issue 6, volume 1
Kaleidoscope reengineering the arts
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Kaleidoscope Fall 2018
Florida Tech’s Fine Art Publication
Kaleidoscope@my.fit.edu
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Staff and acknowledgements
Editor-in-Chief
Nicole Kern
Editors
Jordan Densler Vitaly Meshin Alexander Hsieh Kyle Jones Gabe Jankowski Kyle Stead Samuel Densler Julia Winkler Sonja Michaels Eric Jones
Faculty Advisors
Dr. John Lavelle Dr. Debbie Lelekis
To submit to Kaleidoscope, use our public form located at https://orgsync.com/3250/forms/161306
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Table of contents Poetry
Prose
Bookworm 6
It Was Tuesday
Guppies
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That Old Battleship
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Armada of Aqua
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Fuck You
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Flooding 12 I Heard A Sound
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Wood Splitting Mondays
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Visual Arts Alice Buswell
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Maryam Pishgar
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Alice Buswell
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Jaime Bardaji
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Julia Winkler
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Jordan Densler
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Nicole Kern
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Bookworm Maria Cuervo
Small and rounded stains of ink. In soft and long pieces of trees. My fingers grasping on the binding. While I read, my head wonders. There’s a story in those lines, what it Threads, makes up a life. But who decides what it’s about? Is it the pen that gives it life? Or are the characters, who grind and Push the story along the path? Is it, then, perhaps the eye? Who sees its shape And recognize? Although all play their part, It’s the heart that brings the light. While there’s method in each part The heart, that feels, Makes it art.
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Guppies Emily Walker
She always picked the ugly guppies when she was little Muddy scales, shredded fins, translucent tails More like tiny ghosts than pet fish. Her dad asked why she didn’t choose the pretty fish Orange soda fins, sunflower scales, tails Fourth-of-July red Watercolor paintings dripping through the tank. She told her dad she liked the guppies no one else wanted Lonely fish, forgotten swimmers, broken drifters Lost leaves floating invisible and alone. She looked in the tank and saw the guppies and saw herself Fragmented girl, shivering anxiety, unknown mind One of the things so many people forgot.
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That Old Battleship Emily Walker
Old sailing ropes knotted so tight they split Salty brine sloshing up to her lungs and drowning her The entire sun housed inside a stomach Yet on she sailed. It was the kind of pain that made your nails bite your palms The kind of hurt that made your teeth grind together until they creaked The kind of agony that snatched your breath away and carried it along on the wind Yet on she sailed. A monster rose up from the deep and clawed her belly open The sea water rose to fill her head with shimmering images of reality The wind ripped her ropes into strings Yet on she sailed.
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The moon looked down on her and turned away Mermaids’ laughter turned to screams as they scattered in her wake The sailors saw her broken body and yelled, “Abandon ship!” Yet on she sailed. The waves broke every rib in her side Water bloated her wood and the sun warped it until it ruptured The only ones to hear her cries were the gulls that bit at her war-torn heart Yet on she sailed until she reached the land.
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Armada of Aqua Robert Olsen
Click and clack to harsh gritty gray Bending green to waver to the winds Explosions of light and a zigzag to the skies Darkness is the day Yet time always flies Cast on glass staring back I’m not dolling up but standing here Looking outward and searching in a seaof high criers and dreary black push forward relentlessly Awaken to a thirst Quench with what is clear In the great and marvelous blue He who witnessed the worst Couldn’t have handled the truth Twitter and tweet To greet the gold rimmed This glow yet again For the light must repeat Til’ the turn of an end
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Fuck You
Kenny Hausrath Damn Osiris, Nut and Geb The stars I see cannot be read What’s good for gods is good for man Is now just something I once said No man above, nor mystic blendI’m on my own, my gods are dead.
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Flooding
Micah Oltmann There is a pain of losing a home Seeing a disarray of possessions, Some safe, others waterlogged. After a day, mold starts Covering the walls and floors. Bugs, dirt, and sewer invade. You start with a mop Musty. Soggy. Disheartening. Bleach and soggy cardboard, Dead leaves and cleaning rags. Slackly tearing down the walls, You plan to make new. You rebuild. the world pretends like nothing happened. you live a life without rest. Slowly drowning in a flood that has already passed wanting to run, but having no where You Recover.
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I Heard A Sound Mackenzie Houdek
I heard a sound in the dark of night Creeping closer, just out of sight I prayed, lord my soul do not take I heard it come it did not wait I tried I tried, to run and hide The sound was never far behind I heard a tick I heard a tock I screamed and screamed, it would not stop I cried, I cried, I howled in pain The sound kept coming as I withered away My body broke, my mind turned to mud My skin began to stretch, my back to hunch I raged, I raged like a man told me once But darkness was upon me the light had been snuffed I looked out in fear losing track of direction It took everything there was no exception
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Wood Splitting Mondays John Lavelle
The double-bladed ax cleaved an arc across the sky Splitting through the horizon of the wood like a swift dark sun. And the wood sings out like a hammered drum. Walnut, maple, ash, elm chant their own clear notes grown across the fragile history of fogged and wet mornings, the soft plunk of water droplets off infant leaves, the sound of birthing of hard frozen Decembers, naked ribs of the earth soft muted springs, shepherds of daffodils and crocuses and eternal summers nursemaids to the flash of childhood.
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As a small and slight boy I swung the ax (a gift) as skillfully as men twice my size knowing I could split seasoned hickory in one well-aimed strike. (one is the least and the most anyone can do) Next to my growing wood pile, I stood as tall as any man. The trick was to know the grain, to spy the drying fissures and to believe in your aim and your blade. (some believed in their arm) On cold fall mornings in fog so thick you lost the world. (It hugged you like a mother like the mother) The ax and wood was all I heard, the soft swish of my hand sliding down the fog-wet handle, the soft sound of ax and air, the clear note of the strike and split, the grunt of the white smoke of air rushing over my teeth out of my mouth, me a skinny steam locomotive pushing against the expectations of manhood, my whole world in the success of my aim and sharpened blade. Or was it Tuesdays? Time smoothes memories like a towel over mortar.
16 “Woods That Sing”
Alice Buswell
17 “Exhausted”
Maryam Pishgar
18 “Fortune”
Alice Buswell
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Jaime Bardaji
20 “Rosé”
Julia Winkler
21 “Old Mill”
Jordan Densler
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Nicole Kern
It Was Tuesday Eleanor Mathers
I clutched my sketchbook, trying to remember to breathe as I sat down in the same seat I’ve been sitting in since the beginning of the semester. I already knew she’d be sitting across from my seat, per usual, but I still tried not to run away when I saw her familiar figure hovering over a book. It was Tuesday. She always had a book on Tuesday. I sat down, maybe more cautiously than I should have but she didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. For two months, we had exchanged hardly any words and our continued seating arrangement hadn’t been addressed by one another. That was perfectly fine with me; I found out-of-theway-chatting a pointless pass time that consumed the moments I would rather be doing other things, such as drawing. So why the hell was I about to do this? It took her a second to glance up when I cleared my throat rather loudly. It actually sounded more like choking, which is probably the only reason she looked up in the first place. I blinked at her for a second, completely forgetting the conversation I had planned in my head. “H...Hi.” I managed weakly, trying hard not to fidget with my sketchbook. She raised her eyebrows and I couldn’t tell if she was surprised at my initiation of conversation or just surprised that I could speak in general. Our short interac24
tions consisted of handing over dropped items or acknowledgment nods or something simple like that. “Hello,” she responded, setting down her book and looking at me in full. I realized this was the first time I’d ever heard her voice other than what I could assume from coughs or faint chuckles or sighs. It was higher than I had thought, girlish and musical rather than the chalky and gravel filled ones you usually encountered with college girls that indulged too much in activities such as smoking or drinking or other throaty endeavors. I continued to fidget, wondering just how I was going to bring this up, now that I had her attention. I debated on just throwing the book at her and running, but that would be a little too in character and I was already way out of bounds. She began to pick up her book again, still keeping an eye on me as if I were about to blurt something out. Which is exactly what I did. “This is really awkward, but we’ve been sitting in the same spots across from each other in the library for weeks now, so I’ve spent a lot of time staring at you, and I’ve kind of done some sketches of you, would you like to see them?” Everything that I had planned to come out smoothly and in constructed sentences, forming into clever phrases and acceptable non-creepy explanations that wouldn’t make me seem like a hopeless loser flew out of the window when the words flew out of my mouth. At first, I didn’t even think she 25
understood what I said. My face was obviously as red as a newly painted barn and my body had started to shake and I really hoped I didn’t look like I was about to cry because her eyes had gone wide and instead of giving me a disgusted look, she looked like she was ready to do something worse hug me. I closed my eyes tightly and I really did contemplate throwing the book at her and running this time. But just as I was about to grab it, I felt it being tugged from my hands. “Sure, I’ll take a look.” I opened one of my eyes slowly as I felt the sketchbook slide from under my hands and I noticed she wasn’t making eye contact with me as she opened the pages and flipped through them. At the beginning of the semester, I was given a free period to use in the library. I had just bought a new sketchbook to practice for my Still Life class since I wanted to pursue art in its most basic form; no animation, no fantastical outbreaks, no big extravagances. Raw, real life. Where better to find “still” than in a library? I chose a spot in the fiction section that I felt was perfect for the occasion, out of the way but not so secluded that I couldn’t see others; most college kids here didn’t visit the fictional section other than to study away from the study groups. It was a table tucked in between two book cases with a window right beside it that had white blinds. When I sat down, the blinds were on my right and the opening between the book cases was on my left. I 26
could see passing students and a few other scattered tables as well as the librarian’s desk and the end of the hallway that lead to the bigger room of the library where the entrance was and, ultimately, the louder area. I had just pulled out my sketchbook and started my warm ups when I heard a rustle in front of me. “May I...?” I glanced up to find a smallish girl with abnormally large brown eyes and very messy brown hair standing in front of me with her hand on the chair. She had whispered so I hardly heard her, but I could gather what she wanted. Rather than say no and present conflict with a girl I wasn’t even sure belonged in a college, I shrugged and returned to my sketchbook, figuring that the cold answer would either dissuade her to sit here or give her the hint that I wasn’t a conversationalist if she did. She picked the latter and sat quietly, pulling out a book. It was Tuesday. I watched intently as she flipped through the book, not touching any of the lines and taking an extensive amount of time on some of the pictures. A few were of her books, her hands, her posture. Occasionally, I had attempted to draw her as a shadow with the books behind her being the main focus, thinking I could come up with a statement of sorts about how college students were just spaces within textbooks. The idea hadn’t stuck for long. She never made any sound while taking in the pictures, all very realistic and most accurate. Only a few times had I attempted to change her features, but I hated 27
the way straight hair or smaller eyes or a thicker body looked when drawing her. I had gotten used to how her small hands made the books look too big for her. And her eyes didn’t seem all that abnormal anymore, more like they captured just how much wonder she possessed and how intent they were on taking in her surroundings. I often liked to draw the curve of her mouth. She screwed it up when she was discontent with a section and she bit her lip when she was anxious. On Mondays and Thursdays, she brought her laptop for school work but the line of her mouth with the drooping edges didn’t budge much while she worked. That’s why I liked Tuesdays the best, because she always had a different expression. She didn’t come in on Fridays and I wasn’t there on Wednesdays so I’m not sure if she had other interests that made her mouth curve in other ways. At first, I had attempted to draw other things, like my original concept. I drew students across the room, various book set ups, the objects on top of the shelves. But the specimen in front of me continuously drew my attention and I could always find something new to draw there. At the end of the third week, I was fairly annoyed to find that the first half of my sketchbook was mostly filled with this mouse of a girl. I’m not sure she ever noticed. And if she did, she never let on, although I doubt this was the case. I had a platform that raised my sketchbook up on an angle so that I wasn’t hunched over it all the time. My older brother had crafted it for me when 28
I was ten, half a life time ago. Sometimes, when I got annoyed that I was drawing the Mouse Girl again, I would sit back and just look at the craftsmanship of my brother. Once, I glanced up and I caught her watching me. She saw me looking at her and looked like she was about to start conversation - I don’t know if I gave her a look that advised against it or if she was just good at reading others, but she returned to her book about someone’s “notebook”. It was Tuesday. “You haven’t drawn a single smile.” She spoke so softly that I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t been watching her mouth. I blinked, looking up at her eyes, which were looking down at the last page of the sketchbook, a very detailed picture I had drawn last week that was probably my best work. “Well...” I leaned back in my chair, looking down at the sketchbook, wondering why I hadn’t formulated a smile like all of the other variations I had drawn her. Suddenly, she slid the sketchbook towards me very sharply. I looked up, wondering what had set her off. I hadn’t even said anything. She looked as if she was holding something back, looking down at the book in front of her. Her reading glasses had dipped low on her nose and I knew from the past two months that she hated them past the small bump on her nose and she would eventually push them back up in a frustrated manner. But while I sat and watched, waiting for the familiar gesture, 29
she didn’t move. Her arms were ridged at her sides. I noticed a bit of a tremble and I suddenly sat up really straight. Oh damn. Oh damn, oh damn, oh damn, what the hell did I do? I didn’t even say anything! “Look, I--” “You don’t have to make fun of me.” Pause. “What?” “Y-You don’t have to make fun of me.” I could tell her hands were fidgeting in her lap. “You started drawing different features on me, in the beginning. And then you stuck with my too-big eyes, my crazy hair, my bumpy nose, my crooked glasses. And you drew the light around me r-really pretty.” She sniffed, sounding more aggravated with the shake in her voice than with me. I was rather confused as to where she was going with this and how she could think I’m making fun of her. “I know all of those features of me.” She gestured sharply towards the book. “Big eyes, freaky hair, big nose, stupid glasses. I know I’m not-” “I’m not making fun of you.” Pause. Pause. Pause. “I didn’t like the other features I drew on you. And you haven’t smiled while reading, so I haven’t thought to draw it. I like the expressions you have, and the features you have, and the way you look.” She was looking at the sketchbook, her face 30
turning red. “I’m sorry I didn’t do a good enough job for you.” I picked up my stuff, rather annoyed, and began shoving it in my bag. When I looked back on the desk to get my sketchbook, it was gone. I looked up, and she was clutching it to her stomach, looking a bit scared. “Of course, they’re good enough. They’re perfect. I’m sorry. Please don’t take them.” We kind of just stared at each other for a bit and I finally sat back up in my chair. “Do you...want to keep them?” I fiddled with the pencil left on the table, not looking at her. “What? But it’s a whole sketchbook!” “Yeah, full of you. I’m creepy enough for drawing you. How weird would it be if I kept it?” I looked up. And then I saw it. That smile. It was a little too big for her face, like her eyes, and she showed quite a bit of gum and all in all it looked rather goofy with her big eyes and crazy hair and big nose and crooked glasses. But it was perfect. And I smiled back. It was Tuesday.
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