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THE CATALYST contemporary literary arts magazine special edition:: incite isla vista issue 2 // spring 2014 BULLSHIT // MATHew JAVIDI O D e T O H O L L y // A D r I A n G r O n S e T H J A r // T O M M y A L e x A n D e r SALT OceAn cHILI MAnGO // GIAnnA STODDArD A L B I O n // A D A M D e G r e e a b e a u t i f u l y o u n g n y m p h . . . / / n a t a l i e o ' ’B r I e n JUST AnOTHer GHOST STOry // HALey pAUL c O U c H S U r f I n G // S e A n n O L A n On ArTISTS // VIJAy MASHArAnI c U r M U D G e O n // M A T T H e w M A L M L U n D D r O p L e T S // S I M O n e D U p U y A D r I f T I n O B L I V I O n // y I B I n G G U O D e A r I S L A V I S T A // B r A n D O n p I n e I r A fIrST THIS BeSTIAL MArk... // DAnIeL pODGOrSkI e S p r e S S O S H O T T H r O U G H T H e H e A r T // A n J A L I S H A S T r y A w O r L D O f L I T e r A T U r e M A J O r S // c A n e L L e I r M A S e V e r y T H I n G y O U S e e O n T V // r y A n M A r T I n A z z I w I n T e r n e V e r c O M e S // J O S H G O O D M A c H e r w H e n T H e B I r D f L I e S // B e n J A M I n M O S S A f T e r M A T H // k A T H L e e n B y r n e T H e r I S I n G // D y L A n c H A S e f e B r U A r y // D e V I n B I e r M A n c O n T r O L // c H r I S c U B B I S O n O n e f r e S H f O O L // A D r I A n G r O n S e T H LAck Of ALcOHOL // JOSepH LeGOTTe AMTrAk // STeVe AUGUST TOGeTHer In ISOLATIOn // MAyA JAcOBSOn, nIcOLe HyMOVITz O I L r I G B O y // M O L L y H A M I L L A MOrnInG STrOLL // SeAn nOLAn letter from one eDitor DeAr reADer, name? Could a restaurant employee in IV guess your “regular”? Isla vista is one living breathing ocean organism. You touch Have you crashed your bike? Have you listened to KCSB? it and it responds to you. We can’t pretend for long we know Have you seen a live performance of any kind? Did you go to what we’re doing here, that we know what to say. Amidst the Extravaganza? Have you “become a member”? Have you ever ran insanity, the utter disbelief we all must be feeling right now, to catch the sunset? Did you take pictures? Did your freshman what words will make it change? Ryan Yamamoto wrote “The dorm have a twilight smoking group? Did you ever break into the Catalyst,” a poem in our last issue, that challenged us to change faculty pool? Did you ever play at an open mic? Did you ever get our community from “empty handed torch bearers searching a Woodstock’s bottle opener? Did you ever break anything? And, for our Prometheus” to igniting the flames of passion in creative have you made something here? If the answer is “no”, you may be collectivity. That’s not an easy task for anyone. How do you paint viewed as lucky. You, unlike these poor barnacles, might have a confusion? How do you arrange pain on a Word document? As it cleaner break from this rock we call home. But for the hangers- turns out, a lot of us generated flame imagery with the first crop on, how do we begin to cope with leaving? of submissions for this special edition. This last weekend has revealed that our foundations run We know fire. The California fires burning elsewhere are but deep here. Like so many of my friends I found it impossible to a backdrop to the war happening here, on our home-front. This abandon IV this weekend. Yet, without the words, without the will always be our home, transient as it is. Though many have and Facebook statuses and tweets, the links to media sensationalist will call Isla Vista home, those currently living here will always garbage, we are one. And one we will remain. share a bond as a result of the events we have endured together. This particular issue, Incite Isla Vista was initially a DIY It’s impossible to look at this place, and the work in this issue, response to the failure of the lock-in fee for funding. It has become without a new perspective. Professor Alan Fridlund, in a lecture much more than that. Now more than ever, we need something on May 27, 2014 told us that we would never quite return to the to uncover our beating heart, warts and all. The voices here “normalcy” we experienced before Friday, May 23rd. We will tell are many, and varied. As my content weenies put it: “So we got our kids, our friends twenty years from now, and we will never together to share how we see it, which is what you see spread over be able to explain the way this feels to anyone. We will be forever these pages. In spite (or, maybe because) of its narrower scope, tied and connected to our Isla Vista kin. this issue has a diversity of perspectives on display: shitstarters This past year has been hard, and indiscriminant in its and arsonists, tweaks and catatonics, star and seagazers, fools tragedy. The media has already tried to pin the ailments of an and fossils, the green and the overseasoned, drifters and anchors, entire society on our small backs. Yes, there are problems. turkeys and dodos.” No, Isla Vista is not just the picturesque sun kissed image we In this square mile of ours, our faces become the streets, the uphold it to be, but a place of growth and decay. Generations storefronts, the houses. Without us, only ghosts would remain. shuffle in and out, take a stake and grow roots. But eventually Perhaps our issue crosses lines. It definitely crosses boarders— the tide turns all away, sending us back to a strange unknown the very same we cross daily from campus to IV. This issue is world outside our bubble. Yet as much as we struggle to, we defined by the month-old words within its own bindings. I can’t ever fully rip ourselves from this breathing, growing, recommend that you read this thing out of order, since chaos is strengthening ecosystem. A part of us will always remain here, what got us here. In the words of Brandon Pineira you’ll find that a few infinitesimal grains of the sand’s immense store once the Isla Vista is not just a means to an end, and that we are ready to waves have worn us in. be looked in the eyes. Have you ever gone skinny-dipping while you’ve lived here? Have you ever joined a club? Did you watch the eclipse? Have -n you been up Storke Tower? Have you ever called an office, annex May 28, 2014 or building on campus “home”? Do you call a professor by first cover: photo:s // haley paul, Natalie o:brieN, megaN fisher Bul lshit By MATHew JAVIDI gaucho marks magazine Wake up, motherfucker. my idiot roommates (who are just as brainwashed That’s right, I’m talking to you, you mindless, as you) just kept going to the bullshit fountain and helpless, brainwashed drone of society. Wake up. taking long swigs. But I knew better. I knew better It’s about time somebody told you that. Look away because David Foster Wallace knew better. That’s from your Apple Handjob 7 or whatever the fuck why he killed himself, man. Because he didn’t want it’s called and listen to me. LISTEN TO ME. YOU to keep eating, drinking, and breathing bullshit. HAVE NO IDEA HOW IMPORTANT IT IS THAT Now, I’m not going to do what he did because I’ve YOU LISTEN TO ME. Okay, good. Now wake up. got a mission to complete, but he had the right idea, You’re about to get a life lesson from someone who you know? Definitely made him a hero. In fact, I knows better. It’s okay, you can trust me. I’m in don’t think I ever would have read Infinite Jest if college. DFW hadn’t killed himself. You cruise along throughout your day without But why am I even telling you this? You know all a care in the world. You go to work at some job about bullshit. You love bullshit. You spread bullshit that you hate, and you take orders from some guy all over your morning fucking bagel and eat it with you hate, and then you go home to a house filled some bullshit flakes in bullshit milk. You’re the with stuff that men in suits told you to buy. You’d one who keeps paying for high-speed Internet and probably hate those guys too. And why do you cable in one package. That’s like installing a bullshit do it? Because it’s easy? Because that’s “just what waterfall in your own home. Why would you do everybody does?” Because it’s the safest, most secure that to yourself? So that you can be with people way to get through life without having to confront and alone at the same time? You’re killing yourself, your impending death on a daily basis? Because buddy. You’re rotting your brain cell by cell. But hey, it pays your mortgage? Let me ask you this, then. if you are going to stay online, you should like my What the fuck is a mortgage? Seriously, I have no Facebook page, “If Corporations Are People Then idea what that word means. Never in my life have I They Deserve To...” We need likes, dude. Otherwise, been confronted by the deeper concept or gravity of nobody is going to get the message. I’m trying to a mortgage. But fuck you for paying one. free people here, and I can only do it if they like the You’re in a stupor, drunk on a substance so pure Facebook page. It’s really easy. You should do it now, yet so synthetic that even the men who create it fall before you forget. victim to its potency. I’m talking about bullshit, I know it makes you angry. It makes me angry man. It’s in our food, it’s in our water, it’s in our too. But that’s why I have to scream at you about it. make-up and our lotion. Did you take a shower this You wouldn’t be angry about it if I weren’t screaming morning? Did you use shampoo? Guess what? There at you. You wouldn’t wake up if I didn’t bombard was bullshit in that too. I know this because I read you with performance art, spoken word, and Jack a lot of Phillip K. Dick and Sartre last year while Kerouac poems in a venomous, spit-laden rant at photo//michaela vachuska three in the morning. I’m making sacrifices here. It takes a lot of my little brother’s Ritalin to organize my thoughts cogently enough to hit you with this. That shit fucks with your brain after a while, but that’s the price I’m willing to pay to save you. Because you need my help, friend. I am a social justice warlord. As a member of the upper-middle class, I am the best person to rip it from the crisis of identity and philosophy it’s currently experiencing. I am the hero you both need AND deserve. I am your Bullshit Batman. ▲ art//chanel miller Through these turbulent years middle finger stretched straight to the sky; you’ve kept me afloat with an enduring example sometimes at sunset the apparition of a pirate ship emerges, Seas and cities swirl tattered sail of pink lemonade clouds but you remain unmoved, hovering above, a fixture in the fathomless chaos a raucous melody rising of growth and pain from your ghostly decks senility and madness discovery and death Entire days and nights spent watching you all the absurd sub-clauses attached to this lease on life Gray meditative mornings, shrouded in Melvillian mists, Man-made, true, your face only visible in memories or stolen moments but I can’t imagine the sparkling blue without you, until the fog floats by contrasting the earthly palate with cool raw steel, The stark clarity of high noon complementing the landscape like any noble when even the endless ocean seems stagnant monument and the stink almost overpowers my unenlightened mind For four years now I’ve tried to decipher your mystery Yet it always drifts away with the light, I’ve heard all the rumors of rape and violence, the rush of day imperceptibly the accusations of lust and plunder, fading into evening… the cries that claim you represent a culture depraved beyond redemption, Our sun reclines with no regard for planet or progeny behind your caged silhouette, bursting its show to a close And surely they can’t be false (the way we all should go), shedding its dying rays on streaks of clouds, But I’ve also seen another dimension, slicing open the sky studying, like fresh rhubarb pie, pacing these twisting angles bleeding bloodorange juice of sand and rock on the glassy shore From afar you’ve continuously morphed in my Dazzling alike the mind of man bird and dog, imagination: every starfish surfer and log strewn along the beach one day the peeking periscope in reverence, of a Japanese submarine, worshipping a frozen invasion floundering in the riptide of time; A new moon rises to rival your light, glowing deeper in the enveloping cloak of night the next, wandering the coast on more mushrooms than All sounds ebb away… Morrison, I’ve spied a clear crystal fist illumined like a jack-o-lantern, We’re alone Perhaps we’ll meet again in distant days, after continents have shifted, Interrupted only by the occasional raccoon surfaces risen, and adventurous love-locked couple but time’s inexhaustible barrage of blows whose kisses can’t compare to what we share— somehow still gliding by you, the deep unbroken unspoken bond of melting in the warm breeze acknowledgment, exchanged through knowing winks and soft You will raise your spire chuckles and a toast with a smile, in the midnight calm lighthouse of our hopes, dependable as the bubbling tar Dawn breaks as before, and the urgency of youth purple pages inking the floor, saltmorning scent wafting my soul Humbly doing your duty, with the desire to strip down shimmering, dive in buoyant swim out to you… anchored deep outta sight, puzzling and protecting each class But now it’s finally farewell of passing dreamers on the waves. ▲ We knew it couldn’t last, this secret sultry affair— was it really four years or just the four seasons of a day? Ah, either way it must be adieu, unknown winds and waters whisper me away, beyond that western horizon you’ve faithfully guarded like a gate ODE TO HOLLY Silently standing sentry: you know your work and place Now I must find mine By ADrIAn GrOnSeTH photo // mariah tiffany JAr By TOMMy ALexAnDer Jar, a big glass jar filled with hot black coffee and left in the fridge to cool, gradually, slowly, forgotten until i need a caffeine fix and reach into the fridge to find the glass frosty to the touch and drink it all down in a few thirsty gulps. it’s like when my father would give me water in a tall square mason jar during prepubescent weekend visits, gnocchi pasta boiling on the stove rolling big handsome meatballs in the kitchen of that cozy pink house that’s swallowed in the gob of years. i drink out of jars now because it takes me back to a time when i could still change everything that happened, and how i acted, and how i took that mason jar and drank down the water and pissed it all over the floor consumed with this baseless faceless simmering solipsistic rage and left and made my father cry. i could smash all the mason jars in the world and it wouldn’t change fuck all so here i am drinking whiskey out of a jar at three in the morning and my father was supposed to call again today but forgot or prioritized and i could’ve prevented this all in that pink house on valparaiso. Salt Ocean Chili Mango By GIAnnA STODDArD On nights warm enough we slip out of our clothes, toss them onto unlit sand, trip and run and stumble for the dark, open-armed ocean— rippling skirt hand-stitched with stars—to dive and rinse the stickiness of the Mango Man’s flower-carved fruit from our skin. The burn of brine always recalls the chili-salt caught on our nostrils and mouths and chins, edging our tongues in sweat. photo//megan fisher art // michaela vachuska by ADAM DE GREE ALBION As I lay down to sleep last night some issues I’ve been holding my eyes beheld a curious sight: close to my chest: an endless scale of space and time These constellations that you see played out across my unfolding mind. are just conventions, Luckily for me and you connections constructed my role was just a sideline view, by your invention. but I pray that these words suffice You think you can see for I had no camera the stars in their dance? and there were no lights. Why, you don’t even know Only Black when to take off your pants! Consumed by wet dreams of Power and Fame, as I fell back, Uncontrollable ejaculations of shame. Gravity released me, and with no ground beneath me See, I too was once 16, I began to fall in place, My valleys have also been pierced by streams; suffocated by dark proto-space. I’ve had my share of bedding disconformities Back and back through the terrible Black caused by last night’s faults and orogenies. until there was a mighty crack— But you are still young, melodies came pouring out your orgasms come fountains of sound and light did spout at the point of your gun.” into glistening glorious song: the stars announcing the first dawn Then Albion cried out: “Ok I get it! You don’t need to shout. As the eons swiftly passed, Even so, I disagree, galaxies crumbled, ran out of gas, in my body there is no unity. with no one out here to miss them Still, I swear, that isn’t me! until I arrived in our solar system, Those are just deviations, where a creature crawling on ground growing pains, abbreviations. heard just a whisper of the stars’ sound, Throw out those hormonal sighs and suddenly thinking himself wise, and I’m still here she proceeded to map out the skies. without the lies.” Finally, grown swollen with Pride “I’m not sure if I should laugh or cry,” at what he’d done with those little eyes, came Gaia’s sighing reply, she cried “Behold! The glory of my handiwork! “Your lie begins No longer do I play with sticks in the dirt. With the simple word ‘I.’ This greatness is now all now my own, Other life on Earth Mom, can I finally move out alone?” is part of the cycle of death and birth, Mother Earth replied with a smirk, of food and fuel. “Not quite yet, you’ve got unfinished work! But you with your ‘I’ sit there and rule, Let’s just say that by the look of your room Perched above, alone on your throne, I’d be sending other planets to their doom As you blindly burn down your home. if I said yes. Now you want to leave me And while you’re here alone here to bleed, let me address again I say No! Do you not see when you include me in your I, you are part of this rock? then, my human, then you will fly.” I am your mother, from none other What happened next I cannot say, could you come to be. for it had passed the break of day, So if it finally comes to pass and as my alarm released its scream that when you say me the dream at last took its leave you mean more than your various incarna- and left me wondering what will be… tions, more than color, language, and nation, So after all that’s come to pass, more than the products of your history, well, next week, I’m sleeping through class. the words you use to chain Infinity And even now, I have some hope that though humanity can be a sad joke, If it comes to be we still will hear and echo the stars that your me in the furnaces of our hearts, includes the earth, the sky, the sea, until the Earth burns not in damnation all the things that gave you birth, but with the Fires of Creation. ▲ when you realize that your worth with them is inextricably tied, when they are included in your ‘I’ Then no more will you wander alone, no more will you burn down your home, no more will your hormones control the fires you start with the sparks of your soul; no more will your creations bring hate, bringing you to your enemy’s gate; and no more will you have need of me berating you with these words. For then you will see that you, human, make things sacred. The power I have is the power you give. I am a story, a manifestation of themes you’ve experienced since your creation. One day, maybe, you’ll see the Truth that I, Mother Earth, live in you; photos // ava mortoN A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG NYMPH GOING TO CARNIVAL A lullaby to Juliana, For her the night awaits. She spends the afternoon preparing, Gluing feathers, trimming lace. She works under the lamplight while The sun is growing dim She only has an hour left Before Carnival begins. She takes her time before the glass Symmetric lines she draws Carving shadows along her face To accentuate the jaw. Next she takes the rouge in hand and gently scores her cheeks her eyelids marked, the hairs removed her lips are plumped and sweet. The only things now left to do to send her on her way: put on her gloves and tie the mask So she can slip away. Jewels in place, façade complete The games will soon begin. Though Julianna doesn’t know, That no one ever wins. Shadows growing on the wall Inviting in the Night By Natalie o’brieN They crowd the room and whisper “soon” To the Day’s waning light. “Where did Julianna go? She drank all the champagne.” “All is fair in Love and War” Sing chorus and refrain. Palm fronds to talons, shadows curl Waiting for their prey A picture perfect paradise, In Carnival, betrays. By HALey pAUL Just ANOTHER GHOST STORY photo//sara QuiNtaNilla In a certain tower above a lagoon lived bright white hair and an exotic voice. He insisted a young girl who never felt quite right there. On a they follow him, and to push the long walk home night like any other, with a friend, she travelled to the further down their itinerary, the girls accepted. neighborhood nearby, where the masses gathered in He led them to his house on the corner where somnambulistic vagary, to wander ‘til dawn in the inside there were many other white-haired, tank misty streets. Policemen stood about like animalistic top-clad men with strange voices throwing balls stone statues in a park, feasting their eyes on the into cups. With uptmost politeness, the man offered crowd as if they weren’t even there, yet ready to drinks to his lures and both accepted, though the awaken. The girl and her friend were growing tired nightly craze was alive in them already. With the of the cold night when a peculiar thing happened. man’s mixed concoction in hand, the young girl They weren’t planning to meet anyone in particular, consented to an invitation to the balcony where but they did—an entertaining young man with conversation and people-watching could manifest. With every sip, though, the girl fell farther and Her story doesn’t end quite yet, for a couple years farther away from the material present into her own later she lived just around the corner from that same world, her own mind, where the scenes recorded by grim apartment, though the ghastly beast was but a her eyes erased faster than she could watch them. flicker in her memory. He must be gone forever, the Up the stairs and down the hall—the girl thought and she was at least somewhat right. girl could not remember if she had made it Thereupon, she met a friend to whom she told there herself. In a bedroom, there were two everything, because the two shared similar stories large mattresses on the floor, beckoning and manners and an understanding of what it feels her to the inevitable prospect of sleep. But like to be devoured. One day, she was invited to her the sweet cold arms of fresh air grabbed friend’s house, and like a reoccurring nightmare, her and pulled her onto the balcony and she drifted right back into the belly of the beast. soon she could feel her weight become Unbeknownst to the young girl, her closest friend pathetically dependent and her flesh raw, ate every meal in that very same kitchen, showered soft, juicy! A fragrant little tangerine she in that very same bathroom, slept all through the suddenly became! And he was no longer a night in that very same room. How could her friend man, but a beast ready to feast. Her skin he call that wretched structure a home after what had unpeeled, and into his hands fell her sweet happened there? tangy pods ready to burst. He had her now, Truth be told she couldn’t wait to return to that inanimate, and so he ravaged and ripped place, to rehearse her emotionless reaction, to stare her apart from inside out. He devoured right into the face of her shame and feel nothing at each saccharine slice, hocking and slurping all, a skill she’d been perfecting all her life through her zesty skins. In her mind, she screamed various painful situations. She wasn’t afraid of and cried NO but just like in her dreams, the big bad beast anymore. And so, the young girl nothing came out. When he was finally scurried inside her old hungry menace and with a through, he offered the last bits and pieces grimace, it murmured, remember me? to a friend, or two, and they tore the rotting Suddenly a pale cold clarity swept over her— fruit from her bones ‘til nothing but a the windows and the walls and the floors were carcass was left. possessed. The kitchen, it menaced, would you like Slowly returning to her human state, another drink?, and the staircase, it probed, back the girl searched anxiously for her clothes. so soon? The outlines were perfectly preserved and She didn’t dare look up at the two men who all that had changed were the residents and a few stood conversing in the corner but their belongings, the same old flesh and bones with a new gaze pierced right through her, and it wasn’t spirit. Everything that had vanished from her mind just them. It was the walls, too. Yes, the walls had at once come home and she felt the great burden had eyes! Wallpaper eyes were engrossed in of her memories like silence in a crowded room. her suffering the way people always stop to In the months that followed, the young girl indulge in car accidents and public arrests. returned many times despite her fear of the ghost- She felt hollow beneath her skin, paralyzed ridden house, and after each occasion, a stone was like a hunted rabbit. She was terrified: of the men lifted from her heart. Thus, the healing began, and watching her re-dress, of losing consciousness, of the house was slowly cleansed of its monstrous role everyone in this cold, cold world. Before she could in her memories. After all, the ocean spends its life figure out how to lace up her boots, the thought of erasing footprints on the sand. her feeble state drew her to the bathroom down the This very same girl lives now in a land far away hall. After heaving the contents out of her body, only where she happily belongs and doesn’t bother to humiliation was left, buried eternally deep in her forget anything of the past and at night she falls stomach. To her tower by the lagoon the young girl to rest humming Blues My Naughty Sweetie Gives returned to forget the whole event as she finally laid to Me. To feel something is better than to feel her head to rest. nothing at all. ▲ Couch-Surfing By SeAn nOLAn S photo // mariah tiffany itting in the rain on a Sunday morning for me was quickly petrifying into a definitive wrong! waiting for a man to give me a lift I sat half off the curb, straddling the gutter and somewhere. sidewalk, polyester skin steadily growing swollen Yeah, somewhere. and soaked, swamping across my rickety wide- Anywhere. starved frame. Maybe back to another warm-lit hostel...or to a The fuckers just left me here! lovely home for a family of four. Maybe to another No warmth no love no gridlocked goodbyes, they beer-stained roach-infested living room where I’ll be had essentially thrown me from the back of the truck! condemned for eternity to eat the ashes off the floor Fuckers. and collect stoge burns with fervent gusto. More likely That’s all I have to say about ‘em. they’ll just take me back to the cosmic shit heap. God damned fuckers...all of ‘em. Either way, the kind of sagging worn low a man I guess you could say I’m a bit bitter, but you feels in the rain when he’s been ditched, beaten, would be too if you’d been shuffled from holy land to burned, stepped and slept on, will be a grinding hell hole the way I’ve been. Six families in four years, feature. all downhill. Like I just came off the factory line and It was cold and the sky bled fat-bellied drops of immediately began the slow decay of all. smacking sputum. It had been pouring for about four The rain picked up and I stared defeated into the hours now and the possibility of them coming back now raging gutter glut. And all I ever did was try to be supportive. A ravaged dog yowled down the street. a geriatric old woman’s house, then the Curb again, I used to have it made. then an alleyway, then an apartment filled with A loving family, albeit not my own, shelter, care, drunken universitikes. Then Curb, then another apt., fabric softener and oh I can smell it now! Curb, yet another apt. and there and back again. SWEET FEBREEZE!!! The fucking Curb is my best friend! I always loved that therapeutic candle shit that I called myself Greg. they used to do—pretty ritzy compared to my current The last guy I lived with was a pretty bad stoner predicament. He would corner me in the room and attack me with We would all curl up and watch shitty rom-coms a vacuum and a coffee filter, hoping to find dust to and the occasional craptastic Tyler Perry flick. The smoke his day away. He would have sex. Relentlessly kids were awesome. We’d jump up and down and Never once asking me to leave the room. tumble to floor while Ma made boiled veggies and Hey don’t judge me I swear I’m not a pervert I fried chicken. I didn’t even mind when they swept closed my eyes really! their little fingers clear of grease all over my arms. I Besides he would have locked me out. If I could swear it was affectionate! find a way out. I was pretty beat by then. Tired, It never lasted. wasting and weathered. My skin took on the ash-dirt Never did. hue of the grimiest of vagabonds. My legs cracked They got a cat and the fucker hated me. and developed hairline fractures. I was couch-ridden. DID I MENTION THEY WERE FUCKERS????!!!! Did I mention he would have sex on me? Yes. The bastard cat hated me. The hound was only ten feet away now. I shooed The second they brought this little shithead home at him wearily. He smacked his chops and closed in. he lunges on top of me and proceeds to tear me to Yawp! Yawp! Yawp! shreds! He began licking my leg in a spot where my last I freaked the fuck out. No one noticed. They went roommate had spilled a girth of soy sauce that had about their business. stained me deep. That was his last straw. Everyday this would repeat ad nauseam. The The licking turned to gnawing. I gave a great door would open, early morning, patpatpatpat shudder and collapsed into the gutter-Seine. The sky REOAWHHH! And cue the claws. cracked simultaneously and the callous canine gave Every once in a while they would shoe the rascal another defiant Yawp! before scampering off. away and I would get a brief taste of what used to be. I cried. Until the hairtriggertabbytempered demon stopped But just when I had decided to lay and decay here tearing at me and started pissing. forever, the storm broke. Clouds busted aside, a shard ON ME! I say the furry monster was pissing...ON of sun shearing through. ME!!! The fuming clods of grey stepping aside for the big It wasn’t long after that that they started to want blue and ole Sol. nothing to do with me. I swear the heat was instantaneous. Eventually they asked me to leave and with It bore over my sunken and ragged frame and the help of two rather belligerent and smelly men enlivened me. tramped me out to this familiar place. The curb. I had been here before. Yeah, kicked to the curb. Well, not this one. On the Curb. But one like it. They’re essentially all the same, In the gutter. Down in the dumps. these curbs. Barely hanging on, one foot in the grave All that Jazz, but now it seems to me that it’s all so and the other in a heaping pile of dog shit. I still transient and fleeting. The streets look good. Kids are can’t believe they found me another home. I guess walking out of their houses to see the quickly brilliant it was a final gesture of good will, you know, no post-storm masterpiece that always makes the wait harm, my bad, sorry things didn’t work out. From worth it. Who knows, maybe they’ll see me here and there I bummed around a youth hostel, and after that take me in. Make me one of the crew, one of the gang. A local, yeah, a real mensch They drew in a semicircle around a glistening verdigris Maybe. couch glossed with ashes, cum, and wine stains. Half When the storm finally subsided Dave and his off the curb straddling the gutter and sidewalk, it friends got together with the old gas can and walked was already gasping heat in the day’s light. “Burn outside. They had been planning this forever and today motherfucker burn motherfucker, motherfucker burn!” was the day. After a storm? No one would expect it! Dave began re-soaking the new hope sofa. The acrid Sure, it was soaked solid through, but gasoline would smell shimmered like mirage in the crisp air. Dave’s take care of that! “GLORIOUS DAY” Dave howled. eyes glowed senselessly, Tyler was in a feverish trance, His friends snickered and they clotheslined down the “BURN MOTHERFUCKER BURN MOTHERFUCKER, street whistling an easy tune and grinning long. Dave’s MOTHERFUCKER BURN!!” Dancing like impish fantod roommate Tyler began chanting. “Burn motherfucker witchmen screaming and howling. burn motherfucker burn.” He began in a whisper and They poured out the whole gallon jug and ripped a took up a sadistic timbre, “Burn motherfucker burn!” match. ▲ art // viJay masharani how DiD you Do that? HOw DID yOU THInk Of THAT? You:re such a hipster!: Are yOU SInGLe? i wish i could do that, i can:t even draw stick figures! By VIJAy MASHArAnI T his separation between MERE MORTALS and ARTISTS is kinda good for my ego, but it’s bad for art in general. I’m not a god, nor am I significantly naturally talented. I do have a solid, obsessive work ethic. I’m also very critical, which means that I don’t plateau very easily. On behalf of people who make art, I’m going to have to ask you all to stop deifying us, and start engaging with us. We are the same. You probably make art and don’t even realize it. In the documentary of his life The Radiant Child, Jean-Michel Basquiat is described as frustrated with the New York gallery scene when he was on the come-up in the 80s. Minimalism was the predominant aesthetic, and Basquiat believed that these highly conceptual works were alienating the art sphere from the general public. A similar phenomenon is illustrated when I talk to people about my own practice. Viewers of my work aren’t interested in their own interpretation because they view themselves as unworthy or unknowledgeable. This phenomenon is frustrating for artists who are trying to engage in an honest dialogue with their audience. Perhaps the art sphere is in a similar phase to what Basquiat observed, or perhaps society is still trying to figure out the alienating nature of some conceptual works. Not only is the disconnect between the art world and the real world harmful and frustrating, it also doesn’t make sense. Art is inescapable in the real world. Every building, every article of clothing, every advertisement, and every piece of furniture comes from the same mental place as the paintings and drawings that seem so nebulous and unreachable to the general public. Furthermore, artists, while somewhat deified by many, are also paradoxically disrespected, and viewed as the bottom rung of society. We are called stoners, bums, future baristas. The arbitrary barriers between regular people and artists are torturous to me because they distinguish categories that don’t exist. Normal people are artists, and vice versa. I’m done talking. Let’s make something. ▲ CURMUDGEON B z z z z I feel the sonic oscillations in my jaw z z and watch my eyes follow themselves around the mirror. z z By MATTHew MALMLUnD They wince at hints of light Still red as if I cried last night. B Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z But I do not feel beyond that damn throbbing in my head. But I do see the motions Getting up, brushing, swallowing. B z z z z z z In the reflection my face is wrinkled and despite my callow efforts my teeth are the same Xanthous yellow they will always be B Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z In the reflection, but behind the water spots, I am half asleep and I’m the same stoned fellow I will always be... art // viJay masharaNi Droplets by simoNe Dupuy The clouds are billowing overhead and droplets obscure the pane. I watch them fall and run together as I’m driving home again. At first they all resist each other, then attract and cling on tight, photo // mariah tiffany rolling down the slanted glass as one until finally out of sight. Like Vladimir and Estragon, instead of holding their own, they band together to ease the fear of facing the unknown. aDrift in oblivioN i. The light filters through the shutters of the blinds And I remember those Autumn afternoons staring at that very same light, Filtering through leaves and infinite tree branches, And those withered leaves rustling with the breeze. The echo of your departure reverberates off the walls And it resonates within the darkest depths of my being. I walk through these streets full of life With the sound of the waves guiding me. At night I hear the wind whistling As its whirl shakes everything up. And the mysterious light of that ship perpetually lost adrift Telling infinite stories About dreams and illusions, Raised on your mast, Spread out amongst the foam Living adrift from the fugacity of things themselves. Eternally returning and beginning anew. I sit on the edge of my bed, My feet swinging on the edge of oblivion. escrito por I look at my surroundings, yibiNg guo The sky and the Earth, And these roads that seem so familiar, Yet so distant. Innumerable lives have walked these paths. Halls that house ideas from other times. A recycled life. . . Like the drawers that hold my secrets. Like the silverware I use to swallow this nostalgia. Tiny conch from the shifting seas Tell me how many people’s ears you have whispered to. How many stories do you keep in that eternal spiral? Share your secrets with me About the oceans and waves And all the tracks that they’ve erased. ii. La luz se filtra por las rendijas de las persianas Y recuerdo aquellas tardes de otoño, mirando esa misma luz Filtrándose por las ramas e infinitas bifurcaciones de los árboles Y esas hojas marchitas crujiendo con el paso de la brisa. El eco de tu partida reverbera en las paredes Y se propaga en lo más profundo de mi ser. Camino por estas calles que se llenan de vida Y las olas me guían. Por las noches, escucho el viento silbar Alborotando todo a su paso. La misteriosa luz de aquel barco Perpetuamente perdido a la deriva Cuenta infinitas historias De sueños e ilusiones que se alzan en tu mástil a la Deriva Del Y que terminan esparcidas como la espuma del mar. Viviendo a la deriva de la fugacidad de las cosas mismas. olvi Do: Un eterno regresar y volver a empezar. Me siento a la orilla de mi cama Y mis pies tambalean en un abismo de olvido. Observo mis alrededores: El cielo y la tierra Y estos caminos que parecen tan familiares Pero tan distantes. Incontables vidas por estos rumbos han pasado. Y estas aulas que encasillan las ideas de otros tiempos. Una vida reciclada… Así como los cajones que guardan mis secretos. Así como los cubiertos con los que me trago esta nostalgia. Conchita de altamar Dime a cuántas personas les has susurrado al oído. Cuántas historias guardas en esa eterna espiral. Comparte tus secretos conmigo, Acerca de las olas del mar Y todas las huellas que han dejado atrás. ▲ DEAR ISLA VISTA, pHOTOS // TreVOr MAUk It is much harder to write a love poem about somebody you know well. You are a stone that has not stopped skipping, Each bounce punctuated erratically, like a brisk set of footsteps. I watch across the way, looking for what threw you. There was always a sweetness to your weekend strangers, the bleary smiles on their faces that say, “today might as well be yesterday.” Though some filled their bottles with the sun and never stopped drinking, and some lost their intentions below sea level. But you are not a means to an end. You are not an ant farm, and I won’t be entertained by watching others shake you. I dreamt you were the headless statue of a former hero championing an empty case of Keystone Light and a membership to Chase Bank. People stood next to you in hilarious poses and took photographs, leaving their litter by your feet. I spent the rest of the evening Searching for your face So that someone might look you in the eyes. ▲ By BrAnDOn pIneIrA first this bestial marK & then that By DAnIeL pODGOrSkI G aunt, bespectacled Tom Weber paced streets over, a siren howled and barked for peace. with purpose the university-adjacent Meat on a nearby grill kindled Tom's hunger. slum, feeling with every step the adrenal James nudged Wilson. high of betrayal. Certain half-deserted streets. From "You could come," she said. "I'm sure he has some stark-lit student tenement emanated steady enough." pulses of bass. Thick air in a pungent room. Aja Wilson's contented And malt does more than Milton can face glazed over dreamily; she talked about her love To justify God's ways to man. for Jesus. Maybe I ought to. That's the only net I have, "Take your word for it," Tom muttered. got to eke out what art I can. Declined, the pair He brushed his fingers through the sparse hair slipped off, and Tom resumed traipsing. on his chin, then cupped his hands and breathed More sirens sounded in possible supplement to them warmer. Four women crossed Tom's path at the first. Pulling his phone from his pocket, Tom the corner, each more scantily clad than the last. noted that he had been walking for almost seven As they went, they profaned the temperature of minutes. No posts to drape duration on. The little the night. Behind them some distance, walking the mailbox symbol was greyed out. Another pang same direction though more generously dressed, of adrenalized discontent coursed through him. were Aja Wilson and James Nasim-Pemberton. Obviously. Seven minutes. Just keep walking. Tom donned the hood of his sweatshirt. Blending. The unlit western streets of the area were a "Tom!" called Wilson. "Hey, Aja." bastion of anonymity. Keeping his hood on, Tom Tom exchanged a perfunctory nod with James. could be no one. If you want to reduce violent crime "Something going on thataways?" she returned. in the area, street lights would be a start. He caught "Yeah, something. You?" responded Tom. "Sack's fragments of conversations from passerby: place. What something?" "—put calc into calc, and they're teaching us Making all his nowhere plans for nobody. their baby." "Hey James," Tom asked with a measured calm, "Freddie was so gone." "Never seen him that "did Sack ever get around to giving you the money gone." "Right?- for bowling?" "It's cold as balls." "I'm hiring a collection agency." "—gotta eat something or I'm gonna literally Wilson chortled and said, "Break his thumbs?" die tonight. Need to down enough vodka to stop "Probably his knees." thinking about Casey's stupid—" "I'm telling you, he forgot," Tom offered. A greasy lump on a disused bus-stop bench James shrugged. A bus full of lowing shifted to reveal the deeply lined face of a matriculates crossed the intersection. Somber, homeless person asleep. Mulaney may've been lighter bus some time later, peopled by fuzz-minded right about me, like that, thirty years on. Aqualung vegetables. Disgust the slaves with freedom. A few my friend. And someone'll take a photo of me, like the Irish mushrooms. Not to think of people as just before, the first declined invitation. symbols. Everyone's an end. A sad-faced young man "Not really feeling it right now." "Meeting up in a flannel shirt sat on the edge of the sidewalk, with your lady?" holding a guitar but not playing it. I gave my love Innocent enough. He'd ask that any night. Anyone a cherry . . . might; Tom had been seeing her for over two Looking up, Tom realized that he had drawn years now, an exorbitant commitment in his near his home, so he turned back, heading now due acquaintances' estimation. south. He checked his phone; no messages, fifteen "Yeah maybe," replied Tom. "Which way're you minutes. Surely, it would be hours yet. Dropping headed?" her off like her father. Maybe I should just head home. "For now, toward the beach." "Felicitous," Trout She would not call him as she said she would. joked. "Most felicitous then." Rather, she would appear at his house, wavering, Sticking to the darkened western road, the two and crawl into his bed to sleep. How he desired soon reached the street nearest the bluffs, whereon not to be there when she slunk in! Just for that they turned east. moment, later, when she would ask where he had "She's there without you, yeah?" Trout asked, been, so he could not answer her. leading. "It's no big deal. She knows what I'm like." Tom stalked down the street, the air suffused "Okay." with sewage and alcohol. "What? What okay?" "Just . . . you know." "Yeah, Filth of all hues and odors seem to tell I know." . . . Something something by their sight and smell Human, on my faithless arm. The offal of a culture of abandon. "Tell that bitch to be cool. Say, 'bitch, be cool,'" "Hey, is that Tom? Look, it's Tom! Hey Tom!" Trout recited. "I'm Tim Roth? And you're Samuel spouted the familiar voice of Calvin Trout. Though L. Jackson?" his idiosyncratic greeting implied a group, he too "Yeah." was walking alone. The pair clapped hands. "No way. If Samuel L. Jackson's taken, I'm John "You're going out?" prodded Trout. "Just not in." Travolta or Bruce Willis." "You're maybe Steve Trout smiled and asked, "Like a rolling stone?" Buscemi." "Like a complete unknown? Just trying to be a "Buscemi's in it for all of ten seconds!" "You rock, and not to roll, actually." "What?" comin' in or not?" "Nevermind. Did you just come from Katie's?" "Nah, maybe I'll get something to eat." "Yeah, man, she's a trip. She was just telling me Trout beat-boxed as he walked away, fading about how . . . something about genes. Anyways, down a long soft-lit driveway. As soon as he was she's knocking out already, so I'm hitting up Phil's out of sight, Tom pulled the phone from his pocket: party, if you want to come with." no notifications. Could've sworn it buzzed. Just over Aja and Cal inside of thirty minutes. And just twenty minutes had passed. Tom walked another few blocks and turned onto the old wooden it's not. Chance. Maybe that's the trick to going with stairs down to the beach. He descended into her next time—fake it 'til it's sincere. Both wagers a black, breathing maw. Belial's wide womb of break with multiple faiths. uncreated night. Or his king stepping out the front Now a different balcony, stone, soft-lit, empty, door. Bye, dear. Bye, honey. Bye, lad. See you this rose on his left. There, Tom had spent many nights, evening. Mwah. two years prior, when he had lived near. Phone The tide was in. Tom stepped carefully on conversations had been had as he looked out over rocks against the bluffs, heading now down the the dark, low waves. He had brought her there to coast, feigning purpose even to himself. Spare profess his love. Just one in a series of professions. lighting dotted the scene from a wooden balcony's Three ages of love. One gone. Pangs even now for spotlight and the glorious, luminous spirals of a the second. Pretty sad. Sadder still, the first; though few offshore drilling platforms. None descended funny now. Tragedy plus time. Then, a theist's love from on high; a general dark grey mass above for a heathen. Now, atheist love for a deist. Guess provided no hint of star or moon. A man and a neither works in the end. Tom sat on the dry top of woman on the balcony looked down at Tom as he a smooth boulder. stepped through the spotlight. Move, move. Don't Panoptic philosophy. So many long nights, just worry, you're nothing to them. Outside their life. The hoping to be understood. Their fault, not mine. If stale freshness of only everyone would set aside given knowledge until beachside wind tousled Tom's person. In an they'd got more given knowledge. All you lived and octopus's garden, in the shade. In the shade—what'd live by is a lie. Fault not in our stars but in ourselves. he mean by that? Sounded good, anyway. Big nose. What am I now? Socratic. Know nothing. Know all. Tim Roth. They know other things. Me, some eclectic, thorough This is where. Claims I can't write a nice poem catalogue of arcana. Alone. An indistinct, muffled about her. Maybe she's right. Then empty night took sound came from one of the nearby grooves us, with a moment prepared for each. Not such a in the bluff. Reasoning that this was either an bad line, maybe. Back to that very beach delivered. animal or another homeless person, Tom began Prophetic I guess. his trek back. To his left, the long tan stone of the campus tower Limping back up the wooden stairs, Tom pierced the grey night. Proud. To every institution removed his hood. Blending. An hour had now of higher learning, a rod of higher sticking. How far? passed in total. Not to the pier again. Still hearing bass. Train wheels. "I like your jeans!" a stumbling girl called to Riding on 'The City of New Orleans.' Going back, but Tom while her friend attempted to silence and never really. Bringing the new me to the old them. steady her. No sufficient theodicy. Poor pa. Just wants his soul. Tom smiled and nodded without stopping. Materialist for a son. Unlucky. Her too. Unbreakable He passed a closed cafe. Elaine. Can't you have kernel of atomic optimism. I wrote that. Nothing nice, coffee with people? Always blamed Hamlet and true enough. Something crunched underfoot, and Portrait for making me see things as they are, but Tom, startled, hoped it was a dry plant. The chances the spark was there even then. Pretty existential for a sit-com. A crowd of disinterested students, as What should I? No more turn aside and brood? always, swelled like so many flies about the Just cruel. Everyone knew it? Worse. perennial noontime patio of the burrito joint. "So?" she asked, staring at Tom. Tom paused at the next street corner. Having Him not you. Plenty of fish. Meant to be. exhausted his usual haunts, but only managing to "Okay," Wilson said blankly, turning to go. waste a little over an hour, he recognized suddenly "Wait." that he would not be able to whittle away an She's come too, sure it's over. Talked it out. Decided indeterminate further amount of time, estimating love's still there. Love. Wilson stepped away; Tom at least two more hours to be necessary. Maybe I followed. could leave again, later. Never works. "I'll walk you." Having no alternative. "Don't." Beginning to move once more, Tom passed a "Feel like I should." man seated on the pavement, entirely still, his She turned, pushing him away, and exclaimed, head in his hands. A rattling from an alley called "Don't!" Tom's attention, and a raccoon jumped from a tin People looking. They must think I'm. garbage can to the ground, scuttling away. Tom turned down a sidestreet toward his house, To his surprise, Aja Wilson shouldered past moving perpendicularly away from Wilson's him, walking with her arms crossed. "Aja!" march with haste. A singular shout in the distance She turned, glancing back and forth between betrayed some primal iniquity in the life of some Tom and the ground. "What happened at Sack's other scholar. place? You alright?" Can't keep my eyes from the circling skies, "You can believe what you want to believe." Tongue-tied and twisted, just an earthbound Bloodshot. misfit, I "Yeah, I guess that's true. You okay?" What's the difference? I'm Vladimir and that guy's "And I can believe what I want." Estragon. So what? The stuff I don't get to see. That's Several cracks rang through the air. Probably the worst of it. Thoughts unhad. Art unmade. Truths. fireworks. But like Nietzsche says about truths, they— "Also true... what happened? Did Sack say A buzz from Tom's phone ended all thought, and something?" She coughed. briefly all circulation. Another pulse filled every Tom continued, "Don't worry about Sack." limb with instinct, a fuller reaction to the same "It was James." betrayal felt throughout the night. Tom clawed "Oh." A pause followed, punctuated by rhythmic manically at his pocket to free his phone like an electronic music from a sidestreet droning a ape opening a nut, hoping with it to free himself single lyric about time again and again. "What from himself. Please. ▲ happened?" "Doesn't matter." "Why not?" "Ending it tomorrow." photo // megan fisher espresso shot THrOUGH THe HeArT a n d o t h e r c o n v e r s at i o n s w i t h s t r a n g e r s I had two weeks to write a paper, so, times more beautiful. as one does, I waited until the night before. At 11. Well, I started the research at 11. Somewhere A few minutes later, after she recounted her around 1, I really regretted all the decisions I had own experience earlier that week staying up ever made that had led to this point in my life. all night studying for a midterm, I was given a With an unhinged look in my eyes, I wrote out large coffee with a triple espresso shot. “Wait,” I sentences like, “The protagonist is an especially started. “I think you charged me wrong. You gave lugubrious one.” me a large with espresso shots. You charged me for a small latte.” Lugubrious: adj. Overly morose and depressed. She smiled at me. “No, no mistake.” Scratch that, she’s one-hundred times more beautiful. ▲ An inspiring thought: I am the protagonist of my own life. A depressing thought: I am an especially lugubrious one. It's astonishing how difficult it is to pack a lunch and take it to campus. You have After dragging my sorry ass out of bed (don’t to make a sandwich, put it in a sandwich bag, sleep even for an hour after an all-nighter. I put it in your backpack, take your backpack to swear it will make you feel more like hell than campus, take out your sandwich at lunchtime, you already do) and getting to work by 9:30 a.m., and eat the sandwich. I had, as usual, failed to I was sending out texts trying to make amends do that this morning, and so, in the afternoon, with my friends, for death was near. Texts that after trying to convince myself I could stay alive went, “To my dear friend, I am so sorry I ate your until dinner, I was standing in front of the baked croissant. In my defense, it looked delicious,” goods in the Arbor. and so on. So there’s banana bread, coffee cake, blueberry At 10, my friend walked into the Writing muffins, chocolate muffins, donuts, bagels, and Lab and greeted me with, “You look like hell.” I croissants. Hmm, maybe a croissant. Right, so figured it was time to get some drugs. there’s cheese croissants, almond croissants, spinach and feta croissants, ham and cheese The SRB coffee cart carries the most important croissants, chocolate croissants, and of course, study drug that college students need: caffeine. plain croissants. I was greeted with, “Good morning!” It was a particularly not good morning, so naturally, I, Breathe in, breathe out. What were meant Clint Eastwood-style, grouchily demanded the to be calming breaths turned into heavy duty drink with the most caffeine possible that was hyperventilating. not black coffee. “What abouuuuuuuut....” she started, stretching out her vowels. “Whaaaaat This croissant decision was crucial. The abouuuuut... a latte with a triple espresso shot?” cheese croissants were obviously Berkeley, and The words espresso shot instantly made her 40 the almond croissants Northwestern. Spinach and feta is University of Maryland, ham and As I was paying for my croissant, he walked By anJali shastry cheese croissants Syracuse, chocolate croissants back up to me. “I looked it up, University of Columbia, and plain croissants USC. What was I Maryland’s mascot is even dumber than ours. going to do? What even is a testudo?” I felt an arm brush past me. The beverage door “A turtle, I think.” was open, a SmartWater selected. What makes this particular water smart? Does it make you He contemplated it for a minute. “Okay. Well, smart? Is the water itself intelligent in some way? go Testudos!” He walked away with his Santa Barbara swiggity-swag. Ten minutes later, after contemplating the nature of SmartWater, I was still struggling with Go Testudos, indeed. ▲ picking a croissant. I started to doubt whether I even wanted a croissant at all as I checked out the banana bread (moving back in with my When I was touring the UCSB campus my senior year of high school, my tour parents after graduation) and muffins (dropping guide mentioned to the group that Psych, one of out of school and living in a cardboard box next my favorite shows, takes place in Santa Barbara. to a highway) as viable alternative options. I thought about this and logically concluded that this was a perfectly good reason to become a I was still staring at the goods when the guy Gaucho. A few months into my freshman year, who picked out the SmartWater came back for ice I looked up Psych and which of the cool places cream. He paused, obviously recognizing I was featured on that show I should visit during my having some issues. “Hey, you okay?” he asked. time here. Without hesitation I looked up at the stranger It’s filmed in Vancouver. ▲ and started to wail, “It’s not about the croissants at all! If I can’t pick a croissant, how can I pick a grad school?!” “Oh boy.” He came over with his ice cream in one hand, StupidWater in the other, and flung an arm over my shoulder. “Okay, we can figure this out.” He motioned to the baked goods, “Sweet or savory?” I gulped, and then yelped out between ugly sobs, “Savory! Savory sounds delicious.” He patted my arm, and we slowly went through them, one by one, eliminating almond and chocolate because they were sweet, ham and cheese because I’m a vegetarian, and plain, because by virtue of being a deranged human having a mental breakdown in front of the croissants in the Arbor, I’m anything but plain. A few minutes later, we ended up with a spinach and feta croissant. Perhaps that SmartWater worked. I am a mature adult. I maintain this, despite the ever increasing mountain of evidence “YOU TAKE THAT BACK!” that suggests the contrary. But it’s just that the gangly British guy sitting next to me at Caje was We sat next to each other in silence for 20 minutes, particularly irritating me, so I had to resort to then I felt bad about insulting Marmite, even though imitating his accent. really, I don’t think anybody likes Marmite. “I think we dumped the tea over taxes or something,” I began “Thaht’s ah rahther gewd idear,” I drawled. “Sew in an effort to reconcile with this perfect stranger loverly.” whose favorite snack I just insulted, which, frankly, “Are you mocking me?” he asked. is a ridiculous situation to be in. “And we really wanted to establish ourselves as a coffee country. “Auf cohrse nawt,” I gasped, mock offended. Also, red isn’t really our color. We’re pretty much anti-anything red – communism, John Boehner’s “You can’t mock me,” he snapped. “You guys are face, and red British soldier uniforms.” the idiots who pronounce schedule ‘skedule.’ How do you even get that? It’s obviously shedule!” He looked up, trying to suppress a smile. I think he wanted to have this amused look on his face, but “It’s got a c! And c’s are pronounced like k’s, he just ended up looking constipated. “You guys still except for when they’re pronounced like s’s–” I tried say ‘laboratory’ wrong.” desperately to justify the stupid pronunciation of schedule. “Yeah, I blame Reagan for that. I mean, he’s to blame for trickle-down economics and probably Alec “And laboratory,” he cut me off. “Why on earth Baldwin’s meltdown, so...” do you guys say ‘labratory’? That makes no sense! There’s an ‘o’ there. It’s lab-o-ra-tory,” he carefully I stopped and awkwardly focused really intensely enunciated, just a few inches away from my face. on my laptop’s desktop background (a picture of a I could see a baby pimple on the right side of his seductive duck, if you were curious). I felt someone’s mouth. An angry red dot desperate to earn its pimple eyes on me, so I looked up to see him staring at street cred and turn into an angry red mountain. me, and as we made eye contact, he hastily looked down at his own book. So I looked back down too, “This is why we dumped the tea into the harbor, and when I turned to sneak a peek at him, I could to avoid you Brits hating on our pronunciation,” I see him grinning broadly at his economics book. Eh, snapped. “And nobody likes Marmite.” who needs maturity anyway? ▲ Missed Connection: To the man with and saw that there were perhaps about five other the long hair and the flannel shirt eating an apple people on the bus, so I could easily spread out on the steps of Storke Plaza, we made eye contact and be alone. Relieved, I set up my sweatshirt as the other day, and I haven’t been able to forget you a pillow, stretched out my legs, and lounged back. since. I still remember how carefree you looked, how easily you leaned back on the stairs holding your “Hey! Can I sit here?” apple, completely comfortable as other students scurried past you with their worries and agendas. My eyes snapped open and my head jerked back You soaked up the beautiful Santa Barbara sun; I out of surprise. Nursing the bump on my head think you’re the only person on this campus who where I hit the window, I stared at him groggily. seems to understand what life is all about. When He was wearing a bright neon blue headband that the wind blew, your hair flew everywhere, and you held back long wavy hair, a red tank with The casually brushed it back and swept it up with one Endless Summer printed on it, and green Bermuda effortless movement. You magnificent human, I shorts. I was shivering and wishing I had on boots, have only one thing to ask you: but he was wearing sandals that looked like Doctor Scholls insoles tied onto his feet with pink elastic What shampoo do you use? Seriously, that’s one bands. I looked him up and down, then looked luxurious mane of hair. You have better hair than around the bus. The five other students had set up I do, and frankly, it’s insulting. You give Simba a shop in the other seats the way I had, and there run for his money. Keep on keeping on, my man. ▲ were about 50 open seats. Of all the seats in all the buses in all the cities in California, he had to pick throughout history, people have the one next to mine. gotten up at the crack of dawn to go out and till “Right, okay,” I said. Are you kidding me? their farms, milk their cows, and whatever else is done that early in the morning. So it didn’t seem “I’m Dom,” he said, grinning. I was the epitome like it should have been that difficult to take a 6 of cranky, and this guy was flashing his teeth at me a.m. bus from Santa Barbara to San Jose for winter at six in the morning. I was not in the mood. break. “Santa Barbara’s great, isn’t it?” he continued as Wrong. The wind was so strong, I thought I though he couldn’t see that my eyes were drooping could actually see the air twist in front of my eyes, and my eyebrows were narrowing. “I went surfing ending in little wisps that seemed like something yesterday, and took a night hike last night! I wanted out of Frozen. to go for a run before this bus, but I just couldn’t get up. I usually get up at five, so four was kind of a I was freezing, I’d had about four hours of sleep, struggle.” I was getting tired just listening to him. and I had the heaviest bag ever stuffed to the brim with laundry. I couldn’t remember where I had “I’m so excited to get home, because my buddies accidentally packed my glasses, so, to see, I was and I were thinking of going out surfing in Santa wearing my prescription sunglasses. The morning Cruz. I know the water will be cold but I think it’ll was pitch black, so sunglasses rendered me pretty be refreshing.” Please stop talking. “Have you been much blind. I probably would have been better off surfing? You’re in the best place on earth, you need wearing no glasses at all. to go surfing!” Okay, kid, time to shut up. I crankily stumbled onto the bus, dragging my The hours started to pass in this way. As the sun oversized duffel. After much judgment from my came out, his already sunny disposition became fellow passengers, I managed to get into the bus blindingly bright, and his storytelling became and dropped heavily into my seat. I looked around more animated. He would bounce up and down in his seat, tapping his leg on the ground and what was happening and everyone collected playing air drums out of an inability to stay still. around us. At our peak, we had about 40 people The more he smiled and told his stories, the more eating and hanging out. Dom and Christina he grew on me. His stories ranged from life plans started reading it together, with him playing (joining Doctors Without Borders and saving the Ana and her playing Christian. world one kid at a time) to how he got all the scars on his arms and legs (one from crashing San Jose rolled around a few short hours hard into a rock while surfing near Campus later, and I was disappointed to reach the end Point, another from trying to make friends with of my journey. We had finished Fifty Shades a squirrel near Inspiration Point). somewhere near Salinas, and had moved on to The Fault In Our Stars, Dom managing to seduce After about two hours of us chatting up a a few girls with his flirty depiction of Augustus storm and filling the bus with noise, he noticed Waters, picking a girl and winking after every the girl sitting in the seat diagonally in front line. I couldn’t stop laughing, even when I was us, curled up into a tight little ball and reading supposed to cry. a book distractedly. He stopped mid-story and bounded up out of his seat and plopped down As we pulled into the station, Dom read the next to her. last line as dramatically as he could, and snapped the book closed with a flourish. He grabbed his “Hey! I’m Dom! So, Fifty Shades of Gray, backpack (handmade and burlap), flung it over huh?” He referred to her book. “I’ve heard that’s his shoulder, and sauntered off the bus. terrible. I’m dying to read it!” “We have reached the end of the road. It was Christina looked confused and actually a little a pleasure, my friends!” He bowed, bounded off terrified of Dom’s incredibly high energy. I felt the bus, and his curly hair and blue headband pleased that I was not as confused as Christina became a speck in the crowd of people on the anymore. “Yeah, me too,” I said. “I bet it’ll be platform. ▲ hilarious!” “May I?” he asked her. She wordlessly handed it over. He flipped to the first page and started reading out loud. If there was anyone who would commit to reading Fifty Shades of Gray out loud on a bus, and probably follow through on the whole thing, it would be this hippie creature. He did voices. A low, gravelly one for Christian, and a high pitched falsetto for Ana, again his free hand gesturing to nothing in mid- air. As he got louder, he attracted the other people on the bus, who were almost exclusively college students. They all started moving towards us and we pooled our snacks, laughing and eating as we listened to Dom. As people got onto the bus, they wondered guys were going at it, tossing lawn chairs and punching each other. Thoroughly freaked out, I asked the girl next to me, “Whoa, what’s going on here? Why are they fighting?” “Well, Chris thinks that Ophelia killed herself because she was desperate to be with Hamlet and he spurned her, while Trevor thinks that Ophelia is actually much more of a feminist character than Chris gives her credit for, and that the reasoning behind her suicide has to be much more complicated than just a rash reaction to a spurned lover.” I stared at her, mouth agape. She continued undeterred, “I’m personally on Chris’s side here. As much as I want Ophelia to be feminist, Shakespeare doesn’t have the greatest track record with feminist characters. I mean, look at Juliet. She’s a total idiot. YEAH, YOU GET HIM TREVOR! GET HIM!” She turned back to me. “What do you think?” Nope. No way. I started backing up slowly, hands out in a gesture of peace. Once I made it to the front door, I yelled, “Everyone in Hamlet is a little bitch!” and then bolted home, vaguely hearing the crashing sounds of Hamlet-induced hysteria and backyard lawn chair target practice. I don't know about this, but apparently Ah, college. ▲ UCSB is a party school? Forget the fact that we’re the 11th best public school in the world, and ranked 2nd in the Leiden rankings. We’re a party school, so you know how it goes – drunken shenanigans, fights over girls, and furniture breaking, all in the pursuit of a “good time.” So, as a UCSB student, I decided to go to one of our famous UCSB parties. I entered the house on Trigo excited for a night out, ready to paint the town, prepared to boogie and jive with all the cool cats out there. As I stepped foot in the door, I heard this huge smash and then the stampeding sound of footsteps all rushing towards the backyard. Curious, I joined the hoard out to the backyard, where two ILLUSTRATIONS//ANGIE SHEN By caNelle irmas Poets that write about sex and cooking, A World of Literature Majors peach fuzz hugging legs, and bras that don’t fit. and eyes that consume and devour, Mad hair and voices that ooze, laugh distinct and loud, reading soft and smooth echo through halls, tripping on like talking dirty. bathroom tiles and carpeted walls. The quiet ones that look like pianos, A sign begs you not to smoke, cool and contrasting but the stall still smells like dope. fair white skin Woodchips and park benches, with big eyes and dark hair. pre-symposium cigarettes; Freckles lean back in broken chairs, screw the ban— speak low, chin high I’m addicted to the secondhand smoke. as eyes slide round a wooden oval, chair to chair, slouched back and intoxicated by ink and Shakespeare. Lean forward on elbows delicate batting eyelashes that will never fail to write a memoir. An office job is a crime to deprive the full-fledged You Crossed legs atop a spinning chair, never use at a desk—too predictable. Rather wreck with wildness, our great wide world of words, contained and uncontained in just enough walls. Rooms that smell like smoke, candles, and paint, outdated chalkboards that don’t quite erase, dark stubble that never conforms to a direction art//natalie o:Brien everythiNg you see oN tv By ryAn MArTInAzzI t he two of them lay on a sloped hill. To his left Umm – he responded. She took a drink of the was a half empty packet of cigarettes: to her vodka. Well, the earth’s gonna be right between the left was a purse full of birth control and Zoloft: moon and the sun so the moon’s going to be basically between them were blades of grass devoid of green, invisible – She gazed back up at the sky. crunchy and uncomfortable. A light fog made the So, like, right now – she asked. Is this it? streetlamps amorphous. She looked pretty. If he’d No – he responded, looking at his watch. That’s just noticed, he hadn’t said anything. He drank from the fog. We got a half hour – his exhalation dissipated the fifth of vodka that had been on his stomach, and into the fog, unnoticed. placed it on the dried grass between them. They both Why’s it so special? – she asked. stared at the sky’s night. Neither of them spoke to the Reflection – he answered. Or maybe refraction. . . other. In her skirt and the fog, she shivered. She did No, reflection, I think. All the sunsets and rises going not ask for his jacket, and he did not offer it. They had on right now are gonna make the moon light up red – not brought a blanket. The stars were not apparent in he took a drag. Like a cigarette. the sky. There was to be an eclipse. Oh – she said. The vodka helped ease her shivering. I can’t see a thing – she said. She looked at him. He looked at the sky, which had He, too, could not see much, though he did not become clearer as the fog dispersed. They were not express this. He reached for the pack of cigarettes, fucking. Her gaze landed on his eyes, then followed extracted one, and set the end aflame. He could now them upwards. She looked at the as yet unshadowed see the lit tip. She, too, could see the glow, though moon, and the newly unfogged stars. He watched the neither expressed this. She pulled her knees towards moon, hopeful that the fog not return and she not say herself, huddling for warmth. it. He did not say it. She ruffled her skirt, shaking off What’s supposed to happen – she asked. the lawn. Her movement tore away more dead grass. photos//trevor mauk To both East and West were hundreds of thousands Sun, quickly rotating around the Sun, alone, hundreds of others doing the same thing. Hundreds of of thousands staring at the moon together. thousands of other human beings were sat down, or He hoped that she would not say it. The fog had standing, alone or with friends, spouses, lovers, all left a clear sky. Many stars could now be seen. She with their head tilted heavenward, all waiting, all identified to herself the Big Dipper. She knew no watching for the Earth’s shadow to slowly crawl across other constellations, though she thought he might. the moon, some using telescopes, professionals and He did not. She did not ask. He stared at the stars, amateurs, most unaided, or aided only by the lenses uninterested in constellations. He did not look for of their prescription glasses, all waiting, hundreds of them. He considered whether he should say it, though thousands, some speaking, speculating, gossiping, it was not true. So many times, on so many screens, others listening, patiently, sipping wine, beer, water, he had seen it said. When he’d seen them say it, having fun, bored, passing a joint, looking up, hoping, actors, they seemed to believe it true. He wondered hundreds of thousands, looking around, exchanging if they really did believe it true, the actors themselves. glances, happy, smiling, in good company, alone, He thought they might. Maybe the writers did. He laughing, sad, jealous, angry, bitter, exhausted, wondered, if they did feel it, if he and they were really paranoid, confused, alone, in good company, hundreds the same species. He wondered if his inability to feel of thousands, expectant, exhaling, inhaling, thinking, it meant that he was somehow different, incomplete, cognizant, unaware, perceiving, feeling, full, bloated, broken. He lit another cigarette and peered at the overwhelmed, nonplussed, content, empty, anxious, cosmos. He wondered if there were other people waiting, watching the Earth slowly rotate around the peering at the cosmos. He wondered what other people