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knack magazine / issue eighteen

KNACK is dedicated to showcasing the work of new artists of all mediums and to discussing trends and ideas within art communities. KNACK’s ultimate aim is to connect and inspire emerging artists. We strive to create a place for artists, writers, designers, thinkers, and innovators to collaborate and produce a unique, informative, and unprecedented web-based magazine each month.

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WILL SMITH co-founder, digital operations ANDREA VACA co-founder, photo editor, production manager, marketing ARIANA LOMBARDI executive editor ARIANNA SULLIVAN editor CHELSEY ALDEN editor JONATHON DUARTE design director FERNANDO GAVERD designer, digital operations, marketing spread photographs by TIM KASSIOTIS

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KNAC K A RT M AGA ZI N E .CO M KNAC KM AGA ZI N E 1 @ G M AI L .CO M


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ARTIST BIOGR APHIES

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AVA R EINISCH

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MILJEN ALJINOVIC

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EMILY FR ANK LIN

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SUBMISSION GUIDELINES

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AVA REINISCH

MILJEN ALJINOVIC

Ava Reinisch was born in Chicago, IL, where she currently lives as a freelance artist. She is an avid traveler, has driven to many places in the country, and has backpacked through Central and South America, where she practices speaking Spanish and gets most of her inspiration for her work. Ava’s dream is to live in Mexico as an artist and English/Spanish teacher.

Miljen Aljinovic was born in 1987 in a town called Belgrade in a country that was then called Yugoslavia. He grew up in Santa Fe, NM, and lived for a time in Washington state. He plays guitar in a band called Catnip Tea. Passerby is his first novel. When not playing with Catnip Tea, recording their second album—“Ouroborealis”— Miljen is working on his next novel, Talking to Charlie.


knack magazine / issue eighteen

EMILY FRANKLIN Emily Franklin was born in Berkeley, California in 1991, but moved to Santa Fe, New Mexico where she spent most of her childhood. Emily works principally in printmaking, but is trained in and largely influenced by figure drawing. Her latest efforts have been in fiber art. Emily graduated in 2013 from Colorado College with a BA in Fine Arts. There, she participated in several showcases, the two most recent being her thesis work entitled Bruise and a group show at the Coburn Gallery in Colorado Springs.

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IT IS SO NICE TO SIMPLY BE A BYSTANDER TO THESE SITUATIONS


knack magazine / issue eighteen

AVA REINISCH S T U D I O A R T / P H OT O G R A P H Y

I like to represent certain circumstances that catch my eye, generally natural occurrences, or landscapes. I choose to recreate these events because I like to remind myself that life is simple and beautiful, and that it is so nice to simply be a bystander to these situations.

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all works untitled, digital format

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clay bust clay


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untitled oil on canvas

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untitled oil on canvas


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u n t i t l e d oil on canvas

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hot air balloons, steel wire

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untitled, various materials

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t i d a

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l wave, plaster casts


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I WANTED TO TAKE A PICTURE OF MY FRIENDS AND THE MOOD WE ALL SEEMED TO BE TRYING TO SHAKE TO NO AVAIL


knack magazine / issue eighteen

MILJEN ALJINOVIC C R E AT I V E W R I T I N G

My approach is generally an attempt to capture as much as I can of my surroundings while as succinctly as possible setting up a contextual framework that tries to simulate my worldview for the reader. Honestly, that’s all I’ve ever wanted any of my art to be; a medium through which to not only convey my opinions and thoughts about the world, but hopefully help the reader at least temporarily assume the perspective from which that viewpoint came. My first novel, Passerby, started as an emotional purge at the end of a relationship, career, and life chapter. I realized while I was mulling over my personal tragedies that what I really wanted to do was capture the listless, disconnected, lonely terror that I certainly felt, but that was especially crippling because it seemed like everyone I knew felt it just as strongly and in their own way. Essentially, I wanted to take a picture of my friends and the mood we all seemed to be trying to shake to no avail. The best approach seemed to be to try to tell two simultaneous stories that are the same fundamentally and yet individual and unique. Currently I’m working on another novel, which I will release in 8 installments, called Talking to Charlie. The prologue is a freestanding short story called A Game with No Rules, meant to be written by the protagonist of the rest of the book.

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he rock bounces twice off the sidewalk in front of him, the second time much harder than the first. It jumps up to about waist level, slowing down almost perceptibly as it approaches the zenith of the arc. It picks up speed again on its way down so fast that for a brief second he loses sight of it before it bounces quickly 4 or 5 times in succession, dribbling ahead across the square concrete tiles.

The game doesn’t have any rules, you see. Those are his favorite games to come up with. With so much time on his hands, he has a great deal available for playing games. He thinks them up so often, it’s difficult for him to remember with very much certainty if each game is really unique, a new iteration of a previous theme, or just a game he hasn’t played for a while and has forgotten that he came up with already. No matter. He’s played enough games, and enough of them were sufficiently unique that he feels he’s an authority. He’s an expert in the field. His opinion should be respected. And his favorite games are the ones with no rules. Perhaps they’re not completely devoid of rules. If there were truly no rules, there would be no structure to his actions around which to qualify it as a game. It’s more specifically that they’re games with no winning conditions. No losing conditions. Like this game. He kicks the rock and it skips down the sidewalk. If the rock stops on the sidewalk without hitting another rock, then he kicks it again. If it hits another rock, then he kicks that one next. If it lands on the grassy patch between the sidewalk and the curb, then he has the option to switch to another rock of his choosing from the sidewalk in the vicinity of the original rock, or he can kick said original rock, but has to do so with full force (therefor parked cars in the vicinity have to be taken into account). If the rock goes in the road he switches to another rock. In the event that the rock hits a bottle cap (metal or plastic, though metal ones are a bit of a pain in the ass to kick), he has to switch to that and keep kicking it until it goes in the street regardless of it hitting other rocks or landing in the grass. Really, that’s quite a lot of rules, and yet, as there’s no penalty for breaking any of them – no way of winning or losing – there’s no real pressure, and they don’t really feel so much like rules any more. It’s that way with all his favorite games, and this is one of them. He comes up to the rock and kicks it again. The tile of sidewalk a few feet ahead is tilted at a wild angle – pushed up by the root of one of the maples that line the residential hillside – and the rock goes flying off it, up and to the side, ricocheting off the tree, and coming to rest at its base on a tuft of grass just past the offending root. He looks down at the rock. His grey blue eyes squint, the wrinkles around them multiplying and becoming more pronounced as the pale orbs between dart back and forth, scanning the dimly lit block ahead. Most of the sidewalk, grass and gutter are carpeted in a layer of brown and orange leaves, trampled and soaked into a solid, patterned sheet. A car is parked across 23


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the street, facing the other way, but there’s no one in it. A dog barks two streets over. The orange light of the five working streetlights on either side of the road makes a nearly intersecting series of cones in the fog down the street, broken only by the branches of balding trees like gnarled black hands reaching up silently and motionlessly from the ground. Fog is his favorite weather pattern, for what it takes away in visual definition, it always seems to make up for in striking, ominous beauty and mysterious potential. He’s very proud of that tradeoff. For a brief moment, even the wind, the distant ambulance siren, and the insects crawling around beneath his feet seem to take notice and pay homage. Everything he put there, everything he allowed to develop… Everything he started and watched and nurtured – even the parts he didn’t really plan but knew would be interesting to observe and learn from – for one brief moment all sigh together in respect for their Father. He always likes to think of it like that. More like his child than his creation. A slight distinction, true – after all, a child is, in a way, merely a creation – but an important one to him. He’s proud that he made it all, sure. But he’s more than just proud of it. He loves it. He isn’t just impressed at himself for being clever enough to have come up with a good idea or even for having the motivation and wherewithal to execute his idea (though he is certainly pleased with that, too). The truth is, more than anything else he’s continually proud of and amazed by It; his creation. Every time he notices a new way in which the very loose parameters he set up are yielding wildly new and interesting interactions and concepts – and those interactions and concepts are spawning still more interesting and beautiful interactions and concepts – it makes him feel that amazing feeling again.

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That feeling was the trick. The really clever part. The part without which no amount of motivation would have ever gotten this wonderfully complicated and terrifyingly magnificent experiment off the ground. This feeling tied it all together. It made it worth doing. The initial stages were neat; the patterns and colors and chemical reactions were all picturesque and exquisite in their own, very academic, literal style. But one day, while taking in the glorious abstract complexity of it all, he felt the first glimmers of that feeling. It was so new and exciting, he needed to explore it. And the more he explored it, the more he wanted to share it. This is what gave the project a dimension through which to grow into the convoluted beauty before him. In order to share the feeling, he needed living things that could feel it, to share the feeling with. You see, while the atoms and molecules are perfect and fascinating, the plants and animals and people can change their surroundings in far more complex and accretive fashion. They’ve spent most of their existence actively doing so in an effort to get closer to the feeling. In the process they’ve brought forth a self-balancing, interlinked world ecology and within it developed things like societies and languages and philosophies and sciences and technologies… The drive of everything that thinks or feels, to feel exactly as he does right now, is what’s made this place


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so staggeringly complicated and interwoven and fantastic. And he doesn’t remember planning any of that. That’s what makes him the proudest. That’s what makes him love it as much as he does. It’s doing so many things he never could have foreseen or planned on. There is really no better way to think of it than as a child. At first it could have been likened to a painting or a song… a dish he was cooking. The elements were there to be played with. They augmented one another, balanced, shifted, changed, took different forms and shapes – but it was always just moving around blocks. The sum was zero. When life came into the picture, the whole nature of the game became more like watching the evolution of musical genres or influential writers; it suddenly felt like it was headed somewhere. He’s also very proud of that mirror effect, where aspects of the creation grew and developed to reflect his perception of the creation as a whole. He remembers having spent an extra moment setting up the guidelines that allowed that particular pattern to evolve, mandating that some reflection of the whole be present in every aspect of the creation. He’s even rather fond of the phrase people came up with for referring to the phenomenon, “As above, So below”, despite its directional bias. Sometimes, as a coy inside joke with himself, when he hears someone say it, he’ll reply, “…And also to the left and the right.” Light traffic passes briskly at the large intersection a few blocks ahead. Nothing else moves for an eternal moment, waiting for him to exhale and let time resume its customary gait. His eyes relax imperceptibly as his focus shifts to the corner 15 yards ahead. The edge of his mouth twitches his bristly, unkempt, yet voluminous moustache slightly and his lower jaw moves just far enough to the right to allow him to hold that position and squint one eye for a moment’s extra precision. He presses his tongue against his teeth and takes two bounding strides that – were there anyone present to see them – would seem strikingly brisk, dexterous and purposeful for a man of his apparent age. As his left foot plants, the right swings effortlessly past it, plucking out the rock with its toe and sending it sailing toward the corner, where it scuttles down the slope toward the intersection and rolls into the crosswalk. Crosswalks have their own set of rules that vary with road condition and what can be considered a legitimate rock as opposed to merely a smallish chunk of asphalt with perhaps a few pebbles stuck in it. Kicking asphalt chunks is a completely separate game all together, with totally different ballistic tendencies and resultant strategies. He smiles to himself contentedly, looking up from the rock’s final resting place for this round of the game to his destination across the street. As he steps forward, two teenagers round the corner, the taller yelling at no one in particular, “WHO’S THROWING FUCKIN’ ROCKS?!” He knows not to answer the question. People of that age group rarely ask questions out loud that they actually want answered, and in the few cases they slip up, they never stay silent long enough to allow an answer. To that end, the ruffian 25


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continues, “YOU THROWIN’ ROCKS, OLD MAN?” This question he considers answering, but first takes a moment to remember the youth. Not because he loves him especially, but because he wants to appreciate the boy’s role in this whole drama; not to say he’s glad the role exists, but he certainly appreciates that it has to, in order for the patterns to continue to repeat and multiply as they always have. “As above, So below”. He could call it a shame, or a pitiful waste of what should be a time of innocence, but what’s a Waste, really? When you’re walking in a circle, any time you waste is time you would have otherwise spent going nowhere. That said, it’s nice, from time to time, to mark points on whatever circle one walks, for reference, when later trying to figure out how wide the spiral’s gotten. He smiles his understanding for a moment in between two seconds. The aggressor approaches, the lens through which time squeezes widens and releases its grip. “Nope. Kicking them. I’m kicking them,” the older man mutters in his cracked, ashen voice. “The fuck are you kicking rocks for?” “Research.” The kid glares at him with impudence as his friend walks up from behind. “Hey man, listen, we’ll give you five bucks if you get us some vodka,” chimes in this shorter thug as he approaches. The old man smiles again, “Five bucks?” “Five bucks, man, get you a couple more shots for yourself or whatever.” He laughs and shakes his head. “That’s against the rules,” he says, stepping around the taller boy, who looms an imposing five inches over him, despite his baby face. As he passes, the hooligan pushes him against a nearby light post, leaning over him as the other kid glances frantically up and down the street. “Yo, he was asking you nice, old man! You wanna see what it’s like when I ask you not so nice?” “Kevin, what the fuck you, doin’, man?” his comrade appeals, “Dude’s just some bum, he ain’t got shit for us, man.”

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“Shut the fuck up, man,” replies the first. Turning back on his victim, “Yo, what you got, man? Where’s your wallet?” Before the old man can answer, a voice rings out from the other side of the street. By the time the thug lets go, his friend is halfway up the block and running at full speed. Backing away slowly before jogging off in another direction, he points at the old man, “I’ll be just around the corner when you get me that bottle, motherfucker. Don’t worry, I’ll find you.” He punches his hand against his fist menacingly before turning and fleeing.


knack magazine / issue eighteen

“Worry…” the old man chuckles to himself as he adjusts his coat. From the darkness hanging over the middle of the street emerges the owner of the voice that startled away his assailants. “You okay, man?” asks the passerby, a guy in his late twenties, wearing a beige windbreaker and wide-rimmed glasses. “It wasn’t a problem.” The old man turns to cross the street. “‘Wasn’t a problem’?!” his would-be savior calls after him, “Those fucking kids could’ve killed you or something, man. We gotta call the police…” He trails off. No one is listening. He watches as the old man shuffles through the intersection, steps onto the opposite curb and, without a word, pushes open the door to the convenience store and walks in, the neon sign blinking on and off erratically as the door slams shut behind him, jiggling the electrical contact. The old man moves briskly down the fluorescent aisles of the convenience store, hobbling slightly on his right leg, as he had spent the previous week limping around on the left, which was now sore. As he turns past the counter, he and the fat guy behind the counter acknowledge one another without meeting eyes, both nodding a muttered hello without putting forth more than the minimum effort, a sort of ironic reverence in the lack of formality. A moment later, the Samaritan from the corner shuffles in from the cold, looking around confusedly before approaching the counter. “Did-uh… Did an old guy just come in here?” his eyes wide, he searches the clerk’s face for the end of his question, “There were some kids… They were accosting him… I think I scared them off, but maybe you should call the poli-” “Hey Charlie,” the overweight shop-keep yells over the younger man’s shoulder, never taking his eyes off the infomercial announcer chanting sales mantras on the screen mounted above the cash register, “Those kids giving you shit again?” The old man emerges from behind a display of corn chips, but it’s not clear immediately if the question got his attention or, if it did, whether he has any intention of answering. He examines the bags as if looking for a long forgotten Easter egg nobody smelled yet. The young man watches him, in a mildly shocked state – somewhere between curiosity, bewilderment, and something verging on resentment that this bizarre stranger wasn’t at least more thankful. The beginnings of sentences float through his head: “You know you should be more careful…”, “Hey, a thanks would be nice…”, “What the fuck, dude…”, but he says nothing, and instead just watches with increasing wonder as the greybeard carefully rearranges Gatorade bottles by alphabetical order of colors: blue, green, orange, purple, red… The clerk watches television.

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After what feels like more moments than should ever be spent spectating any public event so candidly, the young man begins to once again formulate the beginning of a question. As he’s about to decide what to ask first, the old man begins to speak. He doesn’t look up from what he’s doing – sorting through sealed packages of powdered donuts and sniffing them, as if to check for freshness – he just starts talking without ceremony, as if replying to another in a series of conversation points they never touched on, “Kevin and Donnie might be a pain in the ass, but at heart, they’re decent enough kids, considering the lot they’ve got to measure up against lately… Well, Donnie is anyway. Kevin’s a bit more of a wild card. Lot of anger in that one. It’s not the anger that’s the problem, I suppose, but what do you do with all of it?...” he trails off momentarily, picking out a pack of batteries and a single serving packet of Alka-Seltzer. He glances over at the two men at the counter, flashing a smile at his new young acquaintance, who, feeling suddenly very alone in the room, looks over at the clerk behind him. The third man continues to watch television. Now having to balance things on his arms – 2 bags of chips, a Danish, a 6 pack of chocolate frosted donuts (the powdered ones weren’t as fresh), a mini-screwdriver, a condom, the batteries and stomach pills – the old man glances down the last aisle as if to reassure himself there’s nothing new there, continuing, “Anyway, you call the cops on them now, they’ll never reach their full potential. Best to let kids be kids. We all have our roles to play. What’s your role Matthew?” “What?” “The usual, eh Charlie?” the clerk grunts, spitting his dip into the plastic 64-ounce soda cup by the cash register, and begins scanning the collection of sundries as they avalanche from the old man’s embrace. He puts them off to the side after scanning each one, where Charlie picks them up and inserts them into what appears to be a constantly multiplying number of pockets in his large overcoat. The two fall into this pattern with the grace of a pair of figure skaters, each seeming to know exactly what the other’s next move will be, never making eye contact, and yet locked into one another’s actions like an orchestra of two. As he fills his pockets, Charlie surveys the wall behind the clerk, his eyes passing vaguely over a collage of colorful labels and different colored liquids, fading from black through varying shades of brown and beige and yellow until they come to the clear ones on the right. “Gimme a pint of Gordon’s too, Hal.” The clerk turns and picks a bottle off the shelf. Returning to the counter, he glances over his patron’s shoulder. “Need something, kid?”

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Snapping out of his trance at the question, Matthew – who had been gazing at the transaction in slack-jawed astonishment – stammers some guttural noises as his mind scrambles to gain traction, still reeling at the sound of its own name in an unfamiliar and unexpected context. His train of thought


knack magazine / issue eighteen

slamming back into place on its tracks abruptly, the first intelligible sentence that rises to the surface is, “What’d you just say to me?” “I asked you what you needed. What’re you on drugs or somethin’?” “No, him…” he approaches the counter, putting his hand on the old man’s shoulder, “What’d you just ask me?” Charlie turns to meet Matthew’s eyes with his own innocent stare. For an uncountable second, that reckless smile flashes over the old man’s face despite his not moving a muscle. And then he blinks, and when his eyes open again, he’s just a confused old man, not sure what he’s being asked. “I beg your pardon?” “A second ago… You asked me what my role is. What the fuck did you mean by that?” Hal puts down the scanner and leans in, “Hey, buddy, you want something, you wait your turn. Leave Charlie alone, huh?” “Look, I’m not trying to start anything, I just want to know what he meant by it—” “Nobody’s startin’ nothing,” the man behind the counter says with a finality that resonates off the glass doors on the other side of the room. He leans even farther out, all his weight pivoting on his planted elbow, his index finger outstretched, “Him I know. You I don’t. Settle down or take a walk.” He points to the door. “How much do I owe you, Hal?” smiles the old man, reaching in his pocket and pulling out a wad of bills, change, and pocket lint. Matthew watches the two men settle up, unsure now if he’s dreaming; if the societal norms of public behavior had drastically changed since he last left his apartment. Or maybe he’s just gone completely insane and is the only one who heard any of Charlie’s earlier monologue. The old man takes his change and mutters a farewell at the clerk, who is already looking back up at the television and replies with an unintelligible grunt. Matthew watches him pass, and as he approaches the door, finally finds the words to call after him one last time, “How did you know my name?” The old man turns and holds the door open with his back. “Who’s to say I did? I’m just a crazy old man. Probably best not to pay attention to me. I rarely do.” He smiles broadly one last time, and tips his non-existent hat, “Until we return and begin again…” With that, he turns out into the wind and heads back up the street, soon finding a rock to kick along the sidewalk on the way. Matthew stares at the door for a moment until he hears from behind him, 29


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“Well… you need something?” His head snaps around to the clerk and he thinks back to why he left home in the first place. It feels like that was days ago for some reason. Like the last fifteen minutes lasted longer than all of his childhood memories put together. “Cigarettes… Pack of cigarettes.” Hal eyes him dryly, “What kind?” “Uh… it doesn’t really matter.” The clerk doesn’t look away. “You sure you’re not on drugs, kid?” “Yeah, I’m just…” he glances back over his shoulder at the door, “Did you not…” He looks back at Hal and fades off. There is nothing in the man’s face that hints at interest or even anything less hostile than annoyance. “Sorry. I haven’t been getting much sleep lately. American Spirits. Rollies. Thanks.” Hal turns around with a huffing sigh and bends over to get the smokes. Turning back, he asks, “That all you need?”

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Matthew leans on the counter and stares at the door. Trying to account for any aspect of the evening’s encounter that he can make any sense of at all and coming up empty. “I guess I thought so…”


knack magazine / issue eighteen

the following is an excerpt from Mr. Aljinovic’s Passerby. please enjoy...

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CHAPTER

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hate it when offices and public places decorate for holidays. Call me a Grinch, it always just seems tacky.  Especially days like today, with all the pink and red and hearts everywhere; it looks like the bedroom of a 12 year old.

Aside from that, all these waiting rooms look the same. Whether it’s a dentist, an optometrist, a doctor or a shrink.  They’re all painted the same pastel blue or yellow, totally ignorable color.  They all have the same 2 year old magazines.  They all have the same slightly overweight woman with glasses behind the desk talking on the phone to some neighbor or girlfriend as she does the bare minimum of taking your name and telling you to sit down, then continues to shuffle papers and files that I’d be willing to bet have nothing written on them.  I wonder if there’s a special training course for medical receptionists, where they learn to be just insulting enough that you know you’re being patronized, but not enough that you’d know what to actually file a complaint about?  That seems like a handy skill in any profession.  I should work on it. I wonder if there’s a special place online where you can subscribe to outdated magazines.  You probably have to present some sort of medical practitioner’s license to get the subscription.  Or maybe there’s a warehouse somewhere downtown that woman gets sent to every week or so where they stockpile people’s discarded National Geographics and People Magazines and Times and redistribute them to medical waiting rooms.  For a nominal fee of course.  This is America, after all.  It seems the only thing that’s almost current is the Us Weekly.  Wonderful, now I can keep fully up to date on what Justin Bieber had for breakfast right before his mother changed his diaper and who Lady Gaga gave herpes to most recently, but if I want actual news, I’m gonna have to settle for the kind that was new last November.  It’s a good bet that the woman at reception brings in the Us Weeklies as she finishes them.  It’s probably her personal subscription.  If I’m ever rich, I’m going to go to doctors’ offices, write down the delivery addresses on their waiting room magazines, subversively order more interesting and current reading materials, and see if anyone notices.  Not that I can think of anything that would be better.  Magazines in general seem to be a less than intellectually stimulating medium these days.  Even Rolling Stone is a joke of its former self.  50% advertisements, 35% pictures, and a few poorly written articles jammed into the white space in between.  200 world limits.  Blurbs, really.  I guess there’s usually one decently long interview, but it’s usually asking someone like Natalie Portman about her recent philanthropic endeavors while she stares you down from the opposite page in a Marilyn Monroe wig, cupping her naked breasts.

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I was at a lab getting a blood draw a few years ago and they had Wired in their waiting room. That was pretty good.  I don’t remember what they were testing me for.  I think it was one of those “routine examinations” my


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doctor seems so fond of. “Here’s some other stuff I can bill you for” is how it really translates.  Like how the only people who recommend that you go to the dentist every 6 months and change your toothbrush ever 3 are dentists.  I do it anyway.  Better that than give them ammunition with which to guilt trip you when you show up.  “Have you been flossing regularly?”  Yeah, of course.  “Then why are your gums bleeding so much?”  They always seem to do that when you stab them with metal spikes, or should I be flossing with bits of copper wire?  Maybe an unraveled SOS pad?  “We can give you the waxed floss if that makes it easier...”  No that just makes the material I forget to use every day more expensive.  It’s not that I don’t like flossing.  It’s not even that it’s that hard to do.  It’s just never been part of my routine.  They say old habits die hard, but not as hard as new ones are born. What time is it?  I feel like I’ve been sitting here for an hour.  I’m only doing this because Dad wanted me to.  He thinks I’m depressed.  I probably am, but what the hell is wrong with that?  Isn’t everyone who lives here depressed?  Isn’t that what we’re famous for?  Half my coworkers are on Paxil or Zoloft.  It’s not like it makes them any happier, it just makes them ignore how unhappy they are so they can work harder.  I just sit behind a desk all day, anyway.  You can do that and be depressed at the same time.  It’s not like I’m suicidal. That’s not the point, is it?  He just cares about me and wants to know that I’m OK.  Parents never really let you grow up in their minds.  You can have kids of your own, a bigger house than them, and more money in the bank than they’ve made in their entire lives; they’ll make you a sandwich when you’re getting on the train back to the city.  “For the trip.  In case you get hungry.”  Thanks, Dad. Maybe I should just walk out.  I already filled out the questionnaire though, so they have my information.  They might call me and ask where I went.  The receptionist probably wouldn’t notice I was gone.  God, I hope I don’t look like her when I’m at work.  People would think I’m some kind of braindead android.  I wish there was a mirror I could watch myself in when I’m interacting with them, just so I could know that I don’t “Miss?  The doctor is ready for you now.” Never fails.  Plan to get up and they’ll call your name.  It’s like going to the bathroom at a restaurant and coming back to find your food has arrived.  I pick up my purse and coat, folding it over my forearm, and follow her around the desk through the door to the back.  There’s a little hallway painted the same off-yellow color, with the same grey-brown speckled carpet that looks like it belongs on the floor of an elementary school from the early 90s.  In fact, I think I remember throwing up gummy bears on a carpet just like that in the 2nd grade.  Funny the kind of things that stick with you through the years.  I still can’t eat gummy bears.  We get to the end of the hall and turn left, as she quips something to a coworker in the corner office and laughs as 33


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she walks away. I try to discreetly glance in as I pass, but can’t see anyone inside.  She stops by a door on the right, “Dr. Frost will be right with you.” I thought you said he was ready for me.  Where did he go?  Oh well.  I walk in and set my stuff down by the chair that doesn’t have a stack of files in front of it, though a little voice in the back of my head is curious to look at them.  I wonder if they have deep dark medical secrets about other people on them.  Or maybe just me.  How much could they already have on me, though, other than what I filled out on those few pieces of paper when I arrived?  I sit down.  Or should I lie down on the couch?  Or do you only do that when they’re hypnotizing you?  How does this even work?  I guess he’ll tell me.  No need to be embarrassed about not knowing the protocol, I guess; I’ve never been to a shrink before and it says so right in that file somewhere.  It’s not like I’m stupid or something.  I’m just uninformed.  I’m new at this.  I sit in the chair and unconsciously start doing this thing I sometimes do when I’m bored at work, where I alternately touch my right thumb to my left index finger and then my right index finger to my left thumb and then repeat over and over again, like that poem about “The Itsy Bitsy Spider”.  I wonder if that’s what people mean by the phrase “twiddling your thumbs”.  What is it “to twiddle”?  I’ve never heard the word used in any other sentence. The walls are the same color in here, but there are a good number of paintings and photographs covering them, so the room feels a little less clinical.  More like a person’s home office or study than a doctor’s office.  I suppose that’s on purpose, since many of the people who come here probably don’t feel very good in a doctor’s office.  I imagine they want to keep you from being too paranoid.  Or maybe I’m wrong.  Why do I always think the only people who go to shrinks are actual crazies, like my Aunt Gertrude?  They’re the kind who stay in the padded rooms and dayrooms with large reinforced glass walls under constant observation while the doctors go to them.  That’s what they do on the bottom floor of this building.  “D Wing”, I think the sign said. 

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The building is part of a huge medical complex in a neighborhood of medical complexes. The West side of the complex is a cancer research center, with one building that’s a chemo therapy clinic.  I remember that lady, Virginia, from work was there for a while.  We sent her a card.  When she came back to work, she was still wearing the scarves over her head for a while, but when she took them off, it didn’t seem like there was anything wrong.  Her hair was short, but it wasn’t missing in clumps or anything.  Maybe she had just gotten used to wearing them or something and her head was cold when she didn’t have them on.  The short grey hair looked good on her, though.  It gave her this air of power I had never felt from her before she went through... whatever happens when you have cancer.  Or maybe that’s just what happens to you when you beat it.  It’s probably a pretty amazing feeling to get that close to dying and then still be alive.  I imagine it makes you a much stronger person than you ever thought you were before.


knack magazine / issue eighteen

The East side of the complex has 2 buildings, the larger one houses a small emergency room and a few dentists and general practitioners on the higher floors, and, now that I think about it, I think that was the lab where I got that blood draw all those years ago, where they had the better magazines. They should send a few of those over here when they’re done with them.  The smaller of the two buildings is this one, which contains an in-patient psych ward on the bottom few floors.  It’s the kind of place they send you after an attempted suicide or when drugs have fried you so far that the folks in rehab can’t get through to you.  Or if your family thinks you’re a danger to yourself or someone else, that’s where they put you.  For a while anyway.  As it’s all owned by a private corporation, it can’t be cheap.  I imagine this is where all the rich families from Mercer Island send the unwanted and embarrassing relatives to keep them out of the way of dinner parties and business functions where it would be inconvenient to explain why their 30-year-old eldest child is taking off his clothes in the parlor and bathing in the punch bowl.  Or maybe that’s just the kind of thing you see in movies.  Maybe they hire in-home nurses to take care of those sorts of family members and just keep them in a secluded part of the house like Steve Martin in Dirty Rotten Scoundrels.  The upper stories are filled with labs and administrative offices and a few floors like this one where some of the doctors that work downstairs also have private practices.  Dr. Frost is one of them.  He knew my mom in college and, though they didn’t really keep in close contact, my dad gave me his card when I was last visiting home, saying he thought maybe the guy might be someone I could at least talk to.  “But Dad,” I told him, “I can talk to you.”  That wasn’t his point, though; I could talk to him, but he didn’t really know what to tell me that might help.  “That is what this man went to school for, my darling,” was his logic.  Great.  Even my own family is giving me the nice version of “seek professional help”.  Maybe I am crazy. So here I am, waiting in the man’s office, wondering how long it’ll be this time.  Wait in the waiting room.  Wait in the observation room.  Wait to wait to hold on a little longer and then wait.  Seems like a good summary of the rest of my life.  I wonder what he’d think of that.  I get up and walk around the glass coffee table that sits roughly in between and off to the side of the two chairs, examining my surroundings.  A few bookshelves, a large oak desk, some filing cabinets.  Paintings of landscapes, fishermen in a boat at sunset, a windmill.  His degrees and certifications.  Bachelor’s degree at UC Berkley.  Masters and MD at Davis.  A photograph of a man and a woman (Maybe the doc and his wife?) that looks, based on its quality and their haircuts, like it’s from the 80s.  I glance over at his desk and see another picture - next to one of those rows of hanging metal balls that transfer motion from one end to the other (I can never remember what those are called) and an unfinished Rubik’s Cube - of a different man and woman with a teenage boy.  It’s one of those typical, “happy family” photos where everyone’s smiling like in a Sears advert, wearing silly-looking sweaters, and lined up 35


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with arms on each other’s shoulders. It’s more recent, but it’s definitely not the same people from the wall photo.  This is probably him and his family; the other one must be someone else.  Maybe a sibling.  Maybe some long lost love.  But then who would that be in the picture with her?  It’s probably a sibling.  I glance over the larger bookshelf.  Most of it is medical texts; books with words in the titles longer than I care to try to sound out.  The top shelf, however, takes a decidedly different tack.  I-Ching, Tibetan Book of the Dead, Ram Dass, a slew of books on Tibet, Nepal, and India, from travel guides to what appears to be a book on sitar music.  One in particular catches my eye because I think Gena, a girl from work, recommended it a few months ago and I immediately forgot about it until the title brings the memory rushing back.  A Brief History of Everything by Ken Wilbur.  I pull it off the shelf and look at the cover; a bald man with glasses staring up at me with a strange assurance in his eyes.  Like he knows that he knows something I don’t know and is trying to beam it directly into me without my having to open the book. “That man has some pretty interesting ideas.”  The voice makes me jump almost through the plate glass floor to ceiling window to my right, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.  I thought you heard me come in.” “Oh, no, I’m sorry,” I respond, catching my breath and turning to the older version of the man from the desk photo, who is approaching from the door, “I shouldn’t be snooping around your office, Dr. Frost, I just noticed some of the books on this shelf, and I think I’ve heard of this one.” He isn’t particularly tall, but his body is very slender, giving him the illusion of added height.  His face, in particular, is very pointy and angular, as well as his flat-top head of platinum white hair, making him look like some kind of James Bond villain.  He’s not old-looking, but he’s definitely not young.  He’s probably in his early 60s, but clearly in good shape, because, other than his hair color and the wrinkles around his eyes, he looks like he could be in his late 40s or early 50s.  “Wilbur’s got some fascinating points about the development of an individual’s psyche and consciousness, which, while not widely accepted by my peers in this profession, I think - in the next 20 or 30 years - could become more wide-spread.  If he wasn’t so cocky in his tone, I think a lot more people would get more out of his words, even if they don’t necessarily subscribe to his spiritual views.  You must be Claudia.  You can call me ‘Spencer’, if you like.  Or ‘Dr. F’, or just ‘Doc’...” he smiles, “I respond to all of them.  Sorry to keep you waiting, we had a small emergency with one of my patients downstairs.” “It’s Cloud-ia, actually... like... clouds, you know?  It’s Italian.”  Then I add, “And I didn’t mind waiting.  I hope it was nothing serious.”  I return to the chair I had sat in before, for some reason still holding the book in my hand.  Again, I wonder if I’m supposed to be lying on the couch.

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“No, nothing too bad. Some people just have problems adjusting to envi-


knack magazine / issue eighteen

ronments they aren’t used to, especially when those environments restrict their movement and decision making, even when it’s for their own good,” he explains, sitting across from me, opening the file on top of the stack in front of him, “Ah yes, I see it here, Claudia DiDomenico, born 12/18/1985, unmarried, no allergies.” “Except juniper pollen,” I throw in. Not that it matters; he’s not prescribing trees... He smiles, “Right.  Spring may be beautiful, but it’s got its bite.  Where are you from Claudia?” “I grew up in Anacortes.  My folks both worked in Mt. Vernon, but my mom inherited her parents’ place just before I was born, so they moved out there to be a bit farther out of town.” “It’s beautiful up there.  My wife and I take the ferry out to San Juan Island from there every Summer to go camping.  You know, get away for a week, leave the jobs and parenting thing behind and unwind a little bit.” “Yes, I saw you have a son,” I blurt out, but no sooner do the words leave my mouth than a chill runs up my spine, “Oh, God, I’m sorry.  I really wasn’t snooping around, I just-” “It’s fine,” he laughs, to my relief, “It’s not like I’d leave government secrets laying around my office, if I even had any.  In fact, most of what you see around here is actually there to show patients that I’m a normal person just like they are.  It helps people relax and talk about themselves and what’s bothering them if they know the person they’re talking to has an actual life of their own with its own problems and issues and cast of characters, and not some sort of clinical robot, spouting off book-facts and prescriptions.  It’s really OK.  Yes, I have a son.  He’s a little younger than you, just about to finish college down at Oregon State, and then he’s headed off to Morocco for a year to get some visceral experience and scare the hell out of his mom,” he chuckles a bit at the last part, as if it was partly his idea.  I just smile, still embarrassed from before.  “So, Claudia, what brings you here?  What do you want to talk about?” I open my mouth to say something, only to find there’s nothing forthcoming.  He seems to notice as he pulls out a yellow legal pad from the stack in front of him and sets it down in his lap, fishing a pen out of the cup on his desk over his shoulder.  “I’m not sure, really.  To be honest, it wasn’t my idea to come here.  I’ve never been to a shrink.”  He smiles for a moment, as if that’s something he hears fairly often, or perhaps the word “shrink” amuses him.  “I don’t think there’s anything particularly wrong with me.  I’ve just kind of been kind of sad for the last... little while.” “How long?” 37


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“I can’t really say. Maybe that’s why my father told me I should come talk to someone.  I don’t really remember when it started, but for a while now, people at work and friends have been mentioning I look angry or upset a lot of the time.  I never really notice it until they point it out, but it must be true, since everyone seems to agree.”  I peter off, not really sure what else to say. “Where do you work?” “Four Seasons Hotel... the one downtown,” I say and immediately think, The only one.  Why am I so nervous?  “I work at the front desk, in reception.  It’s a pretty low-maintenance job.  Mostly I just hand out room keys and collect signatures when people check out... Run credit cards, that kind of thing.  Occasionally, there will be a phone call for one of the guests, but with everyone having a cell phone, it’s not like in the old movies any more, where people are leaving messages all the time.  It’s really more your typical 9 to 5 kind of thing than most people probably imagine.  The hotel may be swanky, and the rooms aren’t cheap, but there’s nothing particularly special about the job compared to other front desk work.” “Do you get along well with your co-workers?” “Yeah, they’re nice people.  There’s a few of us that get together for drinks every now and again.  A few of the folks from the concierge service, couple of the housekeeping girls, and-” I hesitate.  He looks up, “And, uh... A couple guys from the kitchen and stuff.  A bunch of us all get off around the same time, and Gena, one of the concierge girls - in fact she’s the one who mentioned that book to me - invited me out when I first started working there.  I guess I kind of became part of ‘the gang’ from there on.”  I smile a little.  I’m not really sure why, but I do it anyway. “Well if you’d like to borrow it, by all means, do,” he says, still writing something down. “Borrow what?” “The book...” I look down and realize I’m still holding it in my lap.  “Oh!  Oh thank you, no.  I’m... I’ve got a bit of stuff backed up on my reading list already,” I say, putting it down on the table, “But now that I’ve seen it again, I’ll be sure to remember it and get around to it eventually.” He smiles.  “Ok, well, but if you change your mind, you know where to find it.”  I look down at my shoes, embarrassed again.  Why can’t I just sit still when I’m waiting?  “Did you go to school around here?” “Yeah, I went to SU.  I studied sociology.”

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“Why?”


knack magazine / issue eighteen

The question knocks me back like it was shot out of a gun. “W-what do you mean, ‘why’?” He smiles a little again.  I can’t get over the feeling that he’s messing with me a little.  Something between being friendly enough that I start to relax and trying to catch me off my guard so that I’ll reveal some kind of horrible inner secret.  He explains, “College is a funny thing these days.  A lot of people do it just because ‘it’s what happens next’.  You go to high school, you graduate, you go to college, you get a job, you get married, you have kids, and that’s just the way some unwritten script says things are supposed to progress.  When I was in college, it was still the kind of thing you had to work a little harder to afford, and, while it’s not any cheaper now, it seems like people go to college as a matter of course, where as then, you knew a little more clearly why you were there, even if it was just so you didn’t end up in the army.”  I feel like he’s eyeing me for a reaction to that joke, but I give none, though I silently wonder if he only became a psychiatrist as a side-effect of not wanting to end up in Vietnam.  That would be kind of weird.  Kind of sad.  “So what I’m asking you, really, is what it is you wanted to get out of college.  Were you just doing it because you thought you should?  Did you have a plan for afterwards that it would help you realize?  Surely you weren’t expecting one of the ‘big sociology firms’ to recruit you right after graduation.” I let out a snicker at this, then consider his question, “I’m not sure really.  I thought I wanted to work with kids, but more like afterschool programs for disabled or disadvantaged kids than just being like a teacher or a nanny or something.  I guess I just really wanted to help people; the kind of people who actually needed help.  Maybe it came from feeling a little guilty that I was from a more affluent financial background than some of the kids I went to school with, but it always just kind of felt good to give back a little... whatever that means.” “What does that mean?  What kind of work did you do?” “Well, I volunteered at a few afterschool programs throughout high school.  I was a lifeguard and taught swimming lessons.  My mom and my aunts were really involved in the local Girl Scouts, so I was into that even after I stopped being a scout myself, chaperoning on camping trips and helping out with the bake sales and things like that.  I ended up helping out at a soup kitchen one Summer a few nights a week, and that’s how I got involved with the shelter up in Mt. Vernon, so I would help them from time to time.  But that was more office work and cleaning and stuff like that, since I was too young to work directly with the ‘guests’.  I dunno; when I went to college it just seemed like the right way to go.  I knew I’d have to do a lot of interning eventually, so I figured I had a few connections and some experience that might help when I got to that point, and it seemed like the logical next move.”  Again I sputter out.  It’s weird talking about yourself and your past 39


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to someone you’ve just met and with no pretense. It’s almost like getting interrogated, but about stuff it seems like nobody would care about.  My childhood was average.  There’s nothing much to say.  I wasn’t beaten or molested or abused.  How do you figure out what’s wrong with someone that there’s nothing really wrong with? He’s still writing when he looks up at me, “Do you still do any of those things?  Are you still involved with the homeless or afterschool programs?”  He pauses for a moment, “Do you still swim?” “No, I haven’t been swimming in a while...”  I wonder why he added that, “And I haven’t really done much social work in the last few years.  Mostly I just work and hang out at home.  I go to the gym once or twice a week.  Occasionally, I still get together with work friends, but, yeah, I don’t really get out much.  It’s not that I don’t have free time, it’s more like...” I trail off, not really sure what the excuse is for that.  I’m not even really sure I had noticed how little I do with my life recently until I said it out lout just now. “More like...?”  I notice he’s looking at me, expecting an answer.  He’s even stopped writing.  “I guess it just doesn’t feel like free time when it shows up.  The grind, you know?  You get home from work, you relax for a bit, and then make dinner.  By the time you’re done eating and cleaning up, it’s dark outside, and there’s nothing much to do except watch some TV or read a book, and then it’s off to bed and back to work in the morning.  I don’t really go to bars or anything any more, so every day really feels a lot like the last.  Even the weekends, it’s just errands, bills, laundry... that kind of thing.  God, what happened to my life?  No wonder I’m depressed, it’s depressing just talking about it.” “Well, it’s not an uncommon feeling.  Especially this far North, during the Winter, Seasonal Affective Disorder is a common thing.  And it’s not just the weather that makes it so bad, as many people think; it’s exactly what you mentioned: the shortening days tend to slip past before you can really accomplish anything, and it can get a lot of people down.  Especially the task-oriented ones.  But, for many reasons, the lack of sunlight has a demonstrated effect on mood.  There are some instances where medications can help alleviate some of the-” “I’d really rather not take any pills,” I cut him off, “I mean, there’s plenty of people out there who deal with this without them and I’d rather not lean on a crutch if I don’t have to.”

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“That’s absolutely fine. I wouldn’t want to prescribe anything until I get to know you better, anyway.  From what you’ve told me, you don’t seem in any immediate danger, though I should ask you a few other questions in that regard; have you ever tried to hurt yourself in any way?”


knack magazine / issue eighteen

“No. I’ve always been pretty rational, even in the worst moments,” I add, as lightly as I can, “Once or twice I wanted to hurt someone else, but never came even close to acting on it.” He nods, scribbling something, “Do you feel unmotivated?  Have trouble getting out of bed in the morning?  Have any problems keeping up with appointments or everyday tasks?” I think about it for a moment before saying, “I’m pretty good at getting out of bed.  Sometimes I have trouble convincing myself to go to bed in the evening.  I’ll sit on the couch watching those stupid alien shows on the History Channel and stuff that I totally don’t care about... not even really watching them, just kind of spacing out.  Sometimes I get a little spacey at work, too.  I usually snap out of it pretty quickly, but, until that happens, it’s almost like my brain’s asleep while my body’s awake.” “Have you had any trouble sleeping?  Insomnia?  Bad dreams?” “Not really.  Once I finally go to bed, it’s pretty easy to fall asleep.” “Do you find yourself crying more than usual, or without knowing why?” “Um... Sometimes when I get my period.  That didn’t really happen so much when I was younger, but probably started sometime around the end of college.  It’s not like, every time.  I just think sometimes the hormones are more intense than others.  And it’s not like I weep, I just get... you know... misty,” It’s weird to talk about that kind of personal stuff, even with a professional.  Maybe even more so when they’re writing down everything you say, like you’re some kind of case study.  Oh God, I am a case study... well, a case anyway.  Then I remember, “Oh, and occasionally, I’ll be watching a movie, and I’ll tear up at the most ridiculous moments, like when something really good is happening, or somebody makes it through a near escape.  It’s weird.  Again, I don’t burst into tears, but I catch myself getting all choked up, like I just went through it with them.”  I laugh a little bit, “I even cried when the Giants won the Super Bowl a few weeks ago.  That was weird.  I didn’t even care.  Everyone on the field was celebrating, and I found myself crying.” “Do you think about death?” I start to answer, then stop.  “Mine or someone else’s?” “Either.” “Sometimes.  Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I accidentally stepped off a curb looking the wrong way.  Or if my building caught fire.  I’ve considered my funeral and all the people who might show up and what they’d have to say,” I’m starting to feel that heat behind my eyes just talking about it.  It’s hard to not think the bastard jinxed me.  Now I’m gonna cry in front of him.  I hate crying in front of people.  I go on anyway, “Sometimes 41


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I think about my mom. She died when I was young.  I think about how it must have felt to be her... dying before her time like that... so quickly.  All the plans she must have had for the future... watching me grow up and stuff.  Having to know none of it was going to happen.”  A tear breaks surface tension and rolls down my cheek.  He’s already handing me the tissue box on the table.  What a pro.  “I wonder if she was scared.  Or if... I dunno,” I break off, wiping the inner corners of my eyes and blowing my nose, “It’s kind of hard to think about.” “That’s fine.  We can come back to that some other time, there’s no rush.  This is only our first session.  One last question, if that’s all right, and we can call it a day,” he looks at me, and I nod, regaining my teetering composure.  “Do you ever have thoughts of suicide?” Isn’t that what the first question was about?  Or does he have to be more specific, for the people who don’t think suicide will hurt?  I consider it for another moment or two, while I blow my nose.  “Not for a long time,” I answer, throwing the wadded up paper in the bin next to my chair.  There are a few other similar wads in there.  I guess this must happen with some regularity. “How long?” “About a year probably.  And I guess I didn’t really consider it, even.  I more just thought about it.  What it would be like.  What it would mean.  The whole funeral thing, like I said before.  I went through a list of ways I thought I might be able to do it, but realized they were all a little too...  I dunno.  Grotesque, maybe?  Basically, it just isn’t in me.  The only ones I seemed to even be physically capable of executing would be to jump off a building or step in front of a bus or something, but then I got worried about, ‘Well, what if someone was walking on the sidewalk underneath me and got hit?’ or ‘What if I traumatized the bus driver?’...  Anyway...  It’s not in me.  And it hasn’t come up again.” He finishes writing.  It would be interesting to read what it says on that pad.  Maybe he’s just transcribing what I’m saying, but what if he’s not?  What if he’s writing what he thinks is wrong with me?  If he is, it’s probably in some strange medical jargon, listing disorders I’ve never heard of.  “Well, regardless, that’s maybe a time period we should touch on next time.  Even if it’s not related to what you’re experiencing now, it would give me an idea of how you react to stress.  Do you have any questions for me?”  I shake my head no, and get ready to stand up, “Oh wait, yes.  Who’s that in the picture on the wall?”

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He lets out a laugh, standing up as well and walking over to the picture, “That’s my sister and her husband on their honeymoon.  They went to Fiji, and knew I had always wanted to go, so they sent me that picture.”


knack magazine / issue eighteen

“Oh,” I smile. Could’ve guessed.  In fact, I did.  “She’s very beautiful.  Do they live around here now?” He looks down, “They did...”  My heart sinks even before he can finish the sentence.  I know exactly what he’s going to say, “She passed away from pancreatic cancer several years ago.  Chuck moved down to San Diego after that.  He never liked the long Winters here.” “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I should’ve-” “No, no.  It’s OK.  Like I said, everything’s here to give you a more complete picture of me; a complete person.  With a history full of good things and bad... and even some secrets,” he smiles again as he says this, “Just like you.” “Still, I...” I look down at my shoes.  Change the subject, you idiot, cut your losses.  “Same time next week?” “Yes, that should work,” he says, walking back to the table and picking up a day planner, “Do Tuesdays work for you?  I have a free hour at 4 o’clock, so we could make that our regular time.” “Tuesdays are fine.” “Great, I’ll let Suzy know to write you in.  Oh, hey,” he adds, looking down at the calendar and writing something down, “Happy Valentines Day,” he smiles, looking up.  I just smile back.  “Maybe now we can finally take down all those decorations,” he says, “Call me a Grinch; I was never much of a fan of the color pink.” “Me neither,” I reply, turning to leave. I walk out of the office, still embarrassed, sweeping past the receptionist’s desk without looking back on the way out.  I’ve had awkward first meetings before, but not many like this one.  I suppose it’s a good thing he seems to be good with nervous people, but I can’t help feeling like a bit of a tool for a few of the things I said.  Especially that last one about his sister.  God, what a jackass. I’m halfway from the elevator to the revolving front door when my phone rings.  “Miss DiDomenico?  It’s Suzy up at Dr. Frost’s office.  You forgot your coat.”

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TO LEAVE YOU WITH A TRACE OF SOMETHING THAT WAS ONCE THERE BUT IS NOT THERE ANYMORE


knack magazine / issue eighteen

EMILY FRANKLIN STU DIO ART

My prints are a result of experiments with light, layering, wax and composition that suggest the causal relationships within one system. I am interested in taking an abstract form and bringing to it some sort of tension reminiscent of the way the human figure moves. To leave you with a trace of something that was once there but is not there anymore. Something influenced by Man or Woman—a skeleton, a bruise, a footprint.

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back-lit color monotype

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knack magazine / issue eighteen

back-lit layered monotype II 47


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back-lit layered monotype


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layered monotype on waxed mulberry 49


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open bite etching and monotype detail


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open bite etching on waxed mulberry 51


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soft ground triptych


knack magazine / issue eighteen

with monotype

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layered

open bite

etching

on waxed

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mulberry


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knack magazine / issue eighteen

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PHOTOGRAPHERS, GRAPHIC DESIGNERS & STUDIO ARTISTS Up to 10 high resolution images of your work. All must include pertinent caption information (name, date, medium, year). If there are specifications or preferences concerning the way in which an image is displayed please include them.

WRITERS K NAC K se e ks writing of all kinds . We will eve n conside r re cipes , reviews , and essays (although we do not prefe r any thing that is ac ade mic). We se e k write rs whose work has a distinc t voice , is charac te r drive n , and is subve rsive b ut tastef ul . We are not inte reste d in fantasy or ge nre f ic tion . Yo u may submit up to 2 5 ,0 0 0 words and as lit tle as on e . We acce pt simultan e ous submissions . N o cove r let te r n e cessar y. All submissions must be 12pt, Tim es N ew Roman , do uble -space d with page numbe rs and include your nam e , e - mail , phon e numbe r, and ge nre .

ALL SUBMISSIONS: KNACK encourages all submitters to include an artist statement with their submission. We believe that your perspective of your work and process is as lucrative as the work itself. This may range from your upbringing and/or education as an artist, what type of work you produce, inspirations, etc. If there are specifications or preferences concerning the way in which an image is displayed please include them. A brief biography including your name, age, current location, and portrait of the artist is also encouraged (no more than 700 words).

*Please title f iles for submission with the name of the piece. This applies for both writing and visual submissions.

ACCEPTABLE FORMATS IMAGES: PDF, TIFF, or JPEG WRITTEN WORKS: .doc, .docx, and RTF

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EMAIL: KNACKMAGAZINE1@GMAIL.COM SUBJECT: SUBMISSION (PHOTOGRAPHY, STUDIO ART, CREATIVE WRITING, GRAPHIC DESIGN )


knack magazine / issue eighteen

KNACK operates on a rolling submission system. This means that we will consider work from any artist at any time. Our “deadlines� merely serve as a cutoff for each issue of the magazine. Any and all work sent to knackmagazine1@gmail.com will be considered for submission as long as it follows submission guidelines. The day work is sent merely reflects the issue it will be considered for. Have questions or suggestions? E-mail us. We want to hear your thoughts, comments, and concerns. Sincerely, Ariana Lombardi, Executive Editor

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KNACK

ISSUE 22 6.15.2014 ISSUE 23 7.13.2014

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ISSUE 24 8.10.2014


knack magazine / issue eighteen

KNACK is requesting material to be reviewed. Reviews extend to any culture-related event that may be happening in the community in which you live. Do you

All review material can be sent

know of an exciting show or ex- to hibition opening? Is there an art

knackmagazine1@gmail.com.

Please send a copy of CDs and

collective in your city that de- films to 321 Tesuque Dr., Unit A, serves some press? Are you a

Santa Fe, NM 87505. If you would

musician, have a band, or are

like

review

material

returned

a filmmaker? Send us your CD, to you include return postage movie, or titles of upcoming re- and packaging. Entries should leases which you’d like to see

contain pertinent details such

reviewed in KNACK. We believe

as

name,

year,

release

date,

that reviews are essential to cre- websites and links (if applicable). ating a dialogue about the arts. If

For community events we ask

something thrills you, we want to

that information be sent up to

know about it and share it with

two months in advance to allow

the KNACK community—no mat- proper time for assignment and ter if you live in the New York or Los Angeles, Montreal or Mexico.

review. We look forward to seeing and hearing your work.

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KNACK Issue #18  

KNACK Magazine is dedicated to showcasing the work of new artists of all mediums and to discussing trends and ideas within art communities....

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