BEACON
ASHLEY WALTERS / CHACHA SANDS / ADRIAN X SANDS / POL KURUCZ / ELIZABETH ATHERTON / JESSICA KREBSBACH / FATIMA ELMUSBAHI / MELISSA KERMAN / ZACH WESTERMAN / SVETA MULLARI / KRISTIN D. URBAN / LUAN BANZAI / STEFEN STYRSKY / SLIPPERY DIRT / JOON PARK / JOHNNY MILLER / MARIO HUMBERTO KAZAZ / KERR IVAN CIRILO / FREYA ROHN / BASIE ALLEN / JULIA SKERRY / CHIRON DUONG / SARA PASSAMONTI / ABIGAIL SWANSON / GULI COHEN / JUSTIN ANANTAWAN / SAVVY SANDY
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VOL. IV
No. 14 FREE LOADER
Ashley Walters — Untitled (Cover),
Forward, An Experience of Sugar / Adrian
/ Pol Kurucz — Untitled / Jessi
Great / Elizabeth Atherton —
— The White Room / Zach Wester
Mullari — Personal Illustrations / Kris Luan Banzai — Vending Machines /
Slippery Dirt — Untitled / Joon P / Johnny Miller — Unequal Scenes /
/ Freya Rohn — Housebound / Bas Contents Ashley Walters — Untitled Cover Fatima Elmusbahi — Forward 06 Adrian X Sands— Untitled 08 Pol Kurucz — Untitled 10 Jessica Krebsbach — Better But Not Great 12
Elizabeth Atherton — The Dweller 16 Fatima Elmusbahi — An Experience of Sugar 18 Melissa Kerman — The White Room 22 Zach Westerman — White Room BKGD 22 Sveta Mullari — Personal Illustrations 24
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), Untitled / Fatima Elmusbahi —
n X Sands — Untitled, Untitled (Back)
ica Krebsbach — Better, But Not
— The Dweller / Melissa Kerman
rman — White Room BKGD / Sveta
stin D. Urban — Ma Petite Maison / Stefen Styrsky — Garbage Mouth /
Park — Do We Deserve the American Dream? Kerr Ivan Cirilo — Labor/Authority
sie Allen — Dream Knots and Badge Juice
Kristin D. Urban — Ma Petite Maison 26 Luan Banzai — Vending Machines 28 Stefen Styrsky — Garbage Mouth 30 Slippery Dirt — Untitled 33 Joon Park — Do We Deserve the American Dream? 34
Johnny Miller — Unequal Scenes Kerr Ivan Cirilo — Labor/Authority Freya Rohn — Housebound Basie Allen — Dream Knots and Badge Juice Slippery Dirt — Untitled
38 46 52 54 57
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VOL. IV
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Continued: Julia Skerry — Large Haul /
Passamonti — New York Bites / Ab
Cohen — Feminine Labor / Justin Ana
Humberto Kazaz — Untitled / S
Contents Julia Skerry — Large Haul Pol Kurucz — Untitled Chiron Duong — Untitled Sara Passamonti — New York Bites Abigail Swanson — Chaffed
58 60 64 67 68
Chacha Sands — Untitled Sara Passamonti — Untitled Guli Cohen — Feminine Labor Justin Anantawan — The Naked Truth Ashley Walters — Untitled
69 70 72 78 84
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Chiron Duong — Untitled/ Sara
bigail Swanson — Chaffed / Guli
antawan — The Naked Truth / Mario
Savvy Sandy — Exclusive Content
Mario Humberto Kazaz — Untitled Savvy Sandy — Exclusive Content Adrian X Sands — Untitled
86 89 Back
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VOL. IV
No. 14 FREE LOADER
N O T H I N G IS
GIVEN
E V E RY T H I N G IS
EARNED
LEBRON JAMES
No. 14 FREE LOADER
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The term ‘Freeloader’ is a label used to distinguish individuals that take advantage of another, for various reasons. The interior motives that drive Freeloaders, can be anything from emotional want, material need or the overall lack of independence. Sometimes it can be easier that way, rather than to face a situation alone-to lean on another to mold an easier path.
But what of the opposing party and why they cannot say no? Call it an emotional leverage; yes, they can be fully aware of it and chose to do nothing about it. Sometimes for emotional attachment or in other case scenarios, pure fulfillment that they are accepting of-we all have our reasons of not being able to say no. We have all faced a situation where we knew that we are being taken advantage of, but did we do something about it? To keep that friendship, or make excuses for a lover that clearly didn’t put their fair share into the relationship. The problem at times does not lie with the Freeloader, but with you (all of us). We have allowed the Freeloaders to push beyond borders of what we are comfortable with, due to the lack of prioritizing our own needs. However, we actually can be selfish with ourselves, from a place of self-value, self-love and knowing what we deserve.
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ADRIAN X SANDS
No. 14 FREE LOADER
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BETTER BUT NOT GREAT
I AM WEARING EARRINGS, A WHITE BLOUSE WITH BLACK STRIPES AND A PAIR OF DARK DENIM JEANS. INSIDE MY PURSE IS A WELL-WORN WATER BOTTLE AND A BAG OF SALTED CASHEWS. We arrive ten minutes early. My daughter looks confused and asks if we are at the dentist. I tell her that we are not.
Did you want to fill out forms for both kids now? It will save you time in the future.”“I don’t think so,” I say slowly.
At ten o’clock, a woman appears. She escorts us to an office in the back.
Candice shrugs. “You don’t have do it.” She tilts her head and looks at me over her glasses. I notice that her eyes are green.
I sit as gracefully as I possibly can behind Candice Shipley’s U-shaped desk. Candice sits on the other side, directly across from me. The feeling is intimate. Her office has nice light and a few plants. I keep my hands folded in my lap. Candice pushes a neat pile of papers towards me and gestures to a coffee mug full of ballpoint pens.
“You’re right,” I say, “I’ll just fill out the forms for both kids now. You never know. It seems silly to wait.” I look over at my daughter playing with toys in the adjacent room. She is talking to a dolly with no clothes on. Candice smiles, then glides her chair to her computer.
“I know you said that you only need I select a pen from the white mug care for one child, but if you ever and write my daughter’s name on need care for your older child, it the top of the form. will help if she is already on file.
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JESSICA KREBSBACH
No. 14 FREE LOADER
A delicate feeling of shame creeps up my torso.
“No,” says Candice, “There are quite a lot of men. Quite a lot. And grandparents. Most of the people Candice turns her head to look at I see here are grandparents. And me. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. I feel very bad for them. Because You are raising human beings. they are my age, you know? I just Caring for your children is the most imagine myself with an infant and important job you can do.” She a two-year-old.” Candice clutches looks me in the eye for emphasis. her chest dramatically. “Yes,” I acknowledge, “But we also need to eat. We need food, money. I need to work.” Candice softens her gaze. “Yes. Yes, you do.” I feel comfortable in her care. I can tell she knows what she is doing. I look at the small stack of business cards on her desk. “Candice Shipley — Program Case Manager,” they say. Of course, I think, she’s a case manager. That explains it. I return my attention to the forms. There are several pages. “I’m going to keep interrupting you,” Candice says, “One of the best parts of my job is meeting people and hearing their stories. Some of the stories are sad and I try to forget them. But others are uplifting. I find your story to be uplifting.” Candice smiles. “I bet a lot of desperate woman come in here looking for help. Just women, no men.” I say, feeling angry.
I think about the other women who have sat at this desk. I imagine a woman looking over at her granddaughter as she plays with the toys in the adjacent room. “And also, they must have double pain,” I say, “Because of that degree of disappointment they feel towards their own children. Why are they caring for their grandkids, you know? What’s the story there? Not a good one, I suspect.” Candice looks at me. “Uh-huh,” she says. Her face is blank. I try to stay focused on the forms. There is a section that offers educational pamphlets. I check the boxes beside Stress and Your Child, Self-Esteem, Special Needs, and Communication. I look over at my daughter in the adjacent room. She is so sweet and gentle; I am filled with love for her. She is eating her cashews too fast. “Eat more slowly please,” I scold. She looks at me with a touch of shame. “It’s okay,” I say, “Just eat those more slowly. One at a time please.”
No. 14 FREE LOADER
Candice clicks with finality at her keyboard and rolls her chair back to the intimate section of her Candice clicks with finality at her keyboard and rolls her chair back to the intimate section of her desk. “OK!” she says, “I’m going to go over some of these with you and it’s going to feel like a lot of information.”
BETTER, BUT NOT GREAT
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She smiles again. “You’re welcome.” I stand up and walk to the adjacent room. “I’m all done! Are you ready to go?” “No,” my daughter says. “How about some stickers?” asks the woman who’d let us in, sitting in a desk I hadn’t seen before.
I follow along at first but eventually She hands my daughter a set of it becomes confusing. There are yellow stickers shaped like stars. sign-in sheets, dates of ending and beginning, income qualifications, I smile politely. 12-month notification deadlines. “Thank you,” we say as we walk out Candice indicates places on the the door. “Thank you.” forms where I must initial, and other places where I must sign. She looks at me from across the desk, green eyes raised, glasses lowered to the tip of her nose, “I know this is a lot.” “Its fine. I will figure it out when I get home. I’m glad that I qualify for the program.” Candice smiles. She puts the forms in a bright yellow folder, adds the informational pamphlets I requested, then slips in her business card. She hands me the yellow folder with both hands. I return my pen to the white mug. “Thank you so much Candice. Thank you so much.”
Elizabeth Atherton
THE JOURNALIST WENT TO INTERVIEW JACARANDA PIERCE. Pierce was in a foyer on a folding chair watching a television: “Get a load of that,” said Pierce. On the television there was a man in the bucket of an excavating machine, blithe as a baby animal in a basket, hands and feet invisible, and there was another man driving the machine. The foyer and the options which extended from the foyer were wallpapered in a pattern which was like a Blue Willow teacup except that its pagodas and pear-shaped birds were red like a Krakow necklace and the stripe of light on its water was a nacre iridescent. Jacaranda Pierce wore a party-colored silk shirt. He was smiling at the journalist. He had long sliding blue eyes. Between its dark hair and its shirt and its handmade wallpaper, the face of Pierce was as if space aliens had tried to design a piece of jewelry by the standards they understood to be human: a gold braided circle, a bed of pink stone, a trout affixed to the center. The trout is silver with rainbow on its hip and so you can see why it would accede to the logic of what is called jewelry, if you were new. The journalist was there to ask Pierce about his money by asking about his art collection. Pierce stood with the car-crash sound that folding chairs make when they are disturbed. “I’ll show you the big one,” said Pierce. Pierce’s legs were long and streamed calmly down the red shining passages of his home, which smelled of gardenia. Once when the journalist was a little boy his father took him to the Health Museum where there was a red building in a bright room. The building was a giant heart with an entrance in one ventricle and an exit in the other, so that you could be like blood. The heart had speakers in it which stomped with the heartbeat sound. Other children went in, hands empty, square shirts showing Dalmatians or the names of summer camps. His father said that it would be okay but the journalist couldn’t bring himself to go inside. The next week the journalist asked his father to take him to the Health Museum again and this time the journalist entered the giant artificial heart. That was how the journalist had been in boyhood. The walls of the heart were round and high and red and the heartbeat sounded on them. Jacaranda Pierce introduced the journalist to a great gray room, hugeceilinged. There was nothing in the room but a statue and the statue was 15 feet high. It was a bull with a human’s head. It seemed very far away. The oldman-head pulled its body prettily, right hind leg stepping forward, left proudly pressed back. The ribs of the bull rose in rainbow-shaped sweeps from the bull’s torso into a bolt of hair at its belly. A feathered wing was folded along its shoulder. The face of the bull was looking at the entrance, at Pierce and at the journalist, smiling. It was built to guard the gate of the throne room of the king of Assyria several thousand years in the past. “That’d make me think twice,” said Jacaranda Pierce. “Ha ha! ‘Go away!’”
“LET’S TALK DADDY AND BABY GIRL” Fatima
Elmusbahi
I never really look for a muse baby, they always just came out of nowhere and I just knew they were the right fit for myself. Yes, sometimes social media helps you get around, but I prefer the real encounters and natural flow of conversation for that connection to form. I just happened to be exploring the right circles when I came across her. She was younger than the usual I invest my time in, but she was new and rather naïve to a companionship such as this. I suppose I wanted to be a great first impression and look after her like no other one has. Of course, I must set my limits as I am the one who will be financing her, so I needed to set the boundaries of this relationship, with no blurred lines. Our first date was in an intimate and cozy café that I felt should make her feel more relaxed, with no obnoxious formalities. I told her to come alone of course, dressed comfortably, as this is the beginning-so there was no pressure. Yet, she came in confidently and promptly. Wearing a fitted skirt that accentuated her waist and body, and in fact got the attention of everyone there. Yes, she was the right choice and most probably the best one yet for me. I wanted someone to pass the time with, around business hours, someone gentle natured and able to handle the mounting stress of the life I lead. Did she need to know of the doting wife and demanding teenagers I had at home waiting for me? Absolutely not. But that is the thing about a relationship such as this, it was never too personal and she was never entitled to access me beyond my cheque book. I played all the cards here. Second, third and so on dates, where all to be made at hotels around the area, commutable on separate terms and private enough so that none shall bat an eyelid. I eased her gently into the world I was immersing her into, making sure she knew what was expected of her and what was not permitted in any sense. Execution of plans around my schedule was imperative to me and one she had to respect; of course, as expected, she adapted and provided much more than I ever predicted due to her intuition and natural flexibility to the matters at hand. Her fees altered depending on what she was willing to give me. Video calls and general conversation were only permitted in the evening hours between 20:00 and 20:30, but she was allowed to send risqué and enticing videos (in whichever degree she desired), for further rewards and commission. Of course, business between me and her could extend into the early morning if she agreed to it, and for the most part she did indeed. One thing that particularly drew me to her in comparison to the other babies I had, was the fact she never lingered or expected more. She knew when she was no longer welcome. She left without me ever asking her too.
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FATIMA ELMUSBAHI
No. 14 FREE LOADER
We started initially exchanging messages online, after he mysteriously showed up in my direct messages. Call it intrigue or just pure boredom, I thought that interacting back would be quite interesting-especially since I never considered him to be real or even serious at this point. I was just entertaining myself at first. But yes, he was deadly serious. And I was actually very open to the idea. Small talk became dates and dates became a scheduled usual thing, every first and last Saturday of the month. It was daunting at first, the idea that I had to present myself to someone who was paying for my time,and from just that, it was pleasurable and most importantly desirable. My daddy wanted to spoil me, shower me with gifts; all I had to do was present myself to him, with smiles, tasteful pictures and videos of myself. Yes, he wanted devotion-a devotion to him. For him to know he had my absolute loyalty, attention and time, was a fulfilment and edge towards his desires. He wanted to provide and suffice a woman, me. Anything more however, was to be discussed further, elaborated upon “in the right time”. He said he liked that he was my first and by first, I mean, my first ever sugar. I suppose the first time I ever decided to stay longer than usual and by that, I mean stay over for the night, it was quite nerve-wracking for me. But of course, he was very used to comforting women and making them feel more than just a hooker. It was not just sex. It was conversations, a movie, and room service. Fresh bedding that smelt of vanilla and warm melted chocolate. Definitely more luxurious than what I had initially expected. Spending time without any sexual interaction was a one payment of £250. Anything more was double, or even triple-if I was willing to experiment with him. It was not a race of his satisfaction, he let me take my time and be open and upfront about what I was willing to do and not. After all I was getting paid to please my daddy but he was never a douche about it. He listened to me. Being that he was a person with strict timing and schedule, come early in the morning, I needed to briskly get myself out of there and out of his way. It was like he had multiple personalities, when it came to handling his business and pleasure. I knew when I was not wanted and I suppose that’s what made this relationship work. We did not need to voice our feelings and needs, we just molded our self accordingly to what we both needed and wanted.
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Of course, looking back on my old self, this option for extra cash was something I never would have considered, but times had gotten tough for myself. There was fashion college to pay for, rent, the latest equipment for my studies. Everything piled up, waiting for me to face it and provide solutions to the weight of responsibility that pulled me down. This was a way to keep my head above the water. Besides, I could never actually go back home and admit defeat; that I needed help, when this decision was my own. It would only prove them right, that a traditional qualification was the answer to life. Yes, it was comfort and a secure future, but not the future I wanted to write for myself. Why do I stay you ask? I stay because it could have been much worse. With him I still have my identity, my career and future pending. He doesn’t consume my life, just two days of a month. I actually have realized much earlier on that, I actually do call the shots here. I can walk away. But I am not quite ready to just yet. Soon, but not yet.
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MELISSA KERMAN
No. 14 FREE LOADER
the
WHITE ROOM MELISSA KERMAN
The walls are white. Not the “off-white” of old linens, but like fresh, Christmas snow. It was your favorite color until you learned the statement is an oxymoron. White isn’t a color; it’s the absence of color. White is a void. At first you were apprehensive. Your previous trip to The White Room was a poor experience, but curiosity called you back and you believe in second chances. You’ve grown since then. The crevices in your forehead prove it. So do the scars on your knees. You’re different now. You’re better. No one joins you in The White Room, so there’s no one you have to be in The White Room. You switch out your contact lenses for glasses and swap your jeans for sweatpants. You’ll be here for a while, so you might as well get comfortable. Time halts in The White Room, so you remove your watch. You never liked that thing, anyway. It constricted your wrist and you only wore it to show your peers you could afford it. You speak aloud in The White Room. It tangibilizes your thoughts. If a thought exists only in your head, did you really think it? Or did you imagine you thought it? You’re also not used to so much alone time, and your voice reminds you that you have yourself.
No. 14 FREE LOADER
When you’re in The White Room, you remember in technicolor. You remember all you remembered to forget and you remember all you forgot you remembered to forget. So many memories and yet you trust none. Without anyone to confirm them, how do you know your memories transpired how you remember? You try reciting the memories aloud, but it sounds like you’re reading fairy tales. Why was it simpler to remember life in sepia? The more you remember, the more you sweat. Some things just don’t make sense. Did you really push Benny out of that tree house in summer camp? And then force him to tell the counselors he slipped? You remember signing his cast because you knew he’d be too terrified to stop you. Did you really do that? Maybe you didn’t. You remember vacations on the beach. You liked to play volleyball. You aimed every pass at someone’s head. You remember kicking sand in your family’s sandwiches when they weren’t looking. You remember your cousin building sandcastles. You’d step on them. He’d cry. You’d laugh.
The walls in The White Room V I B R A T E . You have a lot of questions. Are you a good person who does bad things or a bad person who does good things? You mull it over, but now the walls T H U M P. You already established you cannot trust your memories, so how could you trust the answers to your own questions? You ask because you don’t know the truth. Is there a truth? If it exists, how will you know if you’ve found it?
The room S P I N S and your eyelids
THE WHITE ROOM
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are granite. You doze off until a subtle tinkering wakes you. Sounds of triangles and xylophones E C H O . The symphony is familiar. It’s a medley of… nursery rhymes? The White Room sounds like R A I N B O W S .
The volume I N C R E A S E S . You can’t hear your voice over the N O I S E . The tempo INCREASES , and now you can’t hear your thoughts, either. A drum P O U N D S while a flute S H R I E K S . The White Room is no longer white. The room is T R A N S L U C E N T and you P L U N G E .
No song lasts F O R E V E R , though. The final C R E S C E N D O rings and the walls S H A T T E R . You gaze at the world around you. Y O U ’ R E
FREE, BUT YOU’RE NOT REALLY FREE. YOU
CAN’T REMEMBER
HOW YOU GOT H E R E . But you remember why white was once your favorite color.
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Mulla
Sveta Personal
Illustrations
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Urban
Ma Petite
Maison
Kristin D.
She ran up the stairs, her heels clicking against the aged wood. In one hand, Erin carried a newspaper. In the other, a small paper bag with two items of her favorite bakery’s daily special. She untucked her damp ponytail from her coat, and grated her teeth, bracing herself. She knew what she would find when she would open the door: bed unmade, a single cup of coffee for himself, and Sean sitting at the table, waiting for her. Or rather, waiting for breakfast. Erin had been so excited when he asked if he could stay. She loved her apartment, with its narrow hall, wooden pegs for coats, and the bedroom that was as big as the bathroom, kitchen, and small sitting room combined. It had two windows; one in the bedroom and one in the kitchen. Both of them looked over the dirty brick and cobblestone street that indirectly led down to the Thames. Her cat, Peter, was her only roommate, and all of the items inside of it were hers and hers alone. She had lived there for nearly three years, and as last autumn was settling in she had taken to feeling as if the place was too big for just her and Peter. And then, almost as if he had known what she was thinking, Sean had asked if he could come down and stay with her for a couple of weeks. He had just gotten a job but hadn’t looked for a place to live yet, and Erin was more than happy to host him while he looked and adjusted to life in London. She looked on the event as serendipitous; not only would her place feel more cozy, but maybe this meant that she was finally entering into some type of partnership with someone. Not anymore. Nearly four weeks into whatever type of thing existed with them, Erin wasn’t deluded to think they were in any capacity meaningful to one another. Which was fine, as Erin wasn’t necessarily on the lookout for anyone or anything in particular. She had thought Sean would’ve made a wonderful, well, something, though. Erin remembered the first time she had ever seen him. He had walked into a cafe with a book and after ordering, had quietly sat in a corner, reading. Erin had never seen so many people notice
such an apparently unobtrusive person; she imagined it was of how a minor celebrity may be noticed out in public. She, along with every other woman there, were either openly watching him or subtly flashing looks in his direction. The men in the cafe seemed equally entranced but on a completely different level. It looked as if some found him offensive, while others obviously admired him. Starting at that point, and for all of their friendship, Erin thought he was completely unaware of the effect he had on people. Probably because she too had fallen for his apparently careless charm.
But that had all begun to change over the last couple of weeks. Erin had taken to avoiding her apartment altogether, merely to avoid him. She was staying extra long at work, and went out to pubs and cafes more than she was comfortable with. When she was home, she found herself internally criticizing her things. Of feeling as if her apartment was too bright, too ornate or frilly. He himself never said anything about her style or the decor. She would often see Sean settled into her armchair, his dark clothing stark against the pale pink cushions. His persona made sure he never seemed out of place or uncomfortable. He merely overwhelmed the space. It was her chair, the Georgia O’Keeffe prints in their gilded frames that suddenly seemed gaudy and inappropriate. She clamped her teeth down for a few more moments, tightly holding the doorknob to her apartment. She didn’t want to go in, bringing him his breakfast in a space that was quickly making her and all of her things seem ridiculous. The apartment she loved, and that she had thought was becoming too big for her now suddenly seemed cramped under whatever type of energy emanated from Sean. Her blue and white willow-papered walls, floral sheets, pastel dishes, and brightly colored art prints seemed silly, and hyperfeminine around him. And she realized she was beginning to resent him for it. She breathed in a few more times, opened up the bag she was holding and quickly ate one of the croissants inside. Erin tossed her head back, looked down at her floral-capped key and resolutely walked into her apartment.
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LUAN BANZAI
No. 14 FREE LOADER
No. 14 FREE LOADER
VENDING MACHINES
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That time I waited tables at the diner on 17th Street I made a habit of eating customers’ leftovers. I didn’t have a lot of money for food in those days. Yes, I spent too much on drugs, but even so, why should something like three perfectly good crispy and golden chicken fingers go into the trash? Blow off the clingy bits of shredded lettuce and have a snack. Strictly against policy; health-code violation we were told. The manager was really strict about it. He took his job seriously the way only someone in a dead-end job could and prowled around for people like me. HE CALLED US GARBAGE MOUTHERS. And so there I was mid-chew, a greasy onion ring pinched in greedy fingers, hidden I thought, behind the dishwasher, when the manager appeared out of the steam like a surprise belch. “Are you garbage mouthing?” Being polite I swallowed before answering. “It seemed a crime to waste.” “You’re fired,” he said. “Over an onion ring?”
The fridge held a pint of pistachio ice cream which belonged to my roommate Donnie and which I hated. I preferred chocolate. I used a fork; drank the slurry melt. NEXT I CHOKED DOWN THE LAST TWO YEASTY SLICES FROM AN EXPIRED BAG OF WONDER BREAD. Donnie caught me sticky-fingered: “You ate my ice cream.” “I had to. I was starving.” “Buy your ass some groceries then.” I turned my pockets out to demonstrate my destitute state. A nickel plunked to the floor. I’d no idea it was there, but it did kind of emphasize my point.
“This is the third time. You’re fired.”
“Cute,” Donnie said.
Third time catching me I wanted to say. Instead I yelled, “The food sucks anyway. I’m so out of here.”
“There’s rent. You owe me five bucks for pizza. Dude, get it together.”
“You have ketchup,” he said, wiping his lip where I should mine. Which I didn’t. I hoped people would think it was blood. I kicked through the service door into the alley, tore off my apron, and tossed it into a trash bin. On the sidewalk I leaned into my stride and pounded home.
“They fired me.”
“It was so stupid. The manager caught me eating leftovers.” “That’s disgusting,” Donnie said. And I was still hungry. I needed a job but what I
wanted was lunch. I went to Safeway and stole a can of Hormel turkey chili. At Whole Foods I grabbed napkins and a plastic spoon from the pre-
pared-foods counter. Before I hit the exit a staff member pushed in front of me. “All right, man. What are you hiding?” HIS NAMETAG READ SULEIMAYN AND HIS ACCENT WAS SO BEAUTIFUL I WISHED I COULD BOTTLE IT. He pulled up my shirt and grabbed the can hidden in my caved-in tummy. “I brought it with me,” I said. “You guys don’t sell that.” He stared at the label a lot longer than it took to read. He knew I was right, but he probably also knew I’d stolen it. He seemed unsure what to do. I was caught but in the wrong place by the wrong person. It was just one of those things. “Get out of here.” Dupont Circle: I plopped down in the shade of a tree and took in the crowd. Sitting on a bench near the fountain was Brian. I knew him from around, but mostly he talked to me because I fed him Camels in between sets of his strip shows at Wet. He was shirtless, his face cast backwards at the sun, and shorts pulled down past his hips with the zipper butterflied open. He was tanning himself. I remembered he said a little browning made his abs stand out underneath the lights. The can was a pop-top. Perfect for campers, shoplifters, and castaways. I WATCHED BRIAN WHILE SPOONING UP WEDGES OF COLD, GELATINOUS CHILI. I watched him scratch his chin. I watched him adjust his shoulders against the bench. I watched a man lean over as if smelling him and say something, his lips moving. I watched Brian ignore him. I watched Brian adjust his crotch. I sucked the spoon clean and palmed my chin. Then I snuck up on Brian and kissed him. His eyes opened in shock and that’s when I saw he wasn’t Brian at all. “Oh, my god,” I said. “I thought you were someone else.” “The fuck?” The man stood. His collar bones rose to the level of my eyes. Glazed with sweat, they were nice collar bones. And even though this stranger’s boiling, angry face let me know he was going to pummel me like a piece
of raw meat, all I wanted was to lick at their salty tang. HE HOOKED AN UPPERCUT INTO MY GUT. I sank to my knees; concrete grit chewed into my palms. “Man, you should brush your teeth,” he said. His high tops disappeared and I managed to crawl over to the bushes before yacking into the tulips. I lay on my back for a spell, relishing the simple joy of functioning lungs, and ignoring the rancid taste in my mouth. Once the threat of any further heaves had passed I got to shaky legs and loped in the direction of home. A
well-trodden path took me past the diner where I’d worked only hours ago. I paused to look in the windows. Waiters darted here and there. The manager scurried through the aisles, a cheese-less rat. I laughed at the poor dopes.
I SWIPED A SUGAR PACKET OFF A PATIO TABLE, POPPED IT INTO MY MOUTH AND THEN WALKED ON. Soon, saliva and paper and sugar were all muddled together and I rolled the mass back and forth across my tongue like a candy. Such sweet relief. A trot entered my steps. What fool had called sugar empty calories? I bunched the wad between teeth and cheek and sucked at it for blocks before swallowing it down.
Only two years after my parents and I had moved to the States, I won “most persuasive” in a middle school debate activity. Defending the point of view of the Chinese workers building the transcontinental railroad, using a language I had only known for a few years, I felt extremely proud to have grabbed the top prize. Looking back, it’s easy to bathe in the pride of the metaphor — t o believe that I, too, was an immigrant overcoming adversity to succeed in America. After all, is that not the American Dream? But there is a certain hubris that comes with suggesting that my own journey from immigrant to citizen holds equal footing with the stories of the railroad workers. Underneath the sense of achievement, I find assumptions of entitlement and privilege. So I find myself asking: DO I DESERVE IT? As part of the “Burnout Generation”, I always fit in with the high-achieving crowd. Finding my passions, achieving great things, and touting other such millennial cliches were my forte. I was always chasing the next cool thing I could show off or the next impressive accolade I could put on my resume.
intoxicating. The feedback loop of overachieving then reaping praise was addicting. It was the way I had always done things. Until, that is, I went to college.
Thrust into a top 10 university in the nation, I was suddenly surrounded by people who were all as driven as I was. I met bright I WORKED peers from all corners of the HARD BECAUSE world, and we graduated having learned more than ADMIRATION just classroom knowledge… FROM PEERS FELT or so the university INTOXICATING. brochures would like us to But the reasons were shallow. believe. Unfortunately it was I worked hard because so much more complicated admiration from peers felt than that. Some of us came
from wealth and comfort. From suburban threestory houses and skylineview condos. Some of us didn’t. Others of us grew up knowing “backyards” as things only our friends had. With parents that would forget birthdays or disappear from home for days at a time. Or forever. Our time in college did, in part, live up to its name as “the great equalizer.” But the question of how you paid for it always divided us. Many friends graduated shouldering debt that they would have to pay off in years to come, all because the university’s equations deemed that their parents have the means to pay. I, on the other hand, was generously funded by the university — i n small part through merit in my physics studies but mostly due to the university’s large support for what my parents could not pay. Ultimately, despite my extended 5-year stay in college for two degrees, my parents were asked to pay a sum that they could afford. I was fortunate. OTHERS OF US GREW UP KNOWING “BACKYARDS” AS THINGS ONLY OUR FRIENDS HAD. It was difficult to find my place among so many friends who were less so. We all worked just as hard. We all had our share of late night runs to Taco Bell. But after
the caps were thrown and was raised. It was about me. the pictures taken, those differences split us apart In some twisted sense, again. I achieved the coveted American Dream. I moved to Only this time it wasn’t about the States without knowing where we’d come from. It a lick of English. My parents wasn’t about our parents sacrificed parts of their lives or how we’d been raised. to stay here so I could get a It was about how much good education. I worked money we were making, hard, graduated from a university, what neighborhood we world-class decided to live in. How much and now I live in one of country’s greatest traveling we decided to do. the doing satisfying It had become personal. cities, work that pays well. For me, my desire had always been the same: focus on my IN SOME TWISTED passions. I was still reaching SENSE, I ACHIEVED for the next best thing, THE COVETED every step of the way. But AMERICAN DREAM. suddenly, everything had gilded “dream” changed for my friends. Now, This in their eyes, it wasn’t about was what raised me to where I was from or how I constantly climb the ladder.
At some point in my journey, the idea that I could achieve this nebulous yet ubiquitous “dream” had snuck into my brain. But nobody ever told me that people would see me differently for it. My peers interacted with me differently. The college camaraderie was gone, replaced by a silent judgement underneath our conversations. The American Dream might mean something different for everyone, but in my ears it whispered a lie. It made me believe that I deserved it. It made me think that because I conquered my hardships, no matter how small, I deserved everything laid at my feet.
I don’t. It’s easy to selectively forget my university’s financial generosity and glorify my troubles. But to pretend that it defined my childhood would spit on the face of those who actually struggled. The dream tempts me to forget the shoulders on which I stand: the opportunities that were given to me by my parents, by supportive alumni and friends, by mentors and teachers. Giving in to entitlement would be easy. But I refuse.
This is not a perspective often told, but it is my experience: a constant back and forth of pride and guilt. Should I be proud of this job? Or did I only get it because my university enabled me? The pursuit of the American Dream never advertised this duality, but it’s something I’ve come to understand. I used to think privilege was what you’ve had since birth that others did not. But it is also important to recognize the privilege that was earned. Because no matter who you are, you didn’t do it all by yourself. And these privileges do not become a right just because you gained it along the way.
THIS IS NOT A PERSPECTIVE OFTEN TOLD, BUT IT IS MY EXPERIENCE: A CONSTANT BACK AND FORTH OF PRIDE AND GUILT. As we all move up one rung at a time, it is important to pull ourselves down from the pedestals and metaphors that have so firmly raised us above our self-delusions and soberly remind ourselves to take account of what we truly deserve. Be warned: it is not some idyllic story of “pulling yourself up by your bootstraps.” It instead is a story of community and sacrifice, told over generations, perhaps stretching all the way back to the railroad workers who broke their backs out West. We cannot, we must not forget this.
Unequal Scenes Papwa Sewgolum Golf Course is located along the lush green slopes of the Umgeni River in Durban. Almost unbelievably, a sprawling informal settlement exists just meters from the tee for the 6th hole. A low-slung concrete fence separates the tin shacks from the carefully manicured fairways. In a twist of irony, the golf course is named after an apartheid-era golfer of Indian descent, named Sewsunker “Papwa” Sewgolum. Papwa Sewgolum was an excellent self-taught golfer, with no formal schooling. He is famous for his reversed, cross-handed grip (called the “Sewsunker” grip even today). He is possibly most famous, however, for beating Gary Player and winning the 1965 Natal Open. The Natal Open was held at the Durban Country Club, which at the time did not allow non-whites into the clubhouse. Sewgolum won the tournament, the only non-white in a field of 113 players. When the prizes were given, he had to receive his trophy outside, in the pouring rain, while the white players sat comfortably inside. The pictures of him in the rain were broadcast around the world, resulting in an international outcry inspiring a number of countries to impose sanctions on South African sporting events. Just as it looked as if his career would take off, the South African government banned Sewgolum from all local tournaments and also withdrew his passport, preventing him from competing abroad. “Papwa” died impoverished in 1978, at age 50, from a heart attack.
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By forcing narratives together, the prints put into question the is an attempt to situate myself microscopic or the idiosyncratic in the world in relation to against a more telescopic or textual authority and dominant macroscopic view, resulting in ideologies. The seven prints a visual interaction between contain photographs of street the governing with regard to signs and scanned governmentthe individual or the governed. issued documents that are then The process of handwriting is overlaid with hand-written text— ritualistic and contemplative in documents attributed to power. as much as it is laborious. Varied These texts vary from critical art narratives, though personal, theory, to the Tagalog Catholic set up the implicit dichotomy Bible, to immigration law; i.e. that is present in all seven written works emblematic of the prints. The historical narrative is rules in which one would conduct vast, ranging from pre-colonial their day-to-day life. Power, in Philippines to contemporary this sense, encompasses the scholarship. As such, some legal, religious, theoretical, are embedded in post-colonial governmental and transnational tensions that explore historical implications of dominant thinking flows of belief systems and and regulated action. Through this mandated law on transnational method, the notion of text-asand global planes; others are power is reduced to mere noise— meant to interrogate the role of eclipsing the ideas it is meant art scholarship that often times to represent, the prints instead muddle our own expressions, reutilize an ideological hegemony contextualizing the role of critical as a texture or a filter through theory. They become a labored which one views the world around articulation and an exhaustive them. alteration of the original and the mundane.
Housebound Freya Rohn
The vine, rootless, needs no soil, no earth to make a home. The dodder attaches itself to a plant, wraps itself around leaf, stem—
beloved or bound The oak sets the table as its guest, wasp-waisted presumes the house, arranging easy chair, bassinet. There is a threshold between guest & host— the divine right to demand & obligation scales of lack & abundance the sting of an unchanging sum— yet moonlight & shadow exchange places comfortably—a balance made more holy in ebb & flow. There is a root in the word free that means
beloved, not in bondage. Socially distanced, we avoid the knock of morning glory, hellbine— the imposition of root, branch & stem—networks laid horizontal by insistent purpose. There is a branch in the word load that means
burden, that which we must carry. I carry gall, oak apple— all prisoner & ruler
that we must carry —
I hold it to the light of threshold, examine the tannic shell, whose creation— offered by host, demanded of guest—
beloved or bound, leaves no easy answer.
DREAM KNOTS
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BADGE JUICE BASIE _______ ALLEN
from inside the lyric of a wound stood the waiting side of a podium and me on the verge of voice standing before a hall-full of cops sipping on badge juice their insignia lit eyes, fixed on there having to be a problem stood in a semi-circle like seeds to a halved melon behind the cops— in the emotional bleachers of the precinct was our people the other half-melon’d-half the melonated half oxidized browned beautiful their ears began to rebound my words as I sang “police precincts need to blossom into the epicenter of art movements and not just sink as the lottery of petal-ated pain where flowers don’t give a bloom about us —if there’s going to be any change in the way we whine around the color blue we need comradely in the heart of the precinct
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instead of chainmail and locked bar arms we need to incentivize our police to encourage themselves. we need pay raises for every non violent month. we need added vacation time for every cop who works with local artists. we need new boots for good deeds. a new horse for every time we don’t need to call a hearse. gold stars for every gold cap that isn’t fired. we need to be melting the unused bullets into gold caps for crooked teeth and have a contest to see which cop can smile and imitate the cosmos best. we need to turn the locker room talk out with the same clout that cuddles up to the shoulders of autonomy. we need to re-cleave and learn how to learn. we need tree and dirt lessons. but in this wound I’m still behind the podium and the precinct is still split into two melon’d halves my voice still sung in the air “hatred ferments in darkness and the best way to ruin the speed of growing violence is with light”
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My sister recently shared a video of a possum mom slowly ambling across her back yard, with a big load of joeys dangling from her back and belly. Though a bit cumbersome, hauling 10+ young around that way must be easier than corralling and protecting them each individually. Due to perhaps being blind, weak, and generally helpless, we can forgive baby animals such as these who make up the most justifiable (and adorable) type of freeloader.
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Passamonti
another motel another television another day i have been leaving him since the dawn of time each mosquito graved on my glass shield feels like sweet revenge against the man who sucked my lifeblood dry all of us under him & over it chaffed from riding the american dream without a cent and without sense
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THE NAKED TRUTH PHOTOGRPHY BY JUS T IN ANANTAWAN
Intro by Justin Anantawan Clothes tell stories – of the people’s lives who are involved in a garment’s creation from the designer’s vision to the handiwork of the tailor - of the societal and historical f ramework that dictates its colors, silhouettes and amount of skin that is hidden or revealed. For JP Michaels a self professed “clothes horse”, clothes are the quills that he uses to pen the story of his life. His style choices are expertly curated by a rich and varied theatrical background of operatic proportions. However, naked-ness also plays a seminal role in this “Style Icon’s” narrative. On January 13, 2020, I had the privilege of meeting him at his apartment, for which he did the interior decoration, to photograph and interview him for this story. I spent my afternoon with him listening to dozens of anecdotes f rom his life and the tales behind the many pieces (which were overflowing out of an antique armoire and mirrored cabinets) of his seemingly limitless collection of fashion. The following is an excerpt from his memoirs “Died and Gone to Fashion: Surviving a period of unwellness one outfit at a time”, which will be published as a sequelled blog.
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MEET TODAY'S
FOPP
FASHION POINT PERSON, ME! I have often wondered how a self-professed, unapologetic, sartorial clothes horse like myself, who for all intents and purpose in polite conversation, or otherwise, could be considered a clothes horse in the face of this one, bold, irrefutable, bare fact: I am Mr. Nude Toronto 1998 and I have the sash to prove it. On a uncharacteristically warm late May evening in 1998, 250 naked men crowded into one of Toronto’s bastions of gay watering holes known as ‘The “Toolbox” (Eastern Avenue) to witness the first Mr. Nude Toronto contest. I was chosen f rom a roster of 14 contestants. I shall leave the details of the criteria for the selection process
to your own imaginations (read: dirty minds).\ To my way of thinking, my current sartorial efforts and my past naked escapades place me in a very unique position to make some kind of statement. So here it is: I always felt fiercely empowered and selfpossessed when I presented myself unclothed in public. Surprisingly, I feel the identical fierce empowerment and selfpossession when I present myself with sartorial elegance. I am proud to have presented myself unclothed and I am proud to present myself clothed. You could say I’m versa-tile. And I am most proud to present myself as today’s fopp.
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Mario Humberto Kazaz
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EXCLUSIVE CONTENT:
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ABIGAIL SWANSON ADRIAN X SANDS ASHLEY WALTERS BASIE ALLEN CHIRON DUONG ELIZABETH ATHERTON FATIMA ELMUSBAHI FREYA ROHN GULI COHEN JESSICA KREBSBACH JOHNNY MILLER JOON PARK JULIA SKERRY CHAFFED; PG. 68
UNTITLED; PG. 08-09, UNTITLED; BACK COVER
UNTITLED; COVER, PG. 84-85
DREAM KNOTS AND BADGE JUICE; PG. 54-54
UNTITLED; PG. 64-66
THE DWELLER; PG. 16-17
AN EXPERIENCE OF SUGAR; PG. 18-21 FORWARD; PG. 06-07
HOUSEBOUND; PG. 52-53
FEMININE LABOR; PG. 72-77
BETTER, BUT NOT GREAT; PG. 12-15
UNEQUAL SCENES; PG. 38–45
DO WE DESERVE THE AMERICAN DREAM?; PG. 34-37
LARGE HAUL; PG. 58-59
THE NAKED TRUTH; PG. 78-83
KERR IVAN CIRILO MA PETITE MAISON; PG. 26-27
JUSTIN ANANTAWAN LABOR/AUTHORITY; PG. 46-51
KRISTIN D. URBAN
LUAN BANZAI MARIO HUMBERTO KAZAZ MELISSA KERMAN POL KURUCZ SARA PASSAMONTI STEFEN STYRSKY SLIPPERY DIRT SVETA MULLARI ZACH WESTERMAN VENDING MACHINES; PG. 28-29
UNTITLED ; PG. 86-87
THE WHITE ROOM; PG. 22-23
UNTITLED; PG. 10-11, 60-63
NEW YORK BITES; PG. 67, 70-71
GARBAGE MOUTH; PG. 30-32
UNTITLED; PG. 33, 57
PERSONAL ILLUSTRATIONS; PG. 24-25
WHITE ROOM BKGD; PG. 22-23
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