Platform Volume XIV Fall '23

VOLUME XIV

VOLUME XIV

TC able

of ontents

WANING WITH THE MOON

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A CRACK IN THE BATHROOM TILE

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BIRTH OF VENUS

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THE BACK OF YOUR HANDS

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LET’S GO TO THE MALL

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BLUE JEAN ANDROGYNY

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LET THEM EAT CAKE

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SET AND SETTING

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YEAR OF THE CAT

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HEAT WAVE

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SPEED DRIVE

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EAT YOUR VEGGIES AND WEAR THEM TOO

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PUNK SELLS

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VERTIGO

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MODERN AMERICAN GOTHIC

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KISS ME AROUND MY TATTOOS

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MOTHERS & BLOGGERS

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WANING with the

MOON

by Isabella Broccolo

T

here are few instances where I revel in my own livelihood more than when I wake up excited about my day. I’m sure this is a universal experience. There is truly nothing like waking up excited for plans you’ve made.

Maybe strawberry picking or picnicking with friends.

Maybe going for a walk or for a swim at the beach. Maybe going to a music festival or a farmers market. The excitement lifts you from slumber and pulls you from the bed, only for you to look outside, and see that the sky you thought would be bright and blue is clouded. Rain is slowly falling and the air chills you instead of warming you. You sigh, your day over before it has even begun, and you retreat back under the covers with no choice but to wait for a different day, a different time.

Often, I wake up to find my days are clouded not by the weather or the sky, but by my own mind. Fog doesn’t linger on the streets but instead casts shade over my brain. My emotions run cold. My body turns numb and heavy. And the streets that I could once walk down with ease now stretch impossibly far. The essay I could write in minutes now takes hours. My confidence crumbles, fractures tearing through the decisions I was once confident in, as earthquakes tear through the once strong, solid earth.

But this isn’t a storm I am given the grace of taking shelter from where I can wait for it to pass. It is one I am forced to weather. Because the world does not stop. So neither can I and neither can you. But nobody begrudges the moon when she slips from our vision to a place beyond seeing, shedding her glow little by little until it is gone. Glowing like that, full and bright and beautiful, isn’t sustainable, even for the moon.

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So some nights she turns off her light.

I think the moon knows the importance of off days.

And the moon is generous. She does not keep this information to herself. She is a teacher. She teaches it to the clouds, who, when they get heavy, open and cry water. They let their troubles rain over the earth, and this water is life sustaining. The clouds are not ashamed to cry. So then, why am I so ashamed to sit on a bench, in my room, in my mother’s arms, on the bus, in my car, while salty tears pour from my eyes onto my clothes, onto my shoes, onto my arms and legs?

Why am I so horrified by my own need to slow down, when the trees unapologetically drop their leaves in preparation for their dormancy? When the animals that walk the earth disappear into it, beneath its surface or within its crevices to sleep through the winter?

The whole world seems to understand the importance of off days, so why don’t I? Why don’t we? Why is the rest of the world able to absorb the teachings of the moon so easily but humanity circumvents our understanding of them?

You could argue that the answer is obvious. The moon just isn’t like us humans. She doesn’t have to worry about feeding herself, or clothing herself. She has no use for money, no house, no rent, no car, no water, no electricity, no children, no medicine to pay for. She is able to dim her glow because she faces no consequences for it.

But I think that this argument misunderstands the moon.

Because when she dims her light, she is still there. And she is always working in her own way, to move the tides, to watch over the earth, to care for its life. And she knows that soon, she will be back to her full, bright and beautiful self.

I think that what the moon is trying to teach us is just to be gentle with ourselves. It is okay to dim our light. In fact, sometimes, it is necessary to dim our light, because doing so is the only way we will be able to glow bright and beautiful and strong again. So even if it is hard for me to understand, I will try to listen to the teachings of the moon and the earth and all its creatures. And the next time I wake up to find my days clouded not by the weather or the sky, but by my own mind, I will remember the importance of off-days.

Illustration by Ashley Skarbek

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S

tale perfime and fresh mountain air whirl together and become one. The familiar scent rushes out of the clouds of steam that waft in the open-air bathroom. A cabin of twelve girls plus two who have been placed in charge. My co-counselor and I sit on the stained, fake-ceramic bathroom counter as we sing-songly yell orders to our cabin. The red July sun creeps through the screens grounding my body to what time of day it is. I am cemented in this late afternoon buzz. I have been a counselor for almost eight weeks now and the task of getting these girls to dinner on time is no longer daunting.

So I pause, I take in this ever-fleeting moment next to a friend who is experiencing life at the same pace as me. The cabin that we have ruled over for the past two months is full of character. Once you step into it, you know that you are alive and love exists. Its functionality; on the other hand, is not quite as effervescent. Water from the showers is as sure to leak as the sun is to rise. So each day, as if it was outlined in our paper schedules, my co and I watch as the water creeps its way closer and closer towards the sink tops we sit upon.

This hour of time is monotonous for us. Mundane. Something to be expected and nothing that would change the tempo of a heartbeat or bring color to a face. Yet, these are the memories that our grandchildren will deem worth lisetning to. So on this Wednesday, as we monitor showers and watch the stream of water follow its carved out path, we talk about what really matters.

Crack

We spoke of friendship.

The simplicity and ease of its presence, but the profound emptiness of its absence. How walking through the plainest tasks with someone you enjoy can create a bond that is wound deep within your soul.

in the Bathroom

The paradoxes and intricacies of having a friend whose personality is the inverse of your own. We reflect on the fondness of watching friendships be both blossomed and mourned in our cabin. How special it has been to create a space where girls can innocently indulge in each other’s silliness. We spoke of love. Confusing,

Tile

by Polly O’Neal

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mindaltering, and something we feel too young or maybe too distracted to understand.

She speaks logistics while I speak romanticism.

She says that he would have to love himself before he could ever love me, and I say, “I believe you.” We both know that’s not true. Yet, she knowingly listens to all my wishes and wonders. We’re both too stubborn to come to a conclusion.

Illustration by Julia Smith

Mostly, I just enjoy being in her presence.

She doesn’t want to be a leader, she wants to be a storyteller; but aren’t they the greatest leaders of all? Don’t they lead us to what we’ve really been searching for? Meaning, truth, or the opposite of truth holding even more meaning? The water continues to trickle towards me like a raindrop on the window of your moms car when you’re ten and think everything is a race. We sit in comfortable silence for a moment and I believe we both know, without saying it, how important this specific dinner prep is. Without fracturing the peace residing in the air, she says exactly what I am thinking. That this, this most normal of hours together, is the tangible joy of knowing and being known.

Female friendship has an inexplicable power to polarize life and elicit consciousness in a moment that was once lacking. Its formation happens when you’re mopping the floor with a friend while she swings her legs sitting on a dryer. It happens when you’re cleaning mirrors while humming the same melody heard the day before. A kaleidoscope of dreams and hopes are created and simultaneously understood. This issue in our bathroom floor has brought us together as if it were far more than just a nuanced plumbing problem. Connection stagnantly awaits to be uncovered in spaces such as this. Never again will I let this water trickle by me without recognizing its criticality.

The last camper finishes her shower. I mop up the stream of water that has now begun to pool at our feet. I know it will be back tomorrow. We braid hair and apply glitter. Our cabin collectively decides that they all look very pretty and so we line up to go to dinner. Being a girl is important.

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15 PHOTOGRAPHY: Rachel Laminack MUAS: Sophie Dickerson, Ksenia Matveeva, Samantha Roncevich, Isabella Broccolo, Isabella Cobb SET: Katie Finan, Ali Southard,Charlotte Fullbright

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MODELS: Anika Rauch, Melis Hafizoglu PHOTOGRAPHY: Taylor Wittig STYLING: Owen James, Samantha Roncevich

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MODELS: Joseph Smith, Rachel Kelly, Katelyn Harris, Grier Love PHOTOGRAPHY: Meadow Pacheco, Lizzy Novelli STYLING: Olivia Kollin, Madison Walker, Kendall Wisniewski, Sophie Trew

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MODELS: Isa Verna, Alandya Warren PHOTOGRAPHY: Rachel Laminack, Meadow Pacheco STYLING: Elizabeth DeFiglia, Meg Fickling

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MODEL: Jadyn McLean PHOTOGRAPHY: Rachel Laminack, Meadow Pacheco STYLING: Elle Newkirk

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23

The

Back of Your Hands

by Lauren Slattery

Illusrtation by Kevin Foster

S

ide by side, I reach up and grab your index finger and wrap my whole hand around it. We walk like this for a while. The top of my head just above your waist, you slow your steps to accommodate for mine.

I can hear the sound of your bracelets hitting your watch as your arms move, the click of your heels on the concrete, and the smell of lemon from the lotion that makes your hands slippery.

I know you like I know the back of my hand.

“You’re Lauren’s mom aren’t you?”

My teachers used to ask my mother. Then, it was shocking. I thought we looked nothing alike. Her hair, so night-like with waves; mine sandy, thin, and so straight. My mother had twelve inches on me and still, everyone saw the resemblance.

As a little girl, one thinks the world of her mother. To her, she is a mythology. In time: she becomes human, skin and bones. Flesh of one’s flesh. One’s creator, a higher than life being.

I don’t remember feeling this way.

It’s not to say I don’t think the world of her, because I do. It’s just that as I got older I saw my mother as a human more clearly. It didn’t come as a shock to me that she had faults, but I was more shocked that I hadn’t noticed them sooner.

It didn’t happen in one day, it wasn’t a sudden revelation, but maybe it was. One day, compliments to her felt deeply personal to me and I ached for people to see me like they see her.

Where I saw black and white, you saw the other side.

And when I yelled you lowered your voice to hear.

The calming advice you offered me that led me to see life from every side, urging me to put myself in every person’s shoes.

It was effortless guidance. It was her ability to admit her faults while still praising her strengths. It was the example she set and her willingness to grow with me.

It was every moment in between.

We sat on your bed going through your old jewelry that sat in a box in the back of your closet. Now I wear your high school graduation ring on my right hand and your watch on my left. They fit perfectly and it wasn’t a surprise.

Because in some ways I have grown up and into you; In others I can only dream to become more like you.

Your eyes and eyelashes reflect that of my own, but I can only hope of seeing people like you see them.

Your mouth always coated in lipstick with the perfect thing to say.

Our smile lines that match. A result from years of shared joy.

All of your favorite things, now my own.

The reward that is black coffee in the morning, the aroma of it filling the downstairs.

The pleasure that is watching people in a museum, the perplexed look on their faces that could be more closely related to peace or to passion.

The draw to the beach in winter, the feeling of chilled sand on bare feet.

All the things that make you, you, We now share.

Sitting on top of the kitchen counter with my legs criss-crossed in the way you hate, but no longer will rebuke, you took my hands into yours and begged me to let you put lotion on them. I laughed and ignored your wishes. Still holding onto both of my hands, you flipped them over a few times before saying, “We have the same hands.”

We sat there for a little while longer, comparing palms, nail beds, fingers and the backs of our hands, and it’s true, they’re the same. Your motherly instinct kicked in as you instructed me to be diligent about wearing sunscreen on my arms and hands. You began to talk about your dark spots that patterned your arms and hands as you looked at my freckles, and begged me to not let mine become like yours.

But mom, I hope they do 25

o G s ’ t Le ttoo tthhee

Mall

by Mae Williams

Illustration by Abigail Harris

“L

et’s go to the mall”, are the magic words my mom tells me after she arrives home from work, knowing I will be out the door in a heartbeat. My favorite activity! On the drive over, I mentally prepare myself to get shut down when I ask my mom for another neon Justice tank top. The confidence I have wearing at least three tank tops is euphoric. We arrive and I am greeted with the scent of Auntie Anne’s.

Throughout the shopping trip, the scent taunts me as my mom won’t let me get a pretzel since it will “spoil my dinner.” I walk the carpeted floors, and stumble upon the Santa exhibit. Holiday shopping has begun, and the mall is busier than ever. Seeing the seasonal change within the mall always excites me for what is to come. My future is as bright as my neon Justice tops.

It is now summertime, and my besties are looking for an all day activity. Naturally, I suggest the mall.

We organize a plan: my mom will drop us off and my friend’s mom will pick us up. I saved up some cash, and have $26.89 to spend. With over twenty dollars a sense of endless possibilities is in the air. I am greeted with the scent of Auntie Anne’s once again, and this time I will not be taunted! I am getting that pretzel! We spend lots of time in the food court, not caring about the judgment stares, as we dare our friend to eat a burger in one bite. We frolic through stores, and are being menaces to the employees as we try on millions of products with no intention to buy. The mall being so busy, it feels our actions will go unnoticed. We end the day stress free as we ride the miniature merry-go-arounds while non stop giggling. It is now dark outside when my friend’s mom picks us up. We were caught by the vortex and experienced an exciting day of activities in the vibrant mall. How could I possibly get tired of this place?

I’m in my college apartment and scrape out the last part of my foundation, knowing I have to go to the mall tomorrow. There’s no more neon colors to look forward to, especially with Justice being out of business.

I’ve outgrown my neon tops, and my bright future feels out of reach. I speed over to the mall after class, and will rush back home to rest before work. This time the scent of Auntie Anne’s causes my stomach to hurt as I can no longer tolerate gluten.

I walk the cold hard tiles, and the closed JCPenny catches my eye. Suddenly, I pause for a moment in my busy schedule. I begin to wonder what happened?

My biggest task of the day used to be having to smile for my family portrait at JCPenny. That was the only time I dreaded going to the mall. Now, all I want is to smile for a photo again with my family. As I stress

over where life is going to take me, I begin to long for the confident girl who strutted the mall walking on cloud nine. She was prepared for seasonal change and ready to take control of her future narrative. Her main character’s ego always knew when to put herself first.

Now, I walk over eggshells to not burden the employee at Sephora when I ask to find the correct foundation shade. Where did the confident little girl go? Where did the vibrant malls go?

I leave with an eerie feeling. The flickering light causes me to speed walk out of the dull mall. More lights begin to flicker as more malls turn into abandoned buildings.

Less and less teenagers call the mall their hangout space since curfews were placed. The busy hustle went away all thanks to Jeff Bezos’ creation, Amazon.

My little cousin didn’t even get her ears pierced at Claire’s. Everyone got their first piercing at Claire’s!

Sure it wasn’t the most sanitary situation, but it was a monumental moment to hold the bear in the Claire’s chair. I’m growing up, and the malls are decaying.

The neon colors from my childhood no longer hide the dark and scary trials in the world. Maybe it was all perspective as I now understand why my mom didn’t let me have the Auntie Anne’s pretzel.

With a greater understanding, I begin to ponder more stressors. I am in need of the vortex escape the mall once provided, not the errand run.

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blue jean

androgyny: an ode Written by Leila Ganim

Illustrated by Madi-Joy Marlowe

Y

ou sit silently observing a cosmopolitan city. Baa baa blue sheep walk around the crowded paths mindlessly weaving in and out of each other’s ways. You take a moment and contemplate in amazement. Searching, scavenging, discerning upon the contemporary clothing scene of today.

Ask yourself: why do you and everyone you know buy into the cobalt-ian conformity of blue jeans? Confused, you further investigate and elucidate a deeply horrific mythologized history that has led to the modern vogue trends flooding the streets.

Again asking yourself: why do you and everyone you know buy into centuries old cerulean conventions.

You used to believe “what sheep is human to only wear such an ugly, and ubiquitous type of thing”. Heavy introspection leads to an evolution of your limited preconceived theory.

You unveil new words giving access to phenomenology you have been denied your whole life. You are able to adjust your orientations toward a more queer reality. An internal revolution inspired by the way in which the sky paints the clouds. An ungendered being breathing as aquamarine becomes the world’s most influential artist. The sky existing as blue is flexible, adaptable, and durable, matching all the qualities of ageless androgyny as well as jeans.

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Illustrations by Madi-Joy Marlowe

Moved by the beauty of blue you do additional research about the magic process of indigo dying. Revealing information on how this technique was stolen and transported across the azure ocean. The psilocybin similarity of brilliance to indigo allows for such an analogous ability to further develop your jean related ideology. A natural blue birthed from an Indian, African, or Latin American weed, originally producing a yellowish element of green, then introduced to our atmosphere, oxidizes, changing the appearance of its physical properties.

White birthed from an American Southern plant, woven together then introduced to your sorcerer’s soluble solution. You leave the concoction in the cauldron for five minutes and let the juices soak and set in. Chemically staining and oozing into the microscopic crevices of each and every cotton fiber. You carefully remove the raw materials and curate fabric ready to be fashioned into a single pair of the iconic Wrangler Blue Jeans.

Stiff, tight, stubborn denim measured and cut into patterns, then sorted and sewn together completing the wearable puzzle. Silently reciting the anxious psalm “A Prayer to a Fashion God,” you put one leg in followed by the other. Pull with all your might feeling the cloth

compress your skin, molding it into the high-waisted silhouette of the blue bottomed uniform of universality.

You stand in the mirror and reflect upon why you put these specific pants on.

Watching this rectangle of reflectivity, an interesting negotiation occurres between you and yourself; in an attempt to understand the nuanced distinction between the felt body and its relationship to their material counterpart. Separate entities conceived to satiate the framework of an individual’s irreducible particularity. Subjectivity of the lived experience leads to that fathomable yet seemingly unreachable queer utopic reality.

The felt body exists to some as a knee-jerk, gut-reaction, and to others the pure definition of a human’s soul. The material body exists to some as the corporeal awareness of a brain that learns, lungs that breathe, and a heart that beats, all interconnected by tissues, veins, and bones, to build such an elaborate living machine. Problems arise and tension breeds at the point of disconnection between the two bodies. Hope lies in the building of a linguistic foundation. The importance of an archival history forming a glossary of words to give access to one’s perception of potential presentation.

Historically speaking androgyny is not quite a new thing, but easily mistaken as another phenomenon entirely . In the past

it has been related to social class and mainly where you stand economically. Eighteenth century interpretations were based upon individualizing the aristocracy. Later interpretations follow similar themes of a need to freely communicate, seeking out a unique approach to ipseity. An exercise in engaging with representation of a nonbinary personality. Blue jeans bring forth a new cultural iteration, a neoteric generation, of contemporary androgyny.

Yves Saint Laurent once said, “I wish I had invented blue jeans. They have expression, modesty, sex appeal, simplicity” known as any chic designer’s wettest of dreams. 20th century’s most important fad transcending beyond the overtly simplified gendered binary. Everyone finds themselves fitted with at least a single pair of blue jeans. Dark aqua exudes a sense of fluidity as H₂O flows in and out of the four fundamental states of matter. Finally, you reveal the quintessential beauty of the phenomenon now identified as blue jean androgyny.

MODEL: Henry Tran, Anthony Harper, Kellen Conley PHOTOGRAPHY: Maya Mitchall STYLING: Melissa Valerio, Justus Denizard, Tyler Smith

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MODEL: Jade Vogelsong, Cora Jones, Kat Cupp PHOTOGRAPHY: Maya Mitchall STYLING: Amaya Al-Mussawir, Kendall Wisniewski, Zoe Patterson MUAS: Sophie Dickerson, Ksenia Matveeva, Samantha Roncevich, Isabella Broccolo, Priscilla Martinez, Amaya Al-Mussawir, Ava Bruno SET DESIGN: Katie Finan, Kai Williams, Lilo Harris, Sophia Dickerson

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MODEL: Kayla Hillman, Shaniya Woolridge, Aiden Tamton PHOTOGRAPHY: Rachel Laminack STYLING: Meg Fickling, Melissa Valerio, Isabella Cobb

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MODEL: Julianna Roseland, Henry Tran, Kellen Conley, Claire Nunemacher, Bri Pierce PHOTOGRAPHY: Maya Mitchall, Meadow Pacheco STYLING: Sophie Trew, Priscilla Martinez, Ava Bruno, Mira Phillips, Delaney Caulder

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MODEL: Joseph Bunger PHOTOGRAPHY: Meadow Pacheco, Rory Sullivan, Rachel Laminack, Maya Mitchall STYLING: Daniel Inman

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PHOTOGRAPHY: Maya Mitchall, Rory Sullivan, Rachel Laminack

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by Janey Harlow

W

hen you carefully place thriied candle sticks on your bedside table or lay a hand-knit doily over your lamp shade, you tap into the art of set design. Put simply, set design is the art of utilizing space with intention and is what gives a room atmosphere, ambiance, and character. An appealing space is not solely based on the bones of the architecture, nor does it matter what specific items fill the room. At its core, intentional set design is about striking the balance between clutter and calm, exploring the intersection of color, texture, and pattern, and reflecting personal style. When the goal is to create an immersive environment, set design is no longer about what you have and where it goes, but becomes about how each detail is emphasized by its surroundings and how every item contributes to the overall feeling of the scene.

Having an eye for design of any kind is not entirely innate; it is a learned quality that comes from observation, practice, and development of personal taste. I, however, learned it from my mom. As an exceptionally craay woman, she has executed every project to the highest degree, always encouraging me to do the same within my own creative ventures. As a child, I had many interests ranging from fire trucks to fairies. However, one obsession stood out from the rest: the jungle. At the time, I was confident that this was a highly important, defining personality trait of mine. As a result, my bedroom was painted with murals of monkeys, tigers, and hippos while vines hung from the walls as I pretended to swing from the top of my bunk bed to the jungle floor. My mother single handedly created an environment where my imagination could run wild. This was the first moment I felt the satisfaction of seeing a vision turn into a reality. Since joining Platform, I have embraced my mother’s go big or go home attitude–as well as her surplus of craa supplies and myriad of props. Whether I’m transporting boxes full of DIY’s or driving around Raleigh location scouting, every second of dedication to set design pays oo when I am able to bring a concept to life and 40 establish the foundation for creative expression.

A common misconception is that the best set design blends in.

Though this is true to some extent, I believe that the best set design must blend in boldly. Some combination of realism and maximalism may make a set unquestionable, but the addition of eclectic pieces or a twist to an established aesthetic is what makes a set memorable. I would be remiss to write on this topic without an ode to Wes Anderson and his production designer, Adam Stockhausen. Anderson’s movies are not only captivating for their signature symmetrical frames, fast paced storytelling, and award winning casts, but it is his skilful use of vivid color schemes, antique props, and intricate detail of the sets that makes it hard for your eyes to ever leave the screen. The key takeaway from Wes Anderson is his keen understanding of personal taste. Though he has a highly renowned style, he speaks nonchalantly about his approach to set design saying, “Most of those choices are just me doing what I want it’s like asking, would you like to do a movie not the way you want? And ideally, I’d want to do it the way I want.”

Though Wes Anderson most definitely has a larger budget than Platform Magazine, the care and consideration that goes into the set design is shared. Intentionality in set design is a subtle art, but there is an internal satisfaction I feel when the scene is set just right. In Volume X’s Dazed and Confused shoot, I saw an empty basement transform into a psychedelic living room that I wished I could transport into my own home. I’ve organized a live band to perform for Volume XII’s Our Scene shoot, giving a genuine houseshow feel to the magazine spread. All this and more has been supported by a set design team that has just as much gumption and strength as they do artistic genius and enthusiastic spirits! Though viewers may be more likely to pay attention to models, actors, or plots, all three of these are only further reinforced and emphasized by the intricacies of their surroundings. Whether it is a photoshoot or a film, it is set design’s combination of vision and execution that creates an immersive experience for everyone involved.

Illustration by Kloe Tucker

the year of the cat

1 i

t seems like every tết the skies welcome the lunar new year with a somber shower. the cold raindrops of late January scattering on your face as you step outside of the house.

the night before, your mother had advised you not to wash your hair or sweep the floors and to walk out of the house and be the first one to step inside. it’s for good luck, she reasons but your body would rather be under the layers of blankets than stand beneath the cold rain. you still listen though, slipping on your old sweatshirt to walk outside without really knowing why. maybe it was because a part of you was superstitious. after all, you are your mother’s daughter. she always did everything the right way and ensured you understood its importance. from properly rolling Chả Giò to being kind. and she had always been right

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by Leah Tran

Illustrations by Abigail Harris

anyway, especially when it came to the people you’ve let into your life and the reason why you might sound so tired through the phone. and really, the words you perhaps fear from her the most is i told you so when you didn’t listen.

but maybe there was a part of you that does hope that if you did these things, you’d have a better year. last year was quite the disappointment: with surprise sickness and silly heartaches that could have been prevented. and now your mother tells you that the year of the cat will bring you better luck, success, and love. and she has always been right. so you decide to linger for a little longer. letting the icy drops cover as much of you as they please. besides, it is only right to do things out of hope rather than fear anyway.

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there’s a shorthair kitty that lays in the space between your neck and shoulder now. maybe two or three years ago, you would’ve never figured you’d have a cat. especially when you’ve only ever known dogs. dogs and their energetic, sometimes harsh ways. but then you met many friends who seemed to have cats. the first time you’d ever pet one would be at their childhood home where you stood in a corner, unsure of what to do.

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don’t ruffle their fur. let them come to you. scratch under the chin. don’t be disruptive. be patient.

during your first date with him, you decide to tell him about the year of the cat. that was his year anyway. and you don’t mention how you anxiously read the horoscopes–searching for some sort of clue about who he would turn out to be. and you don’t mention how afraid you were to find out. so you tell him about the old chinese tale, of how all the animals participated in the great race across the river to be one of the zodiacs. and how the rat and the cat were riding on top of the ox because they weren’t great swimmers. at one point, the rat tricked the cat into getting off the ox, forcing it to lose. the rabbit, who was hoping over the stones in the river, took its place. but in the vietnamese story, cats are good swimmers and they are great protectors of the rice crops from mice. they bring good fortune and luck. so to us, the cat made it to the finish line.

these were all habits you weren’t familiar with before, but you gave it a try and suddenly your heart made more space for something new. because that’s often how things go anyways. there was a time when you didn’t know how to care for those sharper parts of you. how to make space for the sadness that never completely goes away. how to put down the harsh walls and let others in to love you as you are. and here you are now, laying your soft body under the sunlight, with a kitty in the crook of your neck, letting yourself take up space in this moment. in this love. in this life.

you’d always remember the smile he gave before he said “then i hope to be the one that brings you good things” you didn’t want to reply to that then. not when the doubt in your heart still lingered from all the times you foolishly hoped the same out of strangers. but it faded with each shy and gentle kiss exchange during the second date. and became hope between your entwined fingers on the third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth dates. maybe the answer can never really be said until the end, but months have passed and you stare at the worn t-shirt he left on the floor and at your bookshelf that no longer is just yours and you think yes, i hoped you did too.

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HEAT WAVE

by Mariella Neri

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he darkness casts a shadow on my face. The only aspect of light is the three colored spheres dangling ahead.

Silence has settled in the atmosphere. The concept of time is nonexistent. I am frozen in a trance. It’s as if I have been shot by a tranquilizer and my limbs have transformed into cement. The only motion occurring is the activation of adrenaline through my veins stimulated by my nerve endings. My chocolate pupils are overcome with a glimmering red fire. An acceleration jolts me forward into the night, signaled by my eyes transitioning to green from the reflection. The brisk air sends a tingling sensation across my skin while my warm caramel locks cascade in the wind. I am mesmerized by the rapid rhythm of my heart. How it drowns out the bass of the speakers vibrating the interior of the vehicle. Glancing at the dash, my eyes flicker with satisfaction viewing the numbers rising.

Ragged breaths escape my lungs. Streetlights transform into a blurry haze morphing my ability to comprehend the setting. With my fists clenched and knuckles whitening, anxiety starts to heighten. Then a sudden electric shock radiates through my body. It only takes the simplest graze of smooth fingertips sliding into mine to be transcending.

Immediately chills evacuate my body and are replaced by a blistering wave of heat. The thud of my heartbeat escalates with intensity. I attempt to contain oxygen. I steal another quick glance. The numbers continue to rise.

Speed is what I crave; it’s been introduced and cannot be removed. Droplets begin to cascade my forehead. I have become engulfed by scathing flames. The ferocity of the air slamming me into the sleek, slippery surface of the

leatherbound seat. The pulsing veins between our hands are revealed as we grasp onto each other as if it is the only thing keeping us present. I wrench my eyes away from the snaking street ahead and fall into a daze as I stare into the two transparent blue crystals shimmering from the headlights racing by. Igniting passion and desire in my soul, it has caused the temperature to become scorchingly unbearable. Forcing myself to rip away for an instant to recenter my focus, simultaneously I am jerked upright.

Gasping for air I sit up and absorb what surrounds… darkness, silence, reality.

Itching for the ability to withhold the high. I would rather crash and burn than lose the opportunity to experience the overwhelming charge of adrenaline. Triggering a surge of heat to rush through my body. This is what I live for. Craving this freedom where I can be present with all the invigorating aspects of life. By having an outlet to release the anxiety and thoughts trapped within my head.

Viewing the speed rising with lust in my eyes. Fading into the unfamiliarity of the road onward as a hand rests in mine. The only incentive is encapsulating this unexplainable exhilarating feeling. Risking it all to achieve an outcome so rewarding is a bargain I am willing to make. Could this be considered being an addict? A junky?

Maybe so. I have the desire to take a ride on the wild side and continually capture the thrilling sensation that generates from gunning down the highway at maximum speed.

Illustration by Madi-Joy Marlowe

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MODEL: Trent Brigham, Abby Schwebke, Joshua Bermudez, Nicole Harris, Anthony Harper PHOTOGRAPHY: Rory Sullivan STYLING: Justus Denizard, Amaya Al- Mussawir, Daniel Inman, Maggie Pattyson, Margaret Lucas MUAS: Sophie Dickerson, Ksenia Matveeva, Samantha Roncevich, Isabella Broccolo SET: Katie Finan, Jerome Bermudez

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MODEL: Ysa Ferreria, Immanuel Jackson PHOTOGRAPHY: Rory Sullivan, Tae Park, Peyton Moore, Maya Mitchall STYLING: Elizabeth DiFiglia, Tyler Smith MUAS: Sohpie Dickerson, Ksenia Matveeva, Samantha Roncevich, Isabella Broccolo

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MODEL: Collin Tran PHOTOGRAPHY: Peyton Moore, Rory Sullivan, Tae Park STYLING: Owen James

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MODEL: Arissa Acosta, Eleanor Slyman, Christal Dita PHOTOGRAPHY: Peyton Moore, Maya Mitchall STYLING: Olivia Masciarelli, Melissa Valerio, Elle Newkirk

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PHOTOGRAPHY: Maya Mitchall, Tae Park, Rory Sullivan

EAT YOUR and wear VEGGIES them too Written by Emma Romick

“Gentle hues of sage and indigo paint the sky

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verflowing baskets line rustic, quilt covered tables as the melody of an old country song melts into the rush of sandaled feet and produce bags. Rugged, wrinkled hands count rich stacks of tomatoes, kale and radishes as passerbyers gaze lustfully at the freshly picked produce. The air is thick with conversation and laughter, and despite the heavy whiffs of fried fish and musty coins, you simply can’t help but sink into the almost religious experience of the atmosphere. The beating heart of the world, all under one heavy, tin roof.

The farmers market sends me back to the nature of being a 56 child. The thrill of seeing stacks piled high of fresh produce,

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as trees reach their longing arms high like a child, beckoning their friend to welcome them into a cloudy, soft embrace. Crickets chirp as soft tears feed the weeds, each droplet a tranquil reminder of how cared for each and every child of the forest can be if we simply open our arms, shed the tears, and face the beating heart of the world.

and alongside them, the faces of those who grew them. The bite of an apple is always sweetest from the hands of those who graciously cared for the tree. The grass was vibrant green, and I swore the bell peppers would wave gentle “hellos!” as I passed by, hand in hand with my mom and little sister. The thrill of being a child, in shoes too tight and a jacket too big, hugged by the scent of lavender and lily.

As a girl, the farmers market functioned as my mothers kitchen, and with passing days of aging and growth, became my own as well. Yet the farmers market whispered to me, a beckoning place of overwhelming possibility. Beans, potatoes, carrots… each offering a colorful story far beyond

Creeks and rivers are turning to soups of heavy metals and microplastics, while communities suffer at the exposure of harmful chemicals all for the sake of fashion.

The reality of my denim jacket is one of water waste and chemical exposure. I can’t help but wonder the story of thousands of other garments, dyed at the expense of an ever quickening trend cycle. Would my jacket be as beautiful if it were dyed with black beans or cabbage? I like to believe I’d find it even more special, as though the crayon stained hands of the girl I used to be picked it out on those cloudy mornings, trekking up to the farmers market alongside my mother. I learned the beauty in feeling connected to the birds and trees from her, and to find beauty and purpose in each and every living thing.

I cannot stop the harm of the industry, but I can try my best to do better. I put on my denim jacket, and take to the farmers market to collect my veggies. The beating heart of the world, all under one heavy, tin roof.

their taste. Nature grants us some of the most wonderful gifts of creativity. Did you know black beans create the most incredible shades of blue? Or that avocado pits, when mothered with the care of human hands and warm water, will turn a simple white sheet into a lively, vibrant pink?

Nature can be childlike too, dragging its tattered crayons of age old wisdom across a modern age of complexity.

“Sometimes things don’t have to be so complicated.”

MODELS: Nicole Harris, Jimet Betul Karatas PHOTOGRAPHY: Leah Tran STYLING: Sophie Trew, Mira Phillips MUA: Isabella Broccolo

Illustrated by Illustration Madi-Joy

by Madi-Joy Marlowe Marlowe

One of my favorite jackets is an old Eddie Baurer, ragged and indigo, aged with the grace of time. I found her while scouring the men’s section of my favorite thrift store, on a day much too cold for my then long sleeve shirt.

She was nearly two sizes too big, but absolutely perfect, and from there on out she came with me nearly everywhere I went. I never gave much thought to her story, but it beckoned forward like late October winds.

Society too, once held the crayons of their mother, drawing in the image of her perfect chaos.

Clothing created and colored from the heart of the earth, from the womb of her being. For thousands of years, we relied on vegetables, fruits and plants to dye our clothes.

Humans are meant to spend time with nature, hence why we feel so at peace at the sounds of chirping birds or the slow trickle of a creek. Even the feeling of lush, green grass against our skin sends signals of relaxation to our brain. Why are we so disconnected? Our clothing is stained with the harm of others, and the destruction of our planet.

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he Birth The Punk genre didn’t begin gaining traction till the mid to late 70s and had major ties to cities like New york, with bands like The Ramones, or London, infamously known as the home of the Sex Pistols. Although primarily rejected in the public eye, These bands, along with others like them, helped promote a subculture with common aesthetics, ideals, and community across the globe. Music was used as a tool to express the angst felt by oppressed groups, the working class, and all those who felt like they didn’t fit in ‘the system’. Just like hip hop, the environment shaped the music. Ironically, the rise of punk contributed to its fall as the waves of political philosophy became diluted by mainstream commodification.

What was once a movement focused on pushing back on the government, pushing back on violent exclusionist rhetoric, and always inciting a will for change, transformed into an aesthetic to be branded and sold for profit.

The Destruction The first signs of the downfall came within the very art form in which punk was entangled with. As punk became popular, major record labels recognized the profitability of the image. The bad boy, angry, british or american rockers were an image that could be sold to the masses– a taboo to experience. Labels started to sign bands that were once independent and manufactured them to become a marketable genre. Punk became a rose bush that was stripped of its thorns, a spectacle with no real threat. This can seem very surprising considering the anti-establishment politics behind punk, but these signings revealed a more sinister discovery.

Remember our friends the Sex Pistols? Turns out that one of the major leaders in the punk community had a corporate backing this entire time and the lead singer, John Lydon, didn’t even share punk politics in the first place. The Sex Pistols signed over their rights to Universal Music publishing group. A company made for transforming the Sex Pistols main punk philosophy into a money making consumerist machine. This move could be seen by some as a catalyst or to many as an omen of the oncoming destruction of the subculture by way of commercialization.

What makes many subcultures an easy target of the capitalist machine is the fashion and aesthetics of the community. For punk, it was the stereotypical ripped jeans, leather jacket, distinctive hairstyles, and buttons of iconic symbols of rebellion. What were once expressions of individuality were now being mass produced and sold in Forever 21, which was the more merciful death compared to the political philosophies being propped up as a one size fits all spirit Halloween costume. The Watchdogs gazette says it best, “There is vexatious irony in wearing a Dead Kennedys t-shirt made with the blood, sweat, and tears of exploited workers when the former’s lyrics detail their anger towards these very corporations.”

The fact was punk was turning into a style then a trend. All glamor with no politics, a caricature. In the age of social media, this was a deathblow. It fueled the branding of punk as a certain image or lifestyle allowing individuals to craa an idealized, surface level version of punk that somehow ended up gatekeeping the native community. The term ‘rebel without a cause’ serves as the calling card of the consumerist punk archetype.

Because I mean what’s more punk, starting your own movement and standing up against injustice or having more than 1 piercing on your face and being seen by your peers as a fashion icon? I guess the instagram pics will be bomb though.

Reconstruction Although many subcultures all have similar deaths, they tend to ooen be reborn. Dissatisfaction among the masses will always be prominent and this can be used to bring the punk subculture back to its roots. It’s important to realize that not all punks have had the privilege to ‘wear this lifestyle as a costume’. Many minority and other diverse communities have had no choice but to speak out against injustice and it would be a spit in the face to say that their outcry was not loud throughout the years. Due to mainstream adoption, the authenticity of the culture has become blurred and to those that are privileged enough not to constantly have to speak up, it’s essential to remember the origins of rebellion, symbols of individualism, and the push back against adversity, even in the face of commercialization. Do not be a rebel without a cause, have a cause that incites you to rebel. And just maybe you can get 1 extra piercing to go along with it.

on trati Illus

ulia

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by Lexi Amedio

Illustraion by Kat Barnabei

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aybe I’ll be able to fall asleep if I turn on my fan.

Did I remember to take my medicine? I set alarms for 8:50, 8:51, 8:52, 8:53, 8:54, and 8:55, so the odds of me oversleeping are slim, and I should have no problem making it to my 10:15 (hopefully). I ran out of time to call my mom today, so I need to make sure to do that tomorrow. Oh, and I need to start my sociology paper. Maybe I can also find time to go on a walk or go to a coffee shop and write? I’ll figure it out tomorrow. I need to sleep so I don’t get behind on that too.

Did that make you dizzy?

Me too.

Despite everything that changes each passing year, a reliable constant is that I pretty much always feel like I’m playing catch up. Life has taken on such a brisk pace and doesn’t appear to be slowing down any time soon. Moments barely exist long enough to take them in. Feelings are equally perpetual and fleeting. My sense of self is secure one second and nowhere to be seen the next. Do they make emotional dramamine?

For me, the chaos was amplified when I started my freshman year at a school across the country. It didn’t take long before I realized that nothing I could do would make that school my place. I wasn’t happy there. What I wanted and thought would be best for me changed, and it changed exceptionally fast. My life started spinning.

I applied to transfer schools after a month, and after four more, I began my second semester at NC State. I unpacked my life for the second time in less than six months, blindly hoping that when I ar-

MODEL: Arissa Acosta PHOTOGRAPHY: Ksenia Matveeva STYLING: Elle Newkirk MUA: Leah Tran

I viewed the constant motion as an entity that was working against me, and I refused to acknowledge that what I was feeling was undeniably normal. As you age, responsibilities become elevated and solely yours, relationships shift, home has a different meaning, and sometimes you can’t possibly catch your breath. There is so much pressure to seem put together, and even the hardest moments are expected to be met with a sense of effortlessness. So, if you feel overwhelmed, hurried, or just utterly confused, know that you are never alone, and, if anything, I’m right there with you.

When the chaos never diminished after starting college, I was forced to try and make sense of it. It would take 6 months before I was able to see that my attempts to slow down and stop moving prevented me from noticing my progress. I was growing into a version of myself that I admired while simultaneously building a beautiful life in a new place. So, I realized that maybe the goal isn’t to stop spinning, but instead, to embrace the motion and learn to lose control on purpose.

I stopped trying to fix my life and just let it be what it was.

I forgave myself for not finding time to go on a walk and for taking a few extra days to start my sociology paper. It all mostly worked out in the end, and even if it didn’t, I survived and probably got a funny story out of it. I accepted that I will most likely always be anxious about something, and commotion will be a constant in my life. I will probably always feel the need to catch up, and things might never fall into place with natural ease, but I’m learning to lean into the disarray and see it as an unavoidable characteristic of a life

wholeheartedly lived. rived at this new school, my life would feel stable again. When that didn’t happen, I simply adjusted the schedule. “In two weeks when I finish that essay and get lunch with that friend, everything will start to fall into place.” My naiveté fed into an endless loop of disappointment, and what I didn’t realize then, was that life would only accelerate.

More likely than not, life will never stop being chaotic and you might be perpetually dizzy, but, if that’s true, then you will also never be stagnant. There is progress and there is motion.

No matter what. So, I think there’s something to say for not having it all figured out, I think being put together is a myth, and I think that everyone I’ve ever met is dizzy and just trying their best.

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MODEL: Avery Pardue, Claire Patrick, Anushna Saha PHOTOGRAPHY: Peyton Moore STYLING: Mira Phillips, Margaret Lucas, Adaline Griffin MUAS: Isabella Broccolo, Ksenia Matveeva, Samantha Roncevich SET DESIGN: Katie Finan, Jerome Bermudez, Charlotte Fullbright, Olivia Jurney

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MODE R N

American

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PHOTOGRAPHY: Peyton Moore

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MODELS: Nimet Betul Karatas, Stella Park, Jamal Mohamad PHOTOGRAPHY: Tae Park STYLING: Ava Bruno, Gracie Owens, Justus Denizard

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MODEL: Jacqueline Weber PHOTOGRAPHY: Lizzy Novelli STYLING: Zoe Patterson

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MODELS: Talia Kintzele, Hannah Simpson PHOTOGRAPHY: Taylor Wittig STYLING: Maggie Pattyson, Madison Walker

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MODELS: Jacob Delos Santos, Kelly Hernandez PHOTOGRAPHY: Lizzy Novelli STYLING: Tyler Smith, Priscilla Martinez

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PHOTOGRAPHY: Tae Park

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s s i K s o o t t a T

d n u o r me a my

by Gabby Sabia

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I

wish i could be a pomegranate in your hands. i wish you could rip me apart until your skin is stained red, and your tongue is sickly sweet. instead, i feel more like a monster; i make you feel sour with unnecessary cruelty, and stalk the right side of your bed as you sleep. i wonder now, how you would look in my room against my pink shams and patchouli-scented candles. maybe i would’ve been able to romanticize you a bit more. if i hated you, i’d stay with you forever. i’d let you hug me until my arm falls asleep; and i’d move away when you’d start to weep. i’d let you hold my hand until i start to sweat, and i’d rip it away when you tried again. i would squirm quick and relax slowly, i’d scare you by making you assume the worst. i’d brush your worries off while you cried on my shoulder. and squeeze your heart in my raw hands. i’d let you kiss me as a way to make it up to you but i’d only let you kiss me around my tattoos.

I’d never be honest, cause i was never quite honest but right now i’ll tell you the truth. i never remembered your favorite restaurant or your friends’ names. i never “totally didn’t see this text,” and i never typed a response and forgot to click send. i never was too busy to look at my phone or check my messages, or think you ghosted me, or sleep through our date. if you still value my word, take this as an oath there is something beautiful inside of you worth cherishing. just because it wasn’t enough for me doesn’t mean it’s not enough for someone better. i hope the person who comes after me is the last love you’ll ever find i hope when you think of me you can’t compare it to her i hope she lets you love her as much as you loved me.

Illustration by Ashley Skarbek

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mothers & bloggers

Uncertainties and Experiences with Cultural Cooking’s New Age

by Omia Haroon

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hen a well-intentioned inquirer asks what “cultural dishes” I can make, my frustration and embarrassment bloom in the question’s wake. I could look up any desi dish, buy the ingredients, and follow the directions. But that dish wouldn’t be my mother’s. And I know that is what they are getting at.

The ability to create meals without references and enhance recipes using those skills, constitutes the distinction between knowing how to cook and following how to cook.

My mother is a knower, and I am a follower. Her cooking reservoir is a patchwork of her mother’s cooking, but also her own, and whoever else she has learned from, whether that be personal relationships, cookbooks, TV, or internet recipes. Her food, no matter where the dish originates, has unique depth and flare, a richness layered with years of both her comfortable and experimental cooking ventures. I can never guess where her inspirations originate.

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When I ask her to teach me her cooking, she says: “Just watch me”. And I do! But without knowing why and how she makes her decisions or applies her techniques; I leave with very little recollection of how her meals go from ingredients to plate. Her innate approaches don’t transfer, and I find myself wracking my memory for the simplest details regarding even the most general ideas, like which spices work for what? I can imitate, or follow, but not know her ways of knowing. She was able to learn how to cook by quietly watching her own mother, so why can’t I? Does it indicate an absence of culture in me, or the creation of something entirely new? I know it isn’t a matter of being unable to learn, since I find myself remembering and learning from other recipes that I find online quite quickly.

However, very few of her signature dishes have made their way into my mental cooking catalog. Most of them are quite simple, and definitely not Pakistani (guacamole and steamed eggs are two of them, to give you a taste of their complexity).

Desperately, I wish for that, or her, “culture” to kick in. I wait for a wordless transfusion of knowledge that (allegedly) results in the inheritance of her culinary talent and understanding. But, with her being an immigrant to the United States, where is the community, the extended family, the region-bound languages or ingredients to enforce it?

Who else do I have to look to besides desi cooking content creators to foster that culture immersement?

When recipes, techniques, and ingredients are more bound to region, the idea of cultural cooking makes sense. It is easy to imagine how a community would cultivate dishes in conversation with each other and with what is available to them. But when there are massive selections of ingredients and an abundance of available recipes/tutorials, courtesy of a globalized market and the internet, does the question of where (and sometimes who) have nearly as much meaning when it comes to cooking? The culture of food has been ripped up from places and subsequently relegated to almost everywhere. One can learn what was once restricted to a lineage in seconds, disrupting a traditional descension of knowledge.

Cooking culture can now be a tapestry of experiences and influences from an untraceably large number of sources, resulting in a minute culture of one. I believe my mother’s cooking is a culture of its own, flitting in an undefined space and place. And even though I aim to thoroughly record her recipes in writing (despite her resistance), I know what I recreate will continue to taste different from what comes from her hands. Instead of trying to assume and replicate my mother’s cooking styles, I now create cooking cultures with her. My own tendencies and inclinations that I have picked up through my mother, my personal relationships, cookbooks, TV, and the internet bloggers join, rather than submit, to her own. Whether it be through trying out the same daal recipe she found on youtube, or perfecting her cream puffs workshopped from a cooking blogger’s original, the transcendence of time, space, and place also works in our favor. Wherever the recipe comes from, I always savor, revere, and cherish my mother’s elusive versions and visions that culminate in a meal.

Illustration by Kevin Foster

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MODEL: Joseph Smith PHOTOGRAPHY: Knesia Matveeva STYLING: Delaney Caulder, Samantha Roncevich CLOTHING DEISGN: Henry Tran SET DESIGN: Katie Finan

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