G A M T I ) g L(e 011
INTER 2 W : 1 E U S S I 1, E VOLUM
MOUNT ST. MARY’S BEST/ONLY ART & CULTURE MAGAZINE PRESENTS...
Contents: PAGE 2: INTRODUCTION PAGES 3-4: POETRY PAGE 5-6: NONFICTION PAGE 7-8: FICTION PAGE 9: VISUAL ART PAGE 10-11: MSM FACULTY
Lo and Behold! We present to you Mount St. Mary's first-ever literary Magazine, L(EG)IT MAG. These pages hold the genius works of warriors who marched through mind and heart in order to spill their souls on these simple sheets of paper. DON’T take us lightly: we can raise the dead, stop time, and BE whoever we want to be. We are the ones who create, journey, and explore. We are writers.
Kelsie Kent (Editor-in-Chief 2011-12)
Diversity can be compared to the many pieces of the human soul. Each piece, seemingly tiny and insignificant, plays an important role in discovering the limitless depths of our humanity. Some pieces are big, some are small. Yet, arranged together, they form a glorious mosaic of talents, dreams, characteristics, and differences. The richness of being human stems from the concept of this liberal yet purposeful shuffling of our many pieces to create a living patchwork blanket, because each weave of fabric adds to our overall refinement yet allows us to grow. Diversity mixes you; it defines you. It is also the various windows to the mysterious human soul and acts as a reflective mirror to show each one of us the sheer brilliance of each individual soul. Each person has the potential to teach us something new about ourselves. Diversity: it brings us together. It brings us closer in human solidarity. It defines our humanity.
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Anne Yoon (Assistant Editor-in-Chief 2011-12)
Suburban Eyed Anonymous
“Poetry
Wandering eyes, peering in. Looking but not seeing. Touching but not feeling. Knowing but not loving. Up at seven, to bed at nine. Coffee in the morning, wine at night. Not remembering what it is to dream, play, or fight. A placid quiet in the fluorescent light.
is life Distilled.” (Gwendolyn BRooks) PHOTOGRAPH BY LI HUIQIN “Clenching fists of pale flesh” Sylvia Proctor Clenching fists of pale flesh, First wrinkled, then pulled taut Ripping Stripping My bones So pure, smooth, milky white Uncorrupted by repulsive, hanging layers Upon layers Hide the remains Hide the shame Oh, rest in peace my beloved body No, rest in hell where you belong “My body is not my body” My bones My beautiful, rich, ivory carved bones So simple So divine They shall be adorned by strings of pearls You may not touch Because it is not real. I am not real.
“We are all human” Rachel Ngo We are all human Our goal on Earth is to love In a unique way
KELSIE KENT’S “ELEPHANT SHADOW”
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Why? by Daisy Shin The fire asked the water, “Why are you not hot like me?” Then the water asked the fire, “Why are you not cool like me?”
“Variety is the spice of life.” (Proverb)
The cheetah asked the dog, “Why can you not run fast as I do?” Then the dog asked the cheetah, “Why can you not smell as well as I do?” The boy asked the girl, “Why do you not have as deep a voice as I do?” Then the girl asked the boy, “Why do you not have as long hair as I do?” The light asked the dark, “Why are you not bright as I am?” Then the dark asked the light, “Why are you not dark as I am?”
Grayson Baker-Fixico reminds us that sometimes difference is deceptive in The Wheel with No Purpose
DEAR WHEEL, We are so different it feels like I‟m writing you from the moon. But I guarantee our similarities will show soon. Because I know how you feel… you‟ve lost your purpose. However it happened, I know you didn‟t deserve it. If you‟re like me, you like to cause trouble, and they say you aren‟t worth it. But at least you still roll; at least you have something. Although I understand that you feel you have nothing. People like to say that we are obsolete. But we both know we are nothing less than elite. We both never accept defeat. We will walk across the world till the skin leaves our feet! We will keep walking till we collapse on the street! We will crawl on all fours, till we can‟t take it any more! Then we‟ll drag our limp, lifeless bodies across the floor. I guess we are similar; we are nothing short of great...
We could fall down seven times,
The sponge asked the wood, “Why are you not soft as I am?” Then the wood asked the sponge, “Why are you not hard as I am?” I am not wrong. You are not wrong. And we are not wrong. We are just
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but we would stand up eight. BUDDY RYU’S “MUSIC WAVE”
SAM MAGUIRE’S “STAY AROUND”
Nonfiction: Rants, Essays, & Curiosities. Should we always celebrate diversity? Bailee Bronson gets political in Bill Gates vs. Chris Gardner You are in an office. The walls are the color of a stale cannoli shell, the scanner is buzzing loudly, a disturbed fellow with a coffee-stained shirt walks by, and the smell of white-out starts to give you a headache. The boss man waltzes in, all looking like a car salesmen and such, hands out today‟s itinerary, and gives a gutsy wink to the blonde secretary. Every person in this office has a story, comes from somewhere different, and has many embarrassing stories that they wouldn‟t care to share. If these ordinary people seem to be so similar, what makes them drastically different? In today‟s ever so blunt and unforgiving society, there are two categories for one to fall under: the poor or the rich.You may picture the rich driving luxurious foreign cars, divorcing scandalously at least twice, drinking very large coffee drinks, and carrying handbags that would be the equivalent of some people‟s rent. We tend to put the wealthy on a sort of imaginary pedestal, making middle-class citizens feel a sense of uneasiness and not belonging while in their presence. The poor are perceived as a people who might be seen going on coffee runs for their superiors, holding up the line at the grocery store while digging for coupons, or dining on a bountiful harvest of off-brand macaroni and cheese along with Diet Cola. Why is there such a bold view of both classes in today‟s society, or even since the dawn of time? Why is it that one person is allowed more luxury than the other? Aren‟t we all equal children of God? Is this how God intended for His world to be? How will our ever-bold views of His creations impact the future generations? Here’s something different for you…
RYAN MCGOFFIN
lit mag member E.J. Hall doesn’t really like to write. Luckily, he knows you can pack a lot of meaning into just a few words, so he challenged himself to write a series of aphorisms using only six words. Selfish words: me, myself, and I. Laugh then, laugh now, regret later. Live like you, not like them. Many fails down; success to come. You can only have so much. Dream big dreams: you'll get there. No one person is ever perfect. Two plus two sometimes equals four. Money doesn‟t bring happiness, but opportunities
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Are you quirky? Unusual?
Different?
Awesome. So is this colorful piece by Christian Monk. (with special thanks to sensationalcolor.com and Dr. Richard Podhajny) Why Purple is Better Than Your Mom
I‟m guessing you think your mom is pretty darn awesome. She cooks, she cleans, she might even work every now and then. There is no doubt that moms are the top dogs; they are almost universally loved. But for every dog at the top there is always an underdog. And this is one underdog that is a force to be reckoned with. Enter purple. The color purple relates to the imagination and spirituality. It stimulates the imagination and inspires high ideals. It is an introspective color, allowing us to get in touch with our deepest thoughts. Purple contains the energy and strength of red, with the spiritual passion and integrity of blue. This is the union of body and soul, creating a balance between our physical and our spiritual energies. What can your mom do: bake cookies? Purple is not a primary color and is not on the light color spectrum; basically Purple is the bastard love child of Red and Blue, yet it is still specifically associated with royalty and the nobility, creating an impression of luxury, wealth, and extravagance. Purple has overcome its unconventional birth and upbringing and rose to power. It has a richness and quality to it that demands respect. Purple is ambitious and self-assured, the leader of all the other colors. It‟s the Nelson Mandela of colors! Has your mom ever fought adversity and rose to rule over others (besides you)? No? I thought so. Purple has been known throughout the world: In Tibet, amethyst is considered to be sacred to Buddha and rosaries are often fashioned from it. In Russia, only the Royals could wear purple. In Japan, the color purple signifies “wealth and position.” Purple denotes virtue and faith in Egypt and of course the valor of a Purple Heart to Americans. Has your mom been worn by Royals and regarded as a Holy artifact? No? Purple: 3. Your Mom: zip. Purple is so amazing that is has been incorporated into the new generation of American money, turning our iconic “greenbacks” into “purplebacks.” Has your mom ever been on money? And I‟m not talking about her name and telephone number on that bill she slipped across the table to the busboy at Denny‟s. Here‟s the facts: “the earliest archaeological evidence for the origins of purple dye points to the Minoan civilization in Crete, about 1900 B.C. […] The ancient land of Canaan was the center of the ancient purple dye industry, its Greek name was Phoenicia, which means „land of the purple.‟” (Yeah, Purple is so amazing they named a country after it.) Oh, and it‟s been millions of years and purple is still awesome and adored by people all over the world. Your mom is forty and people already avoid her at parties. Purple is such a inspiring sight that people have written songs about it, and these songs have become some of the most popular: “Pale Purple,” by Ani DiFranco,; “Purple,” by Slapshock, “Purple Haze,” by Jimi Hendrix; “The Purple of All Curtains,” by Tangerine Dream;“Purple People Eater,” by Sheb Wooley; “Purple Rain,” by Prince on Purple Rain; “Purple Ray Gun,” by Alexis Shepard; “Purple Stain,” by Red Hot Chili Peppers; “Purple Toupee,” by They Might Be Giants; “Violet Purple Rose” by Chris Squier & Billy Sherwood; “Voices Green and Purple,” by The Bees; “Purple Hills, by D12, and on and on and on. That is ten songs off the top of my head; now let‟s see how many songs are made for moms:
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“Stacy‟s Mom,” by Fountains of Wayne… Yep. That‟s pretty much it.
“My short stories
are like soft shadows I have set out in the world, faint footprints I have left. I remember exactly where I set down each and every one of them, and how I felt when I did. Short stories are like guideposts to my heart...” (Haruki Murakami) ARIEL CONTRERAS
We all have diverse ways and reasons to write. The following story—absurd and imaginative and delightfully different—was written collaboratively during Christian Service by Kelsie Kent, Raul Rivera, and Peggy Frazier, with the help of Ruth, a patient at the Alzheimer Clinic. Popcorn Popcorn. The greatest gift God has bestowed upon us. Every day when I get home from school, I throw down my backpack along with all my problems for the day and stick a bag in the microwave. I don‟t care how old the bag is, but it does have to be butter. I can listen to that stuff pop all day. The sound of the crunching of the bag as it gets bigger, the exploding kernels, and the wafting smell coming from the microwave… sometimes it gives me the chills. As I sit there and wait, I bite my lip. It‟s almost too much. I cannot bear it any longer. I run to the microwave and swing open the door just in time for the buttery bag to start steaming. I pick it up and down it even though it‟s scorching the back of my throat. The butter and salt of the popcorn leaves my tongue dry. I run to the kitchen sink and stick my head under the faucet. Nothing comes out. With my throat still burning and my tongue still parched, I have no other choice but to head for the bathroom. The smelly, stinking bathroom that my brother had to use all day today when he stayed home with the stomach bug. I test its faucet. Nothing. Dun dun dun. By now, my mouth feels like I‟ve been in a desert for 2.56 years. No, worse than that. It feels not only like I‟ve been living in the desert for 2.56 years, but I‟ve been eating nothing but sand and dry lizard skins. Unfortunately, this is not the case. I have done something much, much worse. I have eaten a bag of popcorn. I look in the mirror to check my mouth only to find my face turning a vivid shade of fuchsia. (Fuchsia is a nice color, but not on someone‟s face.) Looking at my
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face gives me the chills. Panicked, I run to fetch the popcorn bag out of the day old trash. I start licking the butter out of the bag before I realize that I was going to check the date it expired: Best if used by September 23, 1942. I panic. This popcorn is a little older than what I‟m used to eating. It gave me the chills just to see that date on that bag. I tentatively open the lid of the toilet. Maybe if I wash this stuff down, my face will return to its normal color. I poke my head into the bowl. I pull out my portable bendy straw and take a sip. My throat feels better already, so I continue taking long, big gulps. After several gulps, I lift my head and give a content sigh. I check the mirror to see if my face is back to normal again. I catch a glimpse of my reflection just in time to stumble back and crack my head on the bathtub. As I lay there bleeding, I say my goodbyes to the world. I honor my dad, who introduced me to popcorn at the age of one. My brother, who got sick in the very toilet I just stuck my bendy straw down. To my Aunt Ruth, whose beard I will never forget bestowing my lips upon. I cannot finish saying my goodbyes. My head is spinning and mouth feels dry. Again. I do my best to leave this world with happy thoughts in my head. I think of popcorn. As the bubbly, brownish-yellowish image stays in my head, a sense of peace comes over me. I see a giant piece of popcorn come down from the sky and lift my soul up into the heavens. The heavens are golden, just like my butter popcorn. All of a sudden, the golden popcorn angels start burning. They have been left in the microwave for too long! I try to make it stop, but I can‟t. I cannot escape this peril! What have I done to deserve this?! I have lived a good, kind life with my bendy straw and popcorn. I lift up my hand to pinch my arm to see if this is all a dream. To my horror, I have no hands. I am a popcorn kernel itself! I start to rejoice until I feel the heat rise and my world start spinning. I know this all too well. I am in a microwave. The very thought gives me the chills. I feel very bloated. I am sweating, and my world seems to be getting smaller and smaller. The heat intensifies, sending a sharp, searing pain down my middle. I feel like I „m going to split in half. The pain is agonizing. I‟m expanding, and expanding, and expanding and hurting and hurting and hurting. My skin is so hot. It‟s moist, and I can‟t help but wonder if it‟s butter or blood. Suddenly, I hear a horrible pop to my left. I look over. There is a giant, yellow bulge hovering over me. I don‟t have time to get scarred before I realize it‟s a piece of popcorn. It is too much to even get chills. The popping continues as my world continues to get even smaller. By now I am absolutely certain that I am in the popcorn underworld. And I am about to die. Again. The thought of dying a second time gives me the chills. By now, the pain is so great I cannot even see. I want it to stop, but I know it won‟t until I pop. Dun dun dun. Suddenly, after what seems like hours, it does. The lack of pain leaves a strange feeling. It‟s almost a good feeling, but my elaborate knowledge of popcorn tells me it‟s not good at all. I feel like I‟m breaking in two and doubling-tripling-quadrupling in size. I see puffy things (not much unlike unicorns and ponies and rainbows…) and…
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POP.
AMERICA: LAND OF DIFFERENCES (PHOTOGRAPHY BY ANDREW STIEHLER)
JESUS CARREON’S “LIFE IS NOT A GAME”
MIKE MENG’S “BLOSSOM”
KAYLA GREEN’S “FREE FALLING”
MAGGIE MULLOOLY’S “ENTER”
Visual art
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FACULTY EXCLUSIVE. Hailed as a masterpiece of English literature by the denizens of lit mag, here’s an essay by Mr.Tom Carter about a difference of opinion. You know this is going to be good. My Two Cents
THIS SHOULD BE A RANT, but I had no desire to disturb the effete among you. Some would say that my ranting is commonplace. No, those complainers just lacked grandparents who believed that children should be seen and not heard. And the rest just chafe at my seemingly contradictory definition of conversation: I talk, you listen. Over four centuries ago a playwright penned this famous line: “a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” This quote is generally attributed to William Shakespeare in Romeo and Juliet. The last few generations have made it de rigueur to question the authorship attributed to the Bard. A new movie, Anonymous, is trying to say that William Shakespeare did not write any of the plays and sonnets. So, does that mean they really do not exist? Are they a figment of my imagination? Have I lost touch with reality? (These are rhetorical questions so tread lightly answering them in my presence.) I am left to think that there was no human author. I am loath to think that the good Lord mouthed all the profanity that is in “Shakespeare‟s” plays. That might draw the conclusion that Lucifer and his minions had something to do with this confusion. But it would be sad to think that the lord of darkness is more profound than the Lord of all. That leaves us only one conclusion along this line of reasoning: there really is a planet of the apes, and not only have they visited, they left us their highest craft. Oh, you say that you are actually talking about a real person who anonymously wrote for Shakespeare? That this person should receive the credit instead of William? Then you have actually read the real line from Romeo and Juliet, which suggests that whoever wrote Romeo and Juliet is an author worthy to be known as the greatest writer in history. “Shakespeare written by any other name is still Shakespeare” is my new catchphrase. I am applying for a copyright right now. And you can quote me on it! Now and for the next four hundred years!
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And now, a poem on subtraction from Mr. Jeremy Grondin. Diversity, “difference,” subtraction… get it? Subtraction To understand the art, You first must start Thinking of numbers as sets, Or groups of elements. We‟ll begin with the sum; Then you will come To understand how to subtract And no skill will you lack. Let there exist group A and group B, And you add them to get C. The sum is now everything shared, Leaving no elements spared. The difference will be group D, So look at what‟s in A but not in B. Take all of these, If you please. It‟s this action We call subtraction. Ms. Amy Kalmar explores a different kind of poetry… the “prose poem.” Written without line breaks, this form relies on vivid diction, subtle prose rhythms, and sound relationships to create a poetic feel. Formless I‟ve come to understand the insanity of stanzas; there‟s no such thing as a clean break, blank space, or fresh line. Sometimes at night I wake, wild and blind, but even with light, no eyes could pierce the claustrophobic groaning of souls in my head: dead men muttering where are they now—and where will they be pouring forth from future mouths impassioned and impatient with the ponderous marching on of Time. Through that throng my thousand voices weave, seeking desperate order, basic comprehensibility, cautious like an unremunerated riot squad—herding the howling crowd into ranks reflecting epochs, ages, languages. It‟s sheer impossibility—here identity is fluid, men tear and trade faces freely, in shady corners couple furtively, and everywhere I‟m powerless to stop the steady dissolution of each into his component parts. At last all that‟s left for me is the glittering infinity of a polychrome humanity—magnificent like cracked stained glass, fractured and still fracturing—red, black, and blue, brilliant like blood, night, and summer skies—and the cry is always growing as men crawl to join their fellows from the deeply fertile pits of the split and spewing well of Time— An insistence on form in the face of it all is like standing alone on a clear night, pointing an imperious finger light-ward, trying to order, star-by-falling-star, the tangled, blazing glory of the infinities of space.
JESUS CARREON’S “RING AROUND THE ROSES” “Walking with soft sand under my feet” Mr. James Fraser Walking with soft sand under my feet I think, think of just one One spark, one glow, one smile Lost in confusion. Is this the one, The one for me, the one GOD made for me? Then I ask myself, does she think like me? Do I put a spark in her life? Can she see what she has? Am I walking alone? As I cry tears of happiness I thank GOD for that smile, That flame, burning for her in me. As I hold her hand I thank GOD; Thank you, GOD, for my best friend, One who smiles, One that holds my hand in return. But is she there as I am With her heart and soul In every touch, every word, Every tear, every day? Do I walk in her life as she walks in mine? Or am I as the sand under my feet Left with imprints Imprints in my Heart.
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2011-12 Editorial Board EDITOR-IN-CHIEF: KELSIE KENT ASSISTANT EDITOR-IN-CHIEF: ANNE YOON MCKENNA WALKERHIREY (SHORT STORIES) MIRYAM COLEMAN (POETRY) ANDREW YOON (HUMOR) NADIYA BRADLEY (HISTORY & POLITICS) CHRISTIAN MONK (RANTS) CONNOR HARTZELL (SPORTS) ARIEL CONTRERAS (VISUAL ARTS) RACHEL STROUHAL (PRODUCTION) DOMINIC REYNA (WEB) RACHEL NGO (TREASURER) MS. AMY KALMAR (FACULTY SPONSOR) SPECIAL THANKS TO MR. BRUCE PIERCE FOR MAKING THIS PUBLICATION OF L(EG)IT MAG POSSIBLE!
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COVER ART: MILEY DURBIN