babyteeth spring '23 issue 1

babyteeth S23 // issue 1

Lovers o’ babyteeth:

SPRING HAS SPRUNG!!! On this inexplicably cold second week, we wish to warm your poor, shivering hearts with some much needed chuckles. So, chuckle away, sweet babes, and dream of the soon-to-be-spring flowers covering campus, the Rotblatt reflections you’ll be submitting to yours truly, and the silly Sproncert doodles published in this here zine. Hint. Hint.

In other news, you should know that we’re doing some cool shit this term! Keep your eyes peeled and your cuticules moisturized for another zine making workshop (THIRD WEEKEND), a reading night in the record libe (NINTH WEEK), and.... a crazy kooky kite making adventure some several thousand miles away???

It’s going to be awesome.

For now, sip some hot cocoa and cuddle up with a little bundle of campuswide creativity while you still can!

warm wishes and many chuckles, ruby “did not abandon her babies teeth” mead

lily “borg” akre

olivia “went hog wild finishing this edition and also keeps saying rat bastard” ho

contributors <3 elsa snowbeck, billy bratton, ava blaufuss ethan kinsella, lily akre, amalia pappa, aidan walker, troy osborn, isaac endo, kate ward, julianna baldo, mitch porter, sofia durdag, ruby mead, lily akre, olivia ho, stewie goooooooooooon.

this edition made possible by this picture of my sister in a bear suit she hollowed out circa 2015. and viewers like you.

cover by elsa snowbeck

olivia ho grandpa dreams

I keep meeting my grandfather. One moment I am tossing and turning and I can remember that it’s 3am, and the next he is in front of me. I don’t know why he visits, other than to sit on the edge of my bed and talk quietly, using gruff muffled words I understand but can’t repeat. On the third night of one-sided, bleary-eyed conversation it occurs to me that this version of him, so much smaller than the towering figure I remember and with eyes that can barely meet my own, coughing deep breaking coughs into a crumpled-up paper towel, and grasping onto my shoulder to steady himself—is closer to truth than my own memories. Despite my knowing the truth he feels like a reflection from several infinite mirrors: green, distorted.

It is because of the spring, which is intended to mean something like “rebirth,” but meanwhile has my head crowded with words like “triumvirate” and “fluvial,” “beast” and “sorry.” When I enter into the world each morning I wince at the cold poking through my sweater. This makes no sense. It is not nearly as cold as it was.

When I pull my jacket tighter and turn my head he is gone, but his cough lingers. Several infinite echos growing greener and further away.

THE KITTEN EXISTS AS A FORCE OF DIVINE JOY AND HAPPINESS

THEY ARE VERY BEAUTIFUL TO ME julianna baldo cat picture

Kate Ward

Berry picking Mitch Porter

What is this great life I am given? What am I doing? How am I living?

I remember a photo somewhere. My teenaged sister and I, sunlit glare, backseat of a pickup, ragged seatbelts, grinning over green plastic baskets piled high with Mississippi blueberries.

I don’t know if I could find that picture again now. My sister never much liked it. I never much liked blueberries then either.

Now maybe I do.

I was happy. I am living. I want to run with myself through this life. Set it up again. Strap us in. Take the picture. Sunlit glare. Let me mean it this time. Let me gorge myself on blueberries, a black bear in July, ramshackle and fat and happy. Let me stick my messy little fingers over all the pieces of my life. I want berry-stained thumbprints in these pages I write on, on the walls, through the pages of every book I’ve ever read. Through all the ones I never will.

I want my fingerprints all there. I was there. I lived. Look at me. I fed myself on blueberries. Shook down the bush for all it was worth. I was happy. I am living.