Art
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Zack Rafuls
From Left to Right: First Home (Floor Plan) 11”x13.5” charcoal, graphite, & watercolor on vellum Adam 23”x36” charcoal on paper Eve 23”x36” charcoal on paper WTC Cloud Nine Delightful Dong with Balls, 8” 18”x24” graphite & charcoal
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Alizabeth Patterson
Left: Image 32, Digital Photograph Right: Image 12, Medium Format Photograph, Digitally Manipulated
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Emily Scheveel
Emily Scheevel
From Left to Right: Monster Plaster Cast Feathers Hot Glue Birth Modeling Clay Super Glue Lace Fish Lace Wheat Paste Thread
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Caroline Hatfield
From Left to Right: A Measure of Worth 2012 found wheel, cast horse hooves, fabricated steel, wood, graphite 5x2x3 ft Dual Horizons 2012 fabricated steel, electric motor, twine, ball bearing, wood, paint
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Carson Whittaker
From Left to Right: Madonna. Oil and Gold Leaf on Canvas Slime Acrylic and Sharpie on Canvas
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Savannah Easton
Right: Three Images from the Afraid Of The Dark Series White charcol on Black Paper
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Left: Oil on Canvs
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Rachel Elise
Left: Beautiful Destruction Oil on Canvas
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Right: Bento Box Found Wood
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Sara Treece
Left: Animals ink on paper Right: Octopus ink on paper
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Dan Hood
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Left:: Bloom Experimental Film Above: Photos from the series Sexy Mount Zion.
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Sara Daniels
Triangle District
Left: Free Smells, Video
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Right:: Triangle District’s track, La Intrusa
Click image to listen to the album.
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Matt Olive Lucidity
Poetry
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In this mother-of-pearl theater, my imagination has no business being itself. All these ivory elevators, elephant ghosts floating up my throat. No wonder I speak beggar to the well-tailored boy, my hand’s voyage on his thigh without gin-mutiny or youth’s wounds to smooth out misunderstandings. His river-whisper on my back: Is this you in your tattoo? but my tongue doesn’t know its own name and people only reveal themselves in dreams, awakening to the soloist’s violin, its crescendo that the audience cannot hold in a poor world.
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Clint Flippin
We Were Merpeople Once.
Sizzling under melanoma sun, We are coated in melted cellophane lotion, pre-packaged for gamma ray blitz staring at the ocean’s hunger. It starves for Pangea’s descendant coast. Slobbering drunkenly on sand. We know the ocean is wise. Though it may appear juvenilely narcissistic, in its timeless antiquity it has learned life. We, mere infants of time, emerged amphibious ages ago. Gills morphed into lungs, we grew out of grotesqueness into warm-blooded splendor. We forgot the abysmal depths, bountiful cruelty, and food-chain hierarchy. We rebuild Atlantis with plutonium fuel rods, constructing god in our image, an infinite mirror.
Foolishly our inquiries halt before the sea. Our diminishing pupils look towards mainland. Doomed to ignorance, we continue mutating under a dying sun. For what can the sea say, but HHUUuuSSsshhhhh?
Noelle Sibley Poet Posing for a Painter
Pose me naked as seascape. Pencil paste me into two dimensions. Suck all my skin into hue. Make me cheap as poetry, ersatz of senses.
This is why our sonar eyes ask El Mar for ancient wisdom forged and Marred for eons, older than Sumerian cuneiform and ziggurats. Surely the sage of Earth must know why we are here. 23
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Rachel Miller Icarus And I
The wax-feather mess, worshiping at nebulous altar, was death to us. Wanting trees naked, not gradual decay of leaves, but rough skin beneath dress. Reverence tarnished by acidic sunbeams. Wings both scorched through indifferent, old branches, melted before blades regained form beneath both our feet.
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Olivia Bricen Rebecca
It takes a steady hand to paint like my mother used to on our front porch in mid April. She never asked for anything. She worked twelve hours most days but when she didn’t, she took my sister and me to the Buffalo River for picnics and canoe rides. We flipped every time. I don’t know what will happen after I die but before I do it will be the wetness of the Buffalo River that I will remember and my mother’s patience that I will envy.
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Carolyn Buhler Childhood Bed
Don’t pull back those sheets, ma, You wont like what you find. Dried blood, from those nights, ma I could not be alone. Stains from my loves, ma First, second, and third. Faded, but still present -ly mocking me. Lift up the mattress, then, since you’ve come this far: A journal, my secrets, my never-whispered words of Three things you forbade Till marriage, till right age, till death, will I part with them. Pull out the pages, piece them together Till you find, till you notice I’m not really here I’m not really her. I’m not really Real.
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Bob Boyd
perched on the hill across from the ColiExcerpt of “From Bottom to Top” seum. I climbed the stairs. The place was done up with AstroMy phone did not work. I cursed at it turf floors and seemed to stretch across while scanning the street outside. Lit by the entire hill like a football stadium. The the Italian twilight it seemed to end right small tables were packed with young where it started. I saw a small pizzeria’s lights turn on, and went in to buy a grande people as well as families, all craning their necks at one screen or another. I posted birra. up at the bar and ordered another beer. “Grazie, ma no,” I told the shopkeeper After a while of basking in familiar patriotwhen he asked if I needed it opened. I ism, I felt a tap on my shoulder and there wedged my phone under the cap and popped it off. It cut a cat scratch deep into was Beatrice in a short cocktail dress and that same casual grin. I was glad I wore my the plastic. black tie and fancy shoes. I ambled towards the Coliseum in “You didn’t call. Thought I’d lost you.” the distance as spotlights clicked on and I held up my wafer of a phone. She eyed gave it a paper white glow. Sporadically, the deep grooves in the plastic and the cheers rose up all around the city and someone nearby would shout, “Viva Italia!” beer in my hand. I shrugged and said, “At least it’s good for Motor scooters buzzed down the main streets. The streetlights, sporadically placed something.” She laughed. I gestured at the nearest widescreen. on the backstreets, clicked on and shot “Looks like we got this game in the their orange light, drawing in the narrow bag.” buildings. She nodded. When I arrived at the Coliseum it “Looks like it. The Italians are bound was completely deserted. I breathed deep to freak out. Want to get a head start on and fanned myself, searching for at least celebrating?” a trash can to toss my beer bottle. More I dropped some euros on the bar and we cries of “Viva Italia” erupted and I turned were off. to see an open-air bar full of widescreen TVs
X Back at The Yellow, things were in full swing. The clutter of the night before was doubled and the tone wasn’t cheers, but shouts and chants. The stools at the bar had been moved away to accommodate the crowd. Beatrice cut right through and pulled me along to the front of the mob. Ricardo was working again and he waved an “I’m busy” finger at us. The smells that close to the bar, among all the wavering patrons, were strong cologne and sweat. A thin Italian pressed into my back. I felt the curve of a chain and the small jab of the Italian horn that hung from it. I turned and shot him a look, but his eyes were fixed to the bar, a sickly sweet smile plastered to his face with the edges curved to an impossible point like some odd Dr. Suess villain. I turned back to the bar, where Ricardo was sliding two whiskey and cokes towards Beatrice. I held up my fingers. “Jagerbombs please, Ricardo.” He grinned and nodded. Beatrice patted my shoulder. Outside, I smoked a cigarette and talked with Beatrice about her time in Rome. The heat had faded away like the ice cubes in our drinks. I was still sweating. 28
“You don’t miss America?” I asked. She paused and took an impotent sip at her drink. From inside, a dull bass bump signaled that the night had turned to techno music and, undoubtedly, moved to the concrete pit of a dance floor that was kept in the basement. I could feel the music coming through the street. “It really isn’t that different,” she said. “The people are the same. They just take longer lunch breaks.” I jabbed out my smoke on the sidewalk. “I’m gunna grab more drinks.” I reached for my empty glass and Beatrice asked, “What do you think of Rome?” I tried to piece together a clever sentiment about longer lunch breaks suiting me just fine, but finally settled on, “This place makes me feel like Earnest Hemingway,” and felt like the words came out crooked. She laughed, shaking her head and grabbing a cigarette out of the pack I had left on the table. When I returned sporting the fresh rounds, Beatrice was engaged in a conversation with the thin Italian who had been pressing into me at the bar earlier. He leaned in, speaking cracked English. She was nodding and grinning, but her eyes were wide and shot to me as soon as I 29
came over. “Un minuto, Signora. I get another drink,” the grease ball said. The smell of B.O. and vodka trailed as he passed. I sat down and slid a drink towards Beatrice. “Who was that?” I asked. Beatrice waved at the air. “He’s just a waiter at one of the nearby restaurants. He usually stops by on Fridays, but he’s especially plastered tonight.” I nodded and took a sip of my drink. Beatrice leaned in and quietly asked, “Do me a favor? Could you pretend to be my brother and scare him off? He’s a bit handsy.” I grinned. “It’d be my pleasure.” I killed my drink in a swift toss of the head. From somewhere in the maze of Rome, a siren wailed. I looked around and saw everything had acquired a dull shine like bronze. The waiter returned and regarded me with loose eyes, staring through me to the sidewalk. He bent to Beatrice’s ear and I put a hand on his shoulder. “Scusa, Signore. Questa è mia sorella—” He stood up and said, “I can speak English.”
The consonants caught on his lip, coming out sharp. I smiled and said, “Well, this is my sister and she has a boyfriend in America.” His eyes lit up. “Oh! I understand.” He patted me on my cheek and turned quickly to Beatrice. He leaned into her ear, whispered something in Italian, and swiped a hand over her breast. I shot up and pulled him with me, my hand gripping his shoulder in a gesture that, from far away, mimicked brotherly affection. “Hey man! Keep your hands to yourself.” He turned to me, grinning, and grabbed my other shoulder. We stood face to face and he slammed his mouth into mine, tongue first. He glared into my eyes and his grip tightened. My mind seized all at once, followed by the muscles in my arms. I ripped him off me. His mouth hung open, still grinning, and I slapped him across the face, following the motion through until his sneering face was away from me. I grabbed his shirt and shoved. “Get the fuck out of here!” Still smiling, he flicked his hand under his chin and sauntered away, speaking rapid Italian. I turned to Beatrice as a wave of
goose bumps rose from my skin. She locked eyes with me for a second and then collapsed on the table, laughing. X We chatted and drank until the goose bumps crawled back into my skin. By the end of our last round, everything had smoothed out. All the textures of the night ran together and seemed very touchable. The drinks and I were sweating. Beatrice was laughing into her glass. “That’s probably the sweetest thing anyone’s done for me.” “It was a pretty good slap, huh?” “I meant the tongue kissing a guy thing.” Inside, the music switched off. Beatrice checked her watch and said, “Well, that’s closing time. I better head to bed.” I killed my drink and asked her where she lived. “I’ve got a room on the fourth floor.” “Mind if join?” She looked at me for a second like she was trying to read a book upside down. “Aren’t you bold?” She gave short laugh, looked at my eyes, and grabbed my hand. On our way up to her room, I stumbled. One of the doormen peered up the staircase and let out a loud shushing sound.
We both laughed. When we got inside, I dove into her bed face first like it was a swimming pool. She flipped me over and asked what I was up to buried in the bed like that, as if we had run into each other on the street. I responded, “Looking for you.” as we sank deeper into the bed. For the first time in Italy, I was more than happy to sweat. Beatrice closed the shades and even the outlines of the furniture faded to black. X When I woke up, Beatrice was gone. I got dressed and checked my phone. I had somewhere around twenty missed calls. I remember thinking that this was a funny time for that piece-o-shit to start working, but my hangover was dragging pretty hard. I needed breakfast. When I stepped into the staircase, the high noon sun was shooting through the windows. My stomach began to float, pressing on my throat. Something about noon felt very wrong. Greta greeted me at the front desk with her well-trained smile and a note: Ray, I couldn’t find you, so I had to leave. The professors say you should meet us in Assisi. I hope you make it. Julia Julia had tried to contact me for about an
hour before catching a last minute taxi to the airport where she and the rest of our program began their trek to Perugia. The next train for Assisi left in two hours. I scampered back to my room and packed. Back at the bar, Beatrice poured me a farewell mimosa. I sat gazing into its cloudy, effervescent depths and felt nausea make a spot for itself in my stomach. My goodbyes were quiet, smothered by the pressure of having fucked up big time. Beatrice leaned over the bar and gave me a halfway smile. “Don’t worry about it, Ray. You’ll catch back up.” “I guess that’s what I deserve.” I pulled a smile tight over my face. Beatrice kissed me on the cheek and wished me well. The whole thing seemed disjointed, like I kept skipping forward in time by jerky, fifteen-minute increments. As I lugged my bag towards Termini, the sun beat down with a physical push. My shirt was sweat stained and I wasn’t a block away from The Yellow. I rested my cumbersome, black bag on the ground and turned back. The hostel looked sterile and dry as sandstone. Imagining it’s cheap furniture and the smell of disinfectant mixed with spilled drinks, I threw up in my mouth. 30
A businessman, in a sharp suit, bumped past me, stepping in my vomit. It formed around the shining black patent leather. He glanced down at the puddle and back up at me, still stooped over my bag, and shouted, “Vafanculo!”
Continued in “From Bottom To Top” Out from powerful noun fall 2013
Thanks for reading the first issue of Dive. I want to personally thank everyone who contributed their art to this project, those who have pushed me to do what I set out to achieve, and last but not least your patience. Look out for the next issue of Dive Summer 2013. -Dan Hood
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