the juggler art, literature, design
literature, art, design at notre dame spring 2012 volume 76
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letter from the editor Writing is a funny process. Somehow we discover more about ourselves by not writing about ourselves, or what we think we know. There is a reason that people ramble when enraged. The disjointed conglomeration of words and phrases eventually arrives at some sort of argument, some sort of breakthrough. Writing allows us to link together seemingly distinct and separate thoughts, images, and possibilities to thread a more coherent narrative. So in this edition of The Juggler, take a moment to consider what is achieved through the authorsâ€™ poetry and prose, and remember conclusions are certainly not limited to the last line of a piece. If you like what you see and want to get involved, email email@example.com. If you would like to submit art or literature, please email your works to firstname.lastname@example.org. Please see our website, nd.edu/~juggler, for more details. Thanks for reading! Katherine Fusco
self-portrait in 2011 front cover oil painting by Maddie Baker
the perfect run photograph by Lauren Fritz
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maddie baker has five favorite smells.
lauren fritz wants to own an apple orchard.
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sonoma in the rain photograph by Lauren Fritz
lauren fritz would really like to attend the Yi Peng Festival in Thailand this fall to make her dreams of reliving Tangled a reality.
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table of contents art selections cover 003 004 007 008 011 013 014 016 018 021 022 025 026 028 030
self-portrait in 2011 by maddie baker the perfect run by lauren fritz sonoma in the rain by lauren fritz his & his II by lauren kalinoski fishing by lauren kalinoski walking corpse syndrome by trĂŠ carden elkmoon by jackie emmanuel pool of tears by maddie baker colors of awe by sara felsenstein untitled by rachel brandenberger look at me by amanda carter snow scene by jackie emmanuel euphoria by douglas angulo tear me apart by maddie baker censored by ryan geraghty tracks to the fifth city by sara felsenstein
literature selections juicy by mike mclane a viking funeral for my goldfish by sarah pinter the truth of bones by katherine fusco the turning of the years by zach wendeln our morticianâ€™s daughter by julia steiner escaping the labyrinth by molly shank travels by ruby ferns what doyle once said when the sun rose by tommasina domel 024 familiarity by anne marie blieszner 027 a conversation by jane wageman 029 thananotes by brit burgeson
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juicy poem by Mike McLane Ripe Himalayan pomegranate countertops. They’re all the rage these days. Docs in crispy lab coats like to slice and dice on them. If you go belly up, blush a bit, pop a leak, These counters wipe clean, with a streak free shine. Scalpel. Vice. Gauze. Gauze. Gauze. And pause, “That’s not good.” With a thread-thin cut he sees my deepest secrets: A stomach full of rubies, an eyeball stuffed with sapphires. Soon he’ll take a teaspoon and scoop up all my pithy rinds. Just within my sugary skin are ropes, pulled from paperclips and fish hooks, Wiry and tough, all twisted up. The oldest trick in the book. With a bed of frosted tigers eyes the back of my head rolls, And a stream of drool krazy glues the little spheres to the corner of my mouth. Until I have become a swollen chrysanthemum, a suckle-bee with pollen Dripping from my jowls. The good doctor removes my extra senses. He puts them in a bowl right by my bedside, with a plate underneath To catch all the drips. Little drops of sour rain fizzle on my tongue tip. Each one chatters my teeth into tiny bits, shivers my optic nerve, Plays toccatas on my spine. I wonder where she took me that day. All I did was hold on tight, right over the edge of the swing seat. I used to fit so nicely upon that seat. I sprouted little wings, Wings Boeing would be proud of, and flopped forth onto the floor, I’d not beat them fast enough. Lift off was just a myth, and here lies A pile of wet laundry soaked red, and the judge’s card, Perfect 10.
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his & his II drawings by Lauren Kalinoski
lauren kalinoski will miss Riley but is excited to draw fun science things next year.
mike mclane glows in the dark.
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fishing photograph by Lauren Kalinoski
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a viking funeral for my goldfish poem by Sarah Pinter Like Odin caressing the infant world His fins, reaching from horizon to horizon, Owned all that they touched. Inch by inch he conquered infinity, Each degree of the glass orb, each shivering Molecule of water, and he bore the runes Of his myth on his scales. When Valhalla called He should have a Viking funeral, I thought, Thin column of smoke rising from his Dwarf longship, though his wet body, Like a holy relic, might refuse to burn. Naturally, one pale morning He went flaccid near the lip of the bowl. His eyes had always held blankness, but the Ghostly milk of his scales haunted me. How long had this second face lain latent? Shuddering, I spun his fleeting heroism Down to oblivion. No ceremony else. No monument left behind but a few Loose scales in churning water.
sarah pinter is an English major by choice and a Finance major by necessity.
lauren kalinoski will miss Riley but is excited to draw fun science things next year.
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the truth of bones poem by Katherine Fusco
katherine fusco believes in the luck of the whole rabbit, not just its foot.
1, 2, 3, 4, tell me what you look for in this bag of tangled bones, on which the brain balances melodious joints? shattered colors? in the cradle of the soul calling you to wake it rolls your eyes and points your finger leads you deceives you puppeteer of muscles manipulating the tactile sound clink clink clink like the hail of frozen stone commanded by the vortex of human mind and the devil contract with gravity its contents inconsistent traded and pounded until shiny until acceptable conditioned in the flesh to be forgotten in the dirt
walking corpse syndrome photograph by Tré Carden
tré carden is allergic to chocolate.
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the turning of the years poem by Zach Wendeln
I am carved from sand, like the Sphinx, riddled with gaping pores. It takes a lot of fingers and toes to count the folds of my furrowed brow, and Time has nibbled the cartilage from my nose, a hollow cubby for nesting hawks. Bandits whose eyes treasure the moon’s luster mount my paws, tethering my sand-paper flesh with rusted ropes and hooks. Perhaps if they ascend they might relay the watercolored motions (heaven’s plum waves and peach clouds) to my painted eyes; they miss the moonrise. The last time I saw the stars, they seemed more like stencil shapes torn from the fabric of memory than jewels buried in a black-sand sky. I lost them, along with my pocket-watch and that poem you wrote me, when the winds brushed the crumbs of my body into the eye of the horizon.
elkmoon watercolor by Jackie Emmanuel
zach wendeln is an Auden enthusiast and aspiring screenwriter.
jackie emmanuel’s life is a walking Don Bluth film, complete with rapping dinosaurs.
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pool of tears oil painting by Maddie Baker (original by Elena Kalis)
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our mortician’s daughter poem by Julia Steiner Running across the big, big mountain There is no way to go How many lives have reached their endings Silently killed by the snowfall of the ghosts? Their bodies are clean, they make their music From under rock and roll Can we confirm their wayward spirits Are something more than the souls of what we’re told? Channeling all these than age-old questions Mind knows where it’s been Then how does it ever seem to happen? The daylight starts just as nighttime rushes in? I don’t know what to do without you Look at the clock, its porcelain doll face Is actually made of snow Father awakes to greet the daylight His great mortal cause has filled this heart with hope
julia steiner is just a rat, boy.
maddie baker is fairly certain that David Guetta also makes his music using GarageBand on a 2008 MacBook.
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colors of awe photograph by Sara Felsenstein
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sara felsenstein wishes her life were a jazz saxophone solo.
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untitled photograph by Rachel Brandenberger
rachel brandenberger is a Junior Design Major who loves pictures, shoes, and sunshine.
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escaping the labyrinth poem by Molly Shank
Cinder-blocked walls grumbling all around The vibrations are not caused by thunder As you first thought Even god can’t bowl that much Sediment raining down from the popcorn grey canopy Don’t breathe now— The ash is entering your blood Platelets comprised or tar, breeding cancer for later Like tea sandwiches, just large enough to fit in your pocket. The last vestments of normalcy crumbling away People run in, run out, run through you Like the least helpful person in an emergency Coat and tie doesn’t always signal professional They — no one saw this coming Except for about 1400 Polaroid’s Their film freeze framing It’s lying all over the street. The rain and fire hoses will drain it away To the tunnels where those people live.
molly shank is a homemade knife.
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travels poem by Ruby Ferns Ninety degrees. One hundred and ninety degrees and Saturation. The heat makes my skin and hair collapse to drops: A sweat that tastes like southern coasts Like dead sea foam and crayons and conch shells That green tipped sand makes my fingertips feel numb Numb but able to sink big ships with icicle ways Even when the mercury rises too high and shatters the glass. When the pieces cut the bottoms of feet I take myself back to dreary winds that tend to blow all sorts of suns away I can only take the train all of them are heading north so I will take a suitcase and Fill it with X’s not red lips not full lips we’re crossing out Fill it with dice and bugs so we might win it all over again
ruby ferns is a senior Studio Art Major who loves sunshine and smoking cigarettes.
Fill it with wrinkled hands that haven’t gotten old (just worn away with scratching and biting and reaching and clawing and things) The movement is only eating us when we call it success and show our teeth It’s looking like white smiles from here I want to smash the sand the sand art filling glass candle cradles Trying to make burns prettier With wicks that wear away so I want to make shapes that don’t hurt my eyes – I know where that vision is going – I want to pick the wins off and stop calling them nice or pretty They are not like bugs they are bugs and Each morning is in front of the mirror. If I can demand a story Then I can finish it and Stop calling trains purposeful and trying porcelain glances out for size Not fitting, not anytime soon.
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look at me oil painting by Amanda Carter
amanda carter really likes sheep.
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what doyle once said when the sun rose prose by Tommasina Domel
Most people believe that it is the middle of the night, the darkest moment, when the burden of loneliness is heaviest and hardest to carry. But truly the night is not so unfriendly to those who have a light within. The hours of darkness may as well be one instant, whole and certain, and the dark becomes the cloak which covers the soul that feels naked in the day, the soul that is both fragile and strong, one who despairs for protection from that hollow and unnatural thing which we call reality. No, it is the dawn that wears heaviest to those who witness it alone. For it is then that it becomes intensely clear that time has passed and is still passing and is always and forever passing, that another day will soon demand you, and a day after that and again after that, with no promise of change, no promise of a dawn that is true, the same endurance being continuously tried, cresting and falling as sure the sun rises and sets. And rises again.
watercolor by Jackie Emmanuel
but what is so Raven?
tommasina domel will never intentionally go camping.
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familiarity poem by Anne Marie Blieszner you three letters rather at the tail of the alphabet, y almost slipping over a precipice, gripping the jagged edges of xs and zs at the end of its train forgotten second to last a nearly-solitary caboose dare to say it, and lips crinkle into an o, are surprised in releasing the u breathing it into sound waves letting it hang in shocked silence, elongated vowels resonating between the valleys and canals of recipient ears resting, murmured, shy dangling on tenuous strings fastened behind teeth, as slight insecurity in employing such an intimate pronoun threatens to cut them loose and send the word across the borders
euphoria photograph by Douglas Angulo
anne marie blieszner is studying abroad in Angers.
of even a name and now comes foreign country, the unexplored and unmapped terrain of whispering you before me
douglas angulo is a Finance and Painting Major from beautiful Riverside, California. He enjoys long walks on the beach.
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untitled photograph by Shelby Grubbs
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a conversation prose by Jane Wageman
jane wageman is a junior English major who likes thunderstorms, chocolate chip cookies, and playing the piano.
“Are you lonely, little bird?” he asks me with his soft-feather voice. “Of course,” I say. “Of course.” Dead grass. I pull it up in crackling handfuls, each blade snapping in the middle. He pauses and gives a distant tree an awkward look. “Oh.” A conversation between friends at the side of an empty soccer field. The wind is strong enough to fill my eyes with hair, to blow softly below the ghosts of whistles and shouts. But light enough to hear a stagnant silence. “Little bird,” he says, and stops. He calls me that when he is uncomfortable or joking. It is a name spun from nowhere, without meaning. One day he plucked it out of the sky, and when I didn’t laugh too long, he used it again. He starts his voice with a cough. “Little bird—” and chokes on the wind “—do you know—” But profound thoughts get stuck in his cheeks and he blows out in an anxious puff. “Are you okay?” The grass is a dead mound by my tennis shoes. I poke it and it shifts. “Of course,” I say, and the wind takes the grass. I let out a small laugh that follows the yellow blades, drifting off in small tufts. I am concerning him. His eyebrows pinch and his ears wobble. They do that when he’s nervous. “No really,” he says.
tear me apart oil painting by Maddie Baker (original by Linnea Strid)
And then the rest of the laugh falls out of my mouth, rises above the wind, and drifts over to the goal posts where it bounces off the metal and echoes. There is almost no skin between his eyebrows, they have furrowed together in one hairy patch. I let my laughter plunge under the wind again, and I try to imagine a way to explain. “Yes,” I say. “Really.” “But you said—” “I know, I know what I said.” I scoop the grass back into its pile. His brows furrow again, and he looks across at the tree as if trying to extract a meaning from it. “You said you were lonely.” “Yes I know. I just said I knew, didn’t I?” “But then you said—” “I know! I know what I said!” I kick the grass and send it flying. “Sorry.” “Little bird—” The sky is starting to storm up, to turn a shade of navy. The clouds roll out across it, cumbersome and slow and terribly large. I look up to them moving across like a mammoth herd, up and then behind me to our bikes against the chain-link fence. A single bike-lock is snaked around both of the frames and woven into the fence. And I know that this is what makes me so inextricably sad.
maddie baker WHAT UP DJ?!?!!?
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censored print by Ryan Geraghty
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thananotes poem by Brit Burgeson
Catholics cross legs, chest, to prevent meiosis (the mime-moans-this) consume flesh on Sundays guzzle mimosas, recoil, into linguistic cocoons caskets of castor oil bag of cells, bags donâ€™t sell past their expiration date too bad Iâ€™m always late graveyard tongues trace barbarous wire injection cross-stitch acrostics bronchial scenery made of lace dreamers drink milk and salt at bedtime like brine shrimp in a purple plastic castle
ryan geraghty likes to stimulate penetrating conversations. Get it?
brit burgeson is currently curled in a fetal position with salmonella in her belly. Yum.
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colophon The Juggler is a semiannual student art, design, and literary magazine of the Notre Dame community. It is printed at Ava Maria Press in Notre Dame, Indiana. Editorial and/or business correspondence should be addressed to: The Editor, The Juggler 315 LaFortune Student Center Notre Dame, Indiana, 46556 The Juggler can also be reached via email at email@example.com. Poetry, short fiction, essays, art, and design are accepted at any time (preferably by email). The material in this publication is protected by copyright and may not be reprinted, copied, or quoted, except by specific written permission. The opinions expressed in The Juggler are not necessarily those of the University of Notre Dame or the student body.
tracks to the fifth city photograph by Sara Felsenstein
sara felsenstein knows all roads lead to the ocean.
katherine fusco editor
sara mcguirk assistant editor
amanda carter art & design director graphic design
bob franken â€™69 advisor
robert sedlack â€™89 design advisor
writing selection erin portman molly shank aubrey butts sian kresse maria fahs kim halstead
art selection amanda carter mia swift catherine puma yun jung kim
the juggler â€˘ winter 2012