Spring of 2011
Poetry & Short Stories
Jessica Andrade, “Abby Normal” Jermane Cooper, “Stain”
5 12
Karla Cordero, “My Name is Culture”
8
Nicole G. Corrigan, “I”
5
Joyce Jacobo, “Drawing a Portrait”
5
Jenna Jauregui, “Suspension”
2
James Jones, “How to Build a Workbench”
2
David Lütke, “jalousie”
6
Troy Manning, “You Can’t Keep a Good Word Down”
1
Alex Enrique Montoya, “Mating Games”
6
Amy Salisbury, “Middleman” & “The Blue Paper Poem” Jeff Schoneman, “that gap, in three” Jane Sim, “You Gonna Believe”
12,7 2 10
Evan Smith, “Certainty”
7
Jacob Thum, “Debt without Color”
8
Brandon Youngdale, “A Parable of Culture and Identity”
9
Artwork & Photography
Tiffany Balucanag
Philip Mykel Flores
5 3,7
Morgan Hall
8,11
Jenna Jauregui
2,3
Gladys Jimenez
8
Adam Olalde
3
Lexi Pollard
11
Nancy Rossignol Amy Salisbury
6 11,12
Metonymy Smith felt a certain obligation to follow in his parents’ footsteps as a writer. His sister, Synecdoche, sensed no such onus whatsoever. She, in fact, felt wholeheartedly that it was her duty to put an end to the Smith family’s enduring legacy of verbal oppression. Synecdoche’s initial act of subterfuge was enrolling in cosmetology school. Within a week, however, she was taken aside by her instructor and reprimanded for her persistent silence. “A silent hairdresser will never do,” said her teacher. Dropping out of the school, Synecdoche considered going to a four-year college. But what majors required minimal contact with words? She considered becoming a music major with an emphasis in classical music, but figured that would entail some involvement with opera. She began a class in auto shop but quickly realized that, in this career, she would not only be sullied by coworkers’ colorful slang, but with coaxial cable grease to boot. With their parents out of town for the weekend, Metonymy, with much hesitation, approached his sister to enlist her help with editing his story for his high-school English class. To his surprise, she reluctantly assented to the task. He watched, in silent self-castigation, as a sickly pallor swept across Synecdoche’s face as she read. With a red felt-pen she began to make marks. Slowly, her pigmentation assumed more color. With each notation she made, it seemed, a distinct redness accrued to both page and face. Metonymy began wondering if his story was angering Synecdoche. As he continued to observe her, however, he detected a certain glee in her deliberation. Reaching the tale’s end, she looked up at him in an eerie crimson triumph. He looked at the paper she handed him, marveling that that much ink could be wrung from a vessel so small as a pen. Knowing her preoccupation of late with finding a suitable trade, he asked, “Have you considered becoming a butcher?” While the obliteration of words indeed seemed a reasonable direction to pursue for one with Synecdoche’s convictions, she understood that becoming an editor required substituting one word for still another as much as it did simply eliminating them. Though much damage could indeed be done in this field, she decided far more could be inflicted if she were to become a linguist. The bombardment with words Synecdoche experienced in the following years of university study was truly excruciating, but her determination proved adequate to the demands. She continued into graduate school and was assigned for her mentor a professor of linguistic analysis with deconstructionist commitments. He denied any objective correspondence between words and the things to which they refer. “Language,” he said, “is a closed system that ultimately refers only to itself. It is the prison in which we live.” Synecdoche could barely suppress her excitement at finding, in this cobelligerent soul, one who could affix a name to the oppression she had long felt— or at least a name on which they could agree to agree. Synecdoche’s parents, given her generally quiet disposition, were oblivious to any concerns with her chosen field of study. They were even delighted about it until she returned home for a visit between semesters. The explanation Synecdoche gave her mother when asked about the word “ear” tattooed on her nose failed to satisfy. Synecdoche told her that meaning was merely subjective and that the relationship between words and the things they signify wholly arbitrary. When, at the dinner table two days later, her father noticed the word “nostril” on her right eyelid, she was informed her visit was over. “Well, I have something to say and I am not going to be just another pretty face,” she replied. In the months following, Synecdoche continued to acquire tattoos of body-part words in unconventional locations. By the time of her graduation, no prominent feature survived unlabeled. Many university faculty members thought her a role model of progressive thinking, and she easily garnered the honor of valedictorian. She considered having her speech written on her body and reading it as it was projected on a screen, but saw there was no longer room enough on her skin to contain it. As Synecdoche scratched her nose while pondering a novel approach for her speech, she was startled at the feeling of an unusual growth. Tattoos were great but giving her graduation address with a colossal zit was clearly another matter. She felt her skin on her face tightening and went to the bathroom mirror to assess the damage. Synecdoche shrieked at the sight of the flesh of her nose as it discernibly mutated into an ear. Her once fair reflection was coming to resemble a portrait by Picasso. Tears streamed freely from her left eye while mucus oozed slowly from her right.
The sun dangled somewhere between Winter and spring White rays brightened hazy clouds Blurring the yawning sky My head in your blue-jeaned lap I squinted beneath the shining glare You kissed my sun-starved nose as We lay in the tall unmowed grass Cool, thick and green after heavy rain Savoring silence, we cast Billowing parachutes to capture Birdsong and hushed, dancing branches
[one] i have a dog. no, not that dog.
Wild turkeys tiptoed through dry, dead leaves Scraping shadows beneath weighted wings We sprang to our feet, raced across the yard Bare toes pressing soft dark soil and feathery blades Whooping loudly with arms spread, we chased the fowl Back to the other side of the gap-toothed fence That was the day purple weed blossoms Stuck in my untamed mane as we Frolicked like two frisky Foals set free from cold damp stables Tails snapping against the waning Afternoon breeze carrying Warm dandelion wishes
[two] i know what you want. you want to hear the sound of wind blowing through pine trees. and you know what you get? you get to hear ‘the sound of wind blowing through pine trees.’
[three] smell roast chicken-see my grandmother in her wooden kitchen-listen to her say ‘jeffrey’-feel her hug me-understand my heart, that moment-no, you have it all wrong.
Wrack your body: bales of hay, tossed one-hand, one arm— one farmboy overalled in a photograph. Nothing for smiling on a grass stack, pitchfork grim, grinning; less color and less looney tune, the sinew winds back again. And, again, the dim radio dial pulses and backpressures: a wide view through and out, containing, but gaping too narrow to sail. A steer kicked a woman, and the cement patriarch punched. One fist,
2
one floored.
Jenna Jauregui
I think I like my new decorations. I have all of my favorite things. Playing pool, the beach, surfboards, boats, sun, horses, and Indian stuff. Pipes, and handmade wood things. Music boxes, flutes, wood hanging beads. All handmade. hawk feather peyote stitch striped curtains comfortable office seats. I like old barns, cemeteries and kind of hokey, gift shop, Indian plates. Only if they are special, like a gift from a neighbor when I was really sick -- so it means a lot.
Jenna Jauregui
Like the handmade pipe by Larry with coyote tail wood with antler bowl never will stand up right on the stand my brother made. and the TV antenna always tilting never working. calendar and office lamp laptop wireless speakers speaker phone Victorian lampshade trees and people sitting in trees and cemeteries and statuaries in cemetery with grey clouds encumbering by pine trees. Wrought iron fences with vistas beyond of a little town in the mountains with a storm coming on, and redwoods with little people, in comparison. Shadows in Trees
Lexi Pollard
and tree houses with little bobble heads and bees exercise rubber bands with bursts of sun in the middle and green foliage beyond with fans to cool ya. Handmade plates all carved in Celtic design hats and bags and bean bag chairs blankets and pillows and paintings I’ve made. and fans to cool you. Divided by the big smokestack in the middle The Wall Furnace The Dividing Line between My college diplomas and my hippie life and paintings I’ve made, places I’ve been friends I’ve had, and pets. And my grandparents I barely knew. And the box with Summersmoon
Philip Mykel Flores
3
I am a drawing. I can peer out at you through the ink letters. Can you see me? Can you see the young girl with skin fair as buttermilk, wrapped in a comforter decorated by sakura blooms? This morning I heard Fuji-san tremble,
and I live in Los Angeles.
No. I do not come from Japanese roots. But I know tragedy—the heart-rending images flashing across a television screen, or just down the street. These are the moments I send gazes heaven-bound to make sure light still shines down upon us. War. Earthquakes. Paranoia. Sadness. If these things could bury us in darkness, the sun, moon, and stars would disappear into the void. We should then see nothing but what lies at our feet. Yet all these sources continue to illuminate our world as always, revealing what we have never lost even when the earth moved— People. There are still people who feel for us Who reach out for us Who remind us we exist And as long as we exist There is no disaster able to truly shatter our spirits These are the words written along my arms, creeping towards my face. I draw so you can see me. I draw to send comfort When I am at a loss For words To heal the wounds Time and love must seal. Can you see me?
4
Recognize her by voice not by color Don’t judge because she is brown Nor assume things because she is female. No! She did not get pregnant at 16, instead She gave up that life to study in college Now she sits among the intelligence. Yes! She has brown hair but Don’t assume she is uneducated, instead Her power with words will change the world. She fights with language that inspires. Yes! she has brown eyes No! It does not mean she bows to a man, instead Her guidance restrains other women from domestic violence Yes! She is Latina but She is not a master of domestic duties, instead She is an expert of her life as a woman, A fighter, and Latina. So recognize her by voice, not by color.
I paved the lattice: rails and tracks. I have plowed and plucked the fields. I have witnessed treaty settle in the eyes of Guadalupe Hidalgo. I have laid my head, in a bungalow prison of “Gum San” hills. Found myself, unarmed in war, in the Pine Ridge of Lakota. I sailed the sea, for months, shackled feet for shoes. Still, I am the zephyr. I am metonymy: custom and convention, phonology, inflection, dialects, dictions, oratories and whispers of traditions. I am a constant: American.
Tiffany Balucanag
my name, abby normal, ghost white skin, is bleached white from the sun, my clear blue eyes blotted with, white specks of dust, my freckles, perfect imperfections. -oranges and lemons, square or, rather oblong with dimples in between, or warts with extra baggage. -spoons, forks, and knives, bent, chipped, or dipped in wax bodies contoured just slightly enough to see; their ingenuity. -pennies, nickels, and dimes, crushed by railroad; bruised or damaged, with fingerprints, rainbows of color; a hint of personal use. -gummy bears, bottle tops, candy wrappers, some chewed, glued, bitten, mouse slobbered, nut covered in this rusty tin can lid. perfect imperfections, my freckles with white specks of dust, clear blue eyes blotted bleach white from the sun, my ghost white skin is my name…
5
The indistinguishable buzzing hum of superficial voices That pulsates like the beating heart of beehive Over bleary eyed backslaps and cackles. The air is thick with the smoke of cigarettes reduced to ash, Nostrils sting with the pungent acidic smell of amber alcohol. Glasses poised on lips, condensating between fingers. Past, present and future boiled down into anecdotal stories Tearing through the tongues of strangers seeking comfort in strange ears. The ageless faces congregate like shipwrecked survivors, Victims of chance or fate. Like schools of small fish or the massive roaming mammals of the sea These Homo sapiens return to their familiar nesting grounds In search of new mates. Love, an abstraction sold as a scarce commodity, Is mined in the action of want and desire, A fire in constant need of fuel. Can we ever find solace in the conscience of others when all things die alone? Can we ever shed the rotting fabric of the old world’s ways? No, there are only animals and their mating games.
this sunday is heavy dust and sunlight rest on the blinds and a girl yawns in the street more thinking will be done some days we never leave the bed young bloods young cardinals new england sounds good to me at the age of twelve i turned pro at breathing and we’re jumping sets of stairs days like this don’t come back they stay in photographs and suburban sidewalk chalk drawings and the orange scent on our hands ugly couches are perfect for sleeping on we share pillows and wake up with floral prints on our faces
6 Nancy Rossignol
Everything is beautiful. Everything is right. The eye Is back. The ceiling Sky Of black Has cracked And sunk to sew The floor below. I know That blue, A basic hue, Is meant To represent Subdue Or low Sensation, Not elation, Splendor, Adoration, Bliss, Or what is missed In missing you. As my defender, What I’d seen Before was more Than lore Or Benzedrine. Between The tattered sheen And liquor store And saintly, Modest tales of yore, It seemed that Sky Was nevermore.
Philip Mykel Flores
There are a million questions out there! I am just sad I won’t be around long enough to ask all of them. But I am glad I have lived long enough to answer a few of them. Only nine-hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine-hundred ninety-seven left! I love you, Goodnight, See you tomorrow, Dear.
7
The world is my sanctuary I am the architect Profile infinite Appearance undefined Divergent in structure Inconsistent in form Intensity in pigmentation Epidermis in every hue Florid of Silhouettes Glorify a higher power Innumerable deities Rituals of Adoration Bountiful Dialects Vernacular Gibberish Aesthetic Discourse Fusion of Masquerades Instrumental Brawling Choreography in Hymn Exotic in Nourishment Miscellaneous in Cuisine Conglomerate of Entrees Mastery of Picasso Dexterity in Creation Illustrations of Artistry Idiosyncratic Uniqueness Extraordinary The world is my playground I am the fabricator My name is Culture
We are blamed for what we did not do Shamed for hurt we’ve not caused you Our regret has arrived long overdue For already ago out the flame we blew A flash of light marked our debut As the bullets crash into the Sioux With brash hearts of see through Turning all to ash without review Of this day we cannot eschew Only defray for what we did not do Hands weighed with the blood of glue Sprayed on white skin as a the clue.
Gladys Jimenez
8 Morgan Hall
Culture and Identity sit down. Culture puts his backpack, full of magazines, welltaken notes, organic energy bars, and standardized practice test books next to his seat. She pulls out a new Smart Water bottle out and takes a swig. He sits straight and confident, things are how they should be. Identity follows behind the chair, placing her bag, full of books, philosophy books and novels (who am I? And am I alone?), at the leg of the chair. He reaches for the plastic Kirkland water container that’s next to the squished peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Tipping the container upside down she finishes the last few drops left. He hunches a little in her chair, not from insecurity, but because he can’t see Culture’s eyes from underneath the lamp hanging from somewhere up there. She still can’t see them, the lights block his vision, so he sits back. Culture orders a Chai Latte, with fat free milk of course. Identity gets confused by the menu. Can I just get a coffee? Uh ok, do you want cream or anything? No, thank you. They begin to talk. About things, stuff, anything really. Culture has a lot to say; a lot to say. Well, this happened then. And that means this. This person said this. A new study showed this. Identity tries to participate, tries to understand. But why did that happen? What does that mean for you, for me? How is that important? What difference does that make? Culture answers the questions. Cool and fast. Answers that include more info. This is what’s important now. This is what people are doing. This is what is important… for now. Culture waves her arms. He’s excited, passionate, she’s got something to say! Identity looks at him, wondering how to be like her. I can’t, I just don’t fit. I’m not that smart, good, strong, whatever. Wait! Something Culture said reminded me of something I read! Ah ha! I do have something to say! Something does make sense. Something does matter. He reaches in her bag. Pass the sandwich. Oops, the Cheez-It®s are smashed. Oh well, found it! Some book with a weird drawing on it. Is that person naked? Identity tries to preface, tries to connect the book to their life. He says the writer’s name: Kah-lel Gi-bron. Culture ask where he’s from. What did he do? What race? What ethnicity? Is he a woman? Sexual orientation? I don’t know. But listen to this, she turns to the page with the folded edge. He read… so, what do you think? Pretty good, right? I feel like it’s important, meaningful—I like it. It made sense to me. It made me sense. Feel. Culture sits back. It doesn’t fit. Her conversation. His thoughts. Her world. Culture asks why it matters. What are you going to do with it? I’ll hold it. Hold it where? Identity shares. Culture says I’m sorry, that’s tough, good luck with that. Identity says thanks, refolds the edge, closes the book, and smashes the Cheez-It®s. They finish their drinks, and get up to leave. Culture puts on his Hollister sweater, fitted, slim. Identity puts on her old sweater from the Eighth Grade volleyball team, worn, comfortable. Culture leaves, confident the world will go on. Identity leaves, confident the world will go on, and he’ll be left behind. Our conversations made more sense when Purpose and Meaning hung around, but, come to think of it, I don’t know if they ever hung around.
9
Through the experience of human COUNT THE WAYS, symbols are eternally giving birth to new understandings of the essence of the x quotient, the new math, as it emerges, ever elusive, out of the unknown mist of creation. She was the parks department commissioner. Caught us paintin’ on her playground walls. Doomed us cartoons forever. This may be because of the particular and unique set of gifts the parks department commissioner has given especially to you to fulfill your own unique dot dot da dot da. We can all go back to runnin’ our business, AHEM. To runnin’ our business. First, the capacity to have and to respond to realities that exist in a non-material way such as dreams, visions, leveling the leech, spiritual teachings, goals, and killing our oppressor. [indistinct chatter] Come to mama, you hot little digits! Values are the way people pattern and use their energy. OH, MMM! MMM Innumerable blessings, countless felicitations. Thank you beyond number and additional good stuff! The four grandfathers, the four winds, the four cardinal directions, and many other relationships that can be expressed in sets of four: let me lay my 20s on ya! Second, the capacity to if I dared to take a chance would someone lead me. Come on you metal metatarsals of unknown or unrealized potential to do or be something more or different than the genius who created me. Shoo! Get on down the road requires a merging of the person’s total being with the activity at hand. Ironically, a position I had assumed all too often. Nobody home in soulville is the special gift of our little mouse sister. Others have used a she-bear or the wolverine to symbolize the same thing. Now watch me dance. Mama used to always say to me, Fleet, from the West we can look over to the East, to the place of Evermean, wicked witch from the East, and there we can see ourselves standing naked to the universe, vulnerable and small before the stars. Mighty Zeus! He’s checkin’ us out. Mama had high ideals. You know what I mean? Just like a mirror can be used to see things not normally visible (e.g. behind us or around a corner), I been a two-bit, carnie hustler all my life. And I want a heart. The love learned in the South is the love of one person for a you gonna believe?
10
Amy Salisbury
Morgan Hall
Morgan Hall
Adam Olalde
11
Amy Salisbury
Like days you can’t put numbers to, Or sounds you’ve wrung your eardrums through, Like faces few you thought you knew, Or stately titles in the queue; The unexciting sleep today, When touch and taste are torn away, When life and death are blank and weigh A heavy sigh. Exhale. Decay.
12
I look at you, and in your eyes I see me. What I’ve always seen. You see a Stain. Of darkness over me. The Stain you perceive In its deceptively deceiving nature Overwhelms you-fooling not your eye, But unveiling instead The hatred in your heart. I can’t see your heart And I don’t need to. Your eyes betray That you are Stained. It shows only when you see mine; Unconsciously, the memories stir abandoned to the laws of those who came before or perhaps laws more personally defined. But definition is not necessary. My Stains are permanent, beyond mere Erasing-Yet time and deeds Can cure others. Lend me your time, Enough to prove My Stain is no brand. Allow my deeds to reveal Your Stain is unfounded.
About The PALM The Pride Annual Literary Magazine is a student journal of fine arts first conceived over a decade ago. The magazine, produced entirely by members of The Pride student newspaper of Cal State San Marcos, features poetry, short stories, photography, and artwork submitted by both undergraduate and graduate students of CSUSM. Throughout its history, The PALM has sought to celebrate the diversity of the CSUSM campus community, and this edition seeks to explore the intricacies of identity and culture in relation to that diversity.
Contributing Editors Ashley Day Chris Giancamilli Jenna Jauregui Lexi Pollard Editor / Copy Chief
Amy Salisbury
Editor / Publicity
Sandra Chalmers
Layout Design
Morgan Hall
Acknowledgements The staff of The PALM would like to thank Advanced Web Offset, Inc. for the printing of this magazine, Professor Joan Anderson of the Literature and Writing department for serving as Advisor of both The Pride and The PALM, James Jones, the president of the Creative Writing Community and Workshop, for contributing to the conception of this magazine, the Student Media Advisory Council, and the College of Arts and Sciences for educating the students whose knowledge contributed to the production of The PALM. The Pride Š 2011
The Pride Š 2011