Embodied Magazine | The Prose & Poetry Issue

EMBODIED VOLUME 5

T h e P ro s e & P o e t r y I s s u e

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Editor-in-Chief Jake Nevins Creative Director Devyn Olin

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Alice Hindanov Layout Designer Zoe Priest Section Editors Happenings | Laura Jung

Arts & Culture | Jordan Sitinas & Carly Valentine The View | Annie Felix

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Cover Photo: Devyn Olin

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ARTS & CULTURE

PROSE & POETRY

THE VIEW

22 | Jazz Age Modernist

40 | Androphobia: The Fear of Men

68 | On NYU Divest

26 | Two’s Company

42 | Commemoration in O

34 | Long Live Lolita

48 | Aborigine

The Prose & Poetry Issue

70 | Year-End Top Tens 74 | Turning Off My TV

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR Our entire academic careers, we’ve been indoctrinated by what one might call the literary canon. From maybe fifth grade onwards, we read Melville and Twain and Hemingway and Faulkner and Salinger and Fitzgerald and Hawthorne and a tidal wave of Shakespeare. The canon, a belletristic, predominantly-male, almost exclusively caucasian herd of intellectual heavyweights, seems to be as archetypally American as baseball or apple pie. To skip over their work is considered impious.

What alarms, me, though, is their homogeneity, which is harmful to academia in a few ways. First, kids, perhaps aspiring writers, from an array of ethnic, religious and socioeconomic backgrounds, are being shown an almost indistinguishable paragon of literary success. And second, these authors, no matter how great they are, can illuminate only the environs and worlds in which they lived: what happens to the poignant experiences of people of other races, religions or creeds? This is by no means an indictment of these authors — I, like many others, am one to cry at the last few pages of Gatsby - but rather an indictment of a society that deifies a certain kind of writer while it closes doors for others. The prodigious works of the Lost and Beat generations are certainly integral to American scholarship, though they represent but a slice of the literary pie.

We live in the golden age of media, with online streaming reaching a cultural zenith and phones rendering our needs instantly satiated. Our society is, as a friend put it, “pictorially over-congested.” In all of this, what is the fate of words?

Are social media and Netflix disquieting portents of the fall of literature, or has literature transformed before our very eyes, taken a new shape in a milieu defined by technology and efficiency? Given the option of binge-watching a television show or reading a book, I am fairly certain the vast majority of millennials would opt for the former. But in spending the last several months on the latest edition of Embodied, I have reason to believe that millennials still see the value in reading and writing, that words, as both an aesthetic and scholarly venture, are here to stay.

This brings me to the subjects of Embodied Magazine’s fifth volume: prose, poetry and globalism. Call me hyperbolic, but the next entries into the literary canon could be right under our noses, walking the streets of NYU, traversing the halls of Gallatin, even. In assembling an issue that reflects the variegated interests of NYU students, we set out to subvert the canonical norm of white, whiskey-drinking savants.

We’ve allocated a substantial chunk of the magazine to creative writing; submissions arrived with astounding diversity and breadth, and we selected as much as we could to create a magazine that is as vast in subject matter as it is in prose.

Just as a single brush stroke can spawn paintings in oil, gouache, and acrylic, we aim here to bring you stimulating essays, poems, short stories, critiques, and reviews.

Volume Five, of course, is not all creative writing. NYU, and Gallatin specifically, is an epicenter of creative expression.

Embodied, since its inception, has strived to be a platform that gives a voice to students by putting a high premium on their many creative ventures, across a litany of mediums and industries. Among the creative ingenues who grace our pages are Jack Staffen and Eliza Callahan, a musical duo as humble as they are talented, and Laura Jung and her sister Seline, who in October launched their clothing line UNIFORM. We also have work from NYU student and New York City Youth Poet Laureate Crystal Valentine and a beautiful spread, put together by our Creative Director Devyn Olin, that explores the meaning of gender today. Other favorites of mine: a short story entitled “Aborigine,” by Gallatino Ray Larsen and a piece by Annie Felix on NYU Divest.

NYU isn’t kidding when it calls itself a global university. You’d be hard-pressed to find a campus like this one, brimming with creativity, a true multicultural amalgam of artists, philanthropists, scientists, and businessmen and women. As NYU’s only publication of its kind, an arts and culture-based magazine run by students and for students, we at Embodied owe it to you to reflect the true makeup of this school. Thus, Volume Five, my second issue as Editorin-Chief and the most fun one yet, aims to create its own canon, one based not on convention and perennialism but on diversity, youth and creative zeal.

Jake Nevins

COZY CORNERS

Our favorite spots for city-wide book readings

by Sophie Epstein & Laura Jung

BLUESTOCKINGS

MCNALLY JACKSON

172 Allen St, 10002

52 Prince St, 10012

An independent, volunteer-powered Lower East Side bookstore, cafe, and activist center with an incredible selection of radical, progressive, and intersectional books. They carry over 6,000 titles, covering topics like feminism, queer and gender studies, global capitalism, climate & environment, political theory, race studies, and so much more. They diligently update their event calendar on their website, so you can see on which days they host poetry readings, workshops, skillshares, and more!

Conveniently located in the heart of Nolita, McNally Jackson is one of the city’s most loved independent bookstores. It hosts an extensive collection of books, magazines, documents, artifacts, and art that isn’t overwhelming.

Book signings, readings, and labs are regular.

6 | Happenings

THE KITCHEN

HOUSING WORKS

512 W 19th St, 10011

126 Crosby St, 10012

The Kitchen is one of the city’s oldest nonprofit spaces for both emerging and established artists to showcase their various disciplines. It was originally founded as an artist’s collective that launched the careers of artists that defined the American avant-garde: Robert Mapplethorpe, Vito Acconci, Cindy Sherman, and Kiki Smith, to name a few. Their program of events ranges from dance and music performances to experimental video art to literary events and lecture series. The Kitchen prides itself on the high caliber of art presented as well as its allencompassing, inviting environment for artists to thrive in.

Housing Works is a little oasis on Crosby street, away from from chaotic streets of Soho. It’s an unassuming bookstore with everything from new arrivals to bargain classics. They have events daily and nightly for people spanning all ages and industries. Unique examples include: literary speed dating, costume contests accompanied with dinner parties, and female empowerment talks.

7 | Happenings

are you there, carson? it's me, ________ .

Sex advice from Carson Stern.

Hey! I’ve been having sex with my boyfriend for almost a year now. We are very sexually compatible.

He makes me come every time orally but I’ve never come through sexual intercourse. I can’t come through vaginal stimulation when I do it myself either. Sometimes I feel that it’s normal because I’ve heard that coming that way is rare for females, but I still really wish that I could orgasm during sex to make the experience more mutual for my boyfriend and I. Any tips?

First off, it’s so wonderful that you’re both sexually compatible and that his head makes you come every time...that’s beautiful...truly. Here’s my tip: touch your clit while you’re having sex! It’s true, not many women do orgasm from just vaginal stimulation alone (me included), and that’s completely okay. ABC News reported that up to 75 percent of women have trouble having orgasms from vaginal penetration alone.

Another tip: You also can use a vibrator by holding or rubbing it on your clit during sex. I recommend starting with low vibrations and building up the intensity. I’ve found that all I need is a small vibration and if I make it too intense it becomes more difficult to come. So, play around! See what feels good and what doesn’t.

Can you talk about toy usage for boys?

Absolutely! I’m going to start by screaming at the top of my lungs, “BUTT PLAY IS NOT ‘GAY’!” If you choose not to interact with your bottom because you think doing so is only associated with one sexuality, and that it will somehow change your personal sexuality, then you’re buying into a major stigma and inhibiting your body from a great deal of potential pleasure. So, if you won’t put butt plugs in your butt for the sole reason that you think it’s “gay”, you’re misinformed and homophobic. Even if it really did “make you gay,” why should that matter? Who cares? Sign me up.

As someone who doesn’t possess a penis, I haven’t personally experimented with specific male-focused toys. I do know there is a great deal of them out there, and the best way to discover them is by going to a reputable sex shop (i.e. Babeland or Pleasure Chest).

Seeing the large variety of toys in person and talking with helpful staff who know a great deal about them is the most efficient way to find the right toy for you.

If this intimidates you, there’s always the internet for online stores and reviews. But I strongly recommend physically going to a well-reviewed store; it’s a safe environment where people openly and comfortably talk about everything and anything sexual. For instance, the last time I visited Babeland I was given a pamphlet on “how to properly clean a fur butt plug.” In conclusion, toy usage can be for anyone, regardless of genitals or sexuality. See what’s out there and be excited about it!

8 | Happenings

Can you give tips on how to give oral to a girl?

This is a wonderful question and I could probably fill a book with my complete answer, so I’ll do the best I can in so many words. I’m doing this in a bullet-point fashion to get right to the point. I hope you’re taking notes.

Vaginas are like snowflakes; they’re beautiful and completely unique from one another. Communication is key to understanding her “snowflake.” I don’t recommend giving or receiving head from someone you don’t feel comfortable enough with talking to openly about what turns you on. If I’m performing cunnilingus I will want to ask her what feels good, and I see how her body reacts to what I do. If I’m receiving cunnilingus then I’ll mention the specific things my “snowflake” likes and doesn’t; this is important because certain actions can kill an entire mood, and everyone is completely different in their preferences.

Don’t be afraid to ask, “How does this feel?”

Not every woman knows what specific actions she likes or doesn’t, so do your thing and check in with her.

Gradual “build up”; slowly building intensity to her liking is more likely to cause waterfalls and an intense orgasm.

START SLOW. One of my favorite sex gurus Adina Rivers says women are like water - we boil up to get hot - whereas men are like fire - they instantly ignite.

Don’t go straight-to-clit initially. Lick and kiss her entire body, focus on sensitive areas near the vagina like the inner thighs, lips and labia before touching her clit. Notice how wet she becomes.

If the vibe, mood, or environment is off, then you’re not ready to give or receive cunnilingus. Set the tone in a comfortable environment, use candlelight, and maybe put on some Drake or The Weekend.

Technique is mastered through full comprehension and execution of the above bullet-points. Put your heart and soul into it; otherwise what’s the point? If you’re being lazy than you don’t deserve such a privilege. I mean it (the tea is hot over here).

9 | Happenings

10 |

NYU junior and burgeoning R&B artist Greg Aram can be found meandering around downtown Manhattan in his tried-and-trusted Acne jeans or, of course, spitting bars with Kendrick Lamar at the 20 year-old’s former New Jersey high school. As his music begins to reach the wide audience it so deserves, Greg relies on some essential items - clothing, accessories and gadgets - that keep him grounded amidst all the crazy. Here they are, as revealed to Embodied.

IPOD CLASSIC | Over everything, I need my music. I got my iPod after my phone ran out of space. I find it most useful when traveling.

JIM MORRISON POETRY BOOK | I got this as a gift. He is the greatest.

JUNGMAVEN WHITE T | I think the white T is super essential to anyone’s wardrobe. I tend to use it as my core piece for almost every outfit.

ACNE DENIM | I only really started caring about good jeans a couple years ago. I have this pair of Acne raw denims I really like and are kind of my go to. I am also a big fan of V Brand jeans. I have a couple pairs of those as well. The key to raw denims is to wash them as little as possible.

SUPREME JACKET | Fall is my favorite month to play dress up only because I have a bunch of light jackets that are perfect for the weather. Half of them are thrifted varsity or jean jackets but I also have this Supreme jacket from a couple seasons ago that I really like.

JORDAN 1 ROYAL BLUE | When I was younger I was quite the sneaker head. One of the first pair of Retros I got was the Jordan 1. They are so easy and casual to wear, and unlike most Jordans, they look better with age/wear-and-tear, so you’re not super paranoid every time you go out. It’s just a classic.

CLARKS BROWN DESERT BOOTS | A lot of people hate on Clarks but I’m a fan. They are just really basic in the best way possible. Also, I have a weird habit of drawing on my shoes and ruining them really quick from performances or parties or whatever, so it’s dope that Clarks are super replaceable. I recommend them as a good day-to-day.

TOOTHPICK | It’s very rare that I don’t have a toothpick in my mouth. I don’t know why. I’m low key addicted.

11 | Happenings

what’s goin’ on

DECEMBER

1-24

7

Union Square Holiday Market

New York during this time of year is never the same without this annual, super-extensive holiday market filled with gifts, unique artifacts, and indulgent food.

Off-Broadway Show “Lazarus”

Michael C. Hall will star in this off-broadway show co-written by David Bowie and Enda Walsh. The play is based on the sci-fi novel “The Man Who Fell to Earth” about an alien who comes to Earth seeking water to take back to his home planet.

(Expect never-before-heard music by Bowie!)

10

City and Colour at Terminal 5

Dallas Green of City and Colour will bring his iconic moody acoustic-folk sounds to New York right in the middle of the season in which we need them the most.

10-24

11 27

“A Christmas Carol” at Merchant’s House Museum

In December 1867, Charles Dickens arrived in New York City for a month of sold-out performances of his beloved holiday classic, A Christmas Carol. This season, audiences will be taken back 150 years to experience an hour-long performance from Dickens’ original script in the iconic Merchant’s House Museum. Seating is limited to 40 people to ensure engagement and intimacy.

The Weeknd at MSG

2015 was a big year for The Weeknd, so it only makes sense that he wraps up with a performance at the iconic Madison Square Garden.

New England Patriots vs. New York Jets at MetLife Stadium Calling all pigskin fans: this heated divisional rivalry comes to a head in Week 17, when the Pats and Jets do battle in Jersey.

THE EDIT

Our favorite things of 2015, brought to you by the E-board Illustrations by Tyler McGillivary

70s fashion | Amazon’s Transparent | Aperol spritz | Typewriters | Vacation in Tulum | The Last Love Song, a Joan Didion biography by Tracy Daugherty | Hawkeye omnibus | Lush’s Dark Angels scrub | Mansur Gavriel SS16 shoes

13 | Happenings

14 |

STYLE ON THE SQUARE

Photographed by Laura Jung & Kate Rowey

15 | Happenings

WRITERS ON WRITING Our favorite canonical writers and their best soundbites

by Rachel A.G. Gilman

“A novelist has to know enough about a subject to fool the passenger next to him on an airplane.”

David Foster Wallace

“Very few people possess true artistic ability. It is therefore both unseemly and unproductive to irritate the situation by making an effort. If you have a burning, restless urge to write or paint, simply eat something sweet and the feeling will pass.”

Fran Lebowitz

“All good writing is swimming under water and holding your breath.”

F. Scott Fitzgerald

“I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.”

Joan Didion

16 | Happenings

“All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.”

Ernest Hemingway

“You never have to change anything you got up in the middle of the night to write.”

Saul Bellow

“It’s not the giving up of the writing that I fear. It’s the giving up of this excitement or whatever is it that you feel that makes you write.”

Alice Munro

“Writing, like life itself, is a voyage of discovery. The adventure is a metaphysical one: it is a way of approaching life indirectly, of acquitting a total rather than a partial view of the universe. The writer lives between the upper and lower worlds: he takes the path in order eventually to become that path himself.”

Henry Miller

“That’s all we have, finally, the words, and they had better be the right ones.”

Raymond Carver “Writing is like sex. First you do it for love, then you do it for your friends, and then you do it for money.”

Virginia Woolf

17 | Happenings

SISTER ACT Gallatin student and Embodied contributor Laura Jung has teamed up with her sister Seline to create UNIFORM, a clothing line of basics that is effortless and affordable. Comprised of comfortable t-shirts and slick leather jackets, the line offers pieces you’ll want to incorporate in your everyday look.

Tell me a bit about yourselves. Laura, what year are you in at school and what are you studying? Seline, what year did you graduate and what did you study?

Seline: I graduated in 2014 with a degree in journalism with a concentration in international relations at Boston University.

So basically there’s nothing in my background that suggests I’d start a clothing business, but fashion has always been my side chick.

Laura: I’m currently a junior at Gallatin. I went in wanting to study fashion business, but now I’m focusing on the intersectionality of various art mediums within a global context. When people ask me what my concentration is, I tell them: globalization, consumer culture, and entrepreneurship. UNIFORM is kind of my concentration in the flesh.

What prompted you to start UNIFORM? S: It was a combination of things, but mostly stemmed from the realization that a lot of items in our daily wardrobe were

made and designed in Korea that we never saw anywhere else in the world. Another big reason is the sheer unaffordability of high-quality clothing, both by old and new brands. We know that most women would love to own a leather jacket from, say, Acne, but could never actually buy it. We wanted to find a way to remedy that.

L: I knew from the earliest stages of high school that I wanted to start my own fashion start-up and e-commerce really seemed like the thing for me. Gradually over time, I became aware of various disruptions within the fashion industry, and I wanted to be a part of it.

What is the essence of the brand?

S: UNIFORM’s essence is everyday luxury. With the ideal of every day style turning more and more blogger-editorial, we understand that there are women out there who want their very basic wardrobe pieces to not only look good, but also look expensive. The problem is that exorbitant prices get in the way, and that’s where we come in.

18 | Happenings

Why the name “UNIFORM”?

Price point?

L: We like to think that our pieces anchor a woman’s wardrobe to create an everyday uniform that they wear day after day.

Although the word “uniform” connotes sameness, we believe one’s uniform can most definitely reflect one’s personal style with the combination of well-designed and high-quality pieces.

We want people to feel like our pieces make up their uniform: consistent and reliable, but still allow one’s personal style to show.

L: Accessible luxury. Some of the most coveted pieces out there are unfortunately unattainable for our target demographic, so we are pricing all of UNIFORM’s pieces at competitive prices. We are direct-to-consumer, cutting out the markup that so many retailers include.

Where is everything made and what materials are you using?

L: Classic, minimal, accessible.

S: Everything is proudly made in our motherland, South Korea, and we are using some of the best materials and blends around. We think it’s important that all of our t-shirts are luxurious but casual at the same time. Our materials are all-natural, relatively sustainable, and feel amazing. One of my favorites is the linen-Tencel blend in our ‘Seline’ tee. Our jackets are made of 100% lambskin, which is extra-soft.

L: Throughout the entire manufacturing process from the materials, to the actual products, to the labels, and down to the tags, we’ve found that Koreans are not only extremely dedicated to craftsmanship, but they are also very efficient. We are so lucky to have relationships with the manufacturers we have there.

If you could describe the brand in three words what would they be?

What is it like being sisters and doing “business” with one another?

S: It’s honestly great and preferable in my opinion; it helps that we’re completely different individuals so we fulfill different aspects of the partnership. It’s also immensely helpful that we can fight, disagree and shoot down each other’s opinions without any qualms and it’s never going to be awkward. No wariness of social cues necessary when dealing with your sister!

L: There is really no one else that I’d rather be doing this with because I’m 100% comfortable with expressing all of my thoughts and opinions with Seline. We balance each other out in so many ways.

19 | Happenings

What are your individual uniforms? And, if you had to build an outfit out of UNIFORM pieces what tee and jacket would you each pick?

S: I’m loving long-sleeve shirts lately, so my go-to outfit at this time of the year would be our ‘Devyn’ tee tucked into a pair of high-waisted jeans with white sneakers or black boots. And I’d top it all off with our Cropped Moto jacket or a giant faux-fur coat that makes me look like Sasquatch.

L: I’m not sure if I’m in a bit of a fashion rut or if I’m just a loyal ambassador of UNIFORM, but my go-to outfit lately is a pair of black jeans, a form-fitting black turtleneck, and our Classic Moto jacket to keep me warm. I wear these with my Adidas Superstar sneakers or my black Dr. Marten Chelsea boots. Seriously fulfilling the New York stereotype of an allblack outfit...

What is it like being a student entrepreneur? Any hardships? Tips for others?

L: It’s both incredibly exciting and stressful. I love that I have the NYU and Gallatin student community to support me. I feel like I’m surrounded by people who are always interesting, motivated, and entrepreneurial — It’s very inspiring. Obviously, it’s also very stressful balancing schoolwork with UNIFORM. Before our launch, I was starting my junior year and I have never been more stressed

and overwhelmed in my life. I’ve thought about taking time off from school, but it’s too early to gauge that. Being as young as I am now is actually comforting because everything I’m going through now will prepare me for whatever is to come in the future.

To all aspiring entrepreneurs, all I have to say is just go for it to the best of your ability with the resources you have at hand. That’s really what entrepreneurship is all about. Take everything as a learning experience so that even the worst of times will feel beneficial in the long run. If you truly love what you do and are passionate about it, you’ll have fun every step of the way.

What would be your end goal with UNIFORM? S: For now, our goal is to continue to sell more beautiful pieces from Korea at price points that women feel they can afford. I can’t wait to continue scouting to see what’s out there that we can offer.

L: I would love to see our products in highly-esteemed stockists in New York, and eventually throughout the country. I also have this vision for UNIFORM to have a wide range of products, as well as be a marketplace for independent designers from around the world who don’t have a platform to sell within the U.S.

Interview conducted by Devyn Olin UNIFORM clothing modeled by Ondine Charlesworth Photographed by Madeline Kim

Jazz Age Modernist

The Whitney Museum of American Art, now located in the bustling Meatpacking district, is currently in a state of flux.

Having only been at its new location for six months, the museum is still adjusting to its Hudson River view, a patch of prime real estate that brings with it a revamped atmosphere and a new crowd. In spite of this radical overhaul, what has not changed is the Whitney’s loyalty to showcasing American artists and this country’s rich, complicated history.

Archibald Motley: Jazz Age Modernist is a small scale retrospective of Motley’s paintings and portraiture as he tackled loaded themes — race, class and sex — throughout the twentieth century. Born mixed-race in New Orleans, Motley was fascinated not just by race relations but by skin gradation, and he both controversially and scrupulously studied these nuances to create works that captured the milieu of the African-American community in the 1920s and 1930s. The exhibit starts intimately with a series of portraits that includes his famous Octoroon Girl (1925), along with portraits of Motley’s mother and wife. From there the exhibit showcases the painter’s biggest strength: his ability to create atmospheric

narratives in his portrayals of large groups of people. Whether in Mexico, Paris, New York, or Mississippi, Motley touches on unity, how the vices at the time could bring people together.

The power of music and the sensuality of the female form are both throughlines in his larger study of human nature.

His depictions of African-American culture, both within the community and outside, are dynamic and colorful, revealing a lot about the relationships that were formed. What is poignant about the exhibition is the way in which Motley’s last piece leaves all jokes aside. In the ominous The First One Hundred Years, the confederate flag hangs in the doorway of a house while the remnants of Klu Klux Klan violence and hate lie in the front. Completed towards the end of his life, The First One Hundred Years was Motley’s final painting, and the last one in the Whitney’s retrospective; here, he lays his cards on the table, telling his viewers that at the end of the day, despite the convivial scenes he loved to paint, history and race relations are no laughing matter.

by Nicole Chan

22 | Arts & Culture

Aboard the M Train

Patti Smith sits for hours signing copies of her new novel M Train. Hundreds of fans leave with freshly inked inside covers.

This is the second night in a row she hosts a book signing.

Sitting and signing, speaking, then sitting and signing. To a packed fourth floor at the Union Square Barnes and Noble, she sheepishly admits, “I don’t know what to say tonight.” She flashes her jagged, imperfect teeth and wipes her stringy gray hair to the side, “I’m sorry.”

The audience is not disappointed. This is just the type of character she presents on the page: casual, witty, a bit shy and always matter of fact. There is a certain spirit about her, as if she is guided by the writers — Proust, Borroughs — about whom she writes so frequently. She wears black, as she normally does, as if in a state of perpetual mourning. Death seems to follow her, yet her eyes appear freshly splashed with cold water — she mourns with the written word, following her influences with blank pages (or napkins), a pen, and her camera. M Train, as well as her previous novel, Just Friends, follows many of her encounters with the now deceased. She spends much of her time sitting before gravestones, paying homage to either a close friend, lover, or removed influence (like her beloved Arthur Rimbaud). M Train specifically catalogues her life with, and the eventual loss of, her husband Fred Sonic Smith. He was similarly adventurous and followed Smith to various public libraries to study or delve into classic novels. He was the muse of her art and shared in her favorite activity: drinking diluted black coffee while reading at neighborhood cafés.

When asked to share her reasoning for the title M Train she

says, “there are two train lines called the M, one in New York and one in Tokyo. The title has nothing to do with these trains.

It represents a ‘mind train.’ When I started writing, I wanted to write what came to mind with no particular agenda.”

The result is a fascinating account of her life in prose that seamlessly shifts between imagination and reality. Readers are given an acute lens into her world as she unapologetically follows her passions across the globe. Few books really allow you to tag along, experience the writer’s world without some sort of impenetrable wall of separation. M Train does. Whether Smith is becoming a member of the Continental Drift Club to honor Alfred Wegener, traveling to Saint-Laurent-du-Maroni in French Guiana with Fred and investing money in a new café, or visiting Frida Kahlo’s Casa Azul in Mexico, she traverses each destination driven by obscure prompts. She chose to visit Saint-Laurent-du-Maroni, for example, so that she could see the remains of the French penal colony. Smith’s fans seem to be pulled by her intellectual pursuits and fiercely non-judgmental perspective. She does the coolest things out of sheer curiosity.

It is refreshing.

She ends her reading at Barnes and Noble by thanking the audience: “thank you for joining our gathering. It was an honor and a pleasure. It [the book] is sort of a mystery to me. I have no idea who would like this book. Hopefully all of you.”

The audience erupts with applause, in awe of Smith and the passages she chose to read. Of course, it is no mystery to them who would like the book. Who wouldn’t?

by Kristyn Seigert

23 | Arts & Culture

Queen of the Night

A forgotten 80s song pumps through the speakers as you open the doors and walk into The Fashion Institute of Technology’s new exhibit, Fashion Underground: The World of Susanne Bartsch. Colorful graffiti covers the walls and mannequins draped in costume-like dresses greet visitors. I am transported immediately to another world, and an unfamiliar one at that: this is my first encounter with Susanne Bartsch. I stop to read exhibit curator Valerie Steele’s artist’s statement on the front wall and I soon discover that she is known for her conspicuous Swiss accent and is called the “Queen of the Night.” Bartsch is a woman who has created a space of artistic convergence for people of all walks of life. Whether they be from uptown or downtown, gay or straight, art or fashion professionals, Bartsch’s extravagant parties and charismatic personality foster an environment of unabashed creative expression.

As I walk into the larger room, I see mannequin after mannequin dressed in the most lavish pieces of clothing; clothing sells it short. Art is what most of these pieces are. The collection ranges from the work of lesser known designers, like Pam Hogg to legends like Alexander McQueen and Rick Owens. Although overwhelming at times, I leave the exhibit feeling like a friend of Bartsch, a companion in ribaldry and a worshipper of wearable art. Bartsch’s collection illuminates the type of person she is: unique, inspiring and perhaps a little crazy. So, in honor of the “Queen of the Night,” next time I go out I plan to adopt some of her panache and of course, a lot of her crazy.

by Diana Fujii

24 | Arts & Culture

Mindy’s Moment

In her newest book, Why Not Me?, funny-woman Mindy Kaling uncovers adulthood and reflects on past relationships, imparting wisdom on her readers about a host of topics: beauty tips, relationship woes and Hollywood secrets. She does it all with her quintessential candor, the quality that draws millions each week to The Mindy Project, the hysterical television show she both stars in and writes.

bridesmaids, the myth of Hollywood sex scenes and The Mindy Project. A befitting closer, the last chapter is a transcription of her infamous commencement speech at Harvard Law School.

Kaling also reminisces about uproarious times with the cast and crew of The Office. The book is a laugh-out-loud read, not least because of Kaling’s refreshing outlook on the over-saturated world of celebrity.

This humorous collection of coming-of-age essays displays Kaling’s wit and creativity. She has a way of talking to her readers as though they are her friends, and her essays capture something integral about the human experience. Compared to her first book, Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me?, a general exploration of maturation, romance, and her childhood, her new book focuses on more specific topics that made her who she is today. Among the topics she explores and indicts are Hollywood’s impossible beauty standards, the paradox of

Kaling understands her demographic, and she capitalizes on this by addressing topics pertinent to young womanhood. She struggles to fit into her sorority, fawns over Bradley Cooper and doles out little aphorisms every reader could certainly use.

The book allows for an easy connection to the woman behind this page-turner. A perfect winter-break read, you are guaranteed to burst out laughing seeing the world through Mindy’s impossibly witty lens.

by Audrey Stiffle

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TWO’S COMPANY: JACK + ELIZA Jack Staffen and Eliza Callahan, better known as the musical duo Jack + Eliza, know one another about as well as two people could. They attended high school together in New York City and have since been on a meteoric surge, with profiles in T Magazine, Nylon, Bedford + Bowery, Paste and Galore. Their music, wonderfully self-classified as “softcore naked psych pop,” highlights their infectious vocal harmonies, and is all at once charming, vibrant and foot-tappingly reminiscent of the 60s. After their EP No Wonders dropped last fall, the two embarked on a tour that took them from the UK to the West Coast. Now, as juniors at NYU Gallatin and Columbia, respectively, Jack + Eliza have just released their debut album Gentle Warnings. Given their years of friendship and hours on the tour bus, we thought they might want to ask each other some highly personal trivia, with topics ranging from their first encounter to their favorite Beatle.

by Kristin Chiu

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What was your first impression of me?

JACK: Oh man. Well, I’ve known you for so long that I don’t honestly remember what my first impression of you was. I’ve known you since, I don’t know, six...

ELIZA: Eight.

JACK: Eight years old. So, I mean, I don’t really have a recollection of much of the things that were happening then.

ELIZA: I remember going to lunch that one day.

JACK: But I don’t think we talked. I don’t think we said anything. I don’t think we even looked at each other.

ELIZA: Absolutely not.

In what ways have I changed the most since we first met?

In what ways have I not?

JACK: Your hair is shorter now. Um, I don’t know, I guess you are...

ELIZA: I feel like Jack’s style has changed a little bit.

JACK: Maybe, although these Nike socks are staying.

ELIZA: I feel like there are darker tones. Less orange and green, more navy blue.

JACK: There is a lot of blue and black involved in both of our wardrobes I would say.

If you could have dinner with anyone, dead or alive, who would it be and where would you go?

ELIZA: You better say Eliza...

JACK: I have to say Eliza now that you’ve put me in this position. I’ll go to dinner with you sometime. Where are we going?

Spotted Pig?

ELIZA: No. That’s a restaurant that Jack likes and I don’t.

JACK: It’s a real problem in our relationship as a band. I guess I’d say we’ve gotta go to Gin Ramen. We both love ramen, we’re obsessed with ramen.

ELIZA: Since I get to go second I don’t have to say Jack. Maybe George Harrison? No. Jack of course comes first, and then George Harrison. He seems like a really interesting guy. I also love and admire his music and he’s also really cute.

If you could compare me to one person in pop culture who would it be?

JACK: I guess I’d have to say Marilyn Manson.

ELIZA: For you, I’d have to say Ed Sheeran.

JACK: Great. This is slowly turning away — this is our break up. This is the band breakup right here.

If you had one day where money was no object, what would you do to live it up?

JACK: Eliza would...if Eliza did not need to think about money for one day, which would be terrible, I think eventually the whole world would be ultimately consumed. Every single plot of land would be purchased.

ELIZA: I’d start a monopoly?

JACK: Yeah, there would be some form of monopoly.

ELIZA: I’d become like a tycoon?

JACK: Yeah.

ELIZA: If Jack had one day...I have no idea. You would eat a lot of food.

JACK: Yeah, I would agree with you there.

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ELIZA: You would go to the most expensive restaurant and get a lot of nice pork and fish. That’s my guess.

JACK: Thanks!

Hypothetical rapper nickname?

Jack: I don’t know. I call you Liz a lot, so Lil’ Liz or Fat Liz? No. Lil’ Liz. ELIZA: Then you’d be Fat Jack.

Favorite place to visit, last place you visited, and where you want to visit.

JACK: Your favorite place is probably Montauk because you love to surf. The last place you visited was probably Montauk.

ELIZA: Jack really likes Barcelona, I’ve never been there. The last place he visited was probably with me. Outside of New York state we were last in Denver for a show. That was the end of the tour. Somewhere he wants to visit is...I don’t know? Barcelona?

You want to go back there. You mention it often.

What restaurant are you always in the mood for?

Eliza: I feel like we both like Japanese food a lot.

JACK: Yeah we both do. The exception would be Spotted Pig, but that’s just me. Both of us would love some ramen at all times.

Go-to outfit?

ELIZA: You have a pair of jeans that haven’t been washed for three years.

JACK: That’s a lie.

ELIZA: No, it’s been like one year. Go-to outfit is probably a blue t-shirt, a blue sweatshirt, blue pants and blue shoes.

JACK: Honestly, it’s pretty unpredictable with you. You’re eclectic. I wouldn’t say there is one go-to outfit.

ELIZA: Yeah, I mean probably what I’m wearing is standard.

JACK: Definitely some blues.

Blue jacket, blue sweater, blue jeans, and the blue suede shoes.

Sometimes you’ll come out of nowhere with the yellow corduroys or something crazy.

You pull some crazy shit out sometimes.

ELIZA: I occasionally pull some crazy shit out. I’m unpredictable.

App of choice?

ELIZA: Wow I don’t even know any apps.

JACK: Eliza’s app of choice is probably Instagram ELIZA: Instagram, there’s an app. I like that app.

JACK: It’s not even an app anymore, it’s a way of life at this point for Lil’ Liz over here.

ELIZA: Jack’s app of choice is probably followers on Instagram so he can keep track of who’s...

JACK: That’s a lie! I have not used that app in forever! You also used that app at one point.

Come on.

Most used emoji?

ELIZA: Jack’s is the poodle.

JACK: Eliza likes to make the elephant fart. So she takes the elephant and you know the cloud poof thing.

ELIZA: I’ve never done that, but I like the poodle fart.

JACK: The poodle fart. You’re right. It’s the poodle fart.

Least favourite food?

ELIZA: Jack does not like cilantro. It tastes like soap to him.

JACK: Eliza hates dill.

ELIZA: There we go. I was afraid you weren’t going to hit it, but we both hit it.

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Late night snack?

ELIZA: I don’t like eating late at night.

JACK: Eliza does not like eating late at night but it’s the best thing. Honestly, I’ve got to go with the burger.

JACK: I think I’m going to have to agree with Eliza. I think George Harrison was the real glue of The Beatles and had he not been there The Beatles probably would not have existed for as long.

ELIZA: Wow. I don’t agree with that statement.

ELIZA: I like plain crackers. I don’t like bland foods. I’m actually a very eclectic eater. I was raised on spicy Asian food, but I love plain crackers. Just, like, bland crackers.

JACK: Well, because John and Paul didn’t like each other.

JACK: Like not like saltines, less salt. If you just said “tines” that would kind of get at it.

JACK: George Harrison was like the mediator between the two I think. I also love all of the songs that George Harrison contributed to The Beatles.

ELIZA: I’ll go into a bodega and find the most random cracker and I’ll be pretty thrilled.

JACK: When we were in the studio with Chris Zayne recording Eliza would always get bland crackers and we would always be like, “What is wrong with you?” We would all be eating cold pizza and Eliza would just be eating the “tines.”

Ketchup or mustard?

JACK: Ketchup.

ELIZA: Mustard.

ELIZA: That’s true.

Sweet or Savory?

ELIZA: I’m going to say savory.

JACK: Sweet.

Ice cream flavor?

ELIZA: I like Phish Food, the Ben and Jerry’s flavor.

Ideal movie for Netflix and chill?

ELIZA: I think mayo, overall.

ELIZA: I literally watch no TV and I do love movies but I rarely watch them. So this is a tough one for me. Probably Dazed and Confused or something like that, or maybe Jiro Dreams of Sushi.

JACK: Yeah I agree. I’m a mayonnaise guy too.

JACK: I still have to see that.

ELIZA: We’re just going to break the rules here.

ELIZA: It’s so good.

JACK: That sounds really creepy: “I’m a mayonnaise guy.”

JACK: Ideal movie for Netflix and chill, I don’t even know the last movie that I watched on Netflix. I guess the best movie would be something like...I don’t know. Have you seen Step Brothers, Eliza?

JACK: Honey mustard is great.

Most likely to...?

ELIZA: Jack is most likely to be offended by something I say.

I’m most likely to offend you.

ELIZA: No.

JACK: You’re most likely to offend me. You’re most likely to say something that’s offensive.

JACK: Well you might have to see that because that’s one of the best movies ever.

ELIZA: Jack is most likely to be really sensitive about something he shouldn’t be offended by.

ELIZA: Next tour we’ll watch that.

JACK: And Eliza is most likely to say something that she thinks...

ELIZA: Won’t offend someone...

JACK: But ends up doing so.

Favorite Beatle?

ELIZA: See, this is hard because John is probably the most legendary songwriter and we admire that obviously. The Beatles are like our touchstone. But George Harrison is probably my all-around favourite Beatle because he was also an amazing songwriter and one of my favorite guitarists, and was goodlooking and extremely sweet.

Biggest pet peeve?

ELIZA: I hate it when people chew with their mouths open and I hate it when people are late, which I was today. But I’m never late and I hate it when people are late. This is an apology and a statement.

JACK: I’m always late for everything so I feel like I can’t hate that. It would be wrong. I hate chewing with your mouth open, that is the worst. So many noises that are just terrible.

Something weird/unusual/unique about you guys?

ELIZA: He really likes frogs. He talks about getting a pet frog often. He used to have an aquarium and a vivarium when he was younger. Yeah, he’s a pretty big fan of the amphibian race.

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JACK: It’s true. Um, something weird...I mean I really was going to use the cracker thing but we’ve already talked about that.

ELIZA: So I’m just super normal.

JACK: No! I wouldn’t go that far. You’re pretty OCD. I think one thing that’s kind of weird is that when you find something that you really like or enjoy you have to do it over and over again and nothing else can be done until you’re completely over it.

ELIZA: He’s talking about things such as my addiction to dried seaweed.

JACK: Yes. Exactly. So two or three or four years ago, Eliza was obsessed with sea snacks. That’s all she could eat. It smelled terrible. It was bad and then it became more of a medical issue, like, “You’re eating too much sodium, Eliza,” and then you had to stop.

Biggest phobia?

ELIZA: I’m terrified of thunderstorms.

JACK: I’m terrified of storms. We have that in common. We hate storms. Literally, when there is lightning outside we’re both like...

ELIZA: It gives me acute anxiety.

JACK: We both start crying.

Coffee or tea?

JACK: Eliza likes tea. She doesn’t like coffee. It doesn’t make you feel very good.

ELIZA: It gives me stomach aches.

JACK: And Eliza likes to take it with...She likes to have more sugar in the cup than tea.

ELIZA: I like the window to lean on.

Morning or night?

ELIZA: I love the mornings, I’m just a huge fan of waking up super early. Probably comes from the fact that when I surf I like to wake up really early because usually there is less wind and the waves are nicest and there is no one there. I don’t need that much sleep.

JACK: I’m definitely more of a night person. I can stay up for as long as possible but I don’t.

Watch or read?

ELIZA: Definitely a reader — always have been, probably always will be. I never watched TV not because I wasn’t allowed, I just literally don’t know how to turn on the TV in my house where I grew up. Jack can vouch on that one.

JACK: Yeah. I guess I’m somewhere in between. I do read a lot because I have to because I’m in college, there’s a lot of reading. I like to read New Yorker, the Times and CNN all the time to keep up on the news but I do watch a lot of TV. Homeland has been a fake fixation of mine these days.

Favorite holiday?

ELIZA: My birthday is pretty great, it’s my personal holiday.

I like Memorial Day because it means that summer is coming, not because of what the...I mean yeah, it’s nice to remember, but it also means that summer is coming so I like what that holiday signifies.

JACK: That is so weird that you thought of that. I guess I’d have to say Halloween for me. I mean, my birthday is the day before Halloween so I’m still on that high from the fact that my birthday was the day before.

ELIZA: That’s so weird because I would think that would be the most depressing day.

ELIZA: That’s false. Jack likes black coffee

JACK: It’s not because you get a ton of candy on the day after your birthday.

JACK: That’s false. I like milk in my coffee.

Favorite city?

What is a staple item in your bedroom?

JACK: Eliza, your favorite city is New York City.

ELIZA: My bed and probably my guitar, as cheesy as that sounds. My guitar’s usually out. When we end up writing something together it’s usually because we just pick up a guitar that’s lying around. It’s not like a premeditated thing.

ELIZA: That’s probably Jack’s as well.

JACK: I guess for me there’s like a pile, loads of stuff, like books and papers and clothing. They’re all just in one corner kind of there. And the bed as well. I love my bed. I love sleeping. Sleeping is good.

JACK: Yeah, I don’t think we’d want to live anywhere else.

ELIZA: I would maybe live somewhere for a short period of time, like a month.

Browser home page?

ELIZA: These are good questions, I like these a lot.

ELIZA: Mine is the Apple website because I haven’t changed it since I got my computer three years ago.

Aisle or window seat?

JACK: Mine is Ask Jeeves.

JACK: Window.

ELIZA: No it’s not.

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JACK: No, it’s not. It’s Yelp.

talk about this!

ELIZA: It’s Yelp?

ELIZA: Well you don’t plan things like your guitar going severely out of tune, although you should because it happens every show. But usually my guitar will go out of tune and then I go, “Jack is going to tell a joke while I tune,” and then Jack freezes up and doesn’t say anything and then I have to tune and tell a joke so it’s worse than me just tuning my guitar. But I usually just go with a knock-knock joke that’s like: “Knock, knock…”

JACK: No. I’m kidding. It’s Google.

ELIZA: Mine’s just Apple. It’s pretty sad. It’s actually funny you asked that question because every time I open my browser I’m like, “Why don’t I deal with this?” Then I’m like, “Nope.

Tomorrow.” It should be like The New York Times or something more...

JACK: It should be Etsy.

Got any good knock-knock jokes?

JACK: Oh, Eliza has got some good knock-knock jokes.

ELIZA: I tell them at our shows when Jack’s tuning.

JACK: When I’m tuning or something and it gets kind of awkward because it’s silent and we’ve got to think of something to say Eliza generally is like, “Jack has a joke to tell.”

ELIZA: And then Jack doesn’t tell a joke.

JACK: Because I don’t have a joke. We never plan. We never

JACK: Who’s there?

ELIZA: Olive.

JACK: Olive who?

ELIZA: Olive you!

JACK: There ya go.

ELIZA: That’s a very tame one.

JACK: It’s great. We really keep them wanting more.

ELIZA: Yeah, we’re really known for comedy. It’s why people come to our shows.

Twenty years after its premiere, Rent remains a tour de force. We examine its groundbreaking impact on the theater world and its continued influence on thespians, New Yorkers and its loyal legions of fans.

by Michael Zalta

No show in the history of musical theater revolutionized the culture of popular theater like Rent did. Jonathan Larson’s work, a seminal one, breathtaking, emotionally poignant, subverted conventional theater practice and ushered in overwhelming volumes of new audiences. Rent was a trailblazer, the cutting edge work of theater that appealed to the masses and illuminated the stories of regular people coping with poverty, AIDS, and heartache. Twenty years after its premiere, Rent remains a cultural phenomenon.

On January 26th, 1996, following the shocking death of playwright and composer Jonathan Larson, the rock opera Rent, inspired by the story of Puccini’s La Bohème and set in New York’s East Village around the time of the AIDS epidemic, played its first off-Broadway performance. “It took seven years of arguments, workshops and worry, but that show, Rent, finally opened last month at New York Theater Workshop to some of the most glowing reviews of the last decade,” wrote the New York Times’ Anthony Tommasini. It was an unparalleled success. A bidding war broke out amongst producers for the right to produce a reinvigorated $2 million production at the Nederlander Theater starting April 29th; soon after its opening, Rent was headed for the Great White Way. The show garnered four Tony Awards and received the 1996 Pulitzer Prize for Drama. It played 5,123 performances on Broadway. It was made into two different major motion pictures. It was performed in over twenty five languages in countries worldwide. It was making history.

Larson’s heart-wrenching, titillating score redefined what music in theater could be; it was an unabashed rock-opera, alternating easily between lovelorn ballads and uptempo sing-a-longs. It wove the stories of real people and characters into a tapestry of song with a chorus of unlikely friends and HIV support group members. Songs like “I’ll Cover You,” “Seasons of Love,” “Take Me or Leave Me,” “La Vie Boheme” and “One Song Glory” became anthems. Larson’s characters, played by theater legends like Idina Menzel and Adam Pascal, sang about love, life, AIDS, politics and, of course, paying their rent.

Rent was not the first show to portray the AIDS epidemic, but it was the first to give the issue such widespread visibility.

AIDS had been on stage since the early 1980s. In 1983, Jeff Hagedorn wrote One, a one-man show exploring its lead character’s fight with the disease, One paved the way for the theatricalization of AIDS on stage. What followed was a barrage of works that explored more intimately the issue and the gay community, oftentimes indicting governmental negligence and the ignorance of public discourse. Larry Kramer’s fiery The Normal Heart and Tony Kushner’s Angels in America emerged as paragons for the genre. Angels in particular: Kushner’s seven-hour tour de force explored intersectionality, politics and religion in a way few shows had managed before. Rent, which came shortly after, was a supercharged, outlandish work, exploring similar themes and adding to them the music of the theater. “Larson is certainly not the first composer to take aim at that elusive target,” wrote the critic John Lahr in The New Yorker, “But he may be the first to have hit it.” Rent is, first and foremost, a story about love, but it’s also about fear, pain, disease and the complexity of these matters when enmeshed in the rough milieu of turn-of-the-century Manhattan. Anthony Rapp, who played Mark Cohen in both the stage and movie versions, explains: “Rent is not about AIDS, it’s not about homosexuality, it’s not about homelessness — it’s about family.” Rent is a beacon of hope that proves that everyone can be a part of a family of their own; in fact, the show itself gave people a sense of family. After twenty years, Rent has not become outdated, for its themes are eternal. Rapp continues: “To me, part of what the story is saying is that in the face of these circumstances, you can still live your life as fully as possible.”

Not only do the themes of Larson’s piece still resonate today, the impact and legacy that Rent left in the theater world is embedded in today’s theater culture. Tommasini wrote, “The time had come to reclaim Broadway from stagnation and empty spectacle...To bring musical theater to the MTV generation.” This is precisely what Rent did. It transcended the confines of the theater, brought in new audiences, incited conversations both political and sociological and added to these conversations a soundtrack of larger-than-life songs. “This show celebrated the lives of the very people audiences stepped over outside as they made their way into the venues.”

Rent now celebrates twenty years and countless “Seasons of Love.” It is firmly embedded in the theater canon, and though Larson tragically never got to witness the phenomenon of his own making, his legacy, as does his show, lives on.

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Long Live Lolita Vladimir Nabokov’s masterful, controversial novel turns 60.

(Sometimes, he left.

And then, she wrote, she played, with herself.)

And then I became a gorgeous sort of prisoner. Behind bars I sat, atop the oak barstools of Barcelona, folding one long limb over the other, flaunting the freshness of spindled persona. I drank. I sparkled my dewy eyes, garnering envy from patronesses, desire men. Not gentlemen. And I clutched in my hand what I used to capture them. A copy of Lolita. I’d bought the book for the cover more than for the story, but baby you can’t blame me, just doing what’s done to me, but this cover, decorated with a darling in cherry red sunglasses, a darling sucking a lollipop, batting her lashes, it was perfect, just what I needed as a companion, because in my pretty prison cell, I sat with a sparkling glass of neat gin, topped with a thin slice of lemon, and the novel sat in my paws perfectly, and that Lolita was sucking, and I was sipping…Do you think it was coincidence or construction?

Copying the copy, such a pretty prison.

Sweetheart really, isn’t reading such intimacy, none of the

senses are provided, not sound, nor smell, nor see, but we get too close with the text, conjuring taste, arousal, and I used this secretive connect to concoct something that would attract…

The attention I so wanted. Oohing and aahing at the Russian’s words, blushing at his opalescent murmurs, I played a game, interpreting the comma’d tremors, because I knew there were those outside the page. Those beyond the cream paper. Who might look? Who might see? Who might witness me read?

(And she remembered the name, Shaharazad) Because even you could have been the one to venture past the summer terrace bar, and see lovely Lola on the cover of a book, and then your line of sigh would trail to Dolores’ reader, up to Lo’s admirer, a girl of serpentine eyes and venomous lips, slyly smiling, slowly sipping, sweetly seducing. Oh, but just reading. So….

(Yes, Shaharazad.)

Lolita came with me, yes, she came, we came together, spines bent, backs arched, having her atop the bars, fingering those

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pages to damned paper cuts, popped fingers in my mouth.

As I turned the paper, it helped with the friction, added to my fictions, I could grab more that way, yes, more of her flesh was in my fist, more of the boys were smitten when I did things like that, licking fingers to dew, touching the page to seduce, I did it for me, for her, but also for you, because the boys’ pleasure, baby, it became mine too.

Her and I, we could shift into anything the boys wanted. And we did. Because Lolita, it’s a book that can’t be claimed by language, won’t be categorized by the letters of script, such a devious title for a book. And therefore my hook. Because the audience tripped up, scratching heads, reading my read, a name’s a name on any tongue, so they wondered, did the stunner read in Portuguese, or did French claim the wisp of words, it could have been Turkish, with the Latin script of the book cover who knows, and they didn’t know, as the tentative Toms came up and asked, “What are you reading?” Sometimes they asked in Spanish, and yes, yes, I thought, for they’d be smitten by mistakes in my language, and if they inquired in Catalan, I could easily redirect them to speak in their national tongue, but either way they’d realize, hmm, so Lola was read by American eyes, green, lashed, American eyes. Those eyes, mine.

(She wrote, she wrote, for herself as well.

To remember her spell.)

You should have seen the men who’d come, foreigners, Brits, other Europeans, with hello hi hey, they were unsure of what to say, unsure of what I’d respond, and I let the wonderment go on, as I sucked on another lemon, and the men, those boys and men, they became self-conscious, adjusting their ties. I lifted the curtain of lash above my eyes, mascara pulled up and aside, to see their shuffles and struggles, the men’s murmured mumbles, as they discussed, cussed, pretended to read the menu of the café, memorizing all the dishes of the day, looking my way. Lolita and I sat, but never for long. I was a player, but not patient, what I desired was game in the moment, what I ached was spotlight for a sexy second, so she and I sucked, and sipped with supple lips, becoming what’s now wit, written.

Lolita carries such connotation.

(Because wasn’t Shaharazad, the woman.

Who took literature, story, and changed her reality.

By doing it for the King, she did it for herself see.)

But when they came, Lolita and I, we got up and left. So much fun it was, the best, the best. Such a tease, an arrest, Lolita and I, our heartless escape, down the streets, gazes gripped us as we made our way, Dolores suspended at my waist, she was a darling, accompanying me through the maze…

(She wrote. For herself. She could be, anything,

she wanted to be.

She wrote, to be the heroine…Shahahrazad, Dolly.)

Eighteen and pretty, that’s how old I was when I read Lolita. A book first published as erotica. And then later discovered, hailed, for being a masterpiece. Indeed, the title itself has become vocabulary for the young girl, one who is precocious, and pretty. I used it to my advantage, when traveling in Spain, used it to gain the glances of strangers, older men, sugar daddies who were looking to spend, and it’s all because of what Nabokov did, how he created a work of instant recognition.

Eighteen and I read the book in bars to catch attention. And it’s a cruel book because, then, I didn’t quite understand the connotation. I used to think Humbert was hilarious, self-conscious, and that it would be fun to play with him, when really there were spidery problems. He hides them, Nabokov, with his prose. As if Lolita somehow chose. Really, though, it’s easy to know.

(Imprisoned, in my own sentence, I wrote.)

Lolita turns 60 this year, the age of some of the men I met, mustached men who bought me martinis to sip. The strange thing is, I give credit to Humbert Humbert for at least a portion of my risk. I’ve read the book seven times over and know a good amount of its tricks. Vladimir Nabokov’s anagram of Vivian Darkbloom in the introduction, Humbert calling Lolita his ultraviolet darling, “violet” meaning “raped” in French, the language that Humbert teaches. Folded into the prose is, of course, Nabokov’s genius. But it was Humbert and my own crush on his wits, his insecurity, even his description of a kiss, which chased me towards those men, for my own little adventure, for my own conquest.

But I don’t think I quite knew what I would lose in the process.

Happy birthday Lolita, let’s celebrate. Come with me to a bar somewhere in Barcelona. I’ll order a frosting adorned cupcake, hold a copy of you in one hand while I dig my fingernail into the cake’s flesh, pop the dessert into my lipstick lips, and suck a bit, to get all the frosting licked clean. Turning your pages, I’ll be reading, to see if someone witnesses it. Let’s be nostalgic for a time when I read your words and it changed my world, for how I became a Lolita on my own.

How I became another gorgeous little prisoner.

by Anika Jhalani

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ROAD TO THE

by Patricia Pimentel

Marco Rubio | Republican

Hillary Clinton | Democrat

Ben Carson | Republican

IMMIGRATION:

Illegal immigration should be gradually stopped before addressing the undocumented workers who are currently in the country.

More humane policy enforcement is in order, as well as offering immigrant families a path to citizenship.

Undocumented workers with “pristine records” should apply for guest worker status “primarily in the agricultural sphere.”

WOMEN’S RIGHTS:

Abortion should be banned after 20 weeks, with exceptions in cases of rape, incest or life of the mother.

Planned Parenthood should be protected, the pay gap needs to be closed and violence against women needs to be addressed.

Pro-life services need to be supported.

LGBTQ+:

Same-sex marriage is disagreeable, but Americans should stand by the Supreme Court’s decision.

The Equality Act and stronger antidiscrimination regulations require support.

The Supreme Court should not have ruled in favor of same-sex marriage, but it is to be accepted as the law of the land.

No.

Yes.

No.

Racial issues should be addressed through better educational opportunities and economic conditions in minority communitites.

Racial disparity in the prison system should be addressed and corrected.

In order for our country to progress, we must move beyond racial divides.

Innovation must be protected from federal regulations. The tax code must be simplified, and deductions should be eliminated or reformed.

The minimum wage should be increased, and it is important to invest in infrastructure and job creation.

There needs to be a Balanced Budget Amendment, as well as a simplified tax code and the elimination of the IRS.

No legislation should restrict the use of guns by law-abiding citizens.

Universal background checks should be implemented, as well as cracking down on illegal gun trafficking.

Law-abiding citizens have a right to gun ownership, and that right should be protected.

IRAN DEAL: RACE:

ECONOMY:

GUNS:

PRESIDENCY Bernie Sanders | Democrat

Jeb Bush | Republican

Rand Paul | Republican

Donald Trump | Republican

National borders should be secured, while also encouraging an increase in legal immigration.

A wall must be built along the southern border of the US, and birthright citizenship should be brought to an end.

Previously undocumented workers should be legalized, offering a more attainable path to residential or citizenship status.

Immigrants should be offered a path to earned legal status.

The government should not fund abortions, but Roe v. Wade (1973) should not be overturned.

Abortion should be limited and illegal after 20 weeks with few exceptions.

Planned Parenthood must be not only protected, but expanded. Women, Infants and Children (WIC) should also be expanded, and women must have pay equity.

Abortion clinics should be more heavily regulated, and pro-life counseling services should be emphasized.

Same- sex marriage should have been handled by individual states rather than being ruled on by the Supreme Court.

Same-sex marriage is an issue that should be addressed on the state level.

The Equality Act and any bills that prohibit LGBTQ+ discrimination must be supported.

Same-sex marriage and same-sex adoption are issues that should be left to the states.

No.

No.

Yes.

No.

Racial disparity should be addressed through policies to help with long-term unemployment and poverty.

Affirmative Action is unnecessary.

The Black Lives Matter movement is worthy of support, and racial disparity in the prison population must be addressed.

Affirmative Action is unnecessary, and it is not offensive to use Native American mascots for sports teams.

The current tax system needs to be repealed and replaced and all areas of national spending should be cut down.

The tax code should be simplified, with lower tax rates for middleclass citizens and lower individual rates.

Large and wealthy corporations should be taxed and minimum wage should be increased to $15 by 2020.

The minimum wage should not be changed, but increasing workforce participation is necessary.

Law abiding citizens should be protected in their right to own guns.

A slightly longer period for gun purchase is acceptable, but lawabiding gun owners should be protected in their ability to self-defend.

Endorsing some modest gun control measures is reasonable, but it is doubtful as to whether gun control will be helpful in preventing gun violence.

Background checks should be implemented on a state-by-state basis, but gun owners should overall have expanded rights.

PROSE &

POETRY

ANDROPHOBIA: THE FEAR OF MEN

He told me I was a poet, And that was all the reason he needed To wanna find out how deep I really was Said he liked cutting his hands on broken things I told him I was allergic to men Said it's irrational Said I fear men the way the devil fears God He laughed He liked that Said he was gonna fix me, Do something drastic Like dangle a key in front of my face Then lock me in a room full of orgasm

And tell me not to touch nothing

And now I think I’m fixed Because I can look at a guy’s shaft without flinching But I still can’t drink water From a bottle cuz’ I fear it will deepthroat Me without my permission But that’s just silly thoughts

by Crystal Valentine

40 | Prose & Poetry

SACRIFICE

From Not Everything is a Euology, to be published by Penmanship Books.

Black man Silver bullet White man White man’s badge We all know how this ends.

Open casket Weeping widow Prays to God, Says He was a good man God nods like an understanding father Says

So was my son.

See? Sacrifice.

by Crystal Valentine

41 | Prose & Poetry

COMMEMORATION IN O Observing oaks, willows, your botanical look offers some comfort to old lovers.

You loved, only to forget.

Journeys through Orange County.

Hotels of youthful fornication, shoes off, socks off, longitudinal bodies, one newborn consumes another.

O, how your ancestors profited from California’s oil boom! O, our cosseted adolescence!

Neighborhood troublemakers, tossing toilet rolls from Pontiac windows, no longer unclothed toddlers.

You go long, beyond world’s border, soul growing older, older.

by Delilah Wells

42 | Prose & Poetry

RINSE, REPEAT Dad has to quit eating meat, mom has new breasts as of June.

All Kitty can do is sleep and sleep on the white tufted couch in the living room.

Irrigate the drain with lye, decompose the hair and grease.

Scrub away the mildew stains, wash the soil from your feet.

Revel in this ceremony, in the baring of your skin and soul. Take off your boots, your socks, your soft October sweater.

Take the cold bath, you have no better option.

by Delilah Wells

43 | Prose & Poetry

The Southern Part of Heaven A Brief Love Story

by Séamus Andrew Macdonald McGuigan Hazel Hunter and I were born a month apart in Oxford, Mississippi - a university town that stole its name and purpose from the place in England, yet could well have been located on some distant planet for all the resemblance it bore beyond these two things. I would be lying if I said that I was not a child of the South - all of us born in that part of the earth are synthesized from the hot oil of its ancient lore, forever bound to hear it calling back through the ages no matter how far we may wander. Like every self-respecting Southerner, I have a taste for bourbon, a love for my country and great-great-grandaddy who died trying to split that country apart. Yet despite these things, I have spent my whole life feeling as though something was added in the process of my creation - a mutating substance that never allowed me to see the world through the same lens as my forbearers and contemporaries. Hazel had a similar addition, and this is what I imagine drew us together as children and glued our conversation even now. We met when we were about ten years old - I cannot recall how - I presume it was through our fathers, who both worked in the county courthouse and, from time to time, the law school - but I do remember that she was the first girl I ever noticed in more than passing. Perhaps, on reflection, I was the first boy she ever noticed, considering the fact we both had our first kiss that day - stealing behind a satin - white veil of magnolias so that her grandmother could not quite see us from her rocking chair on the porch. I may romanticize it now, but I recall it being quite lovely - the sweet scent of the magnolias dancing and intertwining with her waves of hair, the taste of the sugared tea that hung on her pure lips and the childish rebellion of it all - although it was an occurrence not to be repeated for another few years.

In the meantime, however, we remained inseparable friends into our teenage years. Those ages are tough on everyone, but Hazel had a particularly rough time of things. When she was fifteen, around Christmas, her father was shot dead on the way home from church by a dissatisfied client who was facing five years in prison for robbery. Her mother had died in childbirth, so this left her ancient grandmother as her only guardian. Her grandmother had come to resemble the very house that she lived in - faded but not defeated by the passage of time - and probably would have been a excellent guide for young Hazel had tragedy struck earlier. Unfortunately, Miss Hunter (as she was called even when Hazel was present) was simply too old to reign in the myriad desires of her granddaughter when required, and so the excesses of unbridled youth took their course. In truth - I am not in a position to elaborate on these excesses. Not because I was not party to them, but because I preferred to cast them from my mind and pretend they did not exist, imagining Hazel to be all pure and all innocent and all mine. Yet, overall, excepting the addition of the occasional college party I would loose her at or night I would have to carry her home drunk, our relationship

remained largely the same, although now the stories she would tell me as we lay floating under the great expanse of Southern stars would make me lose sleep. To be fair, I can hardly reproach Hazel for her behavior during those years - I was pretty wayward myself - the only difference being my lack of an excuse for being so. I drank a lot, picked up a smoking habit, messed around with girls and ignored my studies. I say ‘messed around with’ girls because I never managed to sustain any kind of long-term relationship. At the time I put this down to the romantic notion that no relationship could compare to my friendship with Hazel, but, in retrospect, it was likely just because I was a teenage boy convinced that he was living amidst the golden years of his life.

Indeed, it was a wonderful time and a wonderful place to be alive, albeit a confusing one - stuck as we were at the age where we think we know it all, but in reality know nothing at all. From Frat Row to Avent Park, the parties and the madness rolled every weekend like long golden clouds that showered whiskey rains on all of us below. I remembered nights in Phi Alpha, Kappa Tau and Omega god-knows-what that seemed to never end - nights where I would lose Hazel and find her again in fits of drunken joy, nights where the revelers were moral-less, the stories were timeless and the bottles were bottomless - and I suddenly found myself wanting nothing more than to go back, though back I could never go. That was seven years ago now, and even then the ground was shifting underneath our enviable fantasy, and all was soon to change in ways that I could never imagine.

Things got even better, and then they got worse - they often do.

All tragedy is born out of ecstasy, I suppose. July the twentysecond of the summer before I left for college was (as is every summer night in Mississippi) a collection of perfectly clear and still hours that make little but a momentary dent in the languid, swampy air. It is difficult to describe completely the serenity of a Southern night - you simply feel alive amongst a divine respite in which the still-hot atmosphere hangs like a dampened shroud that quivers and wallows upon waves of sound: the hissing of cicadas, the clinking of ice in empty glasses and the calls to fill them up again. That night I had planned to meet Hazel at a party in one of the student houses to celebrate the occupants’ recent move-in a couple of weeks before the start of the semester, when there is very little to do in Oxford but celebrate. It was around about half past nine when I arrived, exchanging pleasantries with the co-eds I knew from similar nights, all of whom flocked to the upperclassmen houses to dance and drink ‘till they collapsed because they were young, because the real world was 20 miles down the highway, and because it was a Tuesday. The place was busy already, and I had to struggle through the crowd for quite a while before I met the eye of Gill Winthrop, my best friend at the time that wasn’t Hazel. I offered a hand that he grabbed swiftly and clumsily to his chest, wrapping his other arm around my back and patting with the bubbling emotion of

a father welcoming his son home from war. I thought perhaps the relief was due because I had rescued him from the unceasing jabber of a sorority maven, but then I raised my head to look at his face. Gill’s eyes were wide and drunk, but from beyond the brown vacancy there seemed to pierce a look of worry as his dry lips and clenched jaw ground out hastened speech:

‘It’s Hazel, man. She had a fight with Pete. They were fucking hittin’ each other and everything!’

A rush of blood. Where the hell was she?

‘I dunno – she left just before you came.’

My breath leapt backwards into my lungs as I mumbled something about why were these bastards not stopping them and that he would fucking kill her. I had known Hazel's boyfriend, Peter Bourne, since I was in elementary school and I had never liked him. Pete was one of those kids who, even in youth, had a violent tumult of senseless cruelty buried inside them - the kind of unfounded anger that takes pleasure in suffering and can burst out unprovoked. I turned and left Gill without a word. My mind raved and rolled with the worst possibilities as I pushed past a group of blondes swaying out of time to music they did not know, stopping only to avoid the small waves of liquor that jumped out of their red shiny cups and splashed on the wooden floor at their feet as I moved them out of the path of the door. I made it to the door and exploded outwards, stumbling into a street bathed in golden halos and surrounded on either side by rustling elm trees.

I went down the cobbled path and stood in the middle of the road - turning feverishly on the spot and letting the world spin and spin with growing pace until it all became a tumultuous blur of heat and shadow that merged and dissolved into a single muted color. But, from the midst of what remained, I was able to pick out the nameless face of one of Hazel's girlfriends - and sprinted dizzily towards her. She had seen me too, and shouted my name with drunken glee as I ignored the porcelain arms draped with sandy hair that she extended in my direction. The smile fell from her sun- burned face when she saw what must have been the morbid expression that I wore, which along with my labored breaths wordlessly let her knew that all was not well. Before she could speak, I wheezed:

‘Where's Hazel?’

The smile returned coyly to her face as she replied,

‘She just ran past us, toward the station, she seemed pretty upset. Hey, can I borrow a smoke?’

I had started down the street before she could finish, only to be grabbed around the waist by a limp arm and cajoled back into the dead embers of the conversation.

‘Haha, Rawwb! Come awwn, don’t be so rude! You know, I don't smoke normally, just when I'm tipsy! Now Hazel is a real smoker, she has a case and everything...’

The words tumbled from her mouth like congealed syrup, interrupted only by cackles and tussles of hair. I said nothing deciding not to inhale too much second-hand stupidity and passed her a cigarette as I turned and headed towards my destination once more - finally managing to escape. I picked up my pace, practically sprinting for the station, which was five blocks down

the road. At around twenty paces in, I heard the girl call to me ‘Thanks Rawb! I hope you find Hazel - she loves you, you know, you should really -’ All of my late teenage years in Oxford had felt as though they were lived in a great, broiling ooze - and as rest of her drunken drawl faded off into the night, they just seemed to thicken the air even more. But for now, I was drawn forward at a maddening pace, passing block after block without raising my glance from the middle of the road. The train station in Oxford is nothing to boast about - despite it being the only common connection with the outside world - it is a distinctly modest building, at least as I remember it. It possessed only a single story clad in red brick, crowned by a bare-faced clock tower and decorated with lilywhite trellises that nothing grew up. The platform did not reach the railway, so the passengers were forced to haul themselves down seven stone steps, and then up onto the giant silver Amtrak carriages from street-level. I remember that, when I was a child, I would try to jump all of those seven elongated steps from the top to the bottom, only to be met time after time by grazed knees and dented pride. Yet every time I would get up and try again in the throes of the infinite possibility of youth. It was here that I found Hazel Hunter sitting - cross-legged and embraced by clouds of her exhaled smoke.

‘Planning on skipping town?’

‘Maybe. Depends on if you're coming.’

‘Depends where we're going.’

‘Nowhere - just leaving.’

As I got closer and saw more of her hunched figure, legs covered by a plaid blanket and eyes wet with pearlescent tears, her hair mangled into a madness of golden strands. I walked sideways, peering over my shoulder with my jaw clenched, prepared for whatever the next few steps would take me into - for whatever path she could drag me down. She choked up a few more tears, her entire body stuttering to rigidness then giving in to the emotion with a limp fall onto my shoulder. I felt the blanket graze upon my arm, damp and warm with tears that were being carried away by the slowly gathering breeze. I lent in.

‘What happened?’

‘Grannie’s dead, Rob. She’s gone.’

She collapsed into my lap and sobbed uncontrollably, leaving me to stare out into the blank forest beyond the tracks and run my fingers through her hair.

‘Oh my God... I’m so sorry.’

I was ashamed at how hard it was to sound surprised. Miss Hunter had been ill for quite some time, and I had been hearing updates on her deteriorating condition from a family friend in the University medical center. Hazel never talked about it though, and an eighteen-year-old boy’s ability to engage with emotion is such that it never occurred to me to bring it up. Even now, I probably would not know how to talk about it; some tragedy just gouges holes too deep be filled in with words, and this was one. This girl had, in her short burst of consciousness, lost more family than many people do before they start to make one of their own, she had barely had time to be together, and now she was alone.

‘What the hell am I going to do now, Rob?’ 45 | Prose & Poetry

‘Well you still have us, we’re all here for you.’

‘To hell you are.’

Hazel rose from her covering, face red and jaw clenched as though the very air was pushing up against her face. I recoiled in her wake and almost slipped down a step. She saw my reaction, and covered up her mouth as she breathlessly sobbed again.

‘I’m sorry...I’m sorry. I didn’t mean you... I’m sorry.’

‘It’s okay, I understand.’

‘It’s just, I couldn’t get a hold of Pete all day, and when I saw him tonight, he was so drunk he just laughed when I told him... He just stood there and fucking laughed at me.’

‘Why didn’t you call me?’

Hazel had turned on me again, flashing a cold, deathly stare.

‘This. Isn’t. About. You. ‘I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant, I’m just worried. Fuck him. He was never worth it.

‘You’ve got much better things ahead anyway. You have a path - we all do.’

‘Oh do I Rob? Do I? These people - these drunk fucking morons - are my life – I’m not like you, I don’t have college.

I’m stuck here.’

The stare fell away – she no longer looked incensed. She just looked tired.

‘Some fucking path.’

She pulled out a cigarette from her bag. The lighter cast dancing shadows and bounced orange light from her tear-strewn face into my wide eyes. I paused.

‘Well then - fuck the path.’

‘What?’

‘Fuck it.’

Hazel let out a shot of laughter.

‘Wow, I’ll believe it when I see it...’

Shaking her head, she took a few more draws of her cigarette in silence.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you going to drop out of college, Rob? Hmm? You going to leave the path?’

I stared at the ground, wordlessly answering her question.

‘I thought so...’

She took another draw, her hand limply holding her cigarette to her lips as she looked up at the stars, as though she was expecting to be drawn toward them by the smoke that surrounded her.

‘You know I’d follow you anywhere.’

‘You know I wouldn’t ask you to.’

The last gasp of ash fell from her cigarette and tumbled in a sparkling cloud down the side of the blanket as she turned to face me. Her hand lay in mine, kneading my joints between her red painted nails. Slowly she raised both of our hands to the side of my face and pressed them tightly to my cheek.

‘You haven’t changed, Robert. How did you manage it?’

‘It’s hard to change when you can only concentrate on one point.’

Hazel laughed and drew her hand away. My eyes were stinging.

‘I just have to go, Rob, I can’t explain it. I feel like if I don’t go now I’ll just be stuck here doing the same fucking things, running round in circles that never change, seeing people that do nothing but get old. It’s like something’s eating me from the inside out. Don't you want to come with me?’

‘I want to.’

‘But you can’t, can you?’

I shook my head, grabbing my lip between my teeth as I saw my reflection in her wide pupils.

‘I’m so sorry.’

A tear dripped down her face again and she launched herself at me, shaking uncontrollably.

‘I love you, Robbie. I really do.’

I wrapped my arms around her, and squeezed as tightly as I could, trying to strangle the wandering thoughts from her mind.

‘Let's go back to my place, hmm? My parents are down in Jackson - we can sleep out on the porch?’

‘Okay – help me get up.’

And so we wandered through the elm-lined terraces in silence, her arm around my shoulder when it wasn't wiping away tears.

My house was close, and we were there in the white, linen bed on the sleeping porch in no time at all. Hazel tied up her hair and lay down first, with her head towards the window. I took off my shoes and lay down beside her - staring at the ceiling.

Time passed, and she rolled over, rested her head on my chest and said,

‘Promise me that everything will turn out okay.’

‘It will.’

‘Promise me, Robbie.’

‘I promise. It's all going to be okay - it always turns out okay.’

I breathed out, closed my eyes, and as I blindly ran my fingers down her back, a cool breeze washed over us, the river roared once more and we melted together into the summer night. ***

‘And then I never saw you again.’

From time to time - ever since I was a teenager- I have had cause to remember a Eugene O’Neill quote about the past happening over and over, always. The exact wording escapes me at the present moment, but it was certainly at the forefront of my mind when, by chance, I ran into Hazel Hunter at the Delmano late on a wet summer night. I was two martinis deep into my daily routine, preparing to head over to a party hosted by a writer friend of mine, when she tapped me on the shoulder and sang:

46 | Prose & Poetry

‘Hello!’

She swept up onto the stool next to mine and ordered a neat whiskey. She took a minute to settle herself, but upon seeing my ashen face, she blushed and let loose a delicate laugh that seemed to drift up and envelop the room in strange music only I had heard.

‘Of all the bars and all the lovers...’

‘I thought I’d never see you again...’

‘Well I made a promise. But you must hate me.’

I had not yet dared to lift my gaze from my drink, but now, as I met the depths of her bottomless green eyes, the mere appearance of this specter from my past had wiped away all that occurred since we last met and made me young once more amidst the stifle and safety of Mississippi. The names of the lovers and the bars vanished into air together, blown into jumbled pieces in my mind as I went over the madding progress of my aimless years.

The morning after our night at the station, I awoke to an empty bed, with the white curtains flapping softly against the rising sun, casting shifting shadows against my tired eyes. I had reached blindly over, expecting to find Hazel beside me, only to be left grasping at empty space and crumpled sheets. After I had blearily come to terms with her absence and noted that she was not in the bathroom either, I texted her urgently - 'Where are you?'

There was never any reply. The train had bad phone service.

‘You know, I can still remember it.’

‘What?’

‘You were mad...’

'Yeah, at first, but then it became something different.'

That night I drank more than I have ever drank before or since.

For those last few weeks of summer, I continued to feel nothing, save a burning vibration that constantly ate at the back of my throat. I lived in a world that spun around separate from me, as though I was only looking at it through a pane of glass.

‘I learned to hate it all.’

There was a silence as Hazel stared down into her drink and then finished it in an almighty gulp.

‘I'm sorry. I really am Rob, I didn't mean to--’ The bell for last orders cut her off, and she couldn't do anything but stare into the middle distance, biting her lip. I had so much to say that I couldn't say anything at all - for fear of letting slip the grey twilight that had elapsed since her absence from my life.

‘We should talk more – do you have somewhere we can go?’

‘Yeah, in the Village.’

‘How I felt when I found out you'd left.’

The cab took us over the Williamsburg Bridge, passing under electric blue lights that formed perfect lines. When we were half way across, the Manhattan skyline began to hover upon the horizon, framed by pillars of steel. Hazel suddenly took my hand and pressed it to her lap. I looked into those green eyes, reflecting fluorescent city blurs and we exchanged a gentle smile. There

was serenity there, in that moment, a feeling of completion. It was as though for a second the tumult of all that had come before had spun in a circle and aligned itself in this time amidst the pulsating headlights. We arrived at my apartment, poured some bourbon, sat on my window ledge and talked until the sun was once again grasping at the edges of the city.

‘I'm going back South.’

‘To Oxford? Why?’ ‘Because that’s what I do: I move.’

‘I've heard it's all gone to shit - just sorority girls and drunk frat boys.’

‘So it hasn't changed one bit then?’

She smiled coyly, placing her hand on the back of my falling neck.

‘Come back with me. It'll all be far too sad if you're not there, I can't imagine it without you, I've never known it without you, I guess...’

‘You know I can't - I've got to finish this piece for the magazine and then there's my book...’

‘I figured you were going to say that.’

She recoiled back, ashed the cigarette she was holding and looked out the window.

‘Fifteen years and I still can't get you to run with me.’

I stared out as well - and held back tears.

‘Well, you were right, I'm stuck on the path.’

She breathed out heavily, held my hand and whispered,

‘Fuck the path.’

Then she got down off the ledge, picked up her bag and motioned for me to come to the door.

‘Ride with me to the station?’

We took a cab uptown to Penn Station, and descended into the madding chasm, shrouded in commuters. The grime from the tiled floor kicked up into my lungs and made me splutter and miss the digital sign that blinked ‘Crescent Line,’ and I grabbed Hazel’s hand as the noise washed over me. I walked down onto the platform towards the train, and hovering squares of golden light beamed down through the smog onto my neck with a familiar warmth, and I dropped her hand and swiveled on my heels, unable to see her go again. But then, Hazel grabbed me, as I had always dreamed in those intervening times that she would grab me, turned my body into her arms, kissed seven years into my bones, and in an instant I felt as though the city had collapsed around me, leaving us warm and alone amidst a vast expanse of ashes.

‘Promise me that everything will turn out okay.’

‘It will, I promise. It's all going to be okay - it always turns out okay.’

I took her hand again, the taste of sweet tea hanging on my lips.

47 | Prose & Poetry

ABORIGINE

by Ray Larsen

I know there are things that I’ve wanted to ask her but I’ve forgotten what, and instead it’s windy and our hair is blowing around in front of our faces, the leaves are skittering around on the cement, and we stare at each other for what feels like a long time, but it’s probably only a few seconds. She looks worried, maybe because she thinks I’m going to be angry with her, or maybe she’s just noticing how different I look in the moonlight, or maybe it’s because I’m a stranger to her.

Finally she smiles, says hello and it breaks my heart, but not my paralysis, and I say hi back so quietly that she probably doesn’t hear me. I want to tell her everything but I can’t think of anything and all she sees is a silent, timid, perhaps bitter boy. It’s all wrong and I can’t seem to get it right but it’s late and she tells me she has to get going but it was nice to meet me and suddenly she’s walking past and I can’t hear her footsteps because she wears sneakers.

I stare out of my window. There’s a city across the water that climbs up the side of the hill like the veins in the backs of my hands. Miles of clouds soar past overhead.

A plane dips in and out of view, like a fish swimming through deep water, leaving a white trail of bubbles in its wake. I close the blinds. It’s time to go.

and was hoping somebody like me might come along and besides, it’s not her house. It’s an abandoned wreck covered in graffiti and the drawers are filled with forgotten clothes and everywhere there are too many cigarette butts and empty pill bottles. I still don’t know why she’s there.

I know she’s a liar.

She takes large, frequent sips of wine and she says she has to be careful because her eyes don’t work very well so everything’s already blurry. She gets drunk fast if I don’t stop her and then she bumps her head when she tries to stand up, which always means the evening’s over. Her favorite color is red, like the wine, so I am wearing a red sweater. She prefers long hair, so I’ve grown mine out, and she will only know me this way because tomorrow and yesterday don’t seem to exist. When we met my hair was short.

She tells me that all she needs tonight is a friend because she doesn’t remember that she fell in love with me before.

She tells me that she just met me and I tell her that she doesn’t know what she’s saying. She’s met me a thousand times. She tells me that you can’t force somebody to love somebody else and I know she’s probably right because I keep trying.

I walk down a long street with red sidewalks that are gray now because it’s night. I follow the maze that brings me back to the first time. I know she’s inside in the bedroom, and I know that it all begins with hi and hello. I know where her accent comes from and that she left because there were too many kangaroos, she says, but I know it’s really because of her family. I know what to do this time to get it right; I know what I did wrong last night. I know that I will hold her hand when she tells me about her brother.

She tells me that she gets panic attacks where it feels like she’s having a heart attack and that she has nobody to talk to. She tells me that she can’t remember where some of the things in her purse come from and it scares her. They’re things she’s taken from me. She tells me nothing’s okay anymore and that she’s afraid of losing her chance.

She’s never expecting me, but she’s never unhappy to see me because I am gentle and maybe because she’s lonely

I tell her what’s going on, that I seem to be stuck in the best moment of my life and it’s such a long night, but she

I tell her not to worry because everything takes so long, but she tells me that’s not what she means.

48 | Prose & Poetry

never remembers because time keeps looping back on itself in a strange way. I can only get so far each time and each time it feels like less. She’s the only person I’ve seen in so long now and I’m so tired because all I do is come back to her, over and over and over again and all I want anymore is the first time but all I seem to get is the last.

I prove to her that I’m not lying by telling her that I know that she used to follow the stars in the sky but she had to stop because she always got lost, that she has a small scar on the side of her left breast, that she has a hole in the seat of the velvet overalls she’s wearing that she keeps sewing shut, that she had a boyfriend who cried when she told him she was attracted to a girl and that now she has a girlfriend who she wants to love but can’t really.

She believes me and then she asks me what it feels like and I tell her it feels like when you haven’t slept at all, when you’ve been in bed for a couple of hours and you’re still wide awake and it’s pitch black and your teeth are still brushed. We try to see the night through by holding onto each other but at a certain point I get cold and it’s because she isn’t in my arms anymore.

I don’t worry quite as much anymore. Sometimes we hold hands and sometimes there’s nothing left to say to each other. Sometimes I’m happy that this is the way things have to be because she has so many problems and I’m so afraid of strangers and after all this time, she’s still a stranger to me, too. I’ve tried nights where I don’t go to see her I miss her and nothing changes. She’s always in that bedroom, waiting for me, though she doesn’t realize that’s what she’s doing.

Instead of going in tonight, I decide I am going to follow her because I know that something’s wrong and she won’t ever tell me what it is, but maybe if I can figure out what’s going on we’ll get another day together. I sit on the ground under an oak tree because I can’t go inside.

The house creaks and moans. I have to wait for a long time and it’s cold but I know that eventually she’s going to leave because she’s going to bump her head and she won’t sleep there.

I stand and hide behind the tree when I finally hear her footsteps coming down the stairs. I listen for the sound of the front door but it doesn’t come. I realize that she left from the back. I hurry around the house and get there in time to see her disappearing into a copse. It’s easy to find her again because she’s milky pale and she moves slow, like a wraith, and she leads me through the dense growth of trees, across a carpet of dead leaves that she seems to float over.

We reach the edge of the property and come out on a narrow, inclined street. She turns right, glides downhill and then turns left onto a dirt path that turns into a cement path and there are less lights here and I realize we’re in a cemetery. She weaves her way through the graves and then stops in front of a small headstone. She kneels down in front of it and all I want is to just hold her hand but I don’t go to her because suddenly I’m afraid of whose name might be written there.

The wind picks up and leaves skitter around and she looks over and sees me.

Maybe it’s the expression on my face or maybe she can’t see it from this distance because she has bad eyesight and it’s dark and we’re almost invisible people. Maybe she just thinks she’s been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to be doing. She gets up and approaches and suddenly my heart is beating hard in my chest because I know how it all starts but it’s okay because I’ll be home soon.

49 | Prose & Poetry

SEEKING SOLSTICE The Sun. The Moon.

The Nebulae. The Universe.

I want it all. I need it all.

She needed it all. He wanted it all.

She had nothing to give him. He wanted nothing from her.

They wanted each other.

Needed it all.

Wanted nothing.

Needed nothing.

They wanted it all.

The cycle spins.

It’s everlasting.

How long is forever?

It’s everlasting.

Seeking Solstice. Seeking truth.

Seeking Equinox. Seeking lies.

In search of the answer.

In possession of the question.

Mary goes.

She comes back around.

Their souls levitate.

They come back down.

Their minds collide, along with these souls.

The solar eclipse shines through the holes.

The puzzle didn’t fit, it made the perfect square.

To say that it did just wouldn’t be fair.

It was based on a lie, that they believed was the truth, which was based on a truth, that they conceived as a lie.

No one was to be believed.

Everyone had been deceived.

The greatest fib was the truth all along.

Now, all they ever knew was gone.

In search of the truth.

In pursuit of a lie.

Is it better to seek, or to live and to die?

Oh, my…

by Jordan Allen

50 | Prose & Poetry

Toilette A young man named Antonio immigrated from Colombia to the United States in search of starting a new life. Nothing seemed quite extraordinary about this awkward fellow, for he had a gentle obliqueness to his demeanor, and spoke with a softness that resonated weakly with his skewed eyebrows. His first job was as a busboy in an extremely prestigious hotel within an extremely pretentious city. There was no requirement to his occupation other than wiping down the crusts of wealth left behind by society’s elites and occasionally saying, “Good morning—afternoon—evening” which was, in lieu of Antonio’s cultural and linguistic ineptitude, a grand relief. He tapped his feet at the motion of a nonchalant business man, and he held his chin low at the nod of an aristocrat; there was never more than a word, breath, or glance exchanged between Antonio and his clientele.

The napkins scrunched at the leisure of the hungry wealthy, and the tables waited for the care of Antonio. After several days of maintaining the divine cleanliness of the restaurant’s tables, the quirky busboy was now prolific in executing his duty—it was as if he had miraculously found a suitable profession for himself. Plates clattered and tips wavered as the restaurant began to receive more and more guests; however, no matter how many customers were present, Antonio still fluttered gaily at the sight of a table marred with leftovers, and he happily gave customers the occasional fork and knife upon request. On one particular day, Antonio was cleaning a table left by a German family when he was gently approached by sharply-faced man, dressed in long layers of a fine fabric embroidered with colorful jewels. Antonio looked at the man politely and said softly, in his broken English, “Can I help you, sir?”

This was, undoubtedly, the most prolonged interaction Antonio has ever had with a customer. His hands grew sweaty with a Spanish moisture that mercilessly reminded him of his very limited set of responses that halted at forks and knifes. The ornately dressed man asked him, in an eloquent European accent, “Where is the toilette?”

Petrified, mortified, and terrified—Antonio could barely subdue his fear. With a painfully benign tone, he softly responded, “One moment please.”

The ornately dressed man smiled benevolently and closed his eyes for a quick moment, as if absorbing the leisure that accompanies his reception of service. When he opened his eyes, however, he saw that Antonio was nowhere to be found. He purred at his abandonment, and lazily searched for Antonio.

Dashing through the crust-tainted tables, and dodging monstrous purses and grease-stained chefs—Antonio crashed into the kitchen and hastily scoured for what the ornately dressed man requested. He violently opened and closed cabinets, and clumsily dropped and broke plates—all in search for something that he did not know existed; furthermore, he had not the smallest idea as to what it was. The employees in the kitchen watched him curiously as he was tearing down the kitchen while muttering angrily to himself, “Toilette, toilette, toilette!” The chefs began to laugh as their food cooked, and the waiters cackled as their plates toppled; however, Antonio saw no humor in his panic, and he simply yelled back at everyone, gesticulating with frustration, “Toilette! Where the toilette!” Everyone was far too engulfed in their laughter to actually attend to Antonio’s needs—the sense of sympathy was suspended as the humor that presented itself in an unknowing foreigner was exceedingly satisfying. Antonio cursed under his breath in Spanish and stormed out of the kitchen.

Antonio needed a solution. He saw the fancy man searching for him, so he went into the bathroom to hide. The shame that was beginning to pollute Antonio’s heart was far too great for him to approach the fancy man with no answer to his request. While in the bathroom, Antonio ceaselessly muttered to himself “toilette, toilette, toilette” while gripping the sink’s counter in a deep frustration. A young European boy exited the stall behind Antonio and witnessed the busboy’s madness. Antonio, not aware of the boy behind him, begin to pound his fists on the counter with great fury, shouting “TOILETTE! TOILETTE! TOILETTE!” The European boy screamed in terror and scurried out of the bathroom, shouting about a strange man who needed a toilette in the bathroom. Antonio realized what he had done, and he fearfully fixes his gaze upon the bathroom door, expecting at any moment his manager to carry out his demise. The door swings open, and he sees his manager, the fancy man, and the European child, who appears to be the fancy man’s son.

It was not until Antonio’s manager showed him where the notorious “toilette” was that he understood clearly why he could not find it in the kitchen. The ornately dressed man witnessed this imprudence, and he closed his eyes momentarily, absorbing the pleasure found in his comprehension of the matters at hand. Antonio held his chin low, as the ornately dressed man acknowledged him with a nonchalant—nevertheless grateful— nod of appreciation.

by Sebastian Muiel

51 | Prose & Poetry

REAL MEMORY Unseated by it, six years old maybe, maybe 7 My dad tries to clean something with grease

My mom says it won’t work

But he does it, and it doesn’t work The thing becomes greasy I don’t exactly recall what the thing was Not very good with childhood memories, really, and it bothers me, because other people are Unsettling, that memory, I always thought The thing was something metal sunlight, nervous flickering

Some part of a boat

Bright metal, too, caught the

Nervous flickering of the sunlight It didn’t matter that the grease could be felt, and could be seen, too Not so important that you could see the grease, as that the grease stole off the shine of the metal Some foreign murkiness that crept, with the neighborhood cat, into the garage I stood there watching them watch the metal thing that was now greasy And we laughed, and we laughed, and we laughed

by Michael Abraham

52 | Prose & Poetry

VESPER I’m the only one that’ll take As if on the bridge at the close of day Like you dressed yourself in silk and went up roman candle Over the River, the moon is nowhere And nowhere’s a field, all dressed up and bud-lit Nobody knows how rough it is How rough a yank are you Tremble in the pocket A whispering sound that haunts thru the meadow

by Michael Abraham

53 | Prose & Poetry

by Nwakego Nwasike

Louise comes to me like an apparition, knees bloody, lipstick a smudgy halo around her lips, the wind whipping strands of her hair into a violent dance around her head, teeth bared in a feral grin.

“Jesus,” I say. “What happened to you?”

Hot stranger. Bathroom. Blow job.

She begins to supply the details but I stop her, uninterested, disgusted. She asks me if I am in the party mood yet.

“I’ve had a shot or two,” I say. “And a beer.”

I’m no fun, apparently. A kill joy. Too interested in the workings of the universe, the stars, the planets, to care about the mere mortals trapped here on earth. When I tell her that I have class tomorrow, that not everyone can afford to drink their lives away, she only sighs, shrugs slightly, too drunk to care, and I am disappointed that she wasn’t offended, didn’t snap back. Didn’t do anything to wake me from the stupor I’ve been lingering in for the past few months.

She asks me about the blood moon again, the reason she has dragged me out onto this rooftop in the middle-of-nowhere Bushwick. Her eyes are shifty and unfocused, body swaying slightly, and I figure that she won’t benefit from any scientific answer I could give her.

“It’s a sign of the apocalypse.”

She rolls her eyes. I’ve lost my ability to tell jokes, it seems.

Then, suddenly, she grabs hold on my arm, and squeals, points — BJ boy is approaching. Looking over, I see him. Tall, dark hair, bushy eyebrows resting lazily atop bloodshot eyes—I know him. I know him, but I can’t think of why or how or where or when. I ask Louise his name.

Greg. Greg. Do I know a Greg? And then, here he is, standing beside me, saying “hey.” He is more attractive up close, I conclude, though there is a smattering of red bumps dotting his hairline at his right temple that seem about ready to blossom into full-blown pimples. He looks at me, ignoring Louise’s tittering, and says my name — Anna.

And then it hits me. Greg. Gregory Cole. Gangly, nerdy Gregory Cole who sat behind me in AP Physics senior year of high school — we never spoke.

I say, “hi,” and “you’ve changed.”

He smiles, a wide, bright, glittering thing, and tells me that I haven’t. That I’m just as pretty as ever, if not prettier. I resist the urge to feel flattered, on the one hand, and embarrassed, on the other. Instead, annoyance begins to prick and pull at me. We exchange pleasantries as much as he, high, and I, disinterested, increasingly impatient, and ready to make the long trip back 54 | Prose & Poetry

to East Harlem, can. Blood, meanwhile, continues to drip from Louise’s knees as she silently tries to make flirty eye contact with Greg. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“Louise,” I say, cutting short Greg’s riveting tale about stocks and dividends and other such things I could care less about.

“Your knees. What happened?”

She looks down, and her face lights up with surprise and, it would seem, delight. She looks at Greg flirtatiously, placing her fingers on his biceps—he siffens. It is his fault, according to Louise’s drunken mishmash of an explanation. She says she’ll be back, and goes, I imagine, to take care of her knees. Greg turns to me, anxious, running his hands through his hair, and tells me it wasn’t his fault.

“What?”

Louise, he says. It wasn’t him. She had followed him into the bathroom, apparently. Came onto him. Was refused. Stumbled out, fell, scraped her knees, he guesses.

I tell him about the blowjob.

His face flushes red as he shakes his head vehemently. Not him.

Couldn’t be him. Would never be him. His adamant refusal brings a slight, amused smile to my face. It drops when he tries to engage me in conversation again:

“They’re already in you,” he would say, wiping away my frustrated, four-year-old tears, bringing me back down to Earth.

“The stars are in your hair. In your eyes and your nose and your ears. They’re even already there, in your hands. You just have to know how to look for them.”

I had the universe in me, he said.

Nowadays, I want to cut open veins — let the universe bleed out of me. Bleed, until I have nothing of it, and anything else, left.

When stars die, they have two options: become a dwarf, or become black hole. They know what awaits them in the afterlife. What they’ll be. Where they’ll be. Humans aren’t as lucky. Many ways to die, but no inkling as to what comes after.

Our bodies will be in the ground somewhere, I suppose. Or it’ll become the ashes that runs through the cracks of some grieving family member’s fingers as she tosses it up towards the sky, only to have gravity pull it back down to earth, to her. To have the universe fall upon her. The universe she used to want so badly, but now cannot stand. Cannot handle the way it consumes us all, spits us back out into the ether, with no regard for the people who are left behind on earth, with nothing but ash, but dust. *** The line for the bathroom is long, and I am feeling jittery and tight in my skin and I can barely breath, but Greg just keeps on talking, having followed me.

What do you do? “Grad school. PhD.” Oh cool. Where? “Columbia.”

Oh cool. Studying? “Astronomy and astrophysics.”

Oh cool. Like your dad? “Yes.” Oh cool. Oh cool. Oh cool. I stifle my sigh.

“What,” I say, after he pauses, and regards me expectantly.

And then he asks me how my dad is doing and my attention sharpens.

“What’s far?”

“How is he?” he asks. “I haven’t seen him since he handed me my diploma at graduation. I heard he retired from teaching and being the principle?”

My body feels equally on the edge of fleeing and paralysis, stuck in place. “Good,” I say hesitantly, my voice a low murmur.

“Fine.” And then I excuse myself, and head for the bathroom inside. *** When I was younger, I used to want to kiss the stars. Used to want to swallow those pretty little lights. My dad would pick me up, lift me up towards the expansive night sky, and my chubby little arms would reach up in vain, my fingers curling around but never grasping those stupid, elusive stars. My dad would laugh.

Would tell me that they were not only miles, but literal years away. Decades. Centuries. Millennia away. I couldn’t wrap my head around it then, but in time, I learned.

We are all star stuff, my dad would say. All the elements, particles, bits and pieces of primordial goo that made up the stars, the planets, the sun, and so on, made us. When I reached for the stars, I was reaching for myself, for the recycled residue hanging around from the very beginning of the universe.

“Coffee,” he says. “We should get some soon.” I make no verbal reply, but nod slightly, uncommitted. He knows a place here in Bushwick we can go to, if I want. But maybe it’s too far for me?

I am far, he says, from him.

“Where do you live?”

He lives here, apparently. This is his apartment, his party.

“Oh,” I say.

He smiles, and the sight of it makes me want to cringe or perhaps punch him in the face. When my turn is up, I go into the bathroom. He asks me if I want him to bring me anything—a drink, a cigarette, some weed, in the meantime.

“No,” I huff. “Just find Louise and tell her I’m ready to leave.”

His mouth opens to say something, but I shut the door before he has time to speak. Inside, the music deadens to a steady, reverberating bass. The sink is littered with cigarette butts and sketchy droplets of water. There is no toilet paper. I look at the mirror and am surprised to see my eyes wet, red, and swollen, my nose dripping, my upper lip quivering.

After a few moments, the tears subside with the calming flow of blood springing from my left forearm. My shaky fingers clasp the slick, reddened razor in my palm before tossing it in the trash. Stop, I tell myself, angry, crying again. What will this solve?

A knock sounds at the door — the living world coming to 55 | Prose & Poetry

claim me as one of their own, not ready to give me back to the universe just yet. My sleeves come down past my wrist, and I splash some water on my face. Louise is outside the door, knees no longer bleeding and bandaged up, a frown on her face.

“Yes,” I say, after she asks if it’s true that I’m ready to go. “Come or don’t come, but it’s late and I’m going. I have a long subway ride ahead of me.” I sidestep her to leave the bathroom doorway.

Greg, like magic, materializes beside Louise. He tells me that I can crash. I can crash. At the sight of my face, he quickly adds that we’ll just sleep, obviously.

dead. As still as the stars in the night sky appear to be.

I feel the blood dripping, probably staining his shirt. I feel bad—he’s so nice—but I can’t move. Am too numb to move.

To let go. Too afraid of what’ll happen if I step back and let the universe wedge its way between us.

So I don’t move. And stay there, hugging Gregory Cole from AP Physics, and wonder if my dad is out there in the night sky somewhere, recycled into the stars.

by Nwakego Nwasike

“Obviously.”

Louise cries out after me once I’ve turned to leave. She says I’ll regret missing the eclipse.

“I don’t give a fuck about the fucking moon, Louise,” I say, near hysterical. I don’t wait to see or hear Louise’s reaction—I just go. Go, as fast as my shaking legs will take me. Past the drunken people, past the door, down the stairs, outside. Outside, where the cold air is a slap and freezes the tears on my face.

“Anna!”

I groan, I sigh, I do everything to show my annoyance. “Look, Greg—I’m not interested, so please, just stop. Just — leave me alone.”

My words stops him in his tracks. He throws his head back to let out a heavy sigh. “You know,” he says, “I used to wish on those stars every night before I went to bed.”

Now it’s my turn to sigh. But, for once, I’m listening.

“I used to wish that, just once, you’d turn around in physics and look at me. Really see me, you know? And not even talk to me.

Just see me. And smile, maybe.”

I’m incredibly aware of both my blush and the wet, trickling feeling of blood at my wrists. “Did your wish come true?”

He smiles sheepishly. “No. Not that I can remember.”

“Sorry,” I say, insides feeling a little loose, a little shifty.

“I wasn’t much into boys back then since my dad worked at school. Too awkward.”

“You mean you weren’t into awkward, super-skinny, pizzafaced boys like me.”

The blood drips slowly down to my hand. I don’t respond.

“I’m sure your dad is pretty stoked for the moon tonight.”

I shrug emphatically, exasperated. Greg gives me a funny look in return, takes a few steps closer. I’ve started crying again. I want to tell him that I’m fine, that everything is fine, but the words are trapped in my throat and choking, and garbled noises are all that come out. He closes the distance between us to wrap me in an awkward, hesitant hug in which our middles barely meet. I try to be good — try to let someone comfort me, as my therapist tells me I should. So I don’t move. Am as still as the 56 | Prose & Poetry

Crack in the Sublime From through these bent eyes this deformed vision I see clearer now The prospect of the habit where destructive promises burn a long weak wick In weary arms limp with the weight of fading friends the corner’s there where it should be Caught in the angle of our intuition we say we’re changing but we’re just sayin’ it letting everything else move away from us while we stand behind saying it was never real as distorted as I see things as ugly as every word becomes there’s now nobody left to love but myself

So has it been long enough yet?

Can we stop hating ourselves now? turn all those lies over bring the love back over the rooster is waking us up to start the morning all over but there’s the terminal in your thoughts as you tried, as I tried to be young again we almost were there was a crack in the sublime just as you began to turn over in my hands I saw it, I waited for you to grab hold – But you hesitated.

And then, you were gone

by Jenzia Burgos

57 | Prose & Poetry

HIS&HERS

HIS&HERS Concept and styling by Devyn Olin Photographed by Coleman Fitzgerald Modeled by Claudia Buccino & Rex Detiger

“Sex is between your legs; gender is between your ears. Sexuality refers to who you get into bed with; gender refers to who you get into bed as.�

59 | Centerfold

Against the Politicization of Climate Change The mention of words like “stocks,” “bonds,” or, God forbid, “investment,” sends many of us NYU students (those of us who are not Sternies, that is) backing away cautiously with our hands up: “No Hablo Economics.”

So when the divestment groups on campus start talking about NYU’s dirty investments in fossil fuels, they’re met with an unsure silence – what is divestment exactly, and why should NYU do it?

Well, divestment is the opposite of investment – it is removing university funds (which come from our tuition money, so they’re our funds, really) from big fossil fuel corporations that pollute the environment and accelerate global warming. It is NYU taking our money out from unstable businesses that hurt thousands of people (and animals) around the world every day for obvious ethical and not-so-obvious financial reasons.

Divesting from fossil fuels is the environmentally-friendly way of handling money, especially for one of the most progressive and open-minded universities in the world.

Global warming is happening. There’s no doubt about it.

In 2010, some of the world’s most renowned climate scientists at the UN’s Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC) decreed that if the global atmospheric temperatures

increased more than 2°C above pre-industrial levels, climate change would become “dangerous.”

But we’re seeing the dangers of climate change even today – at only 0.6°C over pre-industrial levels.

As the fossil fuel industry continues to dig itself into a hole, looking for more coal and oil in the ground and under the sea, average global temperatures are rising from all the pollution it’s emitting – and this is causing a host of other problems, including stronger tropical storms and floods, parching droughts, and lung diseases in smog-heavy cities. Sea levels are rising, and freak weather is becoming the norm; cancer is on the rise, and climate change is here.

No one who has experienced the horrors of Hurricane Sandy or the 4-year drought in California, or the millions of other instances of climate change – like the drought in Syria which has led to wars and fleeing refugees - will deny that global warming is real and that we are in crisis; we have to stop this from escalating. Now. At the rate at which the fossil fuel industry – which is the main emitter of carbon (the most problematic gas for climate change) - is going, we will go over our 2 degree limit very, very soon, and that unsettling confusion of extreme floods, droughts, hurricanes, and war over natural resources will take over.

68 | The View

Urging NYU to stop investing (and, therefore, just giving) our money in the fossil fuel industry is an important ethical step for us to take as students, privileged ones who study at a progressive, forward-thinking institution.

We know what the effects of climate change are – most of us have even felt it right here in Manhattan with Sandy – yet we are actively participating in it by freely giving our tuition money to fossil fuel companies to further exploit the planet.

How can we, as students with a vantage point of knowing the consequences of climate change, stand by and let NYU exacerbate the issue.

Let’s Leave Oil Before Oil Leaves Us While the above epigram may sound like one I stole from some sort of cheesy alternative energy poster (seriously guys… Save the Polar, Go Solar!), the issue remains very real. Our reserve of fossil fuels is limited, and we’re using it up like there’s no tomorrow.

Even though the high demand for fuel and electricity has kept fossil fuel stock price up, this isn’t the best place for NYU to place its investments. Crude oil and coal reserves are close to being depleted to the bare minimum, and the day this limit is reached will also be the day the fossil fuel stock will plunge, taking much of NYU’s endowment with it. The world really is soon to run out of its fossil fuel reserves if the UNFCCC’s limit of a 2°C increase in temperatures is to be adhered to.

According to NYU Divest, only 565 gigatones of carbon can be released into the atmosphere without hitting the UNFCCC limit. To put that into perspective: as of 2013, humanity releases at least 36.1 gigatones of carbon into the atmosphere every year. If we keep going at this rate, we only have about 15 years’ worth of fossil fuel left.

The value of fossil fuel stock is very much overestimated, because we don’t really know how much of the resources we have left, and it is very possible (and almost certain, given humanity’s extraordinarily unfounded belief in its own invincibility) that we may have less than we think.

Why NYU Should Divest All in all, the argument for NYU investing in fossil fuels is not looking too good. Fossil fuel investment is ethically and financially irrational, and divestment should be the next obvious next step. Even the University Senate couldn’t come up with a good excuse, and voted unanimously in favor of divestment last spring. The issue is now being deliberated by NYU’s elusive Board of Directors (and it’s been this way since April 2015).

The case for divestment is straightforward, and necessitates little in the way of vacillation. Morally, NYU as an academic institution should be an asylum of peace and progress. It ought to find ways to stop environmental destruction, not contribute to it, and handle the assets it has taken from its students with care, rather than investing in a “bubble” stock whose burst is imminent.

So, why hasn’t NYU divested already? Why is there such a struggle to actually get the university to do it? The on-campus group NYU Divest has been campaigning since 2012, to no avail.

President John Sexton’s main argument against divestment is that this is a very political action, and academic institutions must stay neutral on such political issues as climate change.

By divesting, NYU would be acknowledging both the existence of climate change, and also the undeniable role that human activities have played in it. But the infuriating hole in this argument is the fact that the stance the university holds right now - staying invested in the fossil fuel industry and funding it - amounts to siding with it. There isn’t, in fact, any neutrality. Additionally, divestment would not be a political statement, because it is now almost universally acknowledged that accelerated climate change is real, and a man-made phenomenon.Although a few people on the far-right of the political spectrum still deny climate change, the vast majority of America, especially NYU’s student body, is keenly aware of the perilous state our planet is in.

So fossil fuel stock may or may not be precipitously overvalued, and this means that it can drop to its “real,” much lower value anytime, an ambiguity not for the faint of heart, or for those who have much to lose. For NYU, that would be 139 million dollars of loans and hard-earned pennies.

By claiming that climate change is a political and not a social issue, John Sexton is boxing it in, trivializing it. This is not just some political argument over which congressmen and women should idly debate; this is real, and this is happening to us. It is we, as a society, as students of an influential institution, who have to take control; we cannot be neutral bystanders while our future rests in the hands of those with power.

In financial jargon, this risk of plunging fossil fuel stock is called a ”Carbon Bubble” – a weak, bloated, overvalued globule full of air that could pop at any moment. Not only do NYU’s investments depend on the decreasing reserve of fossil fuels but they’re also banking on a mercurial, bloated stock “bubble” that could burst anytime.

Divesting will be a real gesture that acknowledges the suffering that climate change has caused all over the world, from Hurricane Sandy’s damage right here in New York City to fatal heat waves in India. It will be the first recognition of how much humanity’s actions, embodied by the polluting fossil fuel industry, have impacted the earth and now its people.

Simply put, investing in fossil fuels is not a good idea – the stock is far too unreliable, as is the notion that there’s plenty of oil to go around. What will we do then?

Fossil Fuel Divestment is a social statement more than a political statement. It requires that the university stand up and acknowledge that climate change knows no allegiance on the typical left-right political spectrum; it is a scientific fact.

by Annie Felix 69 | The View

ALBUM COVERS

BADASS FEMALE LEADS

Tame Impala | Currents

Viola Davis | How to Get Away with Murder

Kendrick Lamar | To Pimp a Butterfly

Amy Schumer | Trainwreck

Twenty-One Pilots | Blurryface

Kerry Washington | Scandal

Chvrches | Eyes Wide Open

Taraji P. Henson | Empire

Drake | If You’re Reading This It’s Too Late

Anne Hathaway | The Intern

Mumford and Sons | Wilder Mind

Jennifer Lawrence | Hunger Games: Mockinjay Part 2

Purity Ring | Another Eternity Scarlett Johansson | Avengers 2 Veruca Salt | Ghost Notes Rachel McAdams | True Detective Son Lux | Bones Keri Russell | The Americans Lupe Fiasco | Tetsuo and Youth Hayley Atwell | Agent Carter

70 | The View

WACKIEST HEADLINES

“$10,000 of Marijuana Falls From the Sky Onto Family’s Doghouse” | Time “Hipster Cafe Attacked in London” | Inquistr “Woman, 63, Becomes Pregnant in the Mouth With Baby Squid After Eating Calamari” | Daily Mail UK

MEMES

Miley, what’s good?

JUST DO IT - Shia Labeouf Pizza Rat WHY YOU ALWAYS LYIN’

“Ohio Man Found Surrounded in Doritos, Goldfish After Calling Cops to Complain He Got Too High” | NBC

Rare Pepe

“New York Woman Sues 12-Year-Old Nephew Over Hug That Broke Her Wrist” | The Guardian

Regional Gothic

“Kangaroo Roams Free in Staten Island During Glorious Morning Romp” | Gawker “Guatemala Elects a Comedian As President” | Buzzfeed

Civil War

#Prattkeeping Hoe don’t do it...OMG X and chill

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Sarah Hombach on nipples, Instagram and obstructing the male gaze.

The Nipple: it is the much-heard-but-yet-unseen specter of social media today. The #FreeTheNipple movement is gaining a swell of public support for the authorization of female nipples appearing online, but as of yet, Instagram and most other social platforms have not budged. Some of those opposed to the nipple’s freedom argue that women’s nipples are conclusively and strictly sexual, citing “biology.” Others worry that this particular debate is veering attention away from more pressing feminist issues, and towards a meaningless, even inherently objectifying social app. Some even fret that — if nipples were out and about all over the place — they would lose their power and elusive “mystique.”

Currently, to remain in accordance with Instagram’s nudity policy, any “free” female nipples must be either scarred from a mastectomy, or actively feeding an infant. They can also appear in painting or sculpture, raising questions about photography’s place in the artistic hierarchy — when it comes to nudity, should realism really equal pornography? Either way, to make matters worse, these nipple depictions were sanctioned as recently as April 2015. What are the consequences of decreeing all female nipples (except those scarred or attached to a baby) sexual and inappropriate?

Like most people, a great deal of the time I spend nude has nothing to do with sex. I bathe, cook, sleep, and clip my toenails naked. But when a nude woman appears in film or TV, during sex or otherwise, her nudity almost always exists for the arousal of her audience. It is near impossible to find media accurately imitating the banality with which a female’s nudity appears to herself.

To insist that there is an inherent sexuality to a part of the female body is to side with males who find it to be so. The argument for nipple concealment hinges itself on the same logic as egregious, highly arbitrary dress codes — three-finger straps, no midriff, skirts to the knee — the responsibility to palliate male overexcitement is placed on the shoulders (and in this case, the bras) of women, not the men themselves. We leave unchallenged the masculine proclivity to orient the world around their sexual fascinations — in turn, female nipples are deemed to be objectively sexual despite having only the male subjective as testimony. And if we think back to Instagram’s nudity guidelines, does it not seem dangerous that the only things by which we can unanimously cool the jets of male attraction are motherhood and cancer?

Young males are no strangers to what a female nipple looks like through the glare of a screen — the accessibility and mass popularity of online pornography renders nipples available to anyone, anywhere, any time. Since all of these nipple depictions appear in a sexual context, society has a very skewed, imbalanced perception of how one should react to nipples, and for whom they exist. If most men’s primary exposure to nipples is through porn and real-life sex, nipples will continue to be cordoned to

this narrow box, giving men the arousal green-light at the mere suggestion of one.

Among many women, there is a collective frustration that bearing our nipples outside male-defined boundaries has the power to send people rocketing around in discomfort or arousal.

We find ourselves in uneasy and even dangerous situations if our nipples make appearances, even within the most mundane contexts. We choose to cover up because we are conditioned to believe that parts of our body, in spite of their actual, anatomical importance, are taboo and don’t really belong to us.

I do not wish for a world where female nipples are completely nonsexual, but rather one where males are able to contextualize their attraction, allow it to manifest when appropriate. The nipples of a topless stranger at the beach should be unmoving and unremarkable. The nipples of a woman in bed with you — one who is more than happy to have you touch/lick/bite/etc. them — should be, and would remain very exciting indeed. There seems to be no Catch 22 here — some of that beloved “mystique” may be lost in the process of losing the female nipple taboo, but that’s one silly, limiting candle that needed to be snuffed out anyway.

Another candle requiring snuffing is the smug “biology” argument. People say that the mere sight of a female nipple is proven to send violent waves of neurological pleasure, to release unconquerable hormones, even to rouse a weird, vaguely Oedipal-sounding suckling fantasy. Well, back in the day, we also used to pick partners based on their pubic odor. Clearly we are more than happy to harness our biological reflexes in some cases, so why not this one?

And finally, to those who protest the triviality of this particular issue: yes, in a world where women are educated and paid less but sexually assaulted more, perhaps fighting for one app to sanction our nipples should not be the first order of feminist business. But with over 400 million users and an immense cultural significance, can we really dismiss Instagram as just an app? We need better, more balanced depictions of female nudity across the board, but we don’t yet have the power to determine what appears in film, television, and advertisements the way we do what appears on our Instagram page. People so often dismiss Instagram as a narcissistic platform to “curate” yourself, but perhaps therein lies the app’s largest potential to incite change, especially for women. We do not have sufficient control over the ways our bodies are perceived — too often, they are treated as trays we hold up to the world for the taking, pleasure and appraisal of others. Being able to present one’s own nipples in a self-determined context could allow women to reclaim both a literal part of our body and its imposed connotations. The work would not end there, but it is my hope that allowing nipples on Instagram would incite change, perhaps leading to a society in which women own and inhabit their bodies in a wider sense.

by Sarah Hombach

73 | The View

A FEW THOUGHTS ON BLACKNESS & THE MEDIA Say the year is 2006: in terms of black (women) on TV, to date we’ve had That’s So Raven, The Incredible Jet Jackson, Smart Guy, Sister Sister on Disney Channel and, not to mention Moesha, Monique and cartoons like The Proud Family. It was not until I became a teenager that I realized that I was misrepresented or not represented at all. As a young child you can take in many images and accept them all as truth. As you get older, unfortunately, you start to categorize things and those categories become their truth. None of the images that I saw as a child went on to be categorized as anything, and they’ve been forgotten by mainstream media, especially when talking about representation today. The internet has allowed for anything black to become viral and, yes, we have made strides (i.e. Viola Davis; I would say Lupita Nyong’o, but the white media fetishes her way too much and are only interested in her because she is beautiful; they don’t recognize that regardless of her system-reinforcing-accolades she is a rare and outstanding talent), but prior to them being exploited by internet activity, there were shows for everyone. I don’t know any white person who felt isolated by That’s So Raven, but these days, with a newfound hyperawareness, everything affects everyone. The cries of white people saying “we are misunderstood” is what black people have been saying for a while now; the fact is that everyone is misunderstood, but you understood when Raven was seeing those visions. You weren’t like, “I don’t get her because of her skin tone.”

Now that race has been put on the forefront of everyone’s mind and is something that comes up in our discourse constantly, people who never had to think about it (aka: white people) are getting angry and frustrated that they have to face some kind of guilt. They don’t even know why they should be guilty (thought I’d say it’s pretty obvious — slavery!) In today’s culture, things are both validated and invalidated by being viral. Something that goes viral on Buzzfeed or — what was that other one called? Upworthy! — can be a nuisance to people who put themselves above clickbait. It can take away from the value of a movement. However, those driven by compassion, like myself, always cut to the core: “Who is being oppressed, and how?” The media distracts us and obscures the landscape with all these other things and then throws in what they want us to care about based on their agenda. Television has been making some amazing strides for actors of color; we have seen an influx of Indian, Black and Latino actors on screen and it’s pretty cool. For me, I just know that if the revolution is not going to be televised, I’m turning off the TV.

by Zuri Marley

74 | The View

Photographed by Charlotte Miller | Modeled by Zuri Marley

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