Circulation - Spring 2015 by Circulation Magazine

SPRING 2015

MISSION STATEMENT Circulation is the student-run journal of the Information School at the University of Washington. We seek to foster and publish student creative expressions and academic work. We also support student interest in literature, scholarly communication, and publishing through special events and partnerships with organizations within the Information School and beyond.

Staff Editor-in-Chief: Becky Ramsey Creative Editor: Miriam Heard Academic Editor: Nigel Hemmings Copy Editor: Erica Trotter Treasurer: Adithya Kumar Blog Editor: Ashley Dawn Farley

Help Wanted* Arts Editor

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Events Coordinator

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Publicity Coordinator

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* Please contact us if you are interested in any of these positions. We’d love to work with you! 2

from the

Editor

A year ago this week, I had the pleasure of seeing the first issue of Circulation that I had worked on as an editor go out to students. It was a labor of love, but one Co-Editor Megan Carlin and I were sending out nervously into the world. Having inherited this journal from its graduating editors, we busily began setting ambitious goals for the publication and for Circulation as an organization. Our mission statement appeared for the first time in the 2014 spring issue. The real goal then, as now, was to create a forum for students to exchange ideas. Not only does Circulation publish student work, but we host discussions of that work and encourage the entire iSchool community to consider the output in light of our larger education goals. By bringing together Informatics, MSIM, MLIS, and PhD students in once place, albeit electronic, we encourage sharing as a community. In this issue, we expanded our definition of community to include voices from outside the iSchool. We have printed a number of pieces

submitted to us by students in the English Department. As information professionals, we are constantly reimagining content and who produces and consumes that content. We hope you enjoy hearing these new perspectives as much as we enjoyed working with the authors. Our theme this issue has been perspectives. As you make your way through the journal, consider how your own perspective has shifted over the course of the last year. Whether you were starting, continuing, or finishing the program, a year takes us through external seasons and internal growth! Special thanks this issue to our new Academic Editor, Miriam Heard, and Copy Editor, Erica Trotter. Circulation will miss outgoing Treasurer Susie Cummings and Social Media Coordinator Rebecca Brothers. Finally, a fond farewell to graduating CoEditor-in-Chief Megan Carlin. Thank you for your perspective and passion!

Becky Ramsey Circulation, Editor-in-Chief MLIS Candidate

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poetry

The Words are Coffee

Details on S Hassee Rd

Destiny of Life

The Wanderer

prose

artwork

Beautiful Hair

Mem de Sá

Roman Poppies

Partly Sunny

Welcome Home

Perspective Shift

Pub Light

Spring Break

The Words are Coffee by Jeevika Verma, English I enter – the smooth pungent rich roast slaps like a wave.

listen – the machine hisses for every cup like the fire crackles

steam

for every breadth

pour

of salted coffee air, take one sip &

bitter tanning on brown sugar granules, breadcrumbs melting on the warm surfaces of

delightfully retch, two sip, three sip, follow the book heads.

dusky mismatched plates, of handmade cups that steep to-do lists in the deep blue tea, see how I can’t grammar.

sip repeat the hissing is welcome, the murmur is welcome, one hand will circle the cup, the other itch the pen.

look around – the faery lights are fireflies

my lipstick stains on the empty cups – countless, like the chaos on my page.

flickering against the orange brick sky, the couches are my lover’s lap, I trace the loose threads with practiced eyes but the syllables are wrong. 6

Mem de Sá by Gary Smith, Info I took this photo in the bohemian neighborhood Lapa of Rio de Janeiro, at 5:19 a.m. James Arias (seen above) and I were exploring Lapa, which is known as the central nightlife spot of Rio. I used a Sony RX100iii, a powerful point-and-shoot camera that fits in my pocket, and perfect for the type of pictures I like to take. I am interested in photography that borders on photojournalism, so a small camera works great for capturing moments on my study abroad in Brazil.

Details on S Hassee Rd by Martin Sloot, MLIS I Our house struggled to keep abreast the wheat. Crawling among its shingled carapace, mingled the caterpillars the same color. The rattling snake blended among the crickets and cicadas. We pricked our toes on dead grass That sprinklers never revived, as browning summer gave to browning winter. Rusted barrels stood nearby where we burned our garbage. The bullet holes in their sides yawned as they burned, day by day until we left them in the fields, like corroded rib cages. When a car happened to come along, making its slow, glinting progress, we would run and hide, making a game out of encounters. If you ever come across a deserted old farm house, know that the children are hiding. II It seemed the sound itself made the milk gallon burst. The cracked plastic folded into a jagged Jack-O-Lantern grin. Water swirled around the jug's basin. My father's dog sat idly by, and when he saw it standing there, tongue a-loll, My father pointed the rifle, squinting through the scope. The dog, only bowed down, searching in the grass For the answer that would be to its end. It waited for the sound to come to him, my father's shoulders slumped, the rifle dropped, and Stepped off the field where the gallon smiled and bled.Â

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Beautiful Hair by Camille Geeter, English I unwrap my hair from the bun that held it in

when I’m older, but I will never fulfill that

place on top of my head and expect to see curls

promise. Years from now, when I am 23, I will

gracefully fall past my shoulders like they do in

reduce the use of my flat iron to once every few

commercials for Garnier Fructis. Instead, I watch as

months. I will begin to surround myself with

the kinky mass sticks out from all sides of my head.

images of women like me to build my

The hair is long and dark with inconsistent strands

confidence—women with caramel skin and

of curls—some curling one way, some curling the

vivacious curls who strut around the world

other, some tighter, some looser, some that clump

with their heads held high, women who don’t

together, and some that frizz out on their own. My

allow themselves to succumb to society’s image

button nose wrinkles at the sight of the unruly

of beauty and it’s preference for straight locks.

mess: I am perpetually the “before” in shampoo

I will begin to call the hair “my hair” and will

commercials, never the “after.” I sigh and attempt

have given myself permission to rock the

to run my fingers through the hair in order to

natural, thick, curly African-American and

detangle the tangled web the bun was suppose to

Portuguese mixed hair I was given. “How to

contain. As my fingers struggle through the thick,

manage curly hair” and “which products are

kinky mass, the hair expands further as if it’s

best for curls” will be frequent Google searches.

reaching for all four of my bedroom walls rather

I will find strength in my acquired

than the floor, as gravity would suggest. I gaze at

knowledge and, thus, myself—strength in that

myself through the mirror and become hot with

which makes me different from my mostly

frustration—the frizz atop my head doesn’t

white, straight-haired, Pacific Northwest

complement my beady ebony eyes. Pubescent tears

girlfriends. I will learn how to care for my hair

latch onto my stubby eyelashes; as my eyes begin to

and nourish the curls rather than destroy them

puff and the salt from my tears begins to try out my

with heat. I will look at the scar from the burn

blotchy cheeks, I turn on my flat iron for the fifth

I’ve just given myself from the flat iron and

time this week. It is Thursday. I am 14.

remember being 14 and sitting cross-legged for

I sit crossed-legged and begin the process of

hours in front of the mirror, swearing and

straightening my hair. I cry as the bristles of my

crying, running the burning metal over that

brush rip through my knots; I blame my black, semi

which makes me unique in order to conform to

-absent father for cursing me with the unruly

society’s idea of beauty; but now, as I brush

texture and my single, Portuguese mother for not

and straighten, I do not know the impact the

knowing how to control it. I promise myself that I

media has had on my fragile, pubescent self. I

will permanently and chemically straighten my hair

am a freshman in high school in a small town

with an overwhelmingly white population. I am

degrees and, so far, is doing a fabulous job. The

merely 14 years old, perpetually woeful and

curls that occupied the bottom half of my head are

afraid of my natural self.

now obsolete and, in about 45 minutes, my hair

I put my straightener down—hair half

will be completely straight. I will sleep with a

done—and run my finger over my fresh burn. It

bandana on in order to keep the fly-aways at the

is the third one this week. I look at my iron and

top of my head from sticking out. In the morning, I

quickly tap my finger on the outside edge to test

will touch up any parts that have rebelled against

the temperature. “Hot!” I say. “Yes my darling,”

my daily ritual, put on too much eyeliner, and go

my mother says in agreement, “that is very hot.

downstairs. My mom will look at me and think

Do not touch or it will hurt.” I bounce on the

back to when I was little—pre-straightener days.

stool adjacent to the stove and watch the fire

She will tell me for the thousandth time that my

dance beneath the pot. I am only 2 and even

hair is beautiful curly and she doesn’t understand

when standing on a stool, I am not as tall as my

why I straighten it. She will tell me, like others

petite mother. I reach out and point at the

have and will, that people would kill to have hair

bubbles shimmering on the surface of the

like mine. I will roll my eyes and ignore her. I will

boiling water. “Mama, hot?” I ask as I wipe the

not understand that my hair is beautiful until I am

curly fuzz out of my face. My mother looks

older. She will question me about the blister that’s

down at me, brushes my hair away from my

formed and will ask me if I burned myself again. I

little face, and smiles. Her shiny, black hair

will nod. She will tell me to be careful around

grazes over itself like a raven’s wing folding into

things that are hot. I will enviously watch my

place. “Yes, my baby. You have to be careful. Do

mother’s hair gracefully graze over itself like a

not touch things that are hot.” I jump off the

raven’s wing folding into place and will ignore her

stool and began dancing around my grandma’s

compliments. She will reluctantly watch me mope

kitchen. “Hot, hot, hot, hot!” I sang. My mother

around the kitchen and she will remember the

watched as my tiny, two-year-old self bounced

singing, bouncing, happy curly-headed baby who

around. She gazed at the fuzzy, curly mane that

danced around her own mother’s kitchen 12 years

surrounded her baby’s head and made a mental

ago. She will remember her baby coming home

note to put them in two braids after breakfast.

from school, crying because children teased her

She frowned at the thought of it. She thought of

about her fuzzy hair. She will remember people

all the times she has had to force her child to sit

asking if her own

in front of her—all the times she’s had to watch

daughter was adopted

tears stream down her baby’s face as she pulls

because she looked

and tugs with the brush, trying to manage the

different from herself.

web of fuzzy, tangled locks so her baby would

She will look at her

look put together and so people would see that

daughter and the

she, a single mother living in her own mother’s

straight, foreign hair

garage with her two-year-old daughter, is doing

that’s replaced the

the best she can. “Hot, hot, hot!” I danced,

beautiful curls and

unaware of the thoughts that occupied my

will see a young girl

mother’s mind. Unaware that in a few

tricked into believing she isn’t beautiful the way

moments, I would be sitting in front of her,

she is. She will want to hug me and hold me until I

crying as she brushes through my knots.

believe otherwise, but I will leave before she gets a

“Hot,” I say to myself. The iron is at 450

chance. 10

I will look at the scar from the burn...and remember...

Partly Sunny by Deb Kyle, MLIS I keep a ball of polymer clay on my desk to keep my hands busy when I am listening to a lecture or book. Polymer clay stays malleable until it's hardened in an oven, so I never have to worry about having it dry out. It's easily shaped with wooden and metal sculpting tools. Making sun-faces originally stemmed from observing the mercurial weather of the Pacific Northwest, but it became a habit and I have quite a collection now. Faces are fascinating; I like distinct and interesting features and the range of emotion faces convey, but it's rare that I actually capture the exact quality that interested me in the first place.

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by Liz Mills, PhD Info When I moved to Seattle in 2006, I was struck immediately by the clouds --their texture, imprint, transience. While visiting the Glass Museum at Seattle Center last summer, I looked up and was immediately struck by how the Needle seemed to be piercing right through those clouds.

Pub Light by Aditya Gandhi, MSIM I perceive University District as a heady mix of a multitude of diverse influences. Diverse in many, many dimensions. This image, in my opinion, epitomizes this melting pot that is Seattle. 12Â

Perspective Shift

views of Seattle Â

Roman Poppies by Carly Hood, English

Kill your expectations and everything will

Rome enters your eyes by reflection. A

electrify and spark before your eyes. I let myself fall

12’oclock sun bounces off Bernini’s columns

into Rome. Metaphors can be poor bridges to an

into your corneas. The architecture not yet

experience, but there is some truth to what I

perceived (the brain is the label machine)

previously stated. I did fall, strapped in a metal

bends through the pupil, which depending on

winged tube through turbulent dollops of water

your eye, will open or close to let certain

vapor, just as I let Rome’s cultural gravity drive me

amounts of light to be concentrated in the

into its alleys. On my first night, the waiter popped

retina. From there the information is

the cork from the house red I had ordered and

distributed into electrical impulses by nerve

stomped it in between the gaps of the cobblestones.

cells to the brain. There you perceive the

By the time I left Rome, many of those corks would

embrace of the mother church, or maybe you

be from tables I had shared with peers, new friends,

can only see a giant Pacman trying to gobble

and family. I still wish I could pop out an eyeball

you up in the blue maze of your life like a

this fantasy of your dapper Patron Saint of Smokers dawns on you when you are back in Seattle being introduced to a man in a graphic t-shirt

pellet. Remember that it is you that controls what you perceive. Rome is for the working eye, and in St. Peter’s I said a prayer to St. Lucy. On the step of all the green doors of Rome, Italian men in linen suits lean back into a cool confidence. Perhaps a cigarette litters their hands or lips, but even the musk of stale smoke seeped on a suit jacket collar is better than the plaid shorts of any American. Every Italian man is in his prime, regardless of your attraction to him or not, and because of this you will fantasize of a fabricated lover’s spat shared between him and you on the Ponte Sisto. Usually this fantasy of your dapper

and give it to his heel. That way I could forever

Patron Saint of Smokers dawns on you when

enjoy the sun retiring over the roofs’ of peach

you are back in Seattle being introduced to a

colored apartments and of the leather soles of

man in a graphic t-shirt whose name is always

beautiful men.

either Mike or Rick; I can vouch for this.

My head tells me I need to build the

Keats tried teaching me about transcending my

relationships in my life on the blueprint of the

context: “or if a sparrow come before my window, I

Pantheon. Start with the heavier material for

take part in its existence and peck about the

the foundation, my family’s recent spilt, my

gravel.” Keats, I too

crippling manic depression, and leave the goofy

see the power in

banter about the history of the cat’s name for

employing negative

the roof. The Pantheon, with the exception of a

capability. I have

few fires, has lasted; I want these relationships

often tried this in my

to last. But the brick red devil in me, my heart,

writing, and I often

that smolders somewhere behind a few left rib

failed. I am not a

bones, tells me I should embrace fallacy. Build

chameleon poet; my

my relationships on the selfish model of St.

soul has never been a

Ignazio’s church. My heart has always been a

speakerphone for the

better pupil than my head, which why I was

voices of others. I

moved by the trompe l’oeil ceiling. If my love is

can’t grow the

not enough for you, will you let me deceive

hypothetical gizzard;

you? Let your eye believe the three-dimensions

I am always just a girl in boots kicking rocks

of my love, even though I’m smeared on a flat

around the world and writing subjectively about it.

surface. It’s better that way for both of us; that

But I promised myself that in Italy I could try.

is what Baroque churches taught me about faith and love.

I learned that forgiveness is the Colosseum covered in flowers and vines

At the Capitoline museum, I found austere pleasure spread like cream cheese on a bronze

Legend has it that that after they found

mouth. I had come across Spinario. Whatever this

Mad Shelley’s body on a beach in Tuscany, they

boy was doing before he started inspecting his foot

needed to burn his corpse for fear of disease.

for splinters, is something I am nostalgic for.

The heat popped open his ribcage like an

Perhaps he was running in the woods from the

overdone turkey on Thanksgiving. They say

creek to his home, or perhaps the sliver is a token

they argued over who got to keep his heart, but

of a tousle with a lover. His youth, the protruding

rightfully Mary claimed it. Years later after

collarbone, the small divot in his curved spine is an

examination, it has been suggested that it was

aged emerald hue of everything I long for. Those

not the heart that was taken, but his liver.

who end up like me, sitting down before him, to

Which I think is all the more poetic. The liver

mark the light that touches his thigh, everyone who

produces bile, like Shelley, and we can relate

desires his beauty, his happiness, must realize

this to classical antiquity, to the idea that the

something tragic about themselves. We recognize

body’s health depended on the equilibrium of

him because we were once him; a thorn in your foot

the four humors (the first and second being

is not something to smile about anymore. I have

blood and phlegm, and the last two, yellow bile

love for the Boy with Thorn, and my love is simple.

and black bile, which were believed to produce

I learned that forgiveness is the Colosseum

aggression and depression). The liver, on a

covered in flowers and vines. Energy is the jumping

classical and poetic level, is the symbol of those

euros in a ticket machine on a bus. Learning that

strong emotions so often associated with the

you were born to die is gladiator school.

Romantic period. They called him Mad Shelley;

Organization is inlayed herringbone bricks.

it’s fitting that it would be his liver and not his

Gaudiness is chocolate on pink lacquered nails. But

heart.

only in Hadrian’s villa, does a person learn the 14

difference between love and lust. Lust is picking

fresco form an old man pulling out his grey hair

olives from silver tipped trees; love is writing about

while a lumpy monstrous women wept at his

it. When in love, you half exist in the world.

feet. I don’t know what she was crying about,

In Rome I started writing love poems again. I

but she had my same cloudy blue eyes. I felt

checked my emails the other day. I had sent a

sick. Rome brings you hope and Rome can take

mushy one liner to my lover back home. It said, “I

it away from you.

look for you in the wild flowers.” I don’t think

Everyone had left to get one last Gelato,

Rome taught me how to love again and it definitely

while I had waited to say my awkward

didn’t teach me how to convey those feelings

goodbyes to my teachers. I put my hand on the

without a flare of the cliché. What it did teach me

sticky railing one last time as I descended the

was that scars could be beautiful, just look at my

stairs of the UW Rome center (and just so you

freckles. That sangria is always sweeter shared in

know, I found that every railing in Rome is

the company of many, to always put three types of

sticky), saluted silently to Roberto’s portiere

meat into your spaghetti, that hydrangeas with

booth, and opened the green doors leading out

pink petals are grown with the aid of acid poured

to the Campo de’ fiori. I stepped out and my

on their roots, and that simple moments like

heel got caught in gap of the cobblestones and

swinging your legs while sitting on a bench is what

down I went. I stood up and inspected my

makes people feel content with their loneliness.

bloody knee and remembered something a

And who in their right mind seeks out love when

friend said a few days earlier, that Rome is a

they are content with simple truths? And still, I sat

harsh place, that his ideal of a European

on the Spanish steps and came to the conclusion

holiday that was taken away by the reality of

that I could make any man fall in love with me. Yes,

Rome. He felt dissatisfied. I smeared the blood

I agree with you, it was a ridiculous thought. But I

down my leg so that it would dry and heard

was drinking 5-euro wine straight from the bottle

music coming from the center of the Campo. I

and the false confidence that a Roman summer sun

did not allow myself to limp as I was lead by an

can bring to a juvenile mind is hard fight with. I

amplified lone guitar. I saw my classmates,

was in Rome; I was young; I was drunk. My life was

arms over lacing arms, hip-to-hip, smiling at

far from the fat women in a mu-mu dragging her

the music and the night. I didn’t join them.

suitcase up the steps, swearing and sweating in a

Instead I sat alone and listened. In Rome, I felt

synchronized rhythm. I would visit a catacomb the

complete, especially with a bloody knee.

next day, and in the dim mustiness I would find in

Spring Break by Miriam Heard, MLIS As a first year MLIS student, I was warned that the winter quarter was going to be a test of endurance. Working full-time limits my time to really unwind, so when spring break rolled around, I used my evenings to pamper myself. I thought of documenting the highlight of my week by replicating an archival find. It's a fun way to imagine what people after me will discover about these hectic days in my life!

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Destiny of Life by Adithya Kumar, MSIM Life is short and not many may sort it out As man sciences every bit But the aura of the greatest decreases not by an inch, This journey is sour for some, sweet for some, and mixed for others Is sweet always, but individual ideas vary; The journey ends never, for pits and highs increase But some end this pleasant voyage not having the self to rise Destiny of life never ends. This can be bettered , if each remembers their past Their glories with something faded away, matters little; Only those frozen in heart make an impact Painted on canvas of the heart, they revive the past glories, Destiny of life never ends. One faces life with grit and smile, rewarded always As they are the gandhis, churchills, einsteins; Not born all of a sudden So face life as it is, As destiny of life never ends.

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The Wanderer by Chih-Tun, Wang, English You once told me That because I have you I no longer need to Wander in the cold, in the Blinding whisper of the Northern wind. I nodded but Knew that a wanderer is A wanderer who is meant to be On the road, fighting all the darkness You fail to see or hear Listen, Darling— The road is urging me forward into The next and the next Future. I apologize that I could not linger in your arms They felt safe, too safe For a wanderer not to be afraid that When they collapse one day, at last I would lose my direction and Become a true wanderer

Welcome Home by Vivyan Woods, Info Stay perfectly still. If I just stay perfectly still, I

It’s the individual rooms that cause

can escape this room. The other patients don’t

fear. The walls of those rooms close in on one,

seem to notice the confining white walls. There’s

the hideous beige, the one tiny window, and

open space so why should they feel the need to

the door locking from the outside. That is why

escape from this oversized trap? They can move

I need to escape. This common room brings all

about the room, between the perfectly aligned

of our hopes up, making us think that today

tables bolted to the floor. It’s the room’s sad

will be different, that today we won’t have to go

attempt at organizing the chaos in the patients’

back to solitary confinement. But we’re all

I haven’t been called to a therapy session or activity today or at least not yet. I get to watch everything that transpires in this fortress.

minds. They all smile

monitored for violent behavior. We’re

and laugh with each

obligated to stay. I have been sentenced to live

other here, several

and die within these white and beige

people are even

walls. The beige walls are always watching,

playing a game that

protecting the others from me. The white walls

resembles chess, but

have doors that produce nurses and orderlies

no one knows what

poised and ready to restrain me. But I will

rules they’re playing

defeat this system. These walls, the psychiatric

by. TVs in opposing

staff, they will not invade my mind. So I’ll defy

corners each blare a

them, I’ll sit here, perfectly still.

different program,

The other patients enter and exit the

battling for the

doorways, always escorted by staff. They go

attention of the

down the left hall for therapy sessions and

patients. In this room

come back either smiling or crying. Groups go

they can move about

down the right hall for scheduled group

more freely, talk more

activities. Laughter floats out of that hall with

openly as if this were

the occasional patient yelling. I haven’t been

a home to them. But

called to a therapy session or activity today or

nothing here is

at least not yet. I get to watch everything that

comfortable to me. My chair alone is covered in a 30 year-old fabric that reeks of the body odor of

transpires in this fortress. As I’m watching, the door that leads to the

every person that has ever sat in it. The two cheap

long hallway out of here clangs open. I smell

painted landscapes nailed to opposite walls are

fresh meat. The orderlies drag the new patient

miserable excuses for windows.

in as he protests against his shackles the whole

way. This patient gets quite an entourage. Two

orderlies, a doctor, a police officer, and people I can only assume to be his family, escort him to a nearby table. A plastic table with all rounded edges, his resistance will do no good here; they don’t make escape easy. “Roy, we just want to help you,” a member of the entourage speaks. “No! You want me to rot in here,” he snarls. They keep talking, not quite loudly enough for me to hear much of it, but I still get snippets. This patient, Roy, keeps trying to reason with them, trying to convince them that he doesn’t belong here. But can’t he see that it’s too late? This building has already welcomed him, shown him to its very heart. He is too late to try and resist, the rest of his entourage seems to know that. I watch him until he’s left alone at the table. His head slumps forward to bang against the table. I feel the need to go over to him, to lie to him and tell

“No! You want me to rot in here,” he snarls.

him that this will all be over soon. I stand, slowly gliding through the open space to hover behind the seat across from him. I step into the chair, squatting with my knees to my chest and just look at him. His fiery red hair is sprawled across the table. “Roy?” I know that’s his name, but I’ll say it anyway to let him know he’s not alone. Roy sits bolt upright at the sound of his name, staring at me. I let his green eyes fixate on me as I move my gaze over him, sizing him up. He can’t be more than 16; his lack of facial hair and soft facial features say he’s still growing. My face probably relays the same message. We stare at each other a moment longer in our unspoken battle before I use my voice. I say to him what I say to every new patient, something he couldn’t possibly want to hear. “Welcome home.”

call for submissions

Fall 2015 Submission Guidelines

Theme The fall issue will showcase your summer projects and experiences. Inspiration Ideas can come from anywhere. Going on an adventure this summer? Practicing a new art? Working on a presentation for the Research Fair? Joining Camp Nanowrimo? We’re interested in it all! We want your travel journals, photography, blog posts, illustrations, and more! We will also be sending out writing inspiration through social media this summer. Contact Send submissions to circulationmag@gmail.com. You can also follow us on Twitter @circulationmag. Like our Facebook page, UWLiteraryMag. Read our blog at circulationmag.wordpress.com.

Deadline Please have your work in by September 4, 2015.