Gauge Spring
Magazine 2020 Issue:
Vacancy
t a b l e o f c o n t e n t s
1 Letters from the Editors 3 An Ode to 2 Boylston Place 5 Ovary it: A Vacancy in Women’s Healthcare 9 Searching For A Purpose: The Eerie Feeling in College Students and Alumni 11 the absent father 12 Ghost Rider & MISSING: Have You Seen? 13 Monsters/Creatures/Angels 15 The Island of Loneliness 17 To Be a Body 19 A Space Not Vacant 23 Another Day 27 An Obituary of a Home 29 Empty Spaces Filled 33 Rarely Here: The Struggle of Dissociative Disorders 34 Stranded Man 35 You Should 36 Etymology
S T A F F L I S T
Editor-in-Chief
Design Team
Ayo Oladeji
Marieska Luzada Althea Smith Marianna Poletti Reyes Ayo Oladeji
Managing Editor Brandi Hewitt
Marketing Director Sean Jacobson
Marketing Team Ada Wong Lily Myrick Brandi Hewitt
Fiction Editor
Staff Writers
Mackenzie Denofio
Allyson Roche Karigan Wright Alannys Milano Lauren Rego Jordyn Vasquez Clarah Grossman
Fiction Readers Ray Geoghegan Nadia Hibri Audrey Iocca
Head Copyeditor Kyle Eber
Copyeditors Alyssa Caraher Rachel Stern Emily Lang Morgan Holly Katherine Powers Kelsey Allen
Staff Photographers
Poetry Editor
Ayo Oladeji Bao Song Nadezhda Ryan Hannah Luna Logan Steenbergen
Lydia Albonesi
Poetry Readers Lauren Licona Charleigh Triaga
Letters from the Editors
1
I am always missing someone. I am always missing someone.
I miss my neighbors that I never met. I glance into their apartment and see their cabinets being ripped off the walls. The apartment is being renovated for its next guests: more people I will probably never interact with further than a glance from the porch, yet I will miss them dearly when the cabinet doors are ripped from their hinges once again. I miss people from my past. Old friends, past professors, my grandparents, strangers on the street with whom I shared a fleeting moment, the staff at the cafe near my apartment that shut down, the people my parents used to be. Sometimes I miss my past self. I miss the way she was tirelessly optimistic and full of life. Exploring the term “vacancy” this semester was diving into the emptiness and loneliness we experience in everyday life. It was learning how to see the empty spot in a big bed, learning how to see the barren room in a big house, and learning how to be content with those voids. Some people and things are meant to be memories to us, passing moments, timestamps to remind us of our past. If there is one thing I have learned from working on this issue, it’s that it is so nice to be able to miss people. It reminds us that we are alive and that our connections with others are impactful. I look forward to missing this project, this semester, and everyone who made this wonderful exploration into Vacancy come to life.
--B At least I laughed. First and foremost, I apologize for the delay in this issue; there was a pandemic. Now that I have gotten that out of the way, I will give you some advice. Even though I am in no position to give advice, that has not stopped people before, and it won’t stop me. Start filling the stillness, the emptiness, the darkness with just unnecessary boisterous laughter. I need you to go into an empty room with a mirror. Look at yourself in the mirror and say the following, “AAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAHAHHAHAHAHHAHHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHA.” Repeat until you start genuinely laughing. Did you do it? How do you feel, buddy?
--A 2
An Ode to 2 Boylston Place by Jordyn Vasquez
3
I’ll be honest when we first met; I hated you. My room was a box of cold air that sat ten floors high at the intersection of City Place and the alleyway. You were nothing but white walls and concrete; eighteen floors, fourteen dryers, thirteen washers, four common rooms, and only two elevators. You are a building unfinished—quantity over quality. Exposed pipes and awkward corners brushed off as an artistic choice. Oh please, you chose white because it’s easy to bleach, not because of its modern appeal. My first night with you was uncomfortable. You are nothing to the carpeted silence of Colonial. Your large windows will never compare to the view from a Piano Row common room. Your showers are still smaller than those of the Little Building. At least Paramount has P-Cafe. I lost countless glasses, mugs, and decorative jars to your unforgiving concrete floors. Not even a large kettle of tea could chase away the chill of your bright, white aura. And yet as I write this, from the comfort of my childhood bedroom, I have to admit that I miss you. I miss the community you housed—a makeshift family thrown together by the chaos of housing selection. The six of us divided by four rooms, but we usually just crowded in one. Before this suite, I never questioned the need for doors. Given the option, we would’ve demolished the walls of each room. Give me an open concept. Give me clutter. Give me a mess. I’d give anything for less blank white space. So we covered your walls with whatever we could find—a Charlie’s Angels movie poster for the shower room door, Zombieland for the bathroom. The wall above my bed became an ever-growing collage of magazine clippings, postcards, and glow in the dark stars. The thought of taking it down would bring a sharp pang of anxiety in my chest. ‘Don’t think about it. You have so much time,’ I’d remind myself. When your sterile walls and cruel floors became too much to bear, we would throw our mattresses on the floor and compile our bedding to make a pillow fort. A smaller, warmer, more manageable setting from which we could finally catch our breath. Your walls encased our sanctuary, no longer isolating but protecting. We cushioned your concrete floors, no longer cold but stable. We showed you what it meant to be loved. The one thing you do have going for you is location. You are perfectly situated at an equal distance from Chipotle, Panera, Maria’s, and Blaze. Only a short walk to The Friendly Toast- you can even cut through City Place to avoid the frigid Boston wind. Which is exactly what I was doing and exactly where I was going when my parents called to say I had less than 24 hours to pack up and leave you.
4
5
6
7
8
Searching for Purpose:
The Eerie Feeling in College Students and Alumni
Written by karigan wright Photography By Baolong song 9
C
ollege is portrayed by many to be the best time of your life, filled with parties, new friendships, sport events, late nights, and big opportunities. However, there is an understanding that classes will be difficult, writing ten page papers the night before the due date, staying late at the library, and lots of appearances at office hours. But, why does no one talk about what is perhaps one of the most prevalent issues on college campuses? That is, students feeling an overall lack of purpose as they navigate college and their future. I’m currently a first-semester senior, finishing up a handful of requirements before I graduate in December. I should be chasing opportunities, preemptively applying for jobs, and feeling motivated to start my life in the real world. Instead, I’m bingewatching Scandal, living off of Frappuccinos, and staying up late engaging in complete nonsense with my boyfriend. There’s a hole of sorts I can feel, deep inside of my chest. I envision brown sludge coating my brain, getting rid of any and all desire. Getting rid of any and all purpose. I don’t feel anything in my life is worthwhile, which is an extremely dangerous thought in and of itself. I can’t envision what my future holds, because there is no reason to. I have no purpose in this life; I haven’t discovered what I’m supposed to be doing. And tragically, this is a trend in college students and graduates. Chloe Nanian ‘22, Creative Writing major, has experienced this feeling, specifically about her writing. “People write because they love to,” Nanian says, “And I love it, but it’s nothing compared to other writers of the same year or even those younger than me. Experience comes into play obviously, but I feel like I’m going nowhere with it and that there’s no point.” However, in order to cope she tells herself over and over again that she is improving no matter what she thinks. The pressure to be the best is one component of this feeling that students are struggling the most with. Being in a major as competitive as journalism at Emerson, Bella Pelletiere ‘20, said, “I feel like I’m just floating through my major until I graduate.” Pelletiere feels she’s not doing enough in order to get a job after graduation. “Why am I not on the same level as other people?” she said. “Because I feel like once I graduate I’m not going to get a job in that field I feel depressed and horrible about myself.” Though she’s struggling a lot because she graduates in May, she’s been getting help in therapy and is learning how to cope. “I’m very self-deprecating, but I’ve been going to therapy and have been learning to give myself some self-affirmations throughout the day,” Pelletiere said. “If I write something that I’m proud of I like to post it on social media and it makes me feel better. It gives me a little hope that I do have some sort of purpose in life.” Not everyone has this hopefulness, however. Though he’s not risking his life looking for archaeological finds, Will McGregor relates to the journeys Indiana Jones goes on. McGregor ‘20, a History major at Louisiana State University, feels that “Instead of the arc of the covenant, the treasure is self-
discovery or what you really wanted all along,” McGregor says, “You open the door, walk in the temple, and it’s empty. The truth about your identity and being is you have none.” After having this self-discovery, he learns “maybe you’re not supposed to be anywhere.” This dangerous form of thinking can and will block student’s thinking and determination altogether, and it isn’t just thought by current college students, but also by alumni. While she did graduate in 2018, Emerson alum Cassy Smith feels similarly in her current career. Smith currently works two jobs, one at a small digital agency, and the other at a coffee shop with a marketing and waitress position. She feels stuck right now and has been trying to find other jobs, despite the constant struggle she feels. “The struggles I have been running into while looking for a new job has caused me to feel even more like I am not getting good or worthwhile experience at my two jobs and makes me feel even more like why am I doing this?” Smith said. However, she copes through learning on her own time via LinkedIn Learning. This helps her feel as if she’s helping herself in the future. Matt Pujo ‘96, feels the issue lies in required classes and general education, and the lack of importance of those classes. He felt wholly unprepared to break into the film industry, as most of his classes didn’t focus on his major. As he took general education classes, he questioned his purpose in his education, as he didn’t feel he was even learning what he needed to know. He asks, “If the film industry is so tough to break into, shouldn’t more classes be geared toward surviving in the business by arming students with the necessary tools they need to become marketable?” Pujo struggled to connect his education to his purpose, something Stanford is trying to change. In 2015, Stanford University’s School introduced Project Wayfinder, a program that aims to help students connect their education to their real-world purpose. This project is based on the concept of Purpose Education, which according to Molly Fosco’s article in OZY, “The Rise of Purpose Education: A Recipe For Fulfillment or Snowflakes,” is a “school of thought [that] incorporates ideas from the mindfulness movement and social-emotional learning, and goes further.” By going further, Fosco explains that this type of learning helps students understand that they have a choice in what college, if any, they choose to go to and what they will study. There’s a focus on asking for help, with one Project Wayfinder activity’s way to win is to ask for help. Project Wayfinder has a vision, one in which “We imagine a world where adolescent education is designed for all students to develop lives of meaning and purpose.” In the past five years, Project Wayfinder’s toolkits and training have helped over 15,000 students; 1,000 teachers; and 200 schools in 19 countries, including the United States. With the potential danger that comes with students and alumni feeling a lack of purpose, hopefully, more and more programs like Project Wayfinder will help stop the feeling of lack of purpose before it completely takes over college students’ lives.
10
11
Ghost Rider by Megan Hatch
MISSING: Have You Seen? by Megan Hatch
12
13
by luke geller
Monsters/ Creatures/ Angels
monsterscreaturesangels, flood my heart with rude awakenings so that if you and i were to walk together in its chambered halls, (how high, these ceilings are! you may exclaim, more in fear than awe, and how deep these pulsing caverns!) their eyes, so various and wide, so deep and unblinking, become the lust for life that brings me to my knees and collapsed on the ground of a cathedral a million paws, tentacles, fingers, figments brush my face as if some touch were a natural thing a gift, to be martyred and born again in the swarm i collapsed heaven in the palm of my hand. i put it in my pocket and walked it around my neighborhood nobody watched me, then, as no one ever had i know, of course, that every tiny thing is infinitely vast so i appoint myself the warden to millions of small infinities and spend my days crushing bugs to the pavement a death is everything and then it is nothing the opposite of zero in the darkest pits of the ocean God sleeps like a gutted ship though, taking no shape which you or i could name uncaring of the light, which gives form to mortal things but eternal, dangling just above the crust of the earth not beast, not man not creature nor angel and i can never wake it— a million little deaths never did any good a bottle, washed up on the beach, and the letter contained within: you would remember it if you were there, my love. in the sea cave where sirens go to die if you got any closer, then, you would hear what it hears: a billion restless hearts beating in the shape of every song we have sung, every tale we have spun, and all together we become ghosts but remain unafraid of such a change in perspective. perhaps God is empty, now, perhaps we have hollowed him. look, see what we have carved for ourselves, this space in an uncaring universe full of monsters, creatures, angels. the texture of love, the opposite of zero.
14
15
16
Y
ou have always lived here, even if it hasn’t always felt like it. No matter what you feel, this is your home. It’s no secret that your home has always been somewhat disorderly. You try to convince yourself that it’s not trashed, it’s just lived in. You don’t take salt baths or use lotion every day. You haven’t gotten a “mani-pedi” since you were seven. Your hands are rough and ragged. Your nails are torn and ruined, as you have bitten them since you’ve had teeth. There are the calluses you get on your finger from holding a pen too often, and the constant discomfort that lies in your wrist makes typing and writing hard after too long. There is a cat scratch on your thumb that never healed properly because it got too much espresso in it from work. There are scars from farming and one from a wart that you cut out of your palm yourself. There are a few scars that you can’t see anymore but you can feel, like when your friend ice skated over your finger or when a kid with long nails ripped a puppet you made out of paper off, carrying a clump of flesh with him. There are freckles spotting your body, but the one you care most about is the one that faded with age on your pinky that your mother used to share. Every memory that is held in your hands is clutched to your heart as tangible proof that you’ve lived. Sometimes, you look at them and wonder how they chose to keep the history they did. Much like your wrists, if you move your ankle in any way, it cracks. All your joints are just a little off, and when you walk you try your best to compose yourself and focus on making sure they do their job. The arch of your foot is fragile and sometimes it feels like a twig splintering. Sometimes, the idea of the energy it will take to stand up throws you into a state of demise, even though it is never as bad as you think. Your legs still carry you far, despite the pain, and you try your best to remember how they hold you. You have your father’s toes: he stated this on the day you were born, joking to the nurse that it was how he knew you were really his. Your feet are worn and your toenails are broken, a fleck of yellow nail polish on the big toe the only sign of grooming. You can’t remember a time when they weren’t like this. You grew up never wearing shoes, walking on rocks and through muddy grass, and climbing trees until you fell and ended up scraped up in a crumpled mess on the ground. It took you only a moment to stand and run back to the house on unbroken legs and toughened feet. There was one time when you slipped down a tree fifteen minutes before little league once, and two short branches lifted up your shirt as you fell. They left parallel scars down your chest and your uniform bloody. Your mom made make-shift “Band-Aids” out of Disney princess wrapping paper, and you stopped crying. You had almost completely forgotten about the incident by the time you got to the field. She compares this to when your ears were pierced and you cried until she held up a mirror to see how pretty you were. You rarely wear earrings anymore, but you still see the long healed scars on a different chest and smile at the memory. Your stories of accidents and tears don’t always end with a fix and a memory. There’s a scar on your forehead from butchered stitches almost as old as you. Then, when you were a child in a gymnastics class that you were too old for, the oldest child to not be on a team, you landed neck first on a balance beam. Chronic pain followed in the shoulders and lower back. Physical therapy never helped, only massages briefly and chiropractors when you can manage it. Your average pain level is an eight, but you’re used to it. You can handle up to twelve, and by that point, you’re basically catatonic. But you rub your back
17
against walls with tennis balls to get out the knots, and you still try your best to sit up straight. You do the exercises given to you by the chiropractor even if they feel as if they don’t help. Your neck cracks when it moves, and you try your best to make your shoulder blades feel like they’re not plastic trapped in flesh by moving it in just that certain way. Yet, the only sure-fire way to crack your back is to lay on tile floors and your legs straight up against the wall until your spine pops back into place. All the aches will never stop you from trying whatever you can to relieve the body that has healed broken bones and cut lips without as much as “please.” To reclaim your home, you took the ghost that lived in your chest and paid half of your last paycheck to draw him on your ribs where you could hold him when needed. You named him and forgave him for every dark thought he caused. You love him with the ability he kept from you for so long. Your parents always said that tattoos would ruin the body they gave you. Yet, this chosen pain was a covenant between you and your vessel, to always take care of each other. For a week after you had him etched onto your skin, your body shut down, unable to move, serotonin refusing to be made. It put all its energy into healing your battle wound, not knowing you chose this stabbing. Still, you both healed. When everything feels hopeless, you see the phantom and all you’ve been through together and remember your promise. When you look in the mirror, you see every part of yourself that doesn’t exist anymore and every detail no one else cares to notice. One of your stone blue eyes moves slower than the other and is always slightly more closed. You have a half-button nose; one side plump and the other flat. One side of your smile falls short to meet the other, and when you cry, you resemble a blobfish; mouth distorted and open, red as a tomato, and one dimple on the left side of your face. Then there’s the revealing blue vein under your left eye that tells anyone paying attention that you’re sick. You see healed acne scars and calcium deposits on your front teeth that have worn off long ago. There’s a scrape along your jaw from twelve years ago from a pompom used to scratch an itch on a cold day. One eyebrow is longer than the other, but the way you perfect your eyeliner keeps anyone from noticing. You’ve seen this face through it all. You’ve looked at yourself through absolute happiness, through tears, and even when you couldn’t bear to look at yourself at all. You’ve seen beauty, resentment, and hatred. You’ve seen a monster in that mirror and you’ve searched for redemption in it. You’ve searched for expectations you didn’t meet, and you found a sense of self in what you dismissed. As a child, your mother used to remark that you could never take your eyes off yourself; always looking in mirrors and reflections in windows. You were trying to link the face to the body and the body to the soul, trying to figure out how it all worked, that you were all one. There were things you were told to see that you couldn’t, and the more you looked, the less you saw a home. When you look in the mirror now, you see what you were all along. You’ve found love for the worn and soft and the new dark purple stretch marks. You’ve found love for the pudgy belly and the rolls of your back that have weighed on you for so long because you didn’t want to accept that they were a part of you. You have taken for granted the beauty that houses you. You define yourself with the words you chose with respect to your being. You have always lived here, but you never found comfort until you saw it in the daytime. You treasure the reality that life is not an aesthetic, but rough and ugly and gross and beautiful and raw. Every day you’ve spent in this body has been an act of love.
by Ray Geoghegan
To Be A Body WRITTEN BY RAY GEOGHEGAN PHOTOGRAPHY BY HANNAH LUNA
18
19
20
21
22
Another Day
by Alannys Milano
It was coming. The moment I have been dreading all night was finally here. I turned around until my face was against the wall next to my bed. I closed my eyes and buried myself in my sheets—as if somehow what was coming could just go away. The lights turned on; but I still kept my eyes closed, yet the rays from that single bulb were strong enough to not let me go back to sleep. “You are going to be late if you don’t get up now,” said my mom. I stretched my back, hearing the cracks from my spine. I felt better and ready. Another day. I jumped from my bed, grabbed my clothes—which I had prepared the night before. I ate a yogurt my mom had already taken from the fridge. I brushed my teeth, put on mascara, and grabbed my backpack. “Have a safe trip honey. Text me when you arrive,” my mom said while 23
giving me her blessing. “Yes, will do. Love you mom.” I answered while speed walking towards the bus stop. It was still dark outside. A chilling breeze brushed my face and the back of my legs, making me hug my coat tighter. I sped to the end of the street, where a lonely lamp street stood. I waited there. Alone, with no thoughts in mind. Just the sound of the air kept me company. A screeching sound interrupted the silence. The noise came from a motor vehicle that was too old to be standing. It stopped in front of me and opened its doors. I climbed the stairs and said good morning to Manuel, the bus driver. I walked down the aisle, keeping my balance as the bus kept moving. I took a seat next to a window. No one was talking, except for the bus driver with an old woman friend of his. Another day. Looking out the window
I imagined, what if everything was different? What if I could be somewhere else? I stopped my thoughts. I knew I couldn’t drift off, otherwise, I might miss the stop. I checked inside my pockets. A came out of me. I hadn’t forgotten my ID and the money. Everything is here. The bus stopped. I smiled and said goodbye to the driver, smiling so. He refused the money, but I still left it . He was of the few people who still deserve some sort of retribution for his services. Now I had to wait for the insufferable bus that would take me to the metro station. There was already a long line waiting for it. Perhaps I would have to wait for the next one. The sun was already coming out from the mountains, just as apprehensive as I to come out, we just wanted to savor every possible minute of rest. The dark sky slowly turned pink and orange, with a tint of yellow. Birds were chanting in the distance. A sense of calm overtook my body. Watching the sky wakeup made me somehow be in the present. Another day indeed, I mumble. The boisterous sound of the disco was approaching. I groaned. Bachata. I like dancing to bachata and salsa, but listening to it in the morning, specifically at 6 a.m. it is not something I look forward to. I took off my backpack and checked the inside pocket. Yes! I hadn’t forgotten my sweet earphones. It was now a decisive moment. I was either going to make it inside the bus or wait another thirty minutes for the next one. I didn’t care if I got the window seat; of course, I didn’t want
to be standing for the entire ride. The line was too long. The bus was already filled up to its capacity. I started feeling anxious; I didn’t want to be late. Thank God, another bus was approaching. A familiar sad tune reached my ears. The bus driver probably was feeling down today. They checked my ID. I paid the fare and immediately grabbed a window seat on the left side of the bus. I was feeling better now. Such a small thing could make me feel so content, so happy. The drive was long. There was traffic, but I didn’t pay attention to what was happening around me. As the bus reached each stop and filled with more passengers, I couldn’t help but notice how extremely lonely but yet fulfilling these rides had become to me. Alone with my thoughts. Alone from the world, even though I was completely surrounded by it. I felt as if I was a different entity. When the bus got on the highway, it was this moment that I was waiting for. Every day the sun will be up in the blue sky, the mountains green and high as ever. It was here, this moment, where I saw myself—where I felt myself, as being part of this world. “Thank you for another day,” I silently said. And then I pressed play on my phone. Jesse & Joy started sounding inside my head, filling me with a longing for something, for company, for love, for something more. I kept my gaze out the window, never closing my eyes. I couldn’t trust myself to not be watchful of my belongings and what was going on. Still, I daydreamed. I made up stories in my head. Long movies, with 24
so much detail. I did this almost everyday, trying to figure out ways to improve the stories in my head, always reminding myself that I should write them down. My dream was over though. Reality almost shocked me. This was the moment that I hated the most. The bus stop in front of La Rinconada, the main metro station of Caracas. Already, there were numerous people running toward the entrance. I watched with agony, taking a deep breath while repeating that I could do this. I used to walk the first time I went to La Rinconada. I didn’t quite understand why everyone was desperately running. Now, I knew. There weren’t many metro cars, and if you wanted to make it in time, you would have to run for it. The stairs toward the metro were endless. I always feared falling, and by the end I was exhilarated. There was no time to catch my breath or dry the sweat from my face. I needed to keep going. Pass the entrance, pass another set of stairs. Now I was standing behind the yellow line. I missed the first metro, but it was okay. I felt more relief than anything else, since the first metro always fills up very quickly. It wasn’t that I couldn’t stand not sitting; I didn’t care about that. But the idea of being crushed by people, of my own body between multiple bodies, the lack of air, the abundance of body odors, sweat, heat. I shuddered just thinking about it. The metro was approaching. I was at this point content, relieved. Almost there. It was empty. Surprised, I began approaching the metro, but I thought too soon. Just as the metro was stopping, an avalanche of people came rushing 25
toward it. Pushing each other with no regard to gender and age. Smart people would wait on the back, but I was not smart today: I was in front of the line. I could feel my heart beating so fast I thought I was going to pass out. They are going to crush me, I thought. As soon as the doors opened I flew inside. I didn’t have time to grab a seat; my body went directly to a corner in the car. It filled up so fast. My heart wouldn’t stop beating fast. I was mostly annoyed and mad. Only seven stops. I put on my earphones again and pressed play. Queen blasted from my phone. I turned the volume up higher and higher, trying to make the reality in front of me disappear. Trying to not feel the bodies, trying to not breathe as much. Trying to make this ride a little bit easier. When I got out of the car, I felt free again. Free to breathe, free to move. I looked at my phone and saw the time. Damn! I needed to hurry. Fast-walking, I climbed up the stairs toward the street, passing the main building, the enginneering building, the pharmacy, the odontology. Almost there. Trees were on either side of the street, practically covering the sky. A gentle breeze brushed my face again, reminding me of today’s dawn. I slowed my pace when I saw my destination. Green everywhere. The old building far away from every other one, trees gently wrapping around it . I saw familiar faces. A smile started forming on my lips. Another day. I was then sitting. People talking around me. People talking to me. So many different voices. I looked out of the window at the big trees, the blue sky. Red and blue Guacamayas flew by, singing as they passed. “I’m here mom,” I texted her. People quieted down as they began to go to their seats. Notebooks were out, pens and pencils. I let myself close my eyes for a moment, and took a deep breath. Another day.
Photo by Hannah Luna Model: Lauren Simpson 26
An Obituary of a Home by Jordyn Vasquez Photography by logan steenbergen
27
At 26 Sand Fiddler Road in Hilton Head, South Carolina, there is a home. It is a home with vertical olive green siding and a hipped sandpaper roof. A large willow oak has been growing next to the porch since the seventies. The lawn consists of countless emerald blades, between which torrents of sand blow through like mini cyclones. The air is heavy with salt and the cloying tinge of rotting fish. A path of dove grey stones leads to a set of polished mahogany doors. Behind which resides four bedrooms, four baths, four walk-in closets, and two state of the art kitchens. All four thousand seven-hundred and fifty-six square feet of this home is empty. A family did live here once. A traditional one, with a Mom and a Dad, and a handful of children. They probably had a dog. The Mom was probably carried over the threshold, into a world of bare feet on hardwood floors, of unmade beds, and steaming kitchens filled with the smell of her Mother’s paella. Her kids charted their height on the kitchen door frame, the bright scrawl of their markers bleeding into every crack in the wall. Mom moved through this home without thinking, the sound of laughter was her only guide; scraped knees and fake monsters her only obstacle. This was a world of doubtless faith. A world which was cut short by the recession. When Dad lost his job and Mom maxed out four credit cards just trying to pay for diapers. Their world became one with no structure and too much time. Time spent hopelessly networking and filling out job applications. Having Dad at home every day suffocated Mom. The kids noticed. When the mortgage on this 1.5 million dollar property was no longer a symbol of Dad’s pride, but a monstrous impossibility, they abandoned it. Deserted it for a place with more opportunity. After a few months of delinquent payments, the lender will hire a field service company to go and inspect the situation. Upon arrival the Field Service Agent will find those emerald blades have grown taller, the cyclones of sand tearing through them in a rage. Tiny grains pierce his skin, his legs stinging as the wind rips against them. He’ll turn to leave, having accepted the stacks of newspapers and neglected mail as enough evidence to declare a vacancy. For a moment he’ll wonder where they went. But then his stomach will growl and these thoughts will be lost to a pulled pork sandwich. He could try to contact the family, but he probably won’t. To him, this is just work. To secure this vacant property in the name of the lender, the Field Service Agent will return. But this time he’s not alone. HeHim and a dozen others will forcibly enter the home, changing the locks, and removing any personal belongings as they go. Strangers will carry out the lovers’ mattress, they will scratch the polished mahogany doors as they expel the bed frame. Someone will find Mom’s ornate serving bowl, a dish consumed by delicate hand-glazed patterns. A wedding gift that will never again hold her Mother’s paella. It should end up at Goodwill, but a stranger will carry it out, and they’ll fill it with their own life. Once all has been settled, the house will sit. For ten years if it were in the arid deserts of Arizona, or for five winters if itthis were in Massachusetts. But of the wet hot summers in South Carolina, the house will only survive three. During the wet months, others will come. People lost or looking for shelter. They’ll pry
open a door and create a home in the corner of an old bedroom. They will leave their trash behind. The house may never again experience the carefree dance of two people in love, it may never feel the safety of a newborn asleep in its nursery. This sense of home is distant and scared, it does not feel the stable floor beneath its own feet. It is afraid of the rain. Home is driven out as the rain finds its way in. Water will seep in from cracks in the sandpaper roof which has grown weak and brittle with age. The wooden floors will swell and warp with each steady drop, as the grand staircase and ornate banister rot above them. Water will erode each splinter of wood from the next until what was once a grand entrance is now a pile of dank wood chips. Dampness attracting dampness, creating the dense smell of decay. When the floors become dark and soft with excess water, the once stable foundation will succumb to the growing mold. With enough water comes new life. Seedlings unearth themselves from below the crumbling foundation. Hardwood replaced by moss, dense ceilings perforated by the sun. Thick green vines will snake their way through every crack and crevice in every wall. Their limbs unfurling from door frames like ink charting new growth. What structural components are left will become coated in the thick barbed wire of vegetation. Steel beams and crumbling plaster give the illusion of humanity amongst a world in reclamation. The fresh air will become clouded with pollen, casting a muddled yellow haze throughout the house. The scent of lush green life will attract those who live among it. Termites will burrow in the once polished mahogany as earthworms glide through untouched soil. Beneath planks of wood, rats will find a shelter held together by moss and splinters. Ants will explore the stratum of plastic litter for scraps of food that are long gone. The bright colors of cellophane endure even after they’ve been stamped into the dirt, even after the house comes apart above them. If only our own scripture was as indestructible. A stray cat will wander in and lounge on the soft moss-coated floors. She’ll lay warm with the glow of the afternoon, a kind breeze passing between each strand of fur. She will make a meal out of the rats that lurk below, the sound and smell of their breath will be her only guide. Her kittens will lash at lazy flies hovering dangerously close to the ground. At night they will lay fat and happy while Mom indulges in the insects that burrow in her babies’ fur. The air will be thick with carelessness and while it may not be blind faith, the house can’t tell the difference. A cat’s paws can be just as carefree. Life will continue like this until the walls collapse in on themselves and the living scatter. Until all that remains is the willow oak growing next to the decomposed porch. The willow oak whose roots have been expanding for forty years and will continue until they break free of the earth in search of something to strangle. And although 26 Sand Fiddler Road is only a few miles from the wealthiest resort in the state, only a stroll away from a world so sickly sweet and lavish, the willow oak is forgotten along with its vacancy. Left to blame for the economic decline that was its origin. Until not even a deer would sniff in its direction.
28
Imagine a room with three white walls and one made of glass windows and a door. The door had been locked for some time, and the glass hadn’t been cleaned, but now the walls are white and the sun shining in makes the room glow. Add in stripes of black, with twists and turns all over the ceiling and floor. Temporary walls make the space into a maze and a place for Sam Fish and his friend to display their art. In a short time, Fish and his friends had made a masterpiece out of the entire room. Sam Fish started EXIT Gallery in 2018 when he opened his first temporary gallery in Bow’s Market in Somerville. The space Fish was given, he turned into an immersive experience of street art. As an artist, Fish often felt pressure to leave Boston, where he’s lived his whole life, for more artistic and cultural hotspots such as New York City or Los Angeles. EXIT Gallery is Fish’s way of rejecting that pressure and instead, chooses to make a space for creative minds to experiment and grow. Fish’s gallery appeared in Cambridge after Somerville, before gracing Downtown Crossing with EXIT.
empty spaces by
Upon seeing the old travel agency for the first time, Fish and his friends immediately had a vision. A space that was once dull and dark was transformed into a vibrant experience of street art stripped back to its basics. With minimal design and emphasis on the displayed art, this vacant place was turned into something beautiful. It was like walking into a dream and losing yourself in the simple style. But beauty is no match to a profit and Fish was only able to use the vacant Downtown Crossing storefront for three months. Now, the old travel agency that was once painted white and black with red splashes and decorated with artists’ work, is once again the grey, empty, old 29
Paper Airplanes by Julian Valgora
travel agency. Walking through Downtown Crossing, everything seems a little duller with the vacancy instead of the beautiful life Fish brought to the space with his gallery.
f i lled
Clar ah Gro ssm an
Throughout all cities and towns, there are empty storefronts in need of people like Fish to fill the vacant property with something beautiful. The complete immersion into art blurs the line between reality and masterpieces until those who come feel like a part of the art. Creative projects are simple bursts of life in temporary creative spaces that people enjoy; closed stores don’t please anyone to look at. Even worse than those closed storefronts, though, are the rotating corporate stores. You know what I’m talking about: holiday shops, make-up brands, celebrity clothing lines-- Toys R Us, a once-popular toy company, has become one for Christmas time due to an increased demand for toys during the winter holidays. These are stores that come out of nowhere to create brand traction and take advantage of different seasonal shopping trends. It is these stores that perpetuate the capitalistic system that prevents small, independent businesses and creative spaces from acquiring permanent and secure property spaces. Every day stores go in and out of business, and it is this cycle that stores such as Spirit Halloween create by establishing capitalist habits and creating a certain behavior for shoppers. The temporary nature of these stores is their largest appeal, and yet, we all know the Spirit on Tremont will be back come October because we continue to give them a profit of our seasonal spending for itchy clothing that doesn’t quite fit and plastic accessories that will be broken before Halloween. 30
Sam Fish and other small businesses, such as Happy Place, a pop-up art experience, and Bloc 11, a coffeehouse that utilized the open property of an old bank, that truly add beauty and experience into these vacant stores. Bloc 11 is owned by Tucker Lewis and Jennifer Park, who are also the owners of Diesel Cafe. After the success of their first cafe, the duo wanted a new space for business. 11 Bow Street just happened to be a vacant property in Union Square, where Lewis and Park live. This vacant property turned out to be an old bank, and rather than turn away the unusual location, the duo saw an opportunity to be different. It also just so happens that Lewis and Park met in an ice cream shop that had previously been a bank as well. People should take example from Lewis and Park, and create a space of their own rather than turn away a property because of its previous business. If not for a cute cafe like Bloc 11, 11 Bow Street probably would’ve been occupied with another bank-- a basic symbol of capitalism. Happy Place was a pop-up interactive art experience that came to Boston last April. It was so popular that its stay was extended through the end of June. Inside, there were a dozen rooms to match perfect aesthetics. With each room bringing some new, people couldn’t stop posting photos of the colorful and vibrant rooms that were infectious with happiness. Within the walls of that property, people enjoyed themselves in a way they might not have in a while. People took photos for each other, and a community was created in the experience.
31
Corporate pop-up spaces like Spirit Halloween trick people into believing this route of capitalism is the only one we can be on. These companies control properties while independent businesses and creative spaces struggle to temporarily call any place a storefront. Capitalism is destroying the creative independents of being storeowners by funneling the money back into the companies that annually bless our vacant buildings. In a profit-motivated world with ever-rising demands, capitalism in all forms are at their prime. Sam Fish told the Boston Globe that he “just wish this could be a permanent spot. A communal space that people can come in and out of, with art all over the walls.� For the three months, he spent in Downtown Crossing, that is exactly what he did. It is spaces that bring people together that really add something of value to the world. People with big dreams and infinite imagination are being shut down, but it is time to break this pattern. Imagine a street, once grey and empty, full of color. Goods of all kinds occupy the once vacant space as people wander in and out. Rather than an unappealing strip of properties, these pop-up stores have brought a new meaning to the shopping experience. Every storefront is a new way to immerse yourself into other cultures and galleries, absorb new knowledge and share some of your own. It sends a creative message. Without supporting these spaces, capitalism wins and takes
Vacancy by Dylan Foley 32
Rarely Here: The Struggle of Dissociative Disorders by lauren Rego
You realize how much you used to take for granted when you suddenly aren’t a person anymore. The way your mind kept memories, and how easy it was to tell whether you’re awake or not. Back when dreams didn’t blend hauntingly and seamlessly into reality. Back when nights were about falling into subconscious rather than fighting to escape it. One day, I was driving down a winding road and found myself feeling absent. I was missing turns and having to make last-minute swerves to avoid a crash. My eyes were hazy and the cars that passed by no longer seemed real. I felt like I was not in control of my own body, and so I pulled over to assess my numbness. I waited on the side of the road for twenty minutes in complete disconnect from the world around me. When I decided to continue my drive, my condition remained stagnant. It wasn’t until I returned home that the numbness melted, and the panic crept in. I cried for an hour. The first time I heard someone use the word “depersonalization”, I cried in relief. There was a name to what I had felt for almost two years, and so I dove deep into the world of online diagnoses. Depersonalization and derealization soon became part of the list of my real life diagnosed disorders, and even though I hated it, I took comfort in the label. For the first time, I thought to myself, hey, maybe you’re not actually going insane because at least you’re not the only one. Dissociative disorders are not widely talked about. Explaining depersonalization and derealization to someone who has never experienced it is near to impossible. According to the National Alliance on Mental Illness, 75% of people experience moments of depersonalization and derealization at some point in their life, but only 2% meet the full criteria of the disorder. 33
The total disconnect from the self and the world around you makes you feel both overwhelmed and isolated. For me, the pairing of these disorders with my existing generalized anxiety, OCD, depression, and panic disorder cause my body and mind to be at constant war with one another. I either feel everything or nothing. There is no in between. It became my new normal my freshman year of high school, and today it still impedes my life as a sophomore in college. Often it is hard to think of it as something more than a reminder of the trauma that has triggered it, the numbing blankness that affects work and school, and the anxiety that drives my everyday mind. Countless nights have been spent frozen in panic as I try to make myself feel human again. Too many drives have been paused on the side of the road in efforts to shake my mental haze. Some days are better than others, of course. I have since learned to cope with my dissociation, with my emptiness. Therapy helps to validate my existence, while medication regulates my anxious thoughts. I have grown used to functioning in a cloud of fog, and although this may seem sad, it truly does make it easier to deal with as time goes on. However, there are still days where it hits a bit too strong, and I feel like I can no longer breathe. Grounding techniques can only do so much. Focusing on the songs of birds and taking deep breaths does little to quell my panic. Sometimes, the only way I can bring myself to a mangeable level is to squeeze an ice cube in the palm of my hand and focus on the burning cold and the way it melts slowly through my fingers. However, once in a while, I do experience the privilege of actually feeling here. And I don’t take it for granted anymore.
Stranded Man by Federico Leon
34
You Should Meditate by Brandi Hewitt
You should find a comfortable position. Settle into the world around you. Note the sounds you hear, and allow them to come and go. Recognize your body’s relation to the rest of your environment. Feel the weight of gravity pulling you towards the earth like a mother embracing her child. Breathe deeply a few times before letting your breathing return to its natural rhythm. You should close your eyes. Abandon the world around you and move inward. Leave the stressors in your life behind. Empty your mind, and focus solely on your body. It’s a beautiful thing, your body. There is beauty in the way your chest moves when you breathe and the way your spine holds you up. Thank your body for everything it does for you. Let your thoughts come and go without giving them time to settle. Allow yourself to just feel for a moment. Appreciate this quiet moment of mindfulness and self-love. And after you’ve made your peace with this wonderful life and body you’ve been given, you should slowly open your eyes and return to the world around you, beginning anew.
35
Etymology
by Allyson Roche EMPTINESS: Vacancy as the imminent emptiness of an estate sale: treading over cluttered carpets covered with boxes of treasured junk, spilling out the sides like mysterious goo. A life in objects is slowly disappearing and dispersing into the lives of others, until these symbols of the person’s life are null: until all the house’s things are sold until the furniture is moved out, until the entire house resets -- the spirit of it, imbued by its previous owner, moves on. The sellable space, desolate and empty, waiting to be filled and lived in. But at the estate sale, I get a taste of vacancy, a hint that it’s coming. I don’t have to deal with that loss, but I sense the fear that guts the owner’s loved ones as the house itself is gutted. LONELINESS: Vacancy arises when there is nobody, by choice or not. It is like the enduring, persistent loneliness of the human condition. It is like the isolation of writing, like a room of my own for the sole-warrior in the challenge of tackling the unconscious with words, the impossible task of translating. VOID: Vacancy as a void to interaction, an excuse. I sit in a coffee shop, working or failing to work, writing or thinking about writing, and the seat next to me is vacant. I don’t feel the vacancy until it is filled, and I am bothered when it is filled; someone pulls the chair so it no longer hugs the table, takes their coat off, unzips their backpack, lightly peeking at my laptop or notebook because where else will their eyes go? I’m plucked out of my own interiority and thrust into theirs: what are they working on? Why are they here? Why are they looking at my work? Why aren’t they looking at my work? Can’t they stop being curious? Aren’t they curious? Why is it so hard to feel invisible in public on my own terms? Why, in turn, when I want to feel seen, does the space feel like a claustrophobic concert hall, every fan noticing and wanting to be noticed? POSSIBILITY: An empty black box theatre rests like a blank page until it is filled with an audience and cast members; until it’s charmed by narratives of lives and deaths and bliss and birth and gossip and cheating and friendship and marriage. It sits empty until it is repleted by glimpses into competition and money and longing and hating and loving and killing and success and failure; by stories about drinking and gambling and lying and wishing and jealousy and glamour and insecurity and waiting, and by vignettes about doubt and discovery and debt and divide and betrayal and opportunity and change and adapting to it. It is always about adapting to it. A vacant space has room for anything.
36
37
Gauge Magazine is produced twice a year by undergraduates at Emerson College. Copyright of all materials may be reproduced without permission. G37 was set in
Acier Bat, Adobe Caslon Pro, Avenir Next, Bebas Neue, Bodoni 175, Cheap Pine, Falkin Serif, Motel Vacancy, PT SANS, PT Serif, Seravek,Uni Sans, VOid 2058, void, Void Pixel-7 Special thanks to Gauge Advisor Gerald Walker. Want to know better and be hypnotized together? Follow us on Twitter @MagazineGaugee, Instagram at Gauge_Magazine, or visit issuu.com/knowgaugebetter.
38