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Created by Ana Lucia Seguin


P U R P L E P O N Y


Table Of Content

Mind Over Mind (Fuck It) Liz Bowen Touristacats - 2012 Libby Landauer and Meghan Morrison Identidad Ana Lucia Seguin Yolk Jessica Passananti In Bloom Stephanie Nunez

I Met Somebody Tran Pham


// Jeanette Fabre Nips / Party Girl Robyn Nichol Craked and Reshaped Brynn Holland Profile Picture Carolina Arevalo Unknown Stephanie Miller


mind over matter (fuck it) THINGS I CAN’T DO: HEAVE MY BODY OUTSIDE WITH THE RECYCLABLES DONATE IT TO GOODWILL I AM HUNCHED OVER AND DRAWING BLOOD FROM MY FINGERS OUTSIDE A DELI A MAN ASKS “WHERE YOU GOIN BABY” WHAT IF I PUT MY BLOOD ON HIM? WHAT KIND OF OBJECT WOULD I BECOME? I CAN’T FEED MY BODY TO THE PIGEONS I CAN’T DRAG THE FILE “STRANGER’S UNWELCOME HAND ON MY VULVA.DOCX” TO THE TRASH TODAY KARLY CHATTED ME “I CANNOT THINK OF ANYTHING MORE BASIC THAN HAVING TO EXPLAIN TO SOMEONE WHAT RAPE IS” I WISH I HAD A HOLOGRAM OF A SNARLING DOG JUST TO WALK WITH CAN I SUBLET MY BODY PRE-FURNISHED WITHOUT A LEASE JUST PUT IT IN SOME CRAIGSLIST USER’S CARE MAYBE IT’S ENOUGH TO LIST IT EXUBERANTLY IN CAPITAL LETTERS— A ROOM I’D LIKE THE SOUND OF; PHOTOS UNAVAILABLE


TOURISTACATS


TOURISTACATS


caracteres extranos e ideologias nuevas. nueva ciencia. influencias pegajosas que se me pegan como goma en la piel. y no se van. cultura borrosa. alma ausente. un alterno mundo el cual le dio vuelta trescientos sesenta a mi cabeza y me dio una condicion febril. identidad casi perdida pero salvada. existencia en dos mundos paralelos, muriendo poco a poco en cada lado, no decidiendo mezclarlo todo.

IDENTIDAD

intrinca conexion de energa flotante y extranjera. aterrice a los angeles un diciembre hace mucho.

mis manos morenas se sienten mas blancas. la fonetica mis eses y erres se van transformando de espanol a ingles. tormenta y miedo.

CONFUSION POR TRATAR DE PERTENECER. AISLAMIENTO POR DEJAR DE PERTENECER.


YOLK


You stood at the stove delicately and deliberately so as to not get any yolk on the side of the sizzling pan. A table, two chairs,

Quick crack, clean finish.

a green drink

The ideal over-easy.

with ice cubes like planets spinning slowly.

But you’ve gotten messy, my friend. Your cracking is faulted,

These were the only

ugly and yolky.

witnesses to the event

Your job is poached

at which you Cracked My Chest.

with a splattered center. Yellow is oozing into every orifice.

I recall the way you made us eggs

You know better.

one Saturday morning in my kitchen.

The waiter sets down another round

The sun was streaming in

of tea with ice and lemon

like a Bible verse

and I am suddenly aware

leaving pockets of light

of the cold chair

sprawled across the tiles,

and the stone table

the backs of your legs,

distancing my chest from yours.

the points of your elbows.

Your chest, an enclosed shell I used to live in, rises and falls in unfamiliar shapes. The ice spins slowly.


in

b l o o m


I MET SOMEBODY “I have something bad to tell you.” Peter looked nervously down at his hands. My mind and body were still foggy from the lovemaking that we were in the midst of. I stretched out my legs on his bed, catlike and dreamy. I always appreciate how hard a man can come. And Peter had come until kingdom come. “I met a girl.” “That’s great!” I said, without missing a beat. The nervous look again. “I really like her. So I’m going to pursue it and I’m afraid I won’t be able to see you for awhile.” I tried to choose my next words carefully, but my mind was like a verbal junkyard. “I don’t understand why you’d have to stop seeing me in order to pursue this other person, “ I blurted out. “Why couldn’t you see us both?” Silence ensued and a heavy sigh emerged from his dry lips. I imagined wind rushing through a narrow tunnel. “I can’t explain it, “ he finally said. “I thought that seeing you tonight would change the way I feel about going after this girl…” His big, pale blue eyes stared at me, searchingly, for any clue of what I may have been feeling, perhaps? They suddenly seemed vacant. I was sure that being with a self-proclaimed ethical slut for the past several months would have, well, rubbed off on him. The idea that an open, honest, non-monogamous way of living was very possible and one could do it successfully. I didn’t like that he was using me to figure out his feelings, which never, ever works and using anyone period is a bad idea. I didn’t linger on this, though. “I really like being with you and we always have an awesome time together. It’s a shame that has to end,” I said wistfully. “Well, we could meet one more time….” Really? I almost laughed out loud at Peter’s naiveté.


But at least he was being honest and I did appreciate that. After all, honesty is one of the mainstays of an open relationship and something that my partner Hayden and I value and live by. “I’m happy for you, “ I smiled, because I was. “How did you meet her?” “I was at a bar waiting for some friends, when this girl walks in. Our eyes met and that was it. We spent the rest of the night talking and making out and then she stayed the night and we had brunch together the next day.” I couldn’t have felt more unaffected or bored, but I kept that to myself. Brunch? I’d never even eaten a single meal with this guy. “Also, she’s been the first girl in awhile who I met in real life rather than online, “ he added hastily. Oh, the IRL versus URL conundrum. What’s so bad about meeting people online? I thought. Are they somehow less real than the people you meet in an offline situation? I thought of two lovers who I had met on OKCupid whom I had fantastic memories with. I mused about whether or not I would have met them if it hadn’t been for the Internet. Just like in the Gwyneth Paltrow film “Sliding Doors.” “How do you and Hayden do it?” Peter asked. He was so earnest and endearing. I wanted to reach out and embrace him. I had met Peter through OKCupid and considered him a success story as far as being a lover went. He worked in TV and film editing and was quite busy, so we didn’t see each other as much as I would like. When we did get together, he was always thoughtful and talked a lot about his work and growing up in northern California, all things I found fascinating. “We’re super honest, communicative and committed to each other, “ I started. “The idea of loving more than one person at a time has always been appealing to both of us, individually. We just didn’t know it was an option until we were together and opened the dialogue as a couple.” I was excited to share Hayden’s and my love story and was a little miffed with myself for never having brought it up. But I’m not usually a tell all kind of person unless someone asks and Peter had never asked. He never really asked too much about me come to think of it, except about how my weekend went if we happened to see each other at the end of one. I told him about Paris, how we had been together exclusively for two years before we opened up our relationship.


Peter learned forward, fascinated. “Is having a primary partner better than being…um, a single slut…when you’re in an open relationship?” “I think it depends on what kind of experiences you’re after, “ I said carefully. “Having a primary for me is both exciting and comforting on this adventure.” “But should I go into this with the goal of finding a primary partner?” Peter rolled along. Hayden and I really needed to start our non-monogamous and polyamorous relationship podcast. “I don’t know if you should go into it thinking that it’s the means to an end. It seems like it might cheapen the experience. I feel like a natural, more organic approach would be ideal. Go into it with an open mind and heart. And if you happen to meet someone you want to spend more time with than others and if that person is on the same page, then go for it.” He nodded and I could see him taking mental notes. “This has been the most fulfilling relationship I’ve ever had in my life,” I went on. “Hayden and I have both met really wonderful people. After all, we live in Brooklyn, baby.” Those words lived on a poster on our wall, inspired by the Roy Ayers song. Relief washed over me then, but I was still left with a sad heart because while I knew Peter was interested in the open relationship dialogue, I could see that he still felt ruled by some normcore ideas that pursuing a love interest could be the only course of action one could take. Other things in life had to be put aside. Everything else had to be shut off or worse, on standby. I would not be on standby. “I’m awash in all these new feelings for this girl and then the feelings I’ve had for you, I’ve put into a pocket.” I wondered briefly what kind of pocket it was. Maybe it was one of those patched up pockets made from an assortment of different fabrics, the kind that go on vintage denim, circa 1960s and 1970s. My pocket would have a patch each from every lover… “I didn’t mean to use you tonight to sort out my feelings,” he added, tail between his legs. I wasn’t angry, just slightly downhearted that his feelings still didn’t seem to be sorted out in any way.


“It’s okay. We both had fun tonight, didn’t we?” He seemed a bit taken aback by my answer. “Yeah, we did.” I leaned into his hairy chest then and hugged him. I was ready to head home.


//


I feel faint, I need fresh air, and I’m dehydrated. The sounds of throwback hip hop can be heard from outside the bar.  I am smoking a cigarette. I don’t smoke but I often drink too much. Sometimes, someone attempts to talk to me. I don’t pay them much mind. Due to my newly found, elevated sense of hierarchy. I know the DJ. I didn’t pay to get in.  My boyfriend is in there.  I have a reputation in there. My name is usually not remembered but the recollection is always “The girl with a lot of hair. You know. The one who is always dancing.”

//

I wake up drooling on a couch. Sometimes I end up in a bed.

I go through my black leather backpack. The essentials are always present:

1 traveling tooth brush 2 pairs of extra underwear 3 different types of jewelry I leave for the subway. Maybe people just think I live in Manhattan. Maybe they assume walk of shame. Then I am on a bus. Sometimes with former high school classmates. Avoiding their eye contact. My feet drag as I return back to the suburbs. In this time I am left to face reality.  The double life I have lived for four years.  The two states I currently live in.


Cracked and Reshaped “Just up and down the street, where we can see you! Not around the block!” My mom yelled as I ran to the backyard to get my bike. My neon pink helmet was hanging from the handlebars. Laura, my good friend, lived across the street; she was a year older than me. We played together a lot: collecting miniatures, swimming, and playing hide-and-go-seek. Then another girl moved into the corner house; she was in the same grade. And she was an only child. “That’s why she always has playdates scheduled,” my mom would say when I wanted to know why the girls were playing without me. “You’re lucky you have a sister. You always have someone to play with.” I rode my bike to the end of the block, and sure enough found Adrianna and Laura in Adrianna’s front yard. “Wanna ride bikes?” I asked leaning my head against the white metal gate surrounding her front yard. “Sure!” Laura said as she got up. Adrianna hesitated, “OK.” They grabbed their bikes and helmets and unlatched the metal gate. “I can only ride up and down the street. Not around the block,” I said as I started to pedal down the sidewalk. When we reached the last house we crossed the street and continued to ride back up the street, past my parents’ house. At the end of the block, Adrianna stopped, “WE are going around the block.” I braked. “I’m not allowed,” I said. “Well, WE are. We’ll meet you at the other end.” Laura looked at me. “OK...” I said disappointed. Longing for the days before Adrianna’s mother bought the house on the corner.


Reluctantly, I rode my bike alone down the sidewalk cracked and reshaped by the roots of the neighborhood trees. Normally I loved riding over this part of the sidewalk, but today the magic was missing. Laura and I used to spend hours riding back and forth over the cracks, seeing how fast we could go - our own amateur version of a half pipe. Once we attempted this feat while holding ice cream cones. After the first bump Laura lost hers. I laughed, but as I was traversing the final crack, my double mint-chip and coffee cone joined Laura’s melting pistachio and vanilla cone on the ground. All we had left were ice cream drips on our bike handles, sticky fingers, and a belly ache from laughing so hard. When I reached the end of the street, I put one foot on the floor, peered around the corner, and then waited. The neighborhood started to move in slow motion. A car drove by pausing at the stop sign; a man casually walked his dog passed me. Did they mean this corner? Slowly, I headed back up the street, turning my head around every so often to make sure I didn’t miss them. As I pedaled, I spotted them at the other end of the block - off their bikes. They hastily looked both ways and darted towards Adrianna’s house disappearing behind the ivy-covered gate of her front yard. I stopped. Suddenly my cheeks felt hot, and I imagined they were as bright as my helmet. I wanted to disappear behind a tree. That hot summer day, neon pink helmet on, bike left sprawled on the front yard, my friendship with Laura cracked and reshaped into faded memories.


Profile Picture ----------

social media social pressure perfection happiness envy success what about all those other things that I am that don’t necessarily fit those labels? what about when I don't measure up to society’s conditions or expectations? am I welcome to share these things even though these might be uncomfortable for others? social media doesn’t include a rules notice, but I feel they are intrinsically present. this is a section of my life that I would like to share with others, these are parts of my life that make me who I am, parts of my life that might not fit the perfection standards.


L E M O N S Ever since you started collecting my cat’s whiskers I knew I’d lost you at last I stopped finding my name written in concrete about the city Then eventually I stopped looking You hid my flute and threw out my shirt then cut my mother’s quilt to fit your bed better, I don’t even know if that’s really why you did it? Your sleep apnea haunts me I’d wake with a start when I’d feel your chest stop moving Except now that you are never there Well. All night I’ve been looking for limes, When I find them they’ve cut the wedges in half It isn’t enough To play my scales on the fire escape Or take cold showers with other men


Unknown We are all mysteries. I am a mystery. Living a bohemian. A pseudo bohemian. The creation is unheard. The thoughts thicken. The fantasies become. So visceral. I grab them in my dream.


Purple Pony  

PURPLE PONY ISSUE #3: DUPLICITY Includes work from 13 contributors, published in Brooklyn, NY. 2014 Perfect bound, 5.25" x 6.75"

Purple Pony  

PURPLE PONY ISSUE #3: DUPLICITY Includes work from 13 contributors, published in Brooklyn, NY. 2014 Perfect bound, 5.25" x 6.75"

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