post- magazine October 26th, 2023

In This Issue

liza kolbasov

Sydney Pearson

2

Haunted Grounds

Liebestraum and Loss

3

5

sofie zeruto

Sarah Kim

nélari figueroa-torres 4

Even Where the America's Grass Grows Over Sweetheart

Recording Scriptures of Glory 6

Raima ISlam 7

Indigo Mudbhary 8

Quiz: Dining Based Guide to Running in PVD on Red Flags

postCover by Lucid Clairvoyant Insta: @l.u.cid

OCT 26

VOL 32

— ISSUE 5

FEATURE

“Liebestraum” and Loss What piano lessons taught me

By Sydney Pearson illustrated by Caroline houser O lieb, solang du lieben kannst!

O lieb, solang du lieben magst!

Die Stunde kommt, die Stunde kommt, Wo du an Gräbern stehst und klagst!

O love, as long as love you can, O love, as long as love you may, The time will come, the time will come When you will stand at the grave and mourn!

- From "O lieb, so lang du lieben kannst" by Ferdinand Freiligrath *** Across from the jelly donut shop, a block from the

keep the repetition of my right hand from overpowering

downtown, or picking up my friend who still attended. I

train tracks, stood a windowed storefront. At first glance,

the central melody of the left while using the right hand

would wave from the car as Simona opened the door for

the small room could be a jewelry shop, with its mahogany

to play notes of the melody when the score dictated. I

my friend, hoping that Simona would see me, but she

cases and images of gem-laden necklaces on the walls.

chipped away at it for months, and slowly a song emerged,

never did. So I caught glimpses from stories, snippets

But a closer look revealed that the jewelry mannequins

but it was not the one I had meant to carve.

about lessons, whatever new song my friend learned. The

were bare, the shelves empty. You might then notice a

***

lack of piano had quickly felt normal to me, but every

child leafing through a Calvin and Hobbes collection at a

One year Simona went back to her home country

sturdy wooden desk on the left or a chair piled high with

in Europe after her father died. She brought back beads

music books further to the right. Then finally, your gaze

and string for all her students so they could make their

Two years after I left, I found out that Simona was

would touch upon the black upright piano tucked away in

own bracelets, as well as tiny vials of rosewater perfume.

moving across the country. It seemed logical; it was the

the corner, a child intently focused on the sheet music in

I picked out two textured black balls of volcanic rock,

height of the pandemic. Everyone was shifting. Soon after,

front of them while a woman in a swivel chair carefully

and one red one. I don’t know where those beads or the

Simona followed me on Instagram, and I saw photos of

watched on.

perfume are now. I wish I did.

beaches and sunsets and waving palm trees. She seemed

anecdote was a mild shock to my system. Things moved on, with or without me.

Once a week for nine years, my mom pulled up

I met a girl during a golf match my freshman year

to the “No Parking” zone in front of the tiny piano studio,

of high school who also took lessons with Simona. We

A year later, a month after graduating high school,

and I grabbed my bag of books and tumbled out as fast as

recounted stories: the beads, the way she’d never let us

I received a text that Simona had died, taken by cancer

possible. Simona unlocked the door, sensing my presence

stay alone in the glass-walled studio downtown, how she

she had kept secret from her students so as not to worry

at the glass behind her, and I sat down and waited for my

worked endlessly to make sure that lessons worked for

them.

turn to play, perhaps Bach one day or a Top 20 radio hit

students, rather than for her.

another.

Around the start of my freshman year of high school, Simona presented me with “Liebestraum” by Franz Liszt.

happy, content.

The news left me numb, my head light and thoughts

“Simona’s like a mom to us,” she said.

disjointed. She must be living secretly on the beach,

I couldn’t have agreed more.

enjoying the salty air and lobsters washed up by the surf.

***

She was so young, only around my parents’ age. How

She displayed the song like carving a jewel, a shimmering,

I don’t remember much of what I played that year

albeit grueling, task that would reap an incredible result.

other than “Liebestraum.” There must have been some

could she be gone?

She said that I could be the last performer at the semi-

of my favorite Ed Sheeran songs, possibly “Memory”

Living near Steinert last year, some friends inspired

annual piano recital, an honor that I always saw as being

from Cats, but as my schedule grew busier with sports

me to dust off my piano skills using the basement practice

reserved for the oldest, most skilled students.

***

and homework and volunteering, lessons dwindled. My

spaces. One Sunday night, too antsy to work, I grabbed

“Liebestraum” is a song dominated by the left hand.

progress with “Liebestraum” slowed, and I was unable to

my laptop and took the back staircase down, emerging

Most piano pieces I have played assign the right hand

get past the 31st measure, a tricky, fast-paced section that

in a space full of telephone-booth-like rooms. They were

the central melody, while the left fills in the gaps, but

my hands couldn’t keep up with. At the end of freshman

small and bare, no dark wooden furniture or stacks of

the “voice” of “Liebestraum” comes from the thoughtful

year, I didn’t make it to the piano recital. It didn’t matter;

books or pictures of jewelry lining the walls. Finding a

pressing of the left hand, while the right fills the

I didn’t have anything ready to play. I took a break from

cubby, I didn’t think of playing “Liebestraum,” the task

background with its quick rising and falling.

lessons and “Liebestraum.” I never went back.

too daunting after five years away. Instead, I pulled up

Learning the song, I struggled with the sound, how to

Occasionally I passed Simona’s studio when walking

Ludovico Einaudi’s “Nuvole Bianche,” the only song I had

Dear Readers,

hand, and ending the evening in the living room trading

another writer explores the changing attitudes toward

candy with my sisters and our friends. Now, though, Hal-

two popular “it-girl” pop artists—one from her child-

This week the copy chief has to write the editor’s

loween is all scrambling together clever, but also cute,

hood, and another from the present day. For a break

but also cheap last-minute costumes; trying to figure out

from the past, our two Lifestyle writers are looking at

what party will actually be fun; and a surprising, and dis-

right here, right now. One provides a guide to running in

appointing, dearth of candy. Basically, what I’m trying to

Providence for beginners, and the other tells you what

say is: Halloween just isn’t what it used to be.

Brown dining hall you are, based on your red flags.

Letter from the Editor note. Ah! Terrifying. I’m not supposed to write; I just read everyone else’s writing. But maybe this creepy, spooky, dare-I-say-uncanny situation is kind of perfectly on theme for this pre-Halloween issue of post-. ’Tis the season, and all that. Readers, I have a confession to make: I don’t really like Halloween. Wait, wait, hear me out. It wasn’t always this way. When I was younger, Halloween was my favorite holiday. I remember planning my costume months in advance, building it piece by piece in eager anticipation. I remember decorating the house with cotton spiderwebs, spray-painted styrofoam gravestones, and plastic skeletons that lived in boxes in the attic for the rest of the year. I remember the night itself, running from house to house with a pillowcase in

2

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Many of our writers this week are also reflecting

There’s something to pique everyone’s interest,

on bits of the past. In Feature, the writer reflects on

whether you are spending this weekend reminiscing

memories of her piano lessons, and her connection to

about Halloweens past or embracing wholeheartedly

her teacher. In Narrative, one writer mourns the clos-

the college Halloween experience. So—amid the parties

ing of a beloved coffee shop while contemplating their

or the memories—grab a handful of candy and a mug of

experience with belonging and community. Our other

hot apple cider, and enjoy this issue of post-!

Narrative writer celebrates the memory of familial connection through creative and artistic processes like singing and beading. In A&C, a writer considers tulips as a metaphor for growth, absence, and regrowth, and

Trick or treat,

Eleanor Peters Copy Chief

FEATURE ever taught myself. The combination of the out-of-tune

I who mourn here alongside your grave!

piano and my out-of-practice fingers left me rushing over

Forgive my slights!

the keys, hitting the wrong notes. The song was shaky and

Dear God, I meant no harm!

frantic, lacking the patient, slow rise it called for. I then tried to play the two songs I had muscle memory for:

and

Ed Sheeran’s “Thinking Out Loud” and Yann Tiersen’s “Comptine d’un autre été: L’Après-midi,” both of which I

Not again: I forgave you long ago!

had performed for church services over five years before.

Haunted Grounds a love letter to places and those within them by liza kolbasov Illustrated by lena he INSTA: @liquidbutterflies

I was able to catch on to the beginnings of both, but by the

Indeed, he did forgive you,

middle, my fingers lost their memory, and they faltered.

But tears he would freely shed,

The songs had left me. Or perhaps, more precisely, I had

Over you and on your unthinking word—

Providence will be closing in less than two weeks. This is both

left the songs.

Quiet now!—he rests, he has passed.

heartbreaking and, in some ways, strangely fitting.

*** Thanksgiving of my junior year of high school, Simona texted me.

Happy Thanksgiving

I found out recently that my favorite coffee shop in

I love The Shop not just because it has the best espresso I am taken back to all the times I did not practice,

in the city—although it does—but for the way their cortados

how I gave up on my instrument, when I did not text back.

come in mini mason jars and their breakfasts come on

I know now that I will learn the rest of “Liebestraum No.

wooden boards. Everything feels simple and fancy at the same

3.” The way I should have years ago.

time. The Shop isn’t the sort of place I go to do work—that

Greetings to everyone

***

distinction falls to The Coffee Exchange—and perhaps that’s

Over the nine years I played piano and the five years

part of its charm for me. Instead, I come on Friday morning

I have not, my family never threw away any of the sheet

for a breakfast date, and sit at the bar by the window, basking

I assumed that the text was generic, something sent

music I acquired. The books sit in a basket, gathering dust

in the dappled mid-autumn sunlight. There, out of the way,

to all of her students. After all, she hadn’t seen me in over

in the corner of the living room now overrun with my

sipping on my coffee, I’m perfectly situated to eavesdrop on

a year; why would she reach out? I didn’t respond.

little brother’s Legos.

the conversations bubbling around me as the door creaks

Despite being able to read music, I never was a

open and closed. I listen in as the owner—who doubles as The

After Simona’s death, I was desperate to find more of

***

good sight-reader. Whenever I began a new piece, Simona

Shop’s only barista and employee—banters with customers

her, to understand her silent choice to spend her last year

would help me by writing out the letters next to each

he knows by name. These people, one imagines, have been

on the other side of the country. I Googled and Googled,

note. She’d circle the sharps and flats, write reminders

going here for years. They’re not of my sort, not transient

but there was no obituary to be found and little personal

with smiley faces in the margins telling me to go slow or

student-ghosts destined to play only a minor role in any story

information beyond a generic LinkedIn. I did, however,

practice a difficult bridge in a specific way. Some people

one tells about this city. In a corner nook, someone perches so

come across her YouTube channel. There, she had posted

would look at the music and be overwhelmed by the

that all you can see are their well-worn leather boots, which

videos of her playing, as well as some of her singing. Most

amount of pencil markings on it, but now I’m grateful.

hang like an advertisement for East Coast autumn. They’re

of the videos were faceless, but I found one with her

Simona’s store has become a Thai restaurant. Her

working on a crossword, and once in a while they call out to

sitting at a keyboard playing a song she had written. All

voice and songs are gone from the internet. But I still have

the owner behind the counter or to a familiar customer in

I could think about was that she seemed alive and whole.

her handwriting. Hundreds of pages, filled with her.

search of an answer to a particularly tricky clue. A man in

How could she have had cancer? How could she have been dying? But I suppose that even over the internet, Simona was good at keeping secrets.

A few months later, I went searching for the channel again, but it was gone. All of the music she had created, the proof I held that she had lived, was no longer at my fingertips. *** While we colloquially call Franz Liszt’s famous piece “Liebestraum,” its full title is “Liebestraum No. 3 in A-Flat Major.” The song is part of a set of three “Liebesträume” that Liszt composed, all originally meant to accompany German love poems. The third poem, on which Liebestraum No. 3 was designed, was written by Ferdinand Freiligrath. “O lieb, so lang du lieben kannst” or “O love, as long as love you can,” speaks to treating relationships with care, loving as much as you can, as someday that person will be gone. Reading the poem, I reached these stanzas, and felt my stomach twist: You will say: Look at me from below,

Scary

Sentences

1. Death 2. Run-on 3. “Where my hug at?”

4. Boo! 5. “We need to talk” 6. (Over Instagram DM) Hey girlie!

7. Your instructor has released grade changes and new comments for Midterm Exam.

8. “We should get coffee” 9. “Do you want the good news or bad news first” 10. Red rum (read it backwards)

“An umbrella is also the optimal weapon.”

“I'm rewatching this lecture capture for a lecture I attended. I be nodding so often it’s kinda embarrassing, especially at 2x speed.”

October 26, 2023

3

NARRATIVE dirty construction clothes breathes a sigh of relief at the fact

stained-glass windows, as the uneven bricks of the sidewalks

he was to have the means to do so, it was his way of coping. It

that The Shop is still open, and he can get his hot cocoa and

trip me up when I try to hurry down the hill, as I watch the

was his way of feeling human in the midst of something that

chocolate chip cookie. A woman in a flowy skirt I admire

stars mix with blinking electric lights reflecting in the water

he “could barely wrap his head around.”

orders a brewed coffee “for here” and takes it outside to sit

at India Point Park. I love the sound of this city’s silence—

The phrase “the new normal” jerks my body into fight-

in the October breeze. It seems like its own world, this place

the cars and the breeze and the cicadas all coming together

or-flight. We’ve almost reached the three-year mark of being

to which people return day after day, season after season, to

in one dull hum. And the way communities seem to bubble

sent home from freshman year of college due to the pandemic

get their caffeine fix and to smile and talk to the man behind

when I leave College Hill. In every bar, bookstore, or cafe, I

(and how nice it feels to get further from that moment).

the counter, exchanging bits of news about their friends and

see people running into their friends, smiling at each other,

But it seems like the new normal is something that is ever-

acquaintances.

seeming so at home and so rooted here.

evolving. The tippity top of a treadmill band that’s impossible

Watching this tableau unfold, I feel myself floating above

And yet, I can’t let myself forget that I am not one of them.

to reach no matter how fast you run. It’s a concept, a mindset,

ground. I’d like to haunt this place, I think: to put myself in

I do not get to settle, to put down roots, to build a home in this

that will be ingrained in young consciences. It has to be.

a corner, unseen and unnoticed, to let my soul mix with the

city—in any city. Unlike them, I am a transient apparition, with

There can simply be no more “out of sight, out of mind.” But

smell of fresh coffee and spiced parsnip muffins. I am a person

no story to give to this place. As a senior, I am becoming more

how do you teach a child to prepare to lose what they’ve just

with a deep attachment to places, but this is always the way

and more attuned to endings, to the ways in which I’m walking

received? How do you teach a being, new to this Earth, about

it goes for me: no planting roots, no letting myself become

towards an endless, foggy blankness.

a disappearing world? Object permanence—something we

intertwined with the everyday of a place. In some ways, this probably just comes from a deep-seated sense of fear. I can get involved with a student community, because the label of “student” explicitly delineates a space meant for people like

My favorite coffee shop in Providence is closing in just a few weeks, and I’m beginning to feel myself floating away.

Clearly there was something in me aching for the fate of our Earth.

gain once we’re about eight months old—is also about when children begin to experience separation anxiety.

I am lucky to say I have felt a sense of placeness for the majority of my life. My family has never moved homes, and

me. But the social circles of a city feel far and out of reach,

And I continue to ache. For an assignment in my class,

over the summer, I even had camp to act as a second one. I’ve

something to observe from the outside. And so I watch the

“Narrating the Anthropocene,” I recently spoke with Jon

had the same best friend since I was two. I’m close with my

regulars chat with the bartender at Glou, my favorite dimly lit

Robertson, a survivor of the 2017 Thomas Wildfire that ate

siblings.

Providence cocktail bar, about the local arts scene. At AS220,

through Santa Barbara, California, and surrounding areas.

an arts space downtown, I eavesdrop on the conversations in the slam poetry circles, everyone cheering each other on, and

In 2017, the “island game” came to life for the Robertsons.

Their life was deserted, but instead of sand, it was ash.

And yet— Maybe it’s growing up. Maybe the feeling that the rug can be ripped out from right under me is just the world

think about what my life would have been like if I’d chosen

He told me about his daughter, about her plan to become

saying, “This is 22!” Certainly, that’s part of it. But that can’t

to build my life around creative writing, rather than pivoting

a professional costume designer. Hours felt like too small a unit

to psychology. At Riffraff, a bookstore-bar that has one of my

of time to correctly valorize her efforts—clippings of her fabric,

Why did it take 13 years for someone to tell me

favorite book collections and hosts well-attended readings,

design sketches, and complete costumes worn by actors with

so nonchalantly what was coming? It’s time to start

I watch people reunite with past professors and friends,

dreams just as big as hers.

environmental education early and consistently. Because

be all.

congratulating each other on book releases and reminiscing

Her portfolio was one of many casualties in the Robertson

what we do does matter. Every being on this Earth deserves

on days past. I’d like to imagine what it would be like to be a

family household. They also lost Jon’s wife’s late mother’s

access to a place, a permanent home, and the opportunity to

part of this, but it feels too scary, too out of reach. After all, how

paintings, three wardrobes they’d spent their lives building,

build a tangible life.

do you let yourself grow roots, become entangled, when your

and an entire home that they could barely afford but had

Like Jon said: It may have felt materialistic, but the

time in a place has an end date? When you’re certain to have

housed them through retirement. Jon heard that the fire was

objects that we surround ourselves with are critical to

to leave, and don’t know where you’ll be going next, or how

moving one acre per second. He thinks this is why neighbors

building our sense of self. It’s human to collect. It’s human to

long you’ll stay there? It feels safer to appear and disappear

immediately next to him were left untouched—the fire literally

settle. It’s human to lay down roots.

unnoticed. To become a collage of all the homes I’ve made,

skipped over certain houses. It was so swiftly moving that his

but to leave myself out of their stories.

house, and the home within, were gone as quickly as a gas stove

Growing up in the Bay Area, where one would suppose

Each generation can remember an era of loss and

day after day, studying in a corner all through the year.

struggle—anticipation of nuclear warfare, a rise in terrorist

Philz Coffee may be a chain, but the Philz on Middlefield

attacks, an economic crash, a constant flow of mass shootings,

road has left a deep crease in the fabric of my soul. In my

a mental health epidemic. But the climate crisis is unique in

high school years, I haunted it religiously. Perhaps, in some

that it was heavily predicted, it is currently experienced, and

ways, I became a bit of a background character there—one

its future implications are certain. Talking to my peers, it is

of the faces that becomes familiar from the pure number of

clear that permanence becomes a harsh water to tread when

times they’ve skirted in and out of the corner of your eye. I

imagining our futures. Rising sea levels, food shortages,

never went beyond that, though. I never talked to anyone:

extra high temperatures, and the natural disasters we may

not to the baristas, not to the customers, not to the people I

face will certainly factor into our visions of our futures, if

learned, from hours of distracted eavesdropping, to know

they haven't already. Every generation has had to cope; it’s

by name. Once, when an exceptionally gregarious cashier

a fact of life. But we’re the generation of pre-coping. What’s

acknowledged that I was there a lot, I became so distressed

worse: knowing now that we have to make these sacrifices

that, for a while, I started frequenting another cafe, until my

and forever fearing lack of stability, or having already set

ghost inevitably floated back. I feared and longed for that

down roots for yourself and having to start over?

sense of rootedness, craved the comfort of a disembodied

Hearing Jon’s story, my mind went straight to the

existence. But I loved that place, and even if my existence in

worst—I wondered if there was even a point of settling

it meant little, it left fingerprints on my heart.

down. It's only a matter of time before we are all physically

Last February, just under a month after I left the Bay

and spatially affected by the climate crisis. Whether

for Providence at the end of winter break, I learned that

that’s in the form of our home burning down, our streets

Philz Coffee Middlefield had burned down when a fire broke

flooding, breathing through masks, adjusting to staring

out at the laundromat next door. When I came home for the

at screens more than ever before, or eggs tripling in price

summer, I saw its mural-covered walls half-hidden by a green

again, sacrifices are already being made and the strides we

construction fence, the area deserted and silent except for the

make in building up our lives no longer feel permanent.

rush of cars in the background.

Like building castles in the sand right before high tide, the

Some remaining sense of home rubbed away from the

impending waves waiting are guaranteed to erase our work.

Bay that February afternoon. I didn’t cry, but I felt my heart

Nevermind the environmental harm of overproduction,

clutching at an emptiness where Philz used to be.

even the emotional risk of working hard only to lose it all is frightening on its own.

accumulating home after home, just to have to let yourself

But when I asked Jon whether he felt hesitant to

float away, to tear the faint threads that you’ve begun to spin

rebuild his life as abundantly as he had before, he said no.

in one place or another, watching the fabric of your self form

In fact, he felt the opposite. Once all of his belongings were

and disintegrate. These days, Providence feels almost more

destroyed, he decided that everything he would buy would

like home than the Bay does. I find myself running into my

be an updated version of what he had before. If he was going

love for this city as I walk past the house with my favorite

to spend money, he wanted it to count. Being as fortunate as

4

post–

physicality is constantly being put to the test?

can ignite.

my roots to be, I’d gravitate back to the same coffee shop

That’s one of the curses of academia—to be eternally

But who are we when our need to be grounded by

Recording Scriptures of Glory on memory and movement

by nélari figueroa-torres Illustrated by Ella Buchanan Glory to the words once rehearsed and the feelings once known Up the thirty-six steps and through the wooden plank door, there seems to be a treasure, a trove, a grandmother's home. The tiles are rough, remaking my bare feet in their image. Under these soles lie memories of my grandmother and her grandmother and her grandmother. Here, in plastic storage boxes, we collect: One holds the patchwork circles my great-grandmother hand-sewed in the hopes of making a quilt. She started but never quite finished it. Yet its pieces are here— not together, but present. Every fabric imaginable is represented in that box, carefully honeycombed. It's a rhythm of syncopated hands reaching, grabbing, knowing. There's something beautiful about the craft of intuition. It shows that we've been here before.

Nothing is ever an isolated incident. Everything you know is because someone else knew it too. At the very

NARRATIVE

Even Where The Grass Grows Over the tulips will bloom, again, and again

by sarah kim Illustrated by Emily Saxl

least, it is an assumption that comforts me as time continues its project of thrusting me into forgetfulness.

The loss of memory is devastating and it is quite annoying to feel like you are hearing—experiencing— something for the first time when it is your memory too. I often rely on the people around me for such recollections. When my grandma sits down and tells me something from her past it feels like a charm to add to my own life bracelet. Like the ones we used to make with glass beads, Grandma, do you remember? When we sat on your heavily mattressed four-poster bed with the black columns, counted beads to string together, and measured our wrists with a corner store fishing line. As I try to piece together this charm bracelet, I drop beads along the way, but I remember to pick them up, again, again, again. Living in the midst of fog is frustrating. But, once in a while, when the sun shines, it shines on us.

Glory to the words which bounce off the stained glass windows I remember when my mother and I prayed together. I don't know if I ever believed but all I cared about was being together.

How we held each other's hands and rested under the same blanket repeating the same words at the same time. Words away from being the same. I don't remember when we stopped. I'm not religious, but going to her room every night before bed, giving her a kiss, asking for blessings, and telling her I loved her was the most profound prayer. My mother and I prayed and I saw words in her eyes, urging me to repeat them. I don't remember learning them. How do we hold on to things that we don't know? When do we realize that we know them? How do we know each other? Is it here, in this space of rest? Is it there, in that space of the church?

Do we know each other?

My hands, white-gloved, swam in the darkness of a chapel to beats that did not belong to me. Our bodies were enrobed in black as blue lights polished our movements. Performing for the church crowd was a moment of hesitance and memorization. In a printed photograph, I look confused, not about the choreography, not in fear of their gaze, purely confused and perhaps sad. Maybe conflicted. Always silent.

Always shaped by the hands and not the body. Always occupied by space and disregarded by it. I do not remember every time I had to move to make space for

others, but it is always about the way we frame and are framed by our surroundings. How the colors bounce off hungry skin. I appreciate how processes collapse to form a single rhythm. How we can play into devastation and make peace with the unruliness. How even if the space occupied me, I was, nevertheless, occupying it too. How we can devour and be devoured. At once.

Glory to improvisation and dance and us From it, the forced, idealized, performance of silence and hands, I recite conversations between these legs and those drums that might as well be the same, syncopated beat. The beat swims onto the dance floor that is a street and bar and classroom and home and is.

That when each bud opens and closes, we become mist.

That the mist will then rain back on the dance floor.

Do not mistake the improvisation for being unskilled, for this is the greatest lesson that you will ever receive.

Do not mistake improvisation for unimportance; on these feet is scripture from many floors ago. Nothing is ever an isolated incident. Everything you know is because someone else knew it too. Instruments speak to us subliminally, urging us to move together. On these feet is a memory of interior modes of understanding, on these feet is the pumice stone street and pumice stone tiles where you become one with the roughness.

It is proof of expertise, of majesty. We exist in grandeur and above the palm trees is us; we are the palm tree and every root. With closed eyes, I can find the way back to the primary drum that has motioned me, here, to the place of the fall. No. To the place of attempting a fall back into a rhythm that suits me. And every time I do not remember I return to the riffs of body, waves of feet, allowing forgetfulness to play a role in innovation.

And we occupy the space of sound instead of letting it consume us. And we are the visuals of glory, the scriptures of movement.

Every year, the tulips on my front lawn grow. Even after we cut down the small, short tree with the hanging arms of leaves you could climb underneath, and even after we covered the dirt where Grandma used to sit with us on Sundays to plant flowers (small pink and orange garden-ready ones and tulips, mostly), the tulips would bloom. They’d poke out from the grass in early spring, their stems emerging awkwardly like a bear stretching its arms after a season of hibernation.

Tulips are perennials. Grandma tells me this in the fall, when we are planting the bulbs (do this around six to eight weeks before the first hard frost so they have enough time to establish their roots before winter). She’s brought a few bulbs with her (select firm ones) and begins scooping into the earth. I first watch, ready with my ladybug printed gardening glove gripping my hand shovel, then mimic her digging (a hole three times the height of the bulb—around six to eight inches deep). The arching branches of the small tree behind us brush against our backs as we prepare the beds for each bulb (each about four to six inches apart, allowing ample sunlight and partial shade). Grandma shows me which way to place them into the ground (the narrow, pointed side facing upward—if you’re unsure, plant them sideways, and they will find their way up).

Tulips are perennials: they bloom in the spring, go dormant during the summer, then return to bloom again the following spring. xxx This past summer, M and I spent a lot of time together. We would sit on my couch or next to each other in the garden of a museum or on top of the neighboring building’s roof. Stop by on your way home. I’ll walk you to the bus station. Come eat your salad here. My journal remained closed for the most part, and pages remained unfilled. I was probably just processing my thoughts out loud with people (i.e. M) instead of through the pages of my notebook. Or maybe I was just not having that many thoughts.

The latter scared me more. If anyone was going to have me rambling about every single opinion, worry, hope, and theory in my mind, oversharing and untangling in real time, it would be M. But in the summer, she’d ask what I was thinking about, and I would search and search and find nothing to say.

By the end, the realization of my sudden loss for words became a subject of conversation that I, of course, unpacked with M. My conclusion was that maybe I was just in a season of Not Feeling Much, Not Thinking Much. It was the season of sticky humid days, of ice cream trucks and rooftops chats; it was the season of other things too. xxx From February until August, I didn’t touch my violin.

I didn’t touch any instrument for that matter. I made the decision to bring as little as I could for my semester abroad, so before leaving, I carefully put my violin case in the corner of the office closet upstairs. I zipped up my guitar cases and propped them up against my bed, neatly coiled up my cords and unplugged my amp—it felt like meticulously making a bed and fluffing the pillow before leaving for a holiday trip.

I left the dreary and cold winter season in New York, flew across the world, and found myself suddenly basking in hot summer sunshine, finding reprieve swimming in crystal-clear lakes and drinking New Zealand’s October 26, 2023

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ARTS & CULTURE

clean running river water. I made a good friend named Morgan and together, we explored the South Island. We backpacked through glaciers, camped next to natural hot springs at the top of mountains, and bought wetsuits so we could go surfing even as the green leaves slowly turned orange, then brown, then fell off the trees. We seldom had phone service, so the sounds surrounding us became our music to fill the silences: light rain hitting our canopy, water gurgling through a nearby stream, someone zipping up their tent and clicking off their flashlight. My fingertips went tender and soft, and my nails grew long.

I returned to New York in June, shedding my four layers of thermals for a tank top and shorts, thankful that it was summer in this hemisphere again. I was exhausted from traveling and starting work the next day, so I packed what I could carry and made one trip from home to the apartment I’d be staying in for the next couple months.

It was closer to work, but home was also an easy train ride away, so a small carry-on suitcase would suffice for a few weeks. I filled it with clothes and stuffed shoes in totes and hauled Mom’s grocery bag of ‘essentials’ up to apartment 3B. My violin would wait until next time; Dad could bring my guitars and amp next time he drove in.

I went home less than I thought I would and always forgot to tell Dad to bring my guitars. Instead, I spent the summer baking a lot, and my tender hands kneaded dough for scones. Holly recently moved back to New York, so I walked to hers everyday after work and hung out like we hadn’t been able to since she left for college six years back. If flowers can go dormant for six years then emerge more robustly and wonderfully than ever before, this summer, they bloomed. xxx If you asked me to describe my semester thus far in three words, my answer would be: I / don’t / know. It is (already) the end of October, and it feels like no time has gone by, but also like I’ve been here forever. Maybe a house takes longer than a dorm to make into a home?

Have I been away from campus for too long? I sit at my computer and want to pour my heart out using words, and I watch my cursor blink back at me like a steady metronome, going nowhere. I open my black journal to write, but instead I am clicking my pen and twirling it in my right hand.

Other things have remained the same and feel as though I have never left campus. I am playing the violin again. We just finished our orchestra concert and tomorrow I have chamber rehearsal. My Tuesdays and Thursdays are once again long days. I cut my nails before I start practicing and pick at the calluses on my fingertips.

Tulips bloom, then go dormant, then bloom, again, and again.

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America’s Sweetheart

from Taylor Swift to Olivia Rodrigo by sofie zeruto Illustrated by Ella Buchanan The year was 2008. I still remember the golden glow of Taylor Swift’s Fearless gleaming on the rack like a homing beacon for little girls across the country as I strolled through the Target CD aisle with my mom. “Love Story” was a smash hit on the radio, a song we both already knew and loved. Taylor Swift’s rise to stardom was inescapable, and before we knew it the twangy guitar riff of the title track “Fearless” was blaring in our car on the way home.

Her paradoxical appeal to both young women and conservative media was that, at the start of her fame, Taylor Swift was a "normal" girl. She sang about crushes on boys, high school cliques, her family, and first heartbreaks. She wore sparkly tassel dresses with cowboy boots, her blonde hair curled in ringlets, and a subtler version of what would become her signature red lipstick. Her power lay in her eloquent songwriting; I remember my mom looping “White Horse” as she drove me to school and telling me that Taylor Swift was a talent here to stay. She was good, smart, and pretty. She was America’s Sweetheart, and I idolized her.

This was a phrase I heard all the time on the news in reference to Taylor Swift’s image during her burgeoning career. Back then, before I understood the restrictive gender norms and conservative ideals of womanhood that her spotlight depended on, I felt happy that somebody I liked was so widely admired.

According to her Netflix documentary—aptly titled Miss Americana—Taylor did not truly understand the implications of that title either.

She opens the documentary by discussing her obsession with morality and image as a kid, saying, “...overall, the main thing that I always tried to be was…a good girl.”

A good girl in the country music world where Taylor Swift got her start meant following a list of contradictions. Some of the superficial ones she fit by privileged chance—being white, blonde,

thin, and pretty. Yet others—being apolitical, eternally gracious, submissive to men in power, and modest—were instruments of objectifying control that no woman or person could ever embody all at once. This is the world that female musicians live in and the role they have had to play for decades. I was plainly told at nine years old by friends and neighbors that Miley Cyrus’s sexually charged 2013 VMAs performance, an act of rebellion against her Disney child star image, was evidence that the Rapture—an evangelical Christian belief about the end of the world—was coming soon. As a child, these were the consequences of a female artist stepping out of line; whether she is embracing her sexuality, using crude language, or speaking out about global issues, she will be shunned while her coveted image of “America’s Sweetheart” is revoked and replaced with a never-ending forum of public shame.

My early childhood observations of Taylor Swift’s treatment by the public eye are undoubtedly mirrored by countless young people, predominantly women, across the world. As we have grown up, acceptable norms of misogyny in the music industry have changed for the better in small ways. Taylor Swift, older and wiser, has been vocal about the treatment she endured as a teenager by the media, saying in a 2016 interview, “If I could talk to myself at 19, I would say, ‘Hey, you’re gonna date just like a normal twentysomething should be allowed to, but you’re going to be a national lightning rod for slut-shaming.’”

Older and wiser too are her fans, and over a decade after Fearless took the music industry by storm, we are watching as young girls born and raised in the era of Taylor Swift begin to enter the mainstream pop music industry. Consider Olivia Rodrigo, who has been extremely outspoken about her love of Taylor Swift. The parallels between both women’s early careers are striking, both having catapulted to fame in their late teens with self-written, coming-of-age albums alongside constant media speculation about their dating lives. Yet, Olivia Rodrigo seems determined to set a new precedent in the music industry for rising teen girl stars: she will not be cast as America’s Sweetheart.

LIFEST YLE In fact, she claims to be quite the opposite in her recent song “all-american bitch.” She appears to directly tackle the character of “America’s Sweetheart” with satirical lyrics about having a perfect body, dismissing offensive jokes, keeping an eternally positive attitude, acting her age, and excessive gratitude. References to the Kennedys and Coca-Cola as American motifs hit the nail on the head of this caricatured, ideal American woman. The use of the word “bitch” as a derogatory alternative to the usual “allAmerican girl” emphasizes the objectified nature of this character throughout history. A “perfect all-american bitch,” layered in heavy sarcasm, paints a blatant picture of the easily pliable, dependent girl that powerful music executives think they can mold. Olivia Rodrigo, riding the coattails of calls for justice for the last generation of teen girl stars, is using her platform to bury the America’s Sweetheart caricature once and for all.

In mainstream pop music, Olivia Rodrigo could represent a new hope for young women in the industry. Or perhaps she is just the right person, in the right place, at the right time, to drive the current wave of sentiment for female artistic autonomy toward the future. Swift’s Fearless and Rodrigo’s Guts both encapsulate the fervent, universal emotions of girlhood. Yet while Taylor Swift was cornered into walls of allusion and metaphor in her lyrics given what was acceptable in 2008, Olivia Rodrigo has been able to address the messy truth of the modern teenage girl in plainer terms. From lyrics as comical as “Every guy I like is gay” to deeper cuts like “When am I gonna stop being wise beyond my years and just start being wise,” Olivia Rodrigo addresses girlhood with a newly permissible critical eye.

This puts Taylor Swift’s final lyrics on Fearless into perspective, where she belts “These walls that they put up to hold us back will fall down” which begs the question today if Olivia Rodrigo’s position is merely a product of that “change” or if the fight is still not over.

The answer lies in the melancholic rhetorical questions of the final track of Guts titled “teenage dream.” Obviously, there is still much progress to be made for young women in the music industry and the infantilization of teenage girls in general. “teenage dream” addresses the paradox that, though we may condemn the institutions of misogyny and this caricature of the ideal America Sweetheart, we are ingrained as children to strive for her elusive image of perfection, and that is a hard idea to expel. At the end of the day, we all just want to be liked. Although at the beginning of Guts, Olivia Rodrigo appears to confidently reject the toxic ideals of the America’s Sweetheart trope, the ending of the album reveals that she still deeply feels its all-consuming pressures.

As we watch the slow progress of the music industry through each generation of artists, I am happy that young girls today have Rodrigo as a role model and entry point into the world of pop music. Destroying the ingrained ideals presented by the America’s Sweetheart character is a slow process, as Rodrigo herself concedes; however, if the stark differences between what

Which Dining Hall I Think You Eat At Based on your Red Flags

here to categorize you mealswiping menaces now that I’m off meal plan <3.

by Raima Islam Illustrated by EMily Saxl My first two years at Brown have been characterized by late-night Jo’s runs and painfully long lines for a Saturday-morning Andrews burrito bowl. As much as I cherished those days, I don’t really miss stomachaches from suspicious macaroni and cheese or flavorless chicken (no shade though—I love the dining hall employees). However, during my time on meal plan, I’ve studied the types of people at each dining hall and believe some students are just made for certain halls.

Your dining hall is like your shoe size—you try each on for size, eventually finding the right fit.

I’m here to help you find that fit. In order to match you to a dining hall, I am going to use the most objective metric out there: your red flags. There is a science behind this. Please don’t ask what that science is.

You wear slides with socks.

I’m no fashion connoisseur, but I can recognize a couple things if you do this: you are bold, and I fear your fashion taste. Within that same vein, you do not fear the hike to Jo’s at 1 a.m. with those wonderful, bright lights spotlighting you. You enjoy being surrounded by students there for similar reasons, whether that is after a night out, after cramming work, or for a pure panini moment.

You read texts and forget to respond to them until many hours later.

There’s nothing worse than trying to make plans with someone, only for them to respond days later, after the plans would have happened. If you do this, you have Ratty written all over you. How many times have you tried to get a nice batch of items from the Grill station, only to find they’ve been forgotten on the grill for enough time to be burnt? Or, when you’re waiting for your signature omelet at the Action station, and it never comes? I hope the Ratty Action station forgets about

your omelet the same way you forgot to respond to me. >:( You watch Netflix without subtitles.

We all know that no one at Brown has a long enough attention span to pay attention to a Netflix plot without reading the subtitles. If you watch Netflix without subtitles, chances are you have the intellect of someone from another Ivy. In that case, Ivy Room is your fit!

You feel right at home eating amongst pristine china from Penn, Columbia, and Harvard. Your unmatched memory is something for which Brown cannot claim responsibility.

You only order chicken tenders at every restaurant.

No, you aren’t playing it safe; you are a child. I know you’re the first one in line for Chicken Finger Fridays at VDub. The VDub was made for you, as it always knows just what you want. And don’t get me wrong—I love a good chicken finger moment every week, but not every meal. The repetition of foods at VDub and limited selection does get tiresome at times. If you are the kind of person that enjoys monotony in dishes…you have interesting taste. I hope you see the good in other foods soon.

You can’t tell the difference between waters.

I’m talking Andrews water vs. Barus and Holley water vs. Faunce water. There is a hierarchy and you can’t tell me otherwise. If you can’t tell the difference between these waters, Andrews is for you. You are a novice, so new to the world and so naive. People love you and rely on you, but they know you’re missing something. For Andrews, that is more options. For you, that is having skills to discern different kinds of water.

You like your steaks well done.

You are risky, daring if I may say, and are probably bougie. With that, you are the Blue Room or the Cafe in the ERC. While these may not technically be dining halls, we all know they keep Brown Dining afloat.

Whether you are on or off meal plan, these two will sustain you. If you have this red flag, I assume you are not afraid of blowing all of your Flex Points within the first month. If you like your steaks well done, I salute you for keeping the Brown Dining economy flowing, but I pray for your jaw and your taste.

Regardless of your red flags, just know you are accepted here! Brown would not be the same without all of its dining halls, as this campus would not be the same without you. On that note, this is my formal request to use your meal swipes. Please swipe me into places—I still cherish Brown Dining. :)

was considered taboo for women during Taylor Swift and Olivia Rodrigo's respective early careers reveal anything, it is that great progress is possible in the span of a generation. Ten years from now it will be better, and ten years from then, today’s world will hopefully seem unthinkable.

October 26, 2023

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LIFESTLYE

A Beginner’s Guide To Running In Providence

by Indigo Mudbhary Illustrated by Emily Saxl As a first-year from across the country, I had no idea where to begin running. I knew I couldn’t run through campus—people looking at me?

Being perceived? Absolutely not. But I had just gotten here and knew nothing about the city of Providence, aside from the fact that there once was a mayor who had a signature marinara sauce.

You may be wondering: what makes me, some random Brown University sophomore, qualified to dispense running advice in the illustrious post- magazine? I’ve been a distance runner since my first year of high school when I—someone with unathletic genes and no experience with competitive running—decided to join my school’s cross country team. This is how I found myself at Brown in the fall of 2022, one marathon and two half-marathons later, ready to train for my next race.

To save you some time, here are the tips and tricks I would give to my first-year self for running in Providence.

Choose your outfit wisely.

While your black-yoga-pants-and-sports-bra combo is cute, it’s not practical once the leaves begin to fall. Check the weather app and craft the fit appropriately. I’m a big fan of a long-sleeve cotton shirt with knee length shorts combo—it’s not fashionable, but it works.

Also, whether you’re wearing ankle-length yoga pants or short shorts, the cuteness of the fit won’t change how many times you get catcalled.

So if you want to wear your tight black tank top because you feel faster in it, do it.

Food is fuel.

Though there are people who can run on an empty stomach and enjoy it, I'm certainly not one.

Before my runs, I need to eat something, whether it’s a Ratty omelet or a Blue Room breakfast sandwich.

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Listen to your body. Whenever I’m training, I often find myself needing two dinners: an Andrews/Ratty extravaganza during normal hours and then an Ivy Room or Josiah’s second dinner. Listen to what your body needs, otherwise you’ll end up lightheaded by the pedestrian bridge, cursing Brown University for being built on a tall hill.

Keep in mind your distance when choosing a route.

A run is a run, whether it’s a mile or a marathon. However, not all routes are created equal in Providence.

If you’re looking for a two to three mile route, running to the pedestrian bridge by the river or India Point Park is perfect for you.

With waterfront views on both of these routes, you’ll really feel like you’re in the Ocean State. I recommend listening to “august” by Taylor Swift for added effect.

If you’re looking for something with a little more distance, let’s say, in the five to eight mile range, the Blackstone Bike Path by the Nelson is your soulmate. With fairy doors built into the bottoms of the trees, it’s strangely whimsical and my personal favorite. I recommend hitting the trail as the leaves begin to turn yellow—half of my camera roll from freshman year fall is of the trees on the Blackstone Bike Path.

If you’re trying for a hefty run in the ten-plus mile range, you’ll have to leave Providence if you don’t want to run in loops. I recommend the East Bay Bike Path, accessed through India Point Park.

With stunning views and so many trees you’ll feel like you’re a seasoned trail runner, it’s the perfect destination for a run that can be as long as you need it to be. Be warned—the farther you go on the path, the more deserted it gets. However, if you go on a weekend, there’ll definitely be bikers whizzing by every few minutes.

Consider your positionality.

While male-presenting people can throw on a pair of running shoes and head out the door without a second thought, femme runners should exercise common sense. If you’re going on a particularly long run on the East Bay Bike Path on a weekday, for example, it’s a good idea to let your roommate know and share your location with someone you trust, especially if it’s closer to the evening. I personally take my pepper spray with me on my runs, but that’s just me.

Though some might consider this step in my guide overkill, I don’t! Femme safety is not discussed enough in the running community when it’s actually a crucial part of our daily experiences.

Okay. But why should I do this?

In the past, running has made me nauseous, given me shin splints, and taken up entire Saturdays I could have spent rotting in bed. So why do it? There are the obvious reasons—the endorphins, it being good for your cardiovascular system, etc.—of course. But there are also the unexpected moments that restore your faith in humanity: toddlers sticking out their hands to high-five you, a group of moms telling you, “Go, girl, go!” as you slog up College Hill.

Running is a lovely way to get to know Providence and the city in which you, as a reader of post- magazine, likely go to college. While it can be easy to hole up on College Hill and get trapped in the anxiety-inducing bubble of Canvas posts and summer internships, a jog off the hill is one way to remind yourself that you are a person, with lungs and a heart, who is more than just a student.

As your feet navigate the treacherous tree roots that line the brick-laid sidewalks, listen to your heartbeat in your ears and remember that you, in your flawed entirety, are enough.

LIFEST YLE

Molé

post- mini crossword 16

by AJ WU

1

2

4

3

6

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8

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Down

Across

1 Martial art in Rio de Janeiro

1 Not quite the team's best effort

5 A handsome hombre

offshoot of jiu-jitsu that involves flips 2 An and grapples

7 Chilean cheerio 8 Burrowing mammals 9 It's fit for pigs

3 Sends to the big house 4 Domineering, like an older sibling 6 A regular Whitman or Silverstein EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Kimberly Liu

“Whenever someone learns my name, they make it sound smoother than it really is.

Like turning a square into a circle, cutting away all the edges. It had too many of them anyway.”

—Magdalena del Valle, “A Name with Room to Grow: Part Two” 10.22.21

“Maybe, when we grow up, it’s not so much that we learn who we are, but that we learn that we have never had any idea who we were in the first place. Is this all I am, all I ever was? A person who worries a lot?”

—Liza Kolbasov, “To Hold in My Hands” 10.21.22

Section Editors Emily Tom Anaya Mukerji

FEATURE Managing Editor Klara Davidson-Schmich

LIFESTYLE Managing Editor Tabitha Lynn

Section Editors Addie Marin Elaina Bayard

Section Editors Jack Cobey Daniella Coyle

ARTS & CULTURE Managing Editor Joe Maffa

HEAD ILLUSTRATORS Emily Saxl Ella Buchanan

Section Editors Elijah Puente Rachel Metzger

COPY CHIEF Eleanor Peters

NARRATIVE Managing Editor Katheryne Gonzalez

Copy Editors Indigo Mudhbary Emilie Guan Christine Tsu

SOCIAL MEDIA HEAD EDITORS Kelsey Cooper Tabitha Grandolfo Kaitlyn Lucas LAYOUT CHIEF Gray Martens Layout Designers Amber Zhao Alexa Gay STAFF WRITERS Dorrit Corwin Lily Seltz Alexandra Herrera Liza Kolbasov Marin Warshay Gabrielle Yuan Elena Jiang Will Hassett Daphne Cao

Aalia Jagwani AJ Wu Nélari Figueroa Torres Daniel Hu Mack Ford Olivia Cohen Ellie Jurmann Sean Toomey Emily Tom Ingrid Ren Evan Gardner Lauren Cho Laura Tomayo Sylvia Atwood Audrey Wijono Jeanine Kim Ellyse Givens Sydney Pearson Samira Lakhiani Cat Gao Lily Coffman Raima Islam Tiffany Kuo

Want to be involved?

Email: mingyue_liu@brown.edu!

October 26, 2023

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