KNACK Magazine #5

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KNACK is dedicated to showcasing the work of new art-

ists of all mediums and to discussing trends and ideas

within art communities. KNACK’s ultimate aim is to con-

nect and inspire emerging artists. We strive to create a

place for artists, writers, designers, thinkers, and innova-

tors to collaborate and produce a unique, informative,

and unprecedented web-based magazine each month.

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WILL SMITH Co-Founder, Photo Editor ANDREA VACA Co-Founder, Art Director, Production Manager ARIANA LOMBARDI Executive Editor JONATHON DUARTE Creative Director, Design KNACK ARTMAGA ZINE.COM K N ACK M AGA ZINE1@ GM A IL .C OM

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ISSUE FIVE Artist Biographies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4-6 Morgan Dawson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Guru Shabd Khalsa. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 Saul Torres . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 Michael Wilson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 Lea Jo Mansfield . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47 Liv Lombardi. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52 Submission Info . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62 . . .

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MORGAN DAWSON

I am a creative writing and playwriting student at Santa Fe University of Art and Design. Born and raised in California, I have also lived I Houston. My background is mostly in performance poetry.

GURU SHABD KHALSA

Guru Shabd Khalsa was born in Espanola, New Mexico, but spent much of her childhood growing up at a boarding school in Amritsar, INDIA. She originally wanted to get into music as a career, mostly producing, engineering or even beat making. Then fell in love with Graphic Design while working on her Associates degree in Media Arts with an Audio Production Concentration at the Santa Fe Community College. Music will always be a passion and hobby of hers, as seeing live music is one of her favorite things to do. Currently working on her BFA in Graphic Design at the Santa Fe University of Art and Design. Contact: gurushabd@gmail.com 4ď Ž

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SAUL TORRES

I was born in El Paso, Texas. I’m studying communications at El Paso Community College. I’ve been shooting for almost four years. I do concert photography, portraits, fashion, photo journalism and weddings. My inspirations are mostly movie directors such as Spielberg, Ridley Scott, Kubrick, David Lynch, and photographers such as Annie Leibovitz, Hedi Silmane, Peter Beste and Joel Petel Witkin. I’m a big fan of Sigur Ros, Marilyn Manson and Touché Amoré.

MICHAEL WILSON

I got my BA at the College of Santa Fe (now Santa Fe University of Art and Design) and my MFA at New School. I live and work in Santa Fe. I write reviews for Publishers Weekly and keep a blog at gnashnosh.blogspot.com.

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LEA JO MANSFIELD

I am an 18 year old, recent high school graduate. I was born and raised in Texas.

I’m not currently attending a university, just waiting to see what comes my way.

Contact: lea_mansfield@yahoo.com

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F E AT U R E D

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MORGAN DAWSON C R E AT I V E W R I T I N G

I was once told that all of original stories had already been written.

Thus began my meditation on the relationship between words and how they can be arranged and redefined to capture the moment—This is more than to tell a story. These poems are a focus on communication or a lack thereof. ...

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Fractured

You tumble like

Sliver buildings on a

September morning. We

never meant to

inspire you.

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What are you saying

I won’t read too much into it

Morse code

handshakes in french

Something more than nothing

Circles never end but triangles never break

fingers pressed together attempting loud

bodies pressed together attempting crash

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“Tell me what you need” Autumn hugs Burnt skeleton leaves or Sleepy wool blankets wrapped around Reincarnated sweaters wait while watching Orange Red Yellow tribal dances These are things used to serve

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When superman decided this was home he

strategically placed metaphors on

sight

touch

Calculating prices on breakfast

bacon traditionally cut 11/2 Toast wheat loaf 11/12

memory eggs one dozen 11/9

breakfast blunt $10

They don’t give you an expiration date on

post traumatic stress

He didn’t say he loved me

till After Sex

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Lifetime warranty

leaves room for rusty zipper on navy blood sleeping bag

or picking up the wedding finger stained ring spinning

in broken blue snowflake bowl They have made a practice of allowing you to buy what you please while telling you how to use it Right and wrong are relative However the yellow gay orange sun will set

so the gray you white moon can rise

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GURU SHABD KHALSA STU DIO ART

I was once told that all of original stories had already been written.

Thus began my meditation on the relationship between words and how they can be arranged and redefined to capture the moment—This is more than to tell a story. These poems are a focus on communication or a lack thereof. ...

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SAUL TORRES P H OT O G R A P H Y

To be photographer is to always be hungry. You never get enough, and you want to try everything. Of course, you have your favorite food, and you don’t say no to it. Your love for it is undeniable. In my case, I can’t say no to a concert, even if the band sucks. I can’t say not to snapping a photo. When I see Annie Leibovitz, Hedi Silmane, Zack Urias or Peter Beste’s work, I feel my batteries are fully charged. I only want to go to the next show in town and try to shoot the emotions of the musician. I want to capture the feelings the musician is sharing with the crowd. ...

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above: Touche Amore, El Paso, 2012

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below: Dark Funeral, El Paso, 2012

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above: Joyce Manor, El Paso, 2012

below: Loma Prieta, El Paso, 2012

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above: Marilyn Manson Kansas, 2012 right: Sigur Ros Los Angeles, 2012

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right: Cold Walk Cd. Juarez, 2013 below: Ghost Town Cd. Juarez, 2011

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Birds, Cd. Juarez, 2011

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Girl in the Snow, Cd. Juarez, 2013

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MICHAEL WILSON C R E AT I V E W R I T I N G

My goal with writing has always been to show moments. I always think of a paused frame from a VHS. That slight wobble as the frame tries to advance but can’t. Like time wanting to move and being held back.

I want my writing to do that. Hold time back, but visibly. ...

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KNACK L ast Year 12 : The End I swallowed a bird once Felt like a cage at first But now every time my flesh flutters I feel that I could go mad for joy I have never liked David Young’s poetry. This poem is carved on Seth’s headstone. His name will forever be followed by those four lines.

I’ve looked in that book over and over for answers, a bit of dirt, a hair lodged between the pages. I examine the creases on the spine like Braille.

I thought about writing Young to see if he could explain any of it to me.

But I’m sure he’d just send back a schmaltzy poem.

In those last months, Seth would go around the corner to the park and watch the skateboarders, he’d take a notebook and prepare his funeral: - no priests, just friends and whatever family shows (a few did) - wisteria if it was in season, lilies if not (lilies) - services in our house (I hated this) - the David Young poem read at the end (Margaret read this) - play them out with CeCe Peniston (of course) While he slept I would stare at the latest version. Everyone he wanted to speak had been contacted, his brother and Margaret. We had programs made up on the computer. I worried about random details. What if his brother changed his mind? Do we have a copy of ‘Finally’ by CeCe Peniston? What happens if his mother shows up?

On his last day at work there was a party. They put leis around his neck like he was going on vacation. He leaned in real close to blow out candles on a big sheet cake with all of his students’ names on it. They had written messages in frosting.

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After the funeral I sat in the den staring at the paint spots on the hardwood floor. I watered the plants. I found myself dusting the heart boxes from Valentine’s Day. Inside his is a picture of us at the beach by a large sandcastle. Later that night there was a massive storm. In the morning there were hundreds of jellyfish washed up on the beach. They looked like plastic bags.

After cleaning I sat for hours. There was a light smell of medical supplies. The IV rig was still in the corner, it’s hoses swayed in the breeze of an open window. Why was the window open in December? It might have been open for years and I would never have noticed.

7 : The Family Seth decided we should go to his family’s Fourth of July reunion.

He’s from one of those large mid-west families that love to get together to remind themselves why they don’t see each other over more often.

His father lives in Kansas and still has the farm that was part of the 1800s land grab. They put out tables and a tent in front of the old farmhouse. They sit around and pray no one will start yelling about some ancient argument. Someone always does.

I hate going anywhere near the Clemmens. Despite there being several gay family members they still look at Seth and I as being the ones who ‘started it’. They smile that obnoxious fake mid-western toothy grin and refuse our hugs with polite handshakes.

The first time we went to the reunion was that first summer we were together. We were young and I guess he thought that if they saw us together they’d learn to deal with us. I met his father first, he walked up to me and smiled a candy-coated sneer and said, “You get the bed in the basement.” No one said another word to me the whole trip. At dinner I was put at the kiddie table and told not to tell the children who I was. I had not gone back.

He had told his family about his illness. When we showed up it was all, “How are you doing?” “Can we do anything for you?” We were offered rooms in everyone’s houses. The sudden hospitality was too much. After all those years of not talking to us. I clenched my jaw and ate potato salad.

He smiled and took their gifts: afghans knitted last minute, small candles with scents like ‘spring’, framed pictures of family members he didn’t know. Someone had even bought a book about managing ill loved ones for me.

At the airport his father pulled me aside and asked me how Seth  33

KNACK really was. I told him that I was a worried but Seth was strong enough for all of us. His father smiled and told me that he was glad I was there to take care of his son. He clasped my hand. This barrel-chested farmer was as close to sobbing as you could be. He asked me not to tell Seth.

9 : Things To Come “They want me in the hospital.”

“Do you want to be in the hospital?”

He sat quietly, legs crossed, staring out the window. The light was harsh, but beautiful. I sat in the overstuffed easy chair in the corner.

When he didn’t answer I got impatient, “Are you sick? Do you need to go the hospital?”

“Do you think it would be easier if I didn’t stay here?”

He had this look on his face like he was talking about a loaf of bread. It took me a second to realize he didn’t meant right then. He meant at the end, when he was too ill for me to take care of him.

“We don’t have time to pretend.” He saw that I was at a loss. That I was not going to be helpful. “Look.” He stood, raising his shirt.

His rib cage looked like the bones of a corset put on backwards.

I counted them silently. Making sure they were all there. He just stood there, in that harsh September light. Like some bird on display.

Neither of us had been sleeping. Him, because of the meds. Me, because…I knew that this discussion could be something to share with him. Something meaningful, but I was unable to separate the reality of it.

The finality. I couldn’t even tell him I didn’t want to talk about it.

In frustration he finally sat down. “You’ve had three years to get used to this.” after a moment, “We haven’t really talked about this.”

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“I’m fine.” I sounded like a child. I wanted to run from the room, bury my head under the covers until it all went away.

“I know it’s a lot, but you have to deal with it. We both do.”

“Do what you think is right.”

“I want you to know I’m thinking of you.”

“Whatever you want.” I wanted to tell him that I didn’t want him to die.

That it was all too much for me. I stared into the light coming in the window. It was blinding like a camera flash.

4 : Flowers “I did it exactly like you told me to.”

“It was important.”

“I know. You talk about it all the time, you go on and on about the greenness of the leaves, the stripe down the centre, the time period of the blooms, you sat up one night waiting for the first flower.”

“Oh, I did not! I was watching Godzilla on TBS and I fell asleep in the chair and when I woke up I noticed the flower and I came and woke you up to show you.”

I stuck my tongue out at him. He threw a pillow from the couch at me, it tipped over the planter. What was left of the dried up plant fell onto the floor.

“My mother gave that plant to us right before she died!” I walked out of the house. I went to the café on the corner for a drink. I read the paper to calm down.  35

KNACK He moved the plants to the den. It looked like a jungle with the spilled blue and ivory paint on the floor and the large leafy plants and tan couches. At sunset the room turned red and orange. The shadows looking like animals stretching before bed.

5 : Graduation I stood in line. It was fucking cold. My girlfriend, Grace, was standing a few people ahead of me. Every now and then I would inch towards her and poke her in the ribs. She was super ticklish. I looked at all the people watching the graduation. I saw Mr. Clemmens; he always insisted we call him Seth. He hadn’t been in school the last few weeks. The rumour was that he was dying and the admin had freaked out. My father and him were friends from college, I would have heard if anything was up.

He was sitting with his husband and my mother. My dad couldn’t get there from Florida. Big surprise. They were wrapped up in blankets and looked like hell. I waved. Seth smiled back and waved. Robert smiled and waved too. I didn’t really know him that well so it surprised me.

Seth was like an uncle. I’d known him my whole life. He was at my dad’s second wedding. And I guess he had been the best man in his first.

The one to my mother. My dad was his best man when Seth married Robert while it was legal in California.

They said my name, James Murphy, and as I walked up the stairs I waved and jumped to show him that I saw him. It felt so strange, like a dream. He laughed and jumped back shaking his arms in the air, the blanket falling quickly. Robert gathered it up just as quick and tried to get Seth to sit back down. I grabbed my diploma and shook all the required hands, stopping for a picture with the superintendent of the school district. I stuck out my tongue and I heard some people laugh.

The show went on for another hour or so but I stopped listening after the second speaker. After the ceremony, we all stayed around taking pictures with everyone. Seth disappeared. I didn’t even really think about it. I found out later about the illness, he had told my father not to tell me.

I guess he had his reasons. Maybe I could have just given him a card – a hug. I think about it now, him all wrapped up in blankets. Robert covering him up. The bottle of pills that we found in his desk the day Grace and I were looking for staples. I should have known. I should have done something.

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10 : Juliet

Seth always liked the den. In the morning it was all jungle and light, and at night it felt like a safe haven from everything. It made sense towards the end of the month that the bed be put in there near the window. It felt right.

He couldn’t go to the bathroom by himself anymore and needed a lot of attention so we had a live in nurse with us to make sure he was ok while I worked. The mounting bills were a strain. We had decided not to take him to the hospital.

Despite all of this, he insisted that we treat him the same, and that we dress him up for Halloween as Juliet. George came over and worked his drag show magic on him. He looked amazing.

We put three shirts and thermals on him under the dress. He wore arm-length purple gloves and perched in the window. It didn’t take long for the people in the street to notice him and start to laugh and clap and call ‘trick or treat’ to him.

I sat up with him handing out candy through the den window.

George and I had built a makeshift staircase to the window from the sidewalk and a sign pointing the way. We carved ten jack-o-lanterns.

A few of our friends came around trick-or-treating, 40-somethings, it was only a little pathetic. We spent the rest of the night into the morning sitting in the den talking about old times and enjoying our friends. We watched a few old favorite movies and laughed at ourselves for enjoying the end of The Crying Game so much.

2 : Heart-Shaped Box Robert hates Valentine’s. He says it’s all made up to sell Hallmark.

In a way he’s right, but it’s so much fun! You dress up in red and go out to dinner. You share some chocolates and remember why you find the person in front of you attractive. It makes having someone so much fun, and just a little trashy.

“What are you thinking about?”

He looks like Cary Grant tonight, dressed in that grey turtleneck with a matching black jacket and pants I gave him when he had the big 4-0 last year. We’re at our favourite restaurant in Chinatown, sitting at  37

KNACK our table in the back so we can see and judge the whole restaurant.

“Just this.” I wave my hand around the room and drink in the red wallpaper and amazing gold-framed mirrors.

“Chen’s?”

“Being here with you.”

He toasts me with out water glasses and smiles broadly. Then my watch goes off and I down my ‘cocktail’ of multi-colored hell. He makes sure I take all of them.

His eyes are grey. When I first met him that was what I noticed first.

Diane introduced us at some party. “Seth, this is Robert, he’s single.” He was really cute back then. Slightly wavy dirty blonde hair and grey eyes.

Now his hair is close cropped, greying at the temples. He looked like a poet that night, my playwright.

He started talking about some party we were going to in a few days. I stare at the dress the woman at the next table has on. Valentine’s is meant to be sexy, but she looks like a prostitute. Bright red, like a fire engine. She has on heels that I don’t think anyone could walk in.

She has too many diamonds to be an ordinary prostitute, so she’s a call girl for sure. Unless they’re fakes. The guy she is with has on a frumpy beige suit. BEIGE! He’s at least 60. I wonder if she’s paying attention to him. He’s talking but she’s staring at him with one hand on her chin.

Like a model in a 50s magazine ad.

Maybe she’s a trophy wife; he might have had a large cock hidden somewhere in those ugly pleated pants. She might be twenty-four. What an age to be. When I was twenty-four I thought I’d take over the world.

“Hello?”

“Sorry, I was floating.”

“I can tell. Are you all right? We can go home.”

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He f lashes that terrible mom look. He wants to swaddle me and cart me off to bed. Tuck me in for the rest of my life and never let me outside.

“Just thinking.” Thankfully the food comes before he could pretend I was on my deathbed.

I gave him two heart-shaped boxes right before we left the house.

They were empty. The idea was that we were going to fill them up over the next few months, years, whatever we have left. It was corny as hell and Robert hated it. But I loved it. It was just so hilariously perfectly silly.

3 : RE: Decorating We were painting the den. Paint rollers bring out the kid in ever yone.

“What’d you do that for?”

I shrugged at the blue stripe down his arm. He stood with one hand on his hip and the other holding out the roller. Suddenly he threw it at me.

I ducked and rolled quickly, the plastic floor cover sticking to me and wrapping me like some terrible burrito. I stood as best I could getting one of my arms free then lunged at him. I ran my paint-covered hands all over his face.

“You are such a bitch!”

He managed to get free and stood. He magically had the whole gallon of paint in his hand. Ready to throw it on me.

I begged for my life. He eased his arm for a moment seeming to set the can down. Time froze for a moment and then he spun, tossing the white paint into the air.

This blob of ivory moving in air. It was milk. It was a sea creature.

Its tentacles reaching out for me. Then I stood dripping, a huge pool at my feet on the wood floor. He stood blue-faced.  39

KNACK “I can’t believe you did that.” I was laughing. He was smiling. He looked around, saw the pool of white paint. The streaks of blue. He frowned.

“What’s wrong?”

“How are we getting that off of the wood floor?”

“Leave it.” I kissed him. Outside there was a pair of sparrows building a nest in our rhododendrons.

8 : Autumn There was a knock at the door. I was getting more visitors these days. It seemed like everyone wanted to come touch the hand of the sick man.

The front door felt heavy today. It was warm out but there was an ever-present breeze.

“James?”

“I went to the school, they said you didn’t work there anymore.” The words sat in the air. He looked like his father.

“I just wanted to see how you were. You didn’t seem well at graduation.”

The wind blew back the blanket a little and he saw my ribs underneath the thin shirt I was wearing. I should have worn a sweater today.

Robert always wants me in a sweater even when it’s 80 degrees outside.

“Come in.”

“Are you ok?” A fair question.

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“How are you? How was your summer?” A fairer question. He was about to protest the change in subject but my teacherness won out.

“It was ok. I went out to dads for a month. I’m going to school near him to save money.”

“Excited?”

“I guess.”

“That feeling never goes away. How is your dad?” I hadn’t seen James Senior in a long time. We kept making promises to visit him on the east coast and kept not going. It was Florida after all. But not the hilarious part, the NASA part. Not fun.

“He’s great. He wants you to come visit.”

We both knew that trip would never happen.

“How is what’s-her-name?”

“Amanda? She’s the same.”

“But they’re happy?”

“I guess. She spends his money, he makes it.”

“Would you like something to drink? There might be some orange juice or some iced tea.”

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KNACK “Not in my house James Murphy.”

He clearly wanted to object, but didn’t. “Orange juice would be good.”

“Alright wait right here.”

I couldn’t get the seal to break. It was that stupid OJ with the giant twist off cap. They have those little tear-away seals. I have never been able to get them off.

I dropped it. On its way down it took the glass with it. I didn’t have shoes on and I cut myself. The blanket fell. I stepped on more glass. James came rushing in and tried to help but I panicked when I saw the blood and made him go back into the den. At least the juice stayed in the bottle.

Those seals are industrial strength.

I wrapped bandages on my foot and put on a thick sock or two. After what was probably 15 minutes I took him a glass of juice. He stared at it quietly. I said I was feeling a little tired and should take a nap. He smiled and hugged me carefully and left.

The breeze had calmed and the day was bright blue and warm. The sun hit the front door perfectly and I soaked it in a moment.

I sat in the den waiting for the sun to set. It lit that room up red when it did. I was alone for hours in the darkening light. When he came home from work I wrapped my arms around him and I didn’t let go until the morning.

6 : Becoming C alm, G oing On Vacation The two men were on the beach. One on his back, sunglasses covering the eyes. Asleep maybe. The other read. As the day passed several other families and groups made their way to the beach. One little girl stopped at the blanket where the man sat reading.

“Whatcha doing?” She was seven.

He took off his glasses and smiled at her. “I’m reading. Whatcha doing?” He managed to repeat her cadence perfectly.

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“I’m building sandcastles!” She looked back at where her building project was. “Want to help?”

“I would love to.” He stood, placing his book on the ground.

They began by building a mound of sand trying to reach the sky. A shapeless mound that they began to carve into.

The other man, the one on his stomach, turned over slowly to ask something of his book-reading partner. When he saw that the man was no longer there he stood quickly and began to search the beach. He wondered if he had gone swimming alone or just ran off somewhere.

He walked hurriedly down the beach scanning all that he passed. As he neared the water he heard laughter. As he neared the sound he saw it.

The sandcastle.

It was at least three feet tall and three feet wide with a moat full of water and seashells. The girl and the man sat on either side of it forming sand walls for the moat. It looked carved from stone, as permanent as time.

“How did you do that?”

Startled, the little girl and man both looked up.

“How did you make this?”

“We just sort of started and then here we are.”

“It’s amazing.”

“Grab some sand and help us finish.”

The girl giggled and handed the newcomer a shell. He sat down and placed the shell.  43

KNACK 1 : The Beginning I had lit the room like the fourth of July, and moved the table to the centre of the living room. The dining room was tiny and I wanted tons of candles. I made sure all the plants were arranged perfectly. The curtains drawn, their gauze-like texture bruised deep blue from the night outside.

He was due home soon; he had a meeting then had to stop at his doctors for his monthly visit.

It was our anniversary. I sat in the kitchen waiting for the sound of his key in the old door of townhouse. We had moved in 1985. That was such a long time ago. So many people had come through these walls since then.

He was late, I remember that because the dinner I had been cooking began to burn and I had to turn the temperature down. I was annoyed until I saw the look on his face. He came in slowly, looking pale. The wind ran in after him, shutting out the candles I had set up. Blowing them out one by one. Like Christmas lights blinking.

He calmly told me everything: - the doctors weren’t sure how long he had - his counts were getting non-existent - he should quit his job, should rest, should make plans I couldn’t speak, cry, or even scream. I just stood there until he came and kissed me. He smiled and said that we had a year, maybe a little more, and we should kick its ass.

11 : Thanks Be To G od For These Blessings That We H ave It was Halloween that did it. Sitting there in that window all night dressed in Rapunzel drag. He caught the flu. I sat up with him all night, every night. The nurse was there, he slept in the chair in the corner. It was Thanksgiving morning. The Macy’s parade was on in the back room.

We could hear the announcers. “…And here comes the hero of hero’s making his way through the heart of New York…”

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He had been up all night and was finally sleeping. I sat holding his hand, staring at him. He was so peaceful. I held on to him for so long.

He was so thin, like a toy. When he woke up around ten-o-clock he was barely there.

“Rob, I need some water.” “…Did you know that it takes twenty people to keep him from floating away?”

“Ok. I will be right back.” “… it might take all the people in the world to hold him down!”

Back in the den Seth was busy trying to disconnect his IV. In the commotion he woke the nurse. I heard them arguing. By the time I got back, the tubes were out, liquid was spilling. The nurse was trying to reconnect to save the moment.

“That’s right! The wind is amazing today, I think he may fly off into the sky…”

Seth looked at me. A thousand days of looks. Every second of us went through me and I found myself frozen. His eyes were so clear. I grabbed at his hand and wrapped myself onto him, holding him in, wishing to never let go. I could feel him leaving and found myself screaming – On the television a half-inflated Spiderman balloon collapsed against a building –

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LEA JO MANSFIELD P H OT O G R A P H Y

I was never good with words and photography allows to me express myself without using the, so it comes easy. The photos I take don’t follow a specific topic or pattern. I enjoy capturing anything—whether it be a band at a show, or a rock on the floor. When I see something that catches my eye, I’ll do what I can to get the shot. Photography isn’t planned, it’s a in-the-moment thing. ...

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54 яБо

knack magazine / issue f ive

LIV LOMBARDI’S SELF-MEDICATE TOURED CITIES Denver, CO Salt Lake City, UT Boise, ID Seattle, WA Tacoma, WA Portland, OR San Francisco, CA San Luis Obispo, CA Long Beach, CA Santa Fe, NM

4,475 miles. Santa Fe to Seattle to Los Angeles, Portland everywhere in between and back again. 23 days after departing, I returned to my home, tucked safely away in a desert mountain town. All that time alone in a car, I found myself to be my only companion. I discovered a dual consciousness that took places as I was driving—half of me intently focused on my drive and getting myself safely to the next city; the other half, an infinite being, bursting with ideas and songs of love, longing for sensation and filled with desire.

As I sat next to myself, I learned how to love all the parts of me, finding my own best friend inside. If another could experience what went on in my mind, hour after hour, as I drove, they might read the following. Bits of thought, sounds in my head, vibrations that sprung from the earth I traveled along. I was fed by my adventure. My hunger for experience never ceased. Read the words, sit into the sounds, let it all spiral away together.  55

KNACK

56 яБо

knack magazine / issue f ive

Outside of Cheyenne, Wyoming.

Each day, another journey.

Headed west, going north, There are a lot of people on this road.

From the beginning of the day until now, It seems that a journey has been taken.

If anywhere, in my heart, in my mind, on the road.

I’ve been here waiting… and I would have never thought all this beauty could be waiting inside of me.

How could you know?

Driving through Utah and into Idaho.

It is mid afternoon, already a good ways through the drive, with many hours to go. Pieces of me were falling away that day. It was as if I was seeing myself for the first time, naked and finally understanding what I looked like and what I was seeing in front of me. Finally being at peace with my mind.

Finding power in that letting go. Freedom was in letting go.

She is sighing…she says, “What is there…to say. Okay, let’s begin at the beginning. Let’s start with the idea that my own thoughts, my own joy, is here to fill me up. I am chasing the sunset to another place. Should be home by the time I find where I’m supposed to be and I’ve been wearing my sunshine.

Fresh out of the car in Seattle. Had just arrived at a friend’s apartment, and I was bursting with songs and ideas. The sojourn to Seattle felt like success. I had finally arrived and felt as if things were beginning. There was a sense of anticipation about being in Seattle that I was ready to put into action—finally able to explore the energy that was  57

KNACK gathering as I distanced myself from the desert. Now, in the rainiest of cities, I was blissful because of the opportunity to breathe in and out these comforting sounds. The sounds that soothed me through the rainy west.

How can we deny such wonders? The glory!

How can we deny such wonders? The glory!

I’ve been running from myself. From myself. Caught in your boxes. Stuck inside the lines

Time is not real, we are floating around ideas, and feel them when we become in need of a reminder that these things will never escape us. Fearing to feel, because I feel so much for you…

For everything that is around me and it leaves me stuck, Balance these pieces of yourself. When I wake up I’ll be free. When I woke up today, I lie stagnant, needing to feel deeply these feelings inside of me that ache to be freed. How exhausting! Only I can set them free.

To breathe!

Northern coast of California. Late Morning.

I feel it in my stomach. I feel it in my gut. Beauty. If I wanted to be brought to tears, continuing on this way for years is the only way I see it. (A heavy sigh and the energy as if it’s

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knack magazine / issue f ive

too much to comprehend or take in all at once) Green trees. Green trees mixed with gold.

Somewhere near California. I am overwhelmed by beauty. I’m…I can’t even comprehend the vastness of it. It’s like trying to comprehend the size of the earth or the power of love.

It will never be understood, just felt. Known. I don’t understand what it means to feel so (happy) and have no one to share it with but myself, but I know that that’s the right way.

(Another sigh, a release) My mind drifts. It pulls on addiction. It pulls on the addict inside, wanting nothing more than to just be immersed in what’s outside of me.

Huh…I have the universe inside of me! (As this is realized there is also the presence of joy so great, the voice begins to break as tears are welling up inside). All of these trees

and road to travel…it’s inside of me! And I know it is ‘cause I will always remember it.

And this feeling that I have right now…This undeniable joy to be on this road is…fiercely overwhelming and wonderful. Not overwhelming in a bad way, just complete bliss. I am so blessed. And I feel a sense of renewal being on the road today. Wash away that rain! It’s washing something away.

I want to shine my light on the mist. Have it burn away. I want to have it burn away. I want to shine a light on the mist and have it burn away. Burn away.

Give it up for the day when you see that your light could burn away the mist.

We got nothing but goodness inside. If we could only set free. Creator of the universe is drawing a line inside of me.

 59

KNACK

60 яБо

knack magazine / issue f ive

ď Ž 61

KNACK

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 sim ultan 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 or JPEG WRITTEN WORKS: .doc, .docx, and RTF EMAIL: knackmagazine1@gmail.com SUBJECT: SUBMISSION (PHOTOGRAPHY, STUDIO ART, CREATIVE WRITING, GRAPHIC DESIGN)

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knack magazine / issue f ive

Missed a submission deadline? Do not fear!

K N ACK oper ates on a rolling submission s ystem. This means that we w ill consider wor k from any ar tist at any time. Our “ deadlines” merely ser ve as a cutof f for each issue of the magazine. A ny and all wor k sent to knackmagazine1@ gmail.com w ill be considered for sub mission as long as it follow s submission guidelines. The day wor k is sent merely reflec t s the issue it w ill be considered for.

Have questions or suggestions? E-mail us. We w ant to hear your thought s, comment s, and concer ns.

Sincerely, A r iana Lombardi, Editor

 63

KNACK

ISSUE 7 SUNDAY, MARCH 17th, 2013

ISSUE 8 SUNDAY, APRIL 14th, 2013

ISSUE 9 SUNDAY, MAY 12th, 2013

64 яБо

knack magazine / issue f ive

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 know of an exciting show or exhibition opening? Is there an art collective in your city that deserves some press? Are you a musician, have a band, or are a filmmaker? Send us your CD, movie, or titles of upcoming releases which you’d like to see reviewed in KNACK. We believe that reviews are essential to creating a dialogue about the arts.

If something thrills you, we want to know about it and share it with the KNACK community—no matter if you live in the New York or Los Angeles, Montreal or Mexico.

All review material can be sent to knackmagazine1@gmail.

com. Please send a copy of CDs and films to 1720 West Alameda Street Santa Fe, NM 87501. If you would like review material returned to you include return postage and packaging. Entries should contain pertinent details such as name, year, release date, websites and links (if applicable). For community events we ask that information be sent up to two months in advance to allow proper time for assignment and review.

We look forward to seeing and hearing your work.

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KNACK

66 яБо

knack magazine / issue f ive

ď Ž 67

KNACK

68 яБо