walking from work and took a different route to avoid them. But before long, she grasped that she could not evade them forever, especially as their numbers had quadrupled that penultimate day before Sivasubramanian’s routine delivery—or lack thereof—drew nearer. Even enlisting her friends’ help—those of her friends who did not side with these unhappy customers—she was unable to totally shake them. In addition to their threatening presences, she received threatening letters. Perhaps nothing didn’t enlighten the masses much, after all.
When the day finally came on which either Sivasubramanian’s delivery would or would not arrive, Pamela was afraid to leave her flat to check the postbox. However, mustering her courage after a small, gravelly granola bar breakfast, she ventured out of her door and made her way to the postbox. As the sound of her steps resounded around her, the sound of other footsteps built up behind.
Sure enough, shambling after her were several former customers, with longish hair and in bewildering dazes. Pamela, in an only slightly subpar state of health, was easily able to outpace these fanatical pursuers. Still, the spiritually offended are not to be underestimated. When another group of them thought they had cornered her, she fled into a corridor, and then to another stairwell, this time at her swiftest run, even
if she was taking a roundabout route to the postbox. Exhausted members of the mob groaning for nothing, nothing, nothing offered no respite, grabbing for Pamela, imploring her to let them have their meaning back. “For the first time,” she heard one shout, “I realized I was part of something bigger than myself! I was part of the void! And you wanna steal that from me!”
A Hou s e Di v i d e d - Matthew Bowden - Oil Paint Thanks to some careful maneuvering, Pamela was meters from the postbox. She rushed towards it, as if she expected what was inside could save her, but when it was practically within her grasp, a bulbous man scrambled into her path and knocked her back—Mr. Greenblatt, out despite Mrs. Greenblatt’s best efforts to stop him. Pamela saw that whatever had restrained him before was gone. “Pamela,” said Mr. Greenblatt, “I never realized how wonderful nothing was! I wasted my life collecting stuff. I don’t need to do other men’s work anymore. I’m free! The world can burn—it’s all stuff, anyway. If you won’t sell us nothing, we’ll take it.” “But Mr. Greenblatt, you – how did you end up like this?” “Your pious friend Platitude showed me the light.” At this moment, Tasha Platitude, in as much of a daze as the rest of Pamela’s adversaries and with far heavier bags beneath her eyes, hurried towards Mr. Greenblatt, shouting, “Stuff is what was actually wonderful all along! Nothing is worthless—it was practically just our imaginations. I was wasting my time not getting more stuff! Pamela, I’ll keep this fatso away from you.” And, evidently believing herself to be one of the action heroes from that series she finished reviewing last night, Tasha attempted to attack Mr. Greenblatt. Whether she or Mr. Greenblatt was in any state to grapple, Tasha bought Pamela enough time to reach the postbox. Inside were only bills and ads. Whatever happened to her, at least this town, already glutted with more nothing than any town should be, would receive no more. The honk of a car horn outside drew Pamela’s attention, and turning her head, she saw a gleaming limousine. From a rolled down window, a friendly hand beckoned for her. With all other options seemingly eliminated
for now, Pamela wavered but, despite more of the languid mob waiting near the doors, approached the limousine. The back door swung open, revealing a smartly dressed gentleman. Pamela did not recognize him. “Hi, Pamela,” he said. “I am Sivasubramanian. Please, come in. There’s plenty of room.” Pamela rode away with Sivasubramanian. “Would you like some wine?” said Sivasubramanian. “I have a nice Bordeaux here.” “No! What are you doing? We ought to go back. Tasha saved me. I can’t leave her there.” Pamela noticed that in the seat beside Sivasubramanian’s was a stack of philosophical books. “You read those?” “Of course. Well, even if you don’t want any wine, I think I might as well enjoy a glass.” He carefully uncorked the bottle and poured some out for himself. After taking a good whiff of the ruddy fluid, he took a sip.
“Why did you send me all that nothing?” said Pamela. “I hoped my gifts would teach a lesson about the somethings and nothings that abound in the world,” said Sivasubramanian. “A balanced life must have nothing and something. Do you understand, Pamela?” “But look what you’ve done to all those people. How could you? And how did you know the same thing wouldn’t happen to me?” “I didn’t. But based on what info was available about you, I deduced that you were not the type to let her priorities be skewed too much in either direction. I was confident my experiment would have interesting results. Something enlightening would happen. But obviously I could not be certain what you’d do. You were not totally taken in by the nothing because you had the profits you were reaping from it. In other words, something to counterbalance the nothing. Those people who were hounding you are simply suffering from withdrawal, as they did when they first switched from stuff to nothing. Soon, in a society so seeped with it, they will be stuff addicts again.” “You sound awfully confident!” “You’ll see that I’m right before long. People are very fickle. I’m happy that you did the right thing in the end, shutting down your little nothing racket, Pamela. Even so, you may want to lay low for a while. I’ll cover your expenses in the meantime. Isn’t that something? Well, it’s nothing to me.” Sipping some wine, Sivasubramanian opened one of his books, a volume of Spinoza, on his lap. “You shouldn’t have done all this to teach me a silly lesson,” said Pamela. “Ignoring that ‘silly’ remark, I am not only teaching you a lesson, Pamela. I hope that you will help me adapt these events into a story, so that, set into writing forever, anyone who reads of them will understand what happened here. Such a story is not only morally justified, but you could definitely have a cut of any cash it yields being published. What do you say?”
thank god Boondaree Chayangpath god, you’re pretty, he said I love your sweet eyes your full lips your soft hair your nice round breasts, he said you have a great smile, he said your skin is soft as untouched snow you are beautiful, he said I smile knowing how hedonistic, irredeemable unlovable I actually am thank god I’m pretty
Mon ke y Giv ing Bir th - Shelby Kahr - Colored Pencil
Titled
Brett Stratton
A lifetime of sweat and tears Not much effort it would take to
five
destroy this;
All it would need is but minutes Let me ruin their triumphs with less than a paint brush stroke.
Blues Song for the Land /Man we Fought Over I exhausted myself in your name. And God, God, come running sometimes. Til he hear me. Scratched free. The stopped verbs. I left. I came back. I gave you. Everything Exhausting. When mama can call for me, she starts with God. And sometimes I got Him with me. God, God come running. Til He sees my ankles bleed. God, God.
Take
me.
I’ll search the grave. I’ll give up the love I hurt into. My father’s name. God, God. And isn’t there something here?
Hajjar Baban
风花雪月:极简古集
王柯澔
四月十三时雨有感 霾暗云遮山，风急雨入幔。瓢泼不知处，滂沱湿 我衫。 三年一弹指，此去路漫漫。霏霏欲乘去，靡靡心 已乱。 赠熹昊咏樱二首·其一 三月樱吹雪，春风拂柳天。 沾衣扑面暖，其妙不可言。 赠熹昊咏樱二首·其二 疑是暮春雪，实却纷落樱。 悠然树下坐，香风染入心。 早醒 半夜乱梦醒，月落风声悄。 抱膝望银汉，星稀乌鹊少。 炎日业已近，云起霁光高。 金风玉露夜，无人立中宵。 八月廿二夜有感明日之别 月升星举晴空夜，光伏云疏三更天。 信札行李皆已束，唯恐缺衣缝襟边。 细嘱密咐盼雁书，冰心玉壶愁在先。 明日负书笑颜去，人间离别又一年。 重读《奇鸟行状录》有感 感时无处去，烦悱何所分？ 愁懑不足语，愿做无心人。 画堂春·九月三日满月 近秋天爽气怡，沐发似有风涤。 闲倚春街半调琴，此乐何极。 暗花默然独行，惬意如坐凉亭。 朗夜道中仰首望，月轮正明
This Poem was written in Mandarin
Wind ,B and M lossom, S now, - Keh oon ao W ang
Discovering the Magic of Brushing Your Teeth Molly Rapozo Growing up, brushing my teeth was one of my most hated tasks. I would brush them twice a day, as told, but I would do it so blankly and emptily that it seemed as though I had lost half of my life force for those two, okay, one and a half minutes. My eyes would glaze over as I stared into my reflection, disappointed with how my day was starting and ending. It wasn’t until the summer of my twentieth year that I realized how truly magical it is to brush your teeth. It was nine o’clock on a particularly hot Texas night, right in the middle of July. I was exhausted, feeling the burden of those summer work hours starting to take its toll. After sweating and running around all day, it was finally the best part of the night: going to bed. I so cherished every moment of winding down at night, the splendor of taking a shower and washing your face, and putting on soft broken-in t-shirts. On this particular evening though, what felt the absolute best was brushing my teeth. I raised my freshly minted toothbrush up to my mouth, starting on the left as usual and working my way around the surfaces of my teeth. I was gentle, as I was very tired, and so this soft, slow scrub was more of a massage than an effort to wash away whatever was left over in my mouth from the day. Something about this felt so good, so right, like I had been missing out on a secret for most of my life. Every bristle felt like it was hitting my gums in exactly the spot that they needed to at that moment, and for a minute the world paused and my life slowed down. I smoothly transitioned into an overwhelmingly beautiful calm, completely focused on the act of brushing my teeth. Dramatic, yes, but this is the truth. That night, I came across one of the greatest secrets of man. Studied for ages by monks, priests, and yoga-instagrammers alike, I stumbled upon my personal definition of true presence. I had been lending my time and thoughts to everyone but myself for many weeks, balancing work and a friend in the hospital. When I’d finally come home for the day, I would barely be able to keep my eyes open, floating in an exhausted daze through the hallways of my house and down to my room where I’d pass out in my bed almost immediately. That night, with my toothbrush cycling around in my mouth, I felt the calmest and most awake I had in awhile. My world finally slowed to a halt, and nothing outside of this tooth-brushing experience seemed to matter. I was in my own bubble, safe and secure, where no feelings or experiences could touch me. I was fully present in the time and space that I occupied.
Fr it z - Genevieve Anderegg - Ink & Markers
Our world is large. It’s large and loud and awful sometimes. Even if it’s really, really good, it can be too good to handle. All the good things and all of the bad things whip around in the air and float above our heads, trying to barge their way in and when they finally succeed, the most it feels like we can do is hide under the covers until the sun rises the next day. This is when I advise to you, take a moment. Take any moment, big or small, but claim it as your own. Extraordinary or mundane, take it, make it yours, and allow it to bring you solitude. Focus inwards for those two, no wait, one and a half minutes, and enjoy what you have to offer yourself. Actually, make it two minutes. Enjoy your time, and in your own presence, without the buzz of the world outside your head, that’s where you’ll find calm. I don’t always use my teeth-brushing as a meditative experience. Sometimes I rush, sometimes I am a human that makes mistakes and I skip it all together. But, that being said, that first meditative tooth brushing was certainly not the last. Every so often, I enjoy the space I’m in, and in those moments when I can truly take time to center myself around the bristles gliding over my teeth, scrubbing the rush of the day away and polishing my gums and spirit, I find that the world slows down enough for me to catch up with myself. Just for a moment, I’m able to catch my breath, all the while developing excellent oral hygiene.
nHna
Tehan Ketema
ane berhan werHi፡ ab tselam eye። nisiKi wn፡ berhan kulu neger eKi። izee kulu hiyab gin፡ kabey eyu ziminnchu፧ tiEdilti amlaH eyu።
Us
Tehan Ketema
I am the light of the moon in the dark and you, the light of everything. But where do all these beautiful gifts come from? A chosen blessing by God.
This poem was written in Tgrynia, a language spoken in Ethiopia and Eritrea.
[a letter] it doesn’t matter if the cup is half empty or half full, you won’t drink it. this is your nth day without food. you are reckless in this body, don’t you know you are borrowing it?
Mariam Coker
⋇⋇⋇
you are reckless in this body, don’t you know you are borrowing it? God saw everything you did to it, watched you convince yourself that you are stealing food from the mouth of someone more deserving.
⋇⋇⋇
you are stealing food from the mouth of someone more deserving. sinful. there is surely a hell, and people like you belong there, you convinced yourself that, i know.
⋇⋇⋇
i know, this is how you punish yourself, you convinced yourself that you breathe too much & your shadow is too dark, that you are too much & you are too dark, that your shadow takes up too much space... you want there to be less of you. the bad man wants there to be less of you so he is bigger in comparison. will even try to consume you to remain bigger in comparison. you’ll make yourself small for him. you still do this, and you have not heard from him yesterday, or today, and will not tomorrow
⋇⋇⋇
⋇⋇⋇
to Black girls who did not feel like eating yesterday, or today, and will not tomorrow,
⋇⋇⋇
don’t pull off this trick. you want to disappear so bad, but I see you so much,
⋇⋇⋇
come tomorrow, you will still want to disappear so bad, won’t you? you scream ‘Black girl magic’, but cannot pull off this trick.
Fra gil e - Van Hai Van - Watercolor
Becoming Literate Through Love Anna Walther As a young girl, I imagined romantic love as it was depicted in movies: smooth and effortless. Disney princesses stumbled across princes who seemed tailored to their wishes, and would enjoy a peaceful, painless happily ever after by their side. When I met my boyfriend Eric, however, my idea of an uneventful symbiotic relationship crumbled after countless misunderstandings, pointless arguments, and flared tempers. We realized early on that, in order to maintain a healthy relationship that withstands the long distance waiting for us after high school, we needed to learn how to better communicate with each other.
Mo d ern R om a n ce - Kayla Wasserman - Graphite
Eric and I did not develop our “literacy of love” until the later stages in our relationship, after several months of communicating only what was at surface level. On our first date, we talked for hours: sharing information about our interests, friends, and families between funny anecdotes and interesting stories. At the time, communication was nothing more than a means of getting to know each other. We wouldn’t dare share if we had flashes of unprecedented emotions, or were inwardly wrestling with some insecurity. We shared whatever was at surface level in fear of revealing something too deep and consequential. Just like a child learning to read, sounding out words without understanding the meanings they convey, when Eric and I communicated we only skimmed the surface of our thoughts without conveying any deeper meaning. I was unable to communicate what would help Eric truly understand me: things like how I always wanted to talk to him because it made me feel intelligent and validated, or how sometimes I withdrew from him because I felt insecure about being vulnerable. Being restricted to surface level communication often resulted in misunderstandings and arguments; when we fought, we were not yet capable of communicating in a way that lead us to understand why the other was upset, so instead we hurled insults at each other in frustration (“You’re being unreasonable, and I just can’t see where you’re coming from!”). It was not until our relationship progressed that we acquired ways of communicating—a “language of love” of sorts—which allowed us insight into each other’s experiences and gave us the tools to express ourselves in ways that we were previously unable.
Our “language of love” was born on a crisp November day during our high school’s annual Veteran’s day assembly, when I noticed that Eric chose not to place his hand on his heart during the National Anthem. I was taught in my elementary school that not putting your hand on your heart was a sign of disrespect, so I put his hand on his heart for him to spare him the humiliation of being unintentionally disrespectful. What I interpreted as an accidental lapse of judgement on his part was, in Eric’s mind, an insult to his preferred choice of salute. We finally realized this after a heated exchange of words in my car, and made a resolution to change the way we resolved conflict: by creating a codeword that we could “drop” during our disagreements to signal that we need to investigate potential misunderstandings that may be fueling our argument. This codeword forces us to stop what we’re doing, reevaluate why we are upset, and communicate it clearly to help the other understand our perspective.
The codeword strategy encourages us to explain the root causes of our frustrations, which enhances our understandings of each other and stops misunderstandings before they start. One year, while working a particularly grueling summer job together, Eric grew frustrated because I had been irritable at work for a few days in a row. Instead of succumbing to his first impulse—which was to criticize me for being so intentionally malicious towards him— he stopped, and sensed that there was some sort of misunderstanding at play. He “dropped the codeword” instead, which forced me to articulate my frustrations with the stagnant, suffocating conditions of our summer job. Every time we use the codeword strategy we grow as communicators who can share details about our experiences; this, in turn, deepens our understandings of each other. It gave us the skills to turn stressful situations—which are conducive to misunderstanding—into ones that provide an opportunity to further our understanding of the other person. This was our first step in becoming more literate: learning how to communicate our perspectives and experiences, and finding meaning within them. As we began to grow as communicators, we also needed to grow as listeners who could locate for ourselves the “why” in the other’s explanation. Although the codeword strategy was effective in urging us to articulate the lesser-known parts of our own lived experiences, it did not teach us to successfully locate the important meanings in the other’s explanations. For instance, on the evening of prom, Eric became irritated when I took a while to get ready as I took pictures and talked with my friends. We had to meet our friends for dinner and I, not sensing any urgency, continued to get ready at my own pace. He unsuccessfully tried to communicate his sense of urgency by repeatedly insisting that going out to eat before school dances was tradition. It wasn’t until later did I understand that tradition, to him, indicates more than what I interpreted at surface level: he uses the word tradition to try to communicate his need for security, and his desire to preserve what gives him a sense of stability. This instance and several more lead us to recognize that we use words like these regularly—we call them our “dig deeper” words because we use them to describe feelings or experiences that require digging into our past and present experiences. It became apparent that the codeword strategy was not enough to help us recognize and understand the deeper meanings that the other is trying to convey through these choice words; we needed to learn how to listen for and recognize these “dig deeper” words in order to become more literate in the deeper experiences and meanings that the other is trying to convey.
Tired of overlooking the deeper meanings of these words, Eric and I resolved to recognize these “dig deeper” words when they arose by figuring out their inner meanings and recognizing patterns that give us insight into what the other is trying to communicate. For instance, while Eric was talking through his frustrations with my distant demeanor one day, I noticed that he uses the word “attitude” to communicate the same feelings of frustration he felt as a child when his sister or mom treated him with disdain. In another instance, while I was bemoaning my difficulties making friends in my new dorm, Eric caught on to my use of the word “embarrassed” to embody the feelings of helplessness and isolation I was experiencing in social situations. After recognizing some of these words and establishing their meanings, we began to recognize patterns in which these words were used: some were used most often when we were angry, some when we were alone with family, and some when we felt that the other was disregarding our feelings. Recognizing the context of these words deepens our understanding of each other’s experience even further, and gives us insight into why we feel the way we do in certain situations. Understanding and applying the true meanings of these “dig deeper” words made us into more competent listeners, able to recognize what experiences the other is trying to communicate, in what context, and why. This, paired with our codeword strategy, helps us to not only communicate meaning, but fully comprehend it and incorporate it into our understanding of the other person.
Po st m ast er - Shelby Kahr - Acrylic, Colored Pencil & Watercolor
After repeated practice applying these strategies of communicating and finding meaning through verbal communication, Eric and I became capable of transcending the realm of verbal communication and finding meaning through nonverbal communication. Similar to the codeword strategy and the “dig deeper” strategy, we learned how to send and interpret nonverbal cues that convey meaning and give us insight into the other’s experience. We realized this potential at an uncomfortable Christmas party hosted by his grandparents, which began to escalate when his grandfather started making racist comments directed towards Eric’s aunt’s Hawaiian fiancee. Eric and I managed to communicate our discomfort to each other without saying a word. He made eye contact and raised his eyebrows ever so slightly, while I returned his gaze with a disingenuous grin that meant the same thing: we needed to get out of there soon. Since then, we’ve expanded our inventory of nonverbal cues to include wringing our hands to indicate stress, snapping our fingers to indicate impatience, tapping his hand to signal when he should follow my gaze, crossing our feet to convey comfort, as well as many other cues. I can recognize in his eyes when he wants something but feels reluctant to ask, while he can see in my face if I am stressed before I bring it to his attention, or before I even realize it for myself. These nonverbal cues fill in the blanks that our words leave behind, and further enhance our practice of communicating with and more holistically understanding each other.
Combining nonverbal communication with the verbal strategies described above, Eric and I became increasingly literate in our own “literacy of love:” a process of learning, developing, and practicing skills that further our understanding of each other. Whether it be through using the code word strategy to accurately and efficiently express myself, looking for patterns of “dig deeper” words which communicate meanings that stretch deeper than the surface level, or expressing ourselves with our bodies when our words can not, our “language of love” gave us the ability to understand the different ways that others convey meaning, and communicate meaning ourselves. I can now recognize that all of these strategies have a greater function than preventing pointless arguments with my boyfriend; they help us grow and become more literate by improving our ability to use verbal and nonverbal means to communicate meaning and recognize meaning in the words and actions of others. This practice, like learning how to read and write, gives us the tools to understand and communicate meaning, which, in turn, deepens our understanding of each other.
Pancakes
Vivi Davis Deep in the Philippines my gramma beats cassava leaves but i’ve been battered, unprotected, no longer the egg laid by my mother shell broken by my father, father figure figured that i should dance alone-- pirouette spinning when the Moon’s up up in the clouds weathermen don’t do their job because no one predicted my mess message you on the waning crescent hear back on the eclipse darkness can be purchased for every kindness spent we spend our moments living but at our best, we die the most because inside the brightest times are when the lies begin to show life is just a show and i’m just the backup, for the actress who pulls rabbits out of hats and pretends her life is magic some days i get cheered onstage enter stage left but i know it’s not right i’ve always been, always am, and always will be sleeping, without dreaming which is torture begging Morpheus for daylight stallions i’d even take a nightmare married to the thought of a marriage that can only happen in our minds so whenever i dream you standing before me i never neglect to say in time: I do. I do. I do.
Deep in the Philippines my gramma beats cassava leaves i’ve been battered but then there you are to make pancakes.
F l amingo Run T hi e ver y - Jingyu Zhang - Charcoal
Alterschwäne
Matt Buchholz
Noch hab’ ich keine großen Pläne Außer zu füttern die Alsterschwäne Mal sehn Ob das Gefieder so weich ist, wie ich’s wähne Fahr’ Hafenfähre solang’ ich darf Schwindelig speie, aber, doch, ich fahr’ Sogar Neigen Kaikräne wie Schwäne, ist’s nicht wahr? Am Ufer der Elbe wird es erkannt Ich hab’ mich so in die Schwäne verrannt Sollte umziehen, nach ‘nem neuen Land Aber den Koffer hab’ ich angezündet, alles drinnen verbrannt
Alster Swans
Matt Buchholz
I still don’t have any big plans Besides feeding the Alster swans We’ll see If their feathers are as soft as I imagine Ride the harbor ferries while I’m allowed I’m dizzy and I’m sick, but indeed I ride Even The dock cranes bend like swans—or is that not true? Recognized on the shore of the Elbe I was so obsessed with the swans I should move away, to a new country But I’ve already burned my suitcase, and everything inside
This poem was written in German.
ón Dulce Lim rdo - Raúl Edua hy - Photograp
Selfish
Anonymous
When you have a brother on the edge of suicide, Phone calls become Prayers.
own: nights spent on the phone, or waiting by the phone, or praying the phone doesn’t ring.
When you have a brother on the edge of suicide, Bad days become Sleepless nights, Fist-sized holes in bathroom walls, Too many sips from the whiskey bottle On a Tuesday night.
When you have a brother on the edge of suicide, You forget about yourself. Your friends ask you why You are so tired. You smile, You give some Bullshit answer, And they change the subject, Because They don’t really want to know.
When you have a brother on the edge of suicide, “I love you” becomes “Please don’t go,” a selfish plea: “Just stay a little longer, please.” When you have a brother on the edge of suicide, Pillow cases and Homework, Once clean, crisp, are stained with tears over and over. When you have a brother on the edge of suicide, Black coffee becomes Medicine, An elixir to bring you back from sleepless nights of your
When you have a brother on the edge of suicide, Laughter becomes Selfish. Friday nights become Selfish. Sleep becomes Selfish. Drunk becomes Selfish. Letting your phone battery die Becomes Selfish, Dangerous. When you have a brother on the edge of suicide, You remember When you were on the edge of suicide yourself.
You remember Easter morning, Falling to your knees. When you were on the edge of suicide, You toyed with the idea of a world Without you in it. Your mom called suicide “selfish,” And now, you understand why. When you have a brother on the edge of suicide, Names become more than syllables, They become hallelujahs. Phone calls become prayers, and your brother, answering the phone after the third ring, becomes an amen. A blessing. Because he is simply there to answer the phone At all, And the voice of a brother on the edge of suicide, Is so much better Than no voice at all.
Sp li t - Marissa Haegle - Photography
arson Mariam Coker my father was a home once a studio apartment reeking of the american dream and piss, the first place he would move my mother into they were so in love she didn’t mind the roaches a place never thought to exist in the county she always wanted to run away to, where the golden girls and white house and color tv and hot running water and indoor plumbing all are. where she slept on the floor the first night, cried so hard my older sister kicked. america brought winter, but love kept them warm. he only had enough space to fit her and whatever she could carry, so she brought two bags and a baby tied to her back. when she started carrying babies in her arms, as well as the one on her back, he became a townhouse — thin walls, short temper; my next door neighbor, god, heard everything. my room was in the corner, right above the living room, i pretended to be god too. plates and thuds and curse words in the language my parents came to this country with1 — like ashewo2 and ode buruku3 and ode oshi4 and aje5. my father planted lies in the front yard, i weeded and let the neighborhood kids pick them. being the last born, i was conceived with love and raised by resentment. so when my father evicted mom and set himself on fire, i was not surprised when i saw the insurance check — selfish. he destroyed himself and had her sweep it up. didn’t even bother to take out any of her things, and all the babies still left inside. 1 The most important part of any language. 2 whore 3 dumbass 4 stupid fuck
Prot o t yp e 2 0 1X - William Doty - Ink & Watercolor
Four Seasons Boondaree Chayangpath “I want to take you to the Four Seasons for a nice lunch tomorrow,” Mom says to me while dialing the phone to make a reservation. I’ve always loved the Four Seasons. Well-dressed men and women open doors for you that you are capable of opening yourself and they ask how your day is going but do not really care. There are paintings on the wall that didn’t make the cut for art museums and the food is delicious because everyone says so.` The waitress hands me a menu and I find myself reading “escargot”, “foie gras”, “mâche salad”, and “Béarnaise”, only in my head, of course, because I do not know how to pronounce any of these words. I order grilled Tasmanian salmon with green asparagus, fennel sauce, and basil pesto for the main course and blueberry cheesecake for dessert. I know what those things are, I know what they look like, I can pronounce them, no surprises. I want to ask the waitress to tell the chef to hold the asparagus, but my sister looks at me with a face that reads, “this is not Subway, you don’t pick and choose what the artist puts on the dish.” So I smile at the waitress and she leaves with my order, asparagus inclusive. The first course is a small-scale buffet table: some fresh vegetables, a small selection of cold cuts, and other appetizers. For most of us, a buffet usually means you can grab whatever is available in whatever proportions you prefer, but at the Four Seasons, you cannot walk back from the buffet table with a mountain of ahi tuna and excitement on your face. You have to act nonchalant about the gorgeous yellowfin tuna. I can see the red meat of the fish and the white streaks of fat contrasting with the brown outer skin that has been seared to perfection. I’ve seen plenty of tuna in my lifetime, but it either comes in a can or is a cartoon fish called Charlie. I’ve never seen tuna look so alive. I grab five pieces, each piece about the size that can fit comfortably on a tablespoon, so five does not seem too eager. I also put on my plate spinach, tomatoes, and shrimp, just to seem like a worldly person. I repeat that three more times but with less spinach, completely forgetting that this is just the first course and that I could get mercury poisoning. Then comes the main course. The waitress places in front of me a square plate with a lonely fish sitting on top of four asparagus tips, and it looks like a piece of modern art. It makes you feel confused and cultured at the same time, like a huge canvas with a red square in the middle that you know is great art but you’re not sure why. Then I remember thatI am not paying full price and I stop complaining to myself.
Th e Ali en s Wan t O u r Tu rk e y an d We H ave t o Ke e p Th e m O u t - William Doty - Oil Paint
I think the food tastes good, but I honestly do not know enough about food to conclude. I can’t taste the difference between authentic Ligurian pesto made from freshly-picked basil leaves and a jar of Barilla that has that suspicious “natural flavors” ingredient. I don’t know the difference between wild Tasmanian salmon and all-year-round Wal-Mart salmon. And frankly, I don’t think any of these bourgeois around me do either. After we eat the dessert, a man walks toward our table and asks my sister and me how our meal was. He is tall, handsome, has good hair, wears a suit, and has that romantic French accent that says, “I’m charming”. Despite the charm, the interaction feels like when you run into an acquaintance and it’s too late to avoid each other, so they ask how you are and you ask how they are, but you both don’t care, so you just say you’re fine. So we tell him the meal was good.
The next day, we decide to stay home for dinner. Mom is an excellent cook. She fills the house with the sound of onions and peppers hissing on the pan, the smell of chives being chopped, and rids it of all emptiness. Those days when I came home from school to the sight of light glowing from the kitchen, those were always the good days. She cooks us sautéed vegetables, chicken with soy sauce, and Thai omelet. As soon as dinner is ready, the four of us sit down at the same table. Then I start telling my sister about a wonderful man I’m dating. She tells me she’s nervous and stressed about applying for college. My dad tells me he’s expecting me to work for him after I graduate. My mom talks about this new show she’s been watching. I tell them I failed a class. My sister says she’s excited about her new job at a record store. We’re all talking and eating and listening. We had three courses to talk about our lives, yet none of it came up at the Four Seasons. We each put our worries, our excitements, our lives on the table, then we clear them away along with the dishes. As he usually does after a meal prepared by Mom, my dad unbuttons his pants, and we dance to Earth, Wind & Fire.
October to Take Me Home
Alexandra Pleasant
To the boys that leave me. Naked, quaking aspens in the back yard. The dogs charge the drive, snarl before the recognition fixes its eye on me. It’s for the best you are not here. My father, again awash in the wealth of daughters, stokes a fire. Tended for our returning. Bruised-knuckle smoke signals. To bring us home. These are not the first scrapes his fists have known, nor the last dawn he has trenched for sake of having somewhere to call when the night drawls on. To the boys that my dogs have bitten, I’m sorry, but I can’t talk to you anymore, and to the birds that scream like kids outside my house, I already told you, you’re fine. When the dogs settle, you have no right to work yourself into a wreck. No right to apologize for feeling sorry for yourself.
n Home Th e O c e a - Grant Yun - Digital Art
Every Mourning I Go to Bed Hungry Duncan Slagle The future is a sparrow losing its feathers at dusk. Paranoia blossoms in the headlines’ heat. Flocks flew directly into the sun this year. Shadows fell to the ground bleeding.
I kneel in front of an altar crossing myself despite all that says I am not being hunted & my head splits in the darkness. Cross sectioned bone crowded by anxious growth. Blooms dripping from my lips. Paranoia repeats headlines while I bathe / I shrug them off / language decomposes / like grey skin / on the metal drain / I cannot stop thinking / bodies are so fragile / I want to throw my phone away / that will kill / the birds too / each teal evening reminds me / every altar I kneel before could hold the corpse of someone / I love / a drug that will calm my breathing until it flickers / gives up / my eyes won’t adjust to a world on fire / the sparrow passes over my head / a small eclipse / the future / flashing / its feathers / before dark. “Animals die all the time,” my mother reminds me. She dresses the table, invites me to sit, & serves a meal. The dining room glows with candlelight. Plumage clouding my vision. Green tablecloth catching stains. I am so afraid to be buried I would nail myself to the sky.
Every corner of my skull is a nest.
My mouth is a window I’m closing & opening & closing & opening & closing & opening to let the birds leave.
Everything Else
Alexandra Pleasant
Reen says it was a sign we were meant to be together—the both of us barrel-chested. A similar heft. That was good, he said, to keep to all that flesh inside of it safe. As if Reen went around expecting blows to the chest, and the pair of us were among the rare percentage blessed in defense of this. Chey is not blessed. A fact I’ve long tried to disguise with boxy clothing that drapes from her shoulders and falls straight. A fact that keeps drifting into my consciousness as Reen steals glances at the little girl climbing into the fountain. Reen had always taken each odd familiarity of flesh as deeply significant. In a way that all people who feel deprived of bodily autonomy do. So of course he knew. He knew she was not like him. “Is it too late to baptize her?” Reen says from beside me, his eyes fixed on Cheyenne as she starts looting copper and nickel by the fistful. Her light blue dress slowly soaks at the hem each time the three-year-old bends, sinking her already-full fists to the mosaics floor of the fountain. It’s almost a joke—neither of us are religious, but I suspect Reen has recently reconsidered under the circumstances. “In that water?” I say. The fountain, for all the abandoned glimmer of coins that litter its bottom, still gushes. The heavy scent of chlorinated water wafting to Reen and me sitting on the grass. The courtyard, the campus in fact, is ours; I haven’t seen another person in days. “Lake water then,” Reen says. I turn to him and grit my teeth. I’d fume, but it’s already too hot for that. Reen glances sidelong at me in a quick moment. The response he was looking for. His eyes fix again on the daughter in the fountain. Chey abandons any notion of keeping her dress dry and instead meanders onto her belly then drops her face below the water. Reen leans slightly forward as she does. “If she comes up, I’m calling it baptism,” He says, restless, waiting for her back to arch and shoulders to breach from the water. “And if she doesn’t?” “When we lose things,” he attempts, but the apathy in his voice loses it genuine ring. He’s trying to recant the tone of what he calls the “chronic disinterest” in my voice, but he loves her too much and it’s not working. I look back at the splay of annotated blackbody spectra I had taken from the lab. Reen curses under his breath and strides toward the fountain. Chey comes up laughing before he reaches her. He wraps his hands around her and pulls her from the water. She fusses with the pennies, trying to keep too many of them clenched in her fists. He opens his palms as an offering, as if to say, I will hold that for you. But she is suspicious of the gesture and denies him. He is hurt by this. Even from this distance I can see the weight that rises and settles in a sigh that fixes Reen’s chest.
U n k n ow n - Kayla Wasserman - Marker
Blows to the chest. Maybe Reen had a point in being barrel-chested, if there was ever a time to be unequally blessed in any defense, now might be it. I want to explain that maybe it’s all going to turn out alright, and I know that it’s not but I want to hear the words break my lips. To explain I love her as much as he does, but Reen would know that I’m lying. I want to explain I didn’t mean it and everything else. I want to explain that everything is cribbed from somewhere else, that the nature of life sometimes inhabits that which you must take from someone else. But I don’t want them to stop looking at me like I was the one that spun the universe from the threads of my thought. I want Reen to look at me like I was the one that figured out that sometimes universes nest like Russian dolls, and I want Chey to settle in my arms. But they seldom do that anymore. It’s Reen’s arms Chey chooses to fall asleep in. It’s Cheyenne’s eyes that Reen searches for the meaning of the universe. And I can’t blame them, only watch as they exist together while everything else falls apart.
d 1 ren Untitle e Lundg n i r e h t a -C nt - Oil Pai
Routine: Dress
Duncan Slagle
The morning body’s reflection: Nude. Arm curved; a righteous bow. Stomach round as the moon; her silver language. Heart swooning like a startled sparrow— The flock beating their wings in your throat. You have peeled wallpaper for skin; fear unlocks your chest. You dress your body like a house set for death, carefully— tears crystal & soft in your eyes. Clocks held still in your blue hands. Glass drowning in silk. Knot the tie correctly or find something else to choke on. Your hormones sing these instructions, which has always depended on Time: Coins carried from your pocket to your eyes; streetwise burial. Your gown is dead weight. Eachheavy strut; an unearned gift. So blur his face off with your eye contact. Do not apologize to the sun; such brief heat. Your sweat outlined by her amber vocabulary. Do not apologize for surviving. Call the fear bubbling up your throat an ocean of feathers. Inhale only when he crashes into you. You are not paid for this performance. You do not owe anyone anything but the salt glistening on your fingernails. On cue, you will snap each button shut. Hum your name softly. Cut the elevator cables. Drop your voice & turn the stove on. Lock your teeth & leave.
Final Thoughts
rful Jim Rogers, our wonde to de itu at gr t es ep de r ou ial We would like to extend d guidance made this issue come to life. Spec t an yan’s advisor, whose suppor k, who under Iffat Bhui e to ic ed M ey tn ur Co d an so lik thanks to Nick Munce . Illumination would al am te r ou ed lp he tly ea e of transition, as well tim leadership, have gr is th in e nc tie pa ite hose r infin thank Jen Farley, for he r and the rest of the WUD Marketing Team, w rfe uge as Stephanie Webendo ucial to our success. H cr e er w n io at ic un m ge m flexibility and open co iot Finkelstein and Pamela O’Donnell at Colle El who thanks to Kelli Hughes, d support. Also, thank you to Emmett Mottl, . an Library for their advice and all of our questions ch ea er sw an to e bl la ai av always makes himself
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