The Dossier II

FORM THE DOSSIER II

A Space for Ideas, Culture, and Aesthetics

Editor’s Letter Every other year, FORM publishes a dossier - a small collection of loosely related pieces that highlight the publication’s creative process. In this version, we have decided to emphasise FORM’s newly established literary tradition. This journal contains eleven reflective, emotive and existential writings, which range from short-form poetry to narrative-driven prose. We have also tried to endow the bodies of text with their own visual, relational language by manipulating the ways in which the words, sentences and paragraphs interact with each other, within space. In summary, we hope readers will find within the dossier moving texts that speak to FORM’s introspective principles and its high regard for aesthetics. Lastly, we would like to acknowledge Art & Language’s journals on conceptual art as well as Solange Knowles’ A Seat At The Table lyric book as the main sources of inspiration behind this dossier.

Kojo Abudu

EDITORS IN CHIEF EDITORIAL DIRECTOR DIRECTOR OF LAYOUT LAYOUT CONTRIBUTORS

WRITING CONTRIBUTORS

Kojo Abudu Cassidy von Seggern William Bernell Kelly McLaughlin Nia El-Amin Gillian Card Claire Gibbs Annie Kornack Julia Marshall Savannah Norman Olivia Ratliff Blaire Zhang Jimmy Benjamin Margot Hasty Bryan Rusch Alizeh Sheikh Blythe Davis

Table of Contents Submerge / Emerge. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 you are a gift, my love. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 An Act of War. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 The Evil Eye. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 Mindbodysoulhuman. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 The Singer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 you’re going too fast. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 The Uglies: Kin of Eve. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 Closer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 He Woke Me Up Again. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 Take a New Perspective. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26

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Submerge / Emerge For every first in life, there is a last. Yet there seems a disparity in emotion between the two. Things are brought into the world with celebration and jubilance, yet often times, the last dies away without even a whimper. The last will never be placed into a scrapbook. It will never be thought of fondly. The date and cause, all but lost. Until two years later - you sit and you think - wondering when that era of life had become the next. No closure and no need for emotion.

Where did the age of bath-times go? When was the day that you woke up and no longer needed a step stool to see yourself in the mirror? Your last day having to ride the bus? Your last time in a high school cafeteria? In the moment it seemed like nothing to make the change. Who you’ll sit with at lunch and what you’ll play at recess seemed all the more important in childhood. Who you would flirt with and what you would be doing over the summer were more important as a teen. Until these memories are so far gone, sitting at the edge of adulthood, we think back in nostalgia, as we realize we are becoming submerged by what had always been around us, but just had never realized was there.

I have lived a thousand too many lasts for my age, and have lacked a thousand more firsts. A degenerative physical disability will do that to you. Was my last bath because I was too old? Or was it because I could no longer stand up from a tub? I no longer remember. The world rushes around us, and these facts no longer matter. The pain is curbed, while the meaning is lost.

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Let no man the fate before him see, For so is he freest from sorrow - Havamal

My situation is an extreme. My fate is written in my DNA. And it is the challenge of the fight that I live for. I know what my fate is, but to challenge and fashion the course of my life, knowing that defeat is already at the next step. I refuse to be submerged in the cloudy sea of life. To subscribe to a fate, an idea of who you are, what you are capable of, and where life will take you - is to drown, and lose yourself before life has ever begun.

Life is relative, and we have all lived through the worst day in our life, and to each of us it feels like the end of world. And we dreed, knowing there will be more to come. Week to week we live by the edge, waiting, watching, celebrating that we have kept the darkness at bay for one more week. The waves rage around and our body is flung, limp by wave after wave. To look up, to fight this cyclic motion and try to breath is all we can do, and one day, we will finally become an expert at emerging. And the rough sea will once again seem calm as they did as a child.

Words by Bryan Rusch

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you are a gift, my love 8

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It was only after you folded yourself in me that I felt my taut walls hum it is remarkable how through the scope of others we do find the souls of ourselves.

Words by Alizeh Sheikh

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An act of War Words by Bryan Rusch

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Tension is innate in being human. We are natural and of this Earth, yet, unlike what we seem to see in the likes of bears and bugs, we seek something, and are not inclined to an instinctual rush.

violent break from nature, in an act of self-expression and definition. And at its core, that is the purpose of art.

Our actions become a

From hand prints in caves, to urinals in art exhibits, man has pushed his boundaries and has tried to leave his mark on a world that doesn’t seem to represent what he is.

Art is the ultimate form of

war. Whether against his own nature in seeking a

power greater then himself, to the expression of anger towards those in temporal authority – art becomes a cutting blade, and artists

the vanguard.

We are all called to one; to take up the pen, the brush, or the camera.

Each of us has our

own perspective and each of us will elucidate a new part of our human-conflict with each stroke.

“Out of every one hundred men, ten shouldn’t even be there, eighty are just targets, nine are the real fighters, and we are lucky to have them, for they make the battle.

Ah, but the one, one is a warrior, and he will bring the others back.”

- Heraclitus

great,’ but being artistically

We will not all be known, we will not all be a ‘

literate is an obligation to yourself – to tell even a snippet of your story is an obligation to

mankind. Expression can save yourself, sharing can heal a people.

In the dark of what can seem an unending winter, we can become disheartened and fearful. But start up the fire, remember the sun, and keep Stories bring

hope alive.

inspiration from a faraway land,

pictures present stills of alternate realities. Lend your skill to your fellow man. This is all our struggle. Art is the

ultimate form of war.

“The hate of men will pass, and dictators die, and the power they took from the people will return to the people.”

- Charlie Chaplin

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The Evil Eye

Words by Bryan Rusch

When one enters another culture, one does not only discover a new world of senses, but one also comes even closer into touch with aspects of oneself.

This past summer I lived in Morocco with a

This predominate belief comes from a Hadith, a

host. Now I can be quite flip, and life has taught me

saying of the Prophet Mohammed, and has become

that there is no point in blending in – and for me,

a common principle in Morocco. My actions were

it can be quite impossible – being in a wheelchair.

bated and thoughts guarded for much of my time

But it struck me to the core one day when I was told,

there. I did not lose myself, but I definitely cen-

‘You need to stop Bryan, The Evil Eye can kill,’ while

sored parts and added certain firewalls. The locals

waiting at a train stop. I felt initially stifled, but

who were closest to me were at first confused by

fought on, trying to bring a smile to their face. But

my behaviors – joking with them in both English

it took a toll on me. After six weeks, coming back

and Arabic, going places other people thought odd,

home, the people around noticed things about me

and doing things that could draw attention to me

that were foreign, more serious, and more critical.

in markets. But their confusion quickly turned to

They were disturbed, and I was surprised that I nev-

love. Their desire to have me fit in line with them

er once had caught myself slipping into these habits.

turned into a desire to be just as spontaneous.

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In my time in Morocco, a piece of me was lost.

Coming back I soon recovered, but the mark that was made will always be there.

What I thought an unchangeable piece of my core had started to shift in only a few brief weeks.

But I have realized, what I had lost, was gained by the some of the people around me.

For a moment, they can live without questioning the darting gaze of the Evil Eye. On trains, they feel comfortable mingling man and woman, when non-familial.

In markets, they feel comfortable to ask questions and make jokes with random strangers.

For a moment, they live freely.

And they can now share that with their own loved ones.

I learned many lessons in Morocco. Too many to recount in stories.

That is all I could ask of a visit abroad, to learn and to observe.

I never intended to leave a mark on those around me while I was there.

But even then, I learned a most valuable lesson that I had always been holding:

The Evil Eye can kill, but a Free Heart can save souls.

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mind body soul human Words by Alizeh Sheikh

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O

h,

dear

Rose,

{{Whose winding roots in metallic, foreign

earth seek the path of warmest resistance––

they metaphorize soul to abstraction,

but worship concrete, bent to dissidence

Whose thorns prick but refuse to puncture,

choking and settling in a woman’s smile,

Fabricating an impassioned structure,

begging and pleading her hands to defile

Her petals are nourished by mind below,

whose ceaseless state of action is being

And at death the Pompeii of rococo

preserves the tender curling and ageing

Like a diamond does the rose glisten,

to her you surrender, never christen}}

So you let the rose decree, now I beg you sir,

{{Let m

e

b e.}}

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The Singer 16

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Tavern Euphony.

The Bitter He

To and was

sing,

to

to be townsmen Brandy spewing one of

tavern well versed in embrace, from their noses, their own.

Accordion and Lute, bar wench and ale, Man and song, woven tapestry of Olde.

A caravan of creeds, transient and uniform.

The chimes of midnight, waving through the bright stars Together they had rung.

Mid Song the voice croaked Under cover of darkness the Following the scent of the Sickle.

The metallic nangs pounding It flushed the world into a

and cracked, singer fled cold hard in his head. grey gloaming.

Soledad, starved and The grain of the Andes, the sweat of The singer comes and He spreads word and lays down A gospel to the men of young Out Into The His Yet

of

the pastoral he the mines, satanic storm clouds of concrete hoard came with him to the with the key produced, behind them

the the and

sober, jungle, goes. line, old.

emerged, indeed. besmirched. city gates, they stayed.

Affluence offended, a lynching was called.

They carried him away, bloody leaves marring their souls.

Strung to an oak with nothing but an acoustic, A brooding tune he sighed, the strings resolute.

On the other side of the world, the band raved on, While he hung resolute. Words by Jimmy Benjamin

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you’re

going

Words by Alizeh Sheikh

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too

fast

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I used to confuse velocity with quality,

but I now realize that through s p e e d

we become schema

and thereby lose

the capacity

to

be

w h o l e.

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The Uglies: Kin of Eve Words by Margot Hasty

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We exist, suspended in th’ inhaled pause of dark-time hours,

recklessly, relentlessly, defiantly as the tick-tock seconds slowly slip by

beautiful in our truculent blasphemy: Recalcitrant rude mouths dare, softly—stained in sin, half hallucinated desire

darkening dangerous Cheshire grins, the wicked allure, the wild caprice.

Figures of light silhouetted by our shadow selves: dancing, curving, arching—as thick black secrets

flow: ink twisting, writing scars across bright skin.

In this broken dark-hour, somewhere between oblivion and light,

The Combine shatters.

impaled upon shards are those comedic comely mannerisms

of societally-ordained propriety, breeders of such disfiguring fiends:

the partitions, the expurgations of our human selves.

Those self-ordained judges can proselytize all they wish on the righteousness of our actions: we don’t care if its “sin” and well,

we were flawed to begin.

Degenerate innocent beauties,

redemption in the humanity within,

unshackled, unchained, unbroken by the rules of artifice.

In the pause of time’s oblivion, we are perfect: beautifully, ruinously,

mortally alive:

The euphoria blooms, embracing our ribs, fracturing a bit, the convex bones that contain a heart that shudders.

Time bends and snaps, looping this midnight moment to eternity and back,

into everlasting: The Uglies beautifully flawed truly, absolutely, gloriously

human.

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You bring me closer to the Lord

You bring me closer to God

You bring me closer to salvation

You steward me from above.

When I leave your presence amiss When I walk my steps unhinged

When I eat your crunch I’ll miss

When I sleep my light won’t switch And after years I will grow old And after years I will know That after years I will think less And after years I won’t regress For I know it must be That I will leave and you’ll remain For I know t’is you and me Our dear proximity sedate

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You bring me closer to your God, Agnostic I will stay, Yet roof and dome provided, Your God I find by day.

Across the world, T’is easy to stray, My grounding lost, My faith will flay.

Across the world my pillow wet,

My bones will ache for flight regret I will mourn that you’re not here But in your God I will revere.

closer

Words by Jimmy Benjamin

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He woke me up again Words by Jimmy Benjamin

Vicariously I find joy as I become fifty, I have a beard and people love it.

They comment on how youthful I must look in my office.

I love my old friends.

Let me now bleed onto the page, So you can bandage my wounds.

I just sat there amongst the dim hurrah Indifferent to other people, ineffectual in my replies.

I can be elderly too, tears will patter Lightly. Lucid waves can crash upon the shores of my mind, Of when it was my own son’s bloom, Of when it was me that family flocked to see.

My father’s best man sat next to my mother’s father, My mother’s sister sat next to me, I passed wine and had some myself, I passed pleasantries too.

Yet for me in the eye of the storm I know that I need not bear such wreckage.

Freedom is prevailing, to escape those Who may never be seen again.

Some laughed at my willful deformation, Others strained their will to look aside.

In my bathroom I breathed a bit, In the mirror it shone red.

After coffee and mint tea, The dimming of light bulbs and the prayers I found myself joining the game of musical chairs

Except Mom and Dad, yet they were away, Happy to be extended in jovialities. And so I smiled, As they smiled. Yet with their grace I ached.

I am but molten wax thinking of what I am.

An odd man’s breath in my body’s proximity.

To wonder is what matters, To be in a constant trap of thought Can shatter the dam Which is the people you think you know.

From the moment he spoke, Unpolished yet more aware With a bald top that did not need a shine I was awake as words had meaning.

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Do you know yourselfThe standard of blood that trickles in you Acute of trials trounced in order to Keep your lungs inflated and edify your thoughts.

An oracle found me found myself.

On parchment of reeds He drew the world of my blood God’s genealogy in perfect branches.

So I saw antecedents to my comfort The Baralovic and the Kowalski.

“His name means factory. And you know The Jews of Eastern Europe kept poor records because they were so poor.”

And so he woke me up again.

I’m moving out of this.

To re-enter the party Which was bled for only a century ago.

He woke me up again, So that I may sail the Aegean But let there be a picture, etched in gold of a knife mark me So that blood on this page trickles through my ancestors.

Lest I let my arrogant self slip To self-loathe my ignorance Of Fathers of Mothers And Mothers of Fathers.

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TAKE A NEW PERSPECTIVE

Words by Bryan Rusch

Shoulder height and in perfect alignment – on a pedestal for viewing pleasure – with footnotes for the readers ease. Left to right, with the crowd we view the art. The art that we have seen in a book a thousand times; the art that we have regurgitated the interpretation for a grade. They are famous for a reason – it hits you at first sight. The science, the scale; the emotion, and the execution. Nobody can discredit their status as masterpieces, and everyone is obligated to experience them at least once.

The voyage of

discovery is not in seeking

new landscapes

but in having

new eyes.

- Marcel Proust

Often times, it is not these pieces that can capture our emotions. The unknown and the anonymous – small pieces relinquished to corners of museums, strange artifacts found in dusty markets, new pieces produced by aspiring artists of all backgrounds – can speak to us most. Their meanings and interpretations have not become a religion. They are not sought by the masses, and their viewing is not felt as a debt to the time academia has devoted to them over centuries. Their discovery becomes a discovery of self, as we sit and contemplate for the first time what we see in it, not what ‘should’ be seen. The contemplation of the art becomes an art itself – the expression of others becomes our own self-expression without bounds.

And so, looking back we realize that we have forgotten ourselves and forgotten why we do this.

Piece after piece has floated by at eye level, on their pedestal. We consume and forget. Look back. But break the view. Sit down and see old art from a new perspective – to stand under the feet of gods and angels almost seems more fitting then seeing them at eye level. Their lines rearrange and their faces turn serious as you find yourself in their shadows.

Unseen details reveal themselves in often viewed masterpieces, and their religious grounding is shaken at your core. In the fix we have sought too many landscapes, and like butter spread too thin, our identity has become meaningless as a unique entity, wrapped up into a game of twenty-questions that exposes every flaw and crack in ourselves to create a flaccid example of self that can no longer hold up the weight of the world on our shoulders.

And with practice we develop ourselves in tandem with our literacy of art. Bit by bit, every piece is a new door, a new question to ask of ourselves. A stage of euphony is entered, and the joy of art is found. It becomes a necessity, as we start to live and breathe it. Like a drug, we seek new offerings.

Quality or otherwise, in the pages of magazines and the lines of poetry in languages long forgotten we find our fix. And as years go by we think back to that first piece that started the trip. But the cover has grown worn and the spear points we once saw, only a fuzz in our memory. What did we see in it?

Why were we once so entranced?

But with a new perspective, the world reopens and we have a new lease on life. Learning the art of seeing things a-new is a lesson that supplies infinite options. Break the spell of others, and learn to be unique in your ways and perspective, for that is where your true angle on life is found.

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For Everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:

a time to be born

and a time to die,

a time to plant

and a time to uproot, a time to kill

and a time to heal,

a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep

and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance,

a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,

a time to embrace

and a time to refrain from embracing,

a time to search and a time to give up,

a time to keep

and a time to throw away, a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent

and a time to speak, a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace.

- Ecclesiastes 3 1:8

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