Singularity

EDITORIAL

Jess Ferguson Chloe Shaar Mary Kassel Althea Champion Sara Valentine Sasha Zirin Nicole Codianni Mariyam Quaisar Erin Norton

PHOTO Jess O’Donoghue Graysen Winchester Isaiah Vivero Drew Mitchell Maya Seri Lida Everhart Marina Man Jonah Hodari Hayley Kaufer Ling Shi Olivia Neil

VISUAL Gina Foley Katerina Veil Sydney Grantham Mason Vaughan Julia Lippman

“OUT THERE, WHEREVER YOU ARE, THE LIGHT IS MORE VIVID AND THE TREES ARE MORE ALIVE THAN THEY CAN EVER BE ON THE INTERNET.”

NOTE FROM THE EDITOR

In my note for our last issue, Remnants, I quoted John Green to state that “humans are nothing if not dependent on each other.” I asked our staff to respond to that dependency, to confront what it means to form identity in the face of overwhelming history. For this issue, I asked EM to respond to a much more immediate, yet equally overwhelming dependency–our relationship to technology.

Our reliance on tech has built an economy from our attention, reduced our interests to data points, and tangled us in a spiderweb of algorithms. We all know this, and it worries some of us more than others. I, personally, am humbled when my laptop dies and it feels like my brain has turned off. But not humble enough to feel shame when praying it’ll turn back on. And I think that’s the mindset they want us in.

Who are they? You know that mega-corporation from Bojack, AOL-Time-WarnerPepsico-Viacom-HalliburtonSkynet-Toyota-Trader-Joe’s?

They’re the spiders weaving this dependency, creating invisible ecosystems to silently, and permanently, become superimposed over our physical lives. And “they” aren’t really thinking of the long-term implications of that.

Enter: singularity. The term describes a sudden drop in air pressure. It’s also used to refer to a point on a circle that takes up no mass. It’s the location in a black hole where matter is compressed into an infinitely tiny point. And there’s this concept called the “technological singularity,” which is the theory that in 2045 “technological growth will become uncontrollable and irreversible, resulting in unforeseeable changes to human civilization.” So basically, robots taking over the world.

What do you picture when this happens? Maybe an antiquated cyberpunk fantasy of chrome and neon imagined by an animator in the 90’s. (With how the Metaverse is looking these days, I think that’s about as

far off from reality as flying cars a la The Jetsons, unfortunately.) Maybe you picture all of our appliances with unnecessary internet and AI capabilities gaining consciousness and rising up to attack us. (Now we’re talking more The Mitchells vs. the Machines or G Force. Remember G Force?) Maybe you’re just picturing just, like, explosions. For which we have plenty of apocalypse content to sift through.

I guess I’m making it a tradition to quote John Green in my notes for EM, so here’s a reminder that our world will never be as narrow as a laptop screen; “out there, wherever you are, the light is more vivid and the trees are more alive than they can ever be on the internet.”

-Reagan

LOVING

WORDS CHLOE SHAAR

Sexual intercourse. Making love. Lust. Bonking. The birds and the bees. Sex. The warmth of two naked bodies pressed against each other. Something so sweet in theory, but without a pink taste. This act of passion that makes the world go round.

The reason behind why all of us exist, one of the only things every person has in common, yet it looks so different to anyone participating in it.

Sexual expression varies per indivdual. How you have sex, how often you think about it, and your feelings towards it, are all based on individual experiences. People fall on this spectrum of being hypersexual or asexual, with everything in between, depending on what you enjoy in the bedroom. Sex can constantly be on our minds, or not thought about at all. Throughout our youth we are fed that sex equals love. The

importance of “the first time” needing to be with someone you’re either in a relationship with, or have strong feelings towards, to make it this memorable experience. We watch so many different media escapades of this sensual act where both parties involved feel this extreme level of attraction and pleasure, when in real life some people don’t even come close to this idea they have in their heads. Even porn builds up these fantasy

settings and storylines that are unrealistic and creepy, yet hot, all at the same time. These films set up these sexual standards that people feel like they need to “perform” similarly to.

While it takes two, or sometimes more, to have sex it’s really a singular act of desired pleasure. The individuals desire to feel self indulgance and wanted by another person, drives sex. We may act like it’s not an

ego thing, but the truth is :it is. This modern age casualness of something that’s supposed to be so loving and tender, represents the individuality, and even disconnection, we feel towards ourselves. We want to feel good, but our psyche needs us to feel like we are wanted by others. To be sexy and desired plays a big role in sexual relations. Sex in the age of technology is somewhat deluted, as overconsumption is heightened, and unrealistic

beauty standards grow. Specifically, female presenting people are so infatuated with their body image. The age of the Tumblr girl, blurred the lines for impressions of the self, as these hypersexual images fantasized the idea of sex. Being perceived as sexy by others, in and out of the bedroom, adds a natural boost of confidence in our daily social interactions. What does it even mean to be sexy? Is sexiness defined by physical traits or overall vibes?

Attraction happens naturally, you can be attracted or drawn to anyone even if it’s not sexually. I’ve been listening to the song ‘It’s Only Sex’ by Car Seat Headrest. The singer is trying to figure out whether or not he enjoys sex, even though he thinks the person he’s hooking up with is hot: It’s only It’s only sex C’mon, sexual desire, speak! I want to hold you tight I want to feel your love physically I want to sleep with you, but only in the literal sense Personal pleasure looks different to the individual, the physical pleasure behind sex is not necessairly universal. Are we as young people craving casual sex to feel different levels of pleasure, or are we looking for someone else to spend the night with to create a feeling of belonging? The singularity of these emotions goes back to the idea of sex being sold to us as this interpersonal experince

based off of love. The nonchalantness of one night stands and open relationships has casualized the meaning of sex and how we view relationships as a society. Casual sex is a personalized pleasurable experience. But is the casualness caused solely by wanting to receive pleasure, or to be touched by another body and fulfill our need for attention, no matter how individualistic we may be. Sex has become so singular and is not always associated with being in love with someone else. With that being said, how do you know when you are in love or if the sex is just really good? Sex can be so pleasurable that it can replace the feelings of love. Religion can also play a role in sexual feelings. This idea of Adam and Eve and finding that one person to have sex with, still plays a role in how mainstream society views sex today. Some religions and cultures view sex as a taboo

subject and it’s still insinutaed that you should wait till marrige before participating in sexual intercourse, or you’ll be damned to hell or whatever. It’s interesting that this thing that we all are created through can be viewed as this artificial and negative thing. Sex and sexual expression allows invidviduals to fully be themselves, in ways they may not be able to in outside world settings. Sex can be designed to whatever you’re most comfortable with. Sexual pleasure has such a broad spectrum so you have to keep in mind what works best for you, and then your sexual partner. Remember to always be safe kids.

“Are we as young people craving casual sex to feel different levels of pleasure, or are we looking for someone else to spend the night with to create a feeling of belonging?”

BEFORE SLEEPING

WORDS & VISUALS LING SHI

SLEEPING, WHENEVER WE SLEEP, IS ALWAYS THE STARTING AND ENDING POINT OF OUR LIVES.

SLEEPING, THEREFORE, BECOMES THE SINGULARITY OF THE REALITY AND DREAM, THE POINT THAT DREAM KISSES OUR REALITY.

VISUALS KAITLYN JOYNER

AN AUDIENCE FOR THE APOCALYPSE

WORDS SOPHIA KRIEGEL

In a movie I’m watching, a blonde woman with a microphone and a tailored shirt is telling everyone to hug their children. To take cover. To call their mothers and thank them for a life of lessons and love and packed lunches they never ate. To spill all their secrets. Reveal all their sins for a shot at being saved. To repent. To repeal any wrongdoing. To run for their lives into the abyss, the inevitable inching towards the finale that the writer foreshadowed with the first line. To prepare for the end of the world.

When the screen goes black and the director yells cut and the blonde woman takes off her wig to go back to being the brunette woman she really is, there is nothing but my own reflection staring back at me. After the sky went blue, red, and finally black, that hollow shade, and after some beautiful actress cried in a lover’s arms and I, for just one second, felt so sorry for her and all the life she’d miss out on after the end of the world, the credits roll. When the screen goes black and the movie is over, I look up from my laptop for the first time in two hours only to realize that the sun has set. I close the computer. I contemplate washing my face but ultimately decide not to because that would require getting out of bed. I consider calling my mother but I don’t want to wake her up when I’ve got nothing important to say other than hello. So I just go to sleep.

In my dream I’m dying. I don’t remember if it was peaceful or not and I don’t remember if there was a heaven. Just that I was afraid for a moment and then it was all over.

When I Google apocalypse movies and get 62,400,000 results in 1.14 seconds, I can’t pick just one to tell you about. They’ve all got a gorgeous actor on the cover and he has scratches on his cheek and he’s doing everything he can to save us. Each one is set in some gutted theme park or an abandoned high school that used to have pep rallies in the place where a rag-tag bunch of doomsday survivors are taking shelter. But behind the curtain, is a script outlining the same story we’ve seen in 62,400,000 movies and the one we will see in 62,400,000 more if we make it until then. The apocalyptic circus that is our future spiraling into itself, the world’s greatest show. A million dollars buried in a blonde woman’s terror. She’s got eyes like mine. She’s got eyes like ours.

I had my first kiss while watching World War Z, a typical zombie thriller in which Brad Pitt evades the end of the world by running to lots of places and playing savior. Nick had put his arm around me once we sat down for the film, 8th graders shaking like the scared children in the back of Brad’s car when he sees it all catch fire. When he knows what’s going to happen. I waited an hour and 45 minutes for him to do some-

thing. Nick, I mean. Brad too, maybe. Sweaty palms rubbing against the jeans I’d strategically worn for the occasion because I thought they made me look old and therefore kissable. And just as the movie was ending and Brad, who had lost so much, who watched people die, who did his best, who always knew it would end this way, let out one final, violent fight in an effort to undo what was always going to be done. Nick grabbed the side of my face with the arm that had to have been numb by then, pulled me towards him, and he kissed me. He kissed my chin, mostly. Opening and closing his mouth the way he thought he was supposed to. Proud of himself for fulfilling the prophecy he’d carefully planned out, knowing it would come true when we first sat on that couch. And there we were. Two children, our mouths colliding. Brad Pitt breathing heavily in the background. The world turning to ashes around him. Around us. A life underscored by a looming apocalypse.

I had nightmares for four months after hearing a story in sixth grade that stuck with me in a way that nothing had ever stuck with me before. It went something like this: Hunters, in an effort to kill wolves, stick a knife that’s been soaked in blood into a block of ice. When the wolf licks the knife, hungry for the blood that drew it to the object in the first place, mouth numbed from the cold that swallows the metal, it begins unknowingly

cutting its own tongue. The wolf’s blood mixes with the blood that the blade started with and everything is red and the wolf, still believing it’s possible to break through the ice and into something delicious enough to die for, bleeds out. Do you think the wolf always knew it would end this way?

Or did he believe, in his animalistic pursuit, that he’d make it out alive? Belly full of some undiscovered warmth. How he survived off that hope until it killed him. Until he couldn’t consume anymore.

We’ve found ourselves stuck in a web woven with all the ways the world will end. It’s an allegory in every song, a looming shadow in every television show, the last chapter in every textbook. A bloody blade we can’t help but reach for. It has inspired subcategories of humans, breaking into groups in preparation for some inevitable finale, deciding who will outlast the apocalypse. We’ve become so fascinated with the end of the world, watching ourselves/our doom, puppetered for us to enjoy.

When it does happen, will we find ourselves sitting on the couch, holding the TV remote to the sky, believing that we could pause it again

the way we always have. So submersed in this circus, this show we’ve seen millions of times in our dreams, in the back of our minds, on our screens. When it does happen, will we be the viewer? The blonde woman with the microphone? The child she’s begging us to save?

Do you think it’ll feel like home? A haunted sense of deja vu, the replaying of one million scenes from one million shows, each one scarier than the last. Like an old friend. Familiar in the face, but she feels so different in your arms. When it happens, who will watch the credits roll? Who will close the laptop?

There’s something eerie about the way we watch ourselves and the world we’ve been taught to love, the world that’s been taught to love us,

come to some violent end. A knife on the tongue, teaching ourselves to stomach that inevitable pain. We cling so tightly to this concept, calling an entire species of scared humans doomsday preppers, playing the final moments over and over in an animated simulation for science class, writing songs about who we’d choose to sit with and watch it all explode. We’ve fallen in love, in lust, with an apocalypse we’re so afraid of meeting. When I say we, what I want to say is you and I. When I say we, what I’m trying to say is, will you join me at the theater? Split a bucket of popcorn for a Sunday showing of our final seconds. It’s a good one, I promise. There’s a blonde woman with a microphone and my mother says we have the same eyes. She’s so good at what she does. At making me believe she’s afraid.

Do you think we’ll be afraid?

“When it does happen, will we find ourselves sitting on the couch, holding the TV remote to the sky, believing that we could pause it again the way we always have? So submersed in this circus, this show we’ve seen millions of times in our dreams, in the back of our minds, on our screens.”

WORDS SASHA ZIRIN

WARMTH OR THE AUGUST BEFORE LAST

It feels like, Every day I swallow the distance whole And let it simmer and slosh inside me. To relieve the presence of none of you There are two, One pouring companionship into my mouth Like how you fed me chips and giggled On a warm night the August before last. The other looks lonely, Is loneliness, is the presence of absence Who can feel so fully that i’m lonely too We feel so full But not of the happiness that tempted us into This oxymoronic pit of together yet apart I love you too much to let go You echo those words, you echo The traces of sadness that run through my face, The ones severing the tie between love and joy, Replacing joy with yearning, responsibility, living only In the next moment that I get to see you again And touch you slowly So we can savor and once again feel how much we waited Instead of the moment around me, Where your absence feels as present as you would And I touch it slowly And feel an emotion strong, And it’s the gravity of how much i’m waiting And it’s the gratification i never feel anymore And I don’t know how to tie love and joy across state lines And i don’t like how my friends look at me when I leave to call you They don’t want to know what it’s like to understand And i wouldn’t want to either if you were here To touch me slowly Instead of the version of you Pouring companionship into my mouth That reaches into my chest while I sleep, Cups my heart in its hands, And enters my dreams

Fizzling

Like the hiss the fire pit made as its flame faded away And neither of us felt like rekindling it Instead we laughed

On a warm night the August before last.

Fizzling

Like what I can not help but deny

We love each other, that should be enough,

There are people happy people who for them this is enough I love our love but i don’t love how its states away And everyones thinking it but nobodys telling me How unhappy I look as life goes so fast Spinning around me

But I’m not moving anywhere good I’d rather have us stay Vaguely amused by the novelty of keeping busy But deciding that keeping busy is not for us The emotions are all encapsulating enough Nobody here wants to think about the past But we don’t follow trends

Except I know in this dorm hallway there is another girl Laying in bed on the phone with Someone similar Driving herself up the wall because she’s always Staying in bed thinking about Someone similar

And nobody thats apart from this particular peculiar part of me Will go further that some sympathy Thrown at my feet but i don’t care i need you and There’s a high i’m waiting for And I microdose it in the phone There’s a high i’m waiting for And I microdose it beneath the bottle And everything here would be better If you were right beside me I cant laugh unless its in chorus with yours Not now Not yet

You can still be by my side even if we are apart Even if we experience a severance like cold heat.

I can live in the future in a shiny and new way, And never guaranteed way, A way in which there is just a sliver of chance This invisible road map of life Leads back to us

Our eyes will be closed but i can feel you in the dark

I would recognize you anywhere

And I would hug your knees instead of my own And I would hug them

And you would laugh

And give a smile that glows in a way nobody else’s can Just like what happened On that warm night the August before last The one that slips And slips And I forget something from it every time i recollect it And I recollect it and i recollect it Until my arms tire and it gets strewn all over the floor. And that is when I call you And that is when i know, on the other line, You are glowing in a way nobody else can And that’s when I remember that we are together still And that’s when i remember how happy we felt And that we can be happy again, But in a different way than how we were On that warm night the August before last.

Warm Warm like the glow nobody else has Not warm like smoke and what’s beneath the bottle Not warm like you paused on Facetime and I see the blur And your shoddy silhouette

Warm like waiting for what will arrive We can’t break up Or else the warmth will be gone and smoke and what’s beneath the bottle and your shoddy silhouette will be all I’ll have left Your warm voice says to wait for what will arrive What will arrive will not be the emotional clash of when i see you again But the soft sun that always appears Once a loss like this finally starts to hurt a little less

chance

“A way in which there is just a sliver of

This invisible road map of life Leads back to us”

SINGLE SELF

VISUALS ISAIAH VIVERO

MODEL MADELEINE CAHILL

VISUALS JULIA LIPPMAN

WHAT MY MOM TAUGHT ME ABOUT SINCERITY ON THE

INTERNET

WORDS ERIN

NORTON

VISUALS DARIA SHULGA

My lovely Mama, No matter how many times you may have caught me rolling my eyes at your little nuggets of wisdom, I assure you that I did listen to you. Even more so, I kept your knowledge that was passed down through your lineage close to my heart and at the forefront of my brain. I’m sure you remember the many times I groaned as you sterny reminded an impulsive younger version of myself that I only had one reputation. You urged me to make the very best of it, as it was my one true responsibility—a long lasting reminder passed down from your own father that I’m sure you can still remember his voice repeating to this day. You were the most wonderful mother, and continue to be to this day. You

did everything you could in my upbringing to ensure that I was always smiling, well taken care of, and ready to take on the real world. But nothing could have ever prepared either one of us for the delights and challenges of the internet. Do you remember all the times I asked you for a phone in middle school and you had to tell me to be patient? I’m sure you do, because I grimace at the thought alone of how annoying I might have been—I would hate to hear how much of a nuisance I was from your perspective. Although, in retrospect, I’m sure you understand why I so badly wanted a phone. As soon as the idea of online culture popped into my head, I desperately wanted to join. Everyone else was joining, why couldn’t I? But being

the parent that you were— always looking out for me and not wanting to put me into a situation you yourself weren’t even familiar with at the time—you thought it to be best to steer me as far away as you possibly could, particularly when it came to social media. This was the exact opposite of how my friend’s parents were treating the use of the internet, they gave them unlimited access and I was envious. While all of my friends were making their first posts on Instagram, my feet stayed firmly planted in the ground of my literary dreamlands. Instead of remaining there by choice, it felt as though roots wrapped around my ankles and held me there as

I watched everyone else run so far ahead of me. It was one of the first times I had ever truly felt alone. In the online community, anyone could choose who they wanted to be—the perfect pitch for insecure middle schoolers everywhere—and that’s all I wanted. But I couldn’t have that. I was missing out on all the fun. I convinced myself that I needed social media to create a personality for myself—curate it and tend to it like it was a gallery. I’m sure you remember well, Mama, how we fought tirelessly over something as small as the internet. When I was in middle school, I would rant and complain about how you wouldn’t let me be online. In actuality, as I look back, I don’t think I could comprehend the loneliness that being left out of something so new and that’s what made me so upset. So I did what every overly emotional pre-teen does: disobey their parents. I secretly downloaded the three social media apps that were the most popular amongst my friends: Snapchat, Instagram, and Tumblr. As soon as each

platform had an account in my name, I immediately felt a rush of belonging flow into the tips of my fingers. I could do anything. I could make friends and stay up to date on trends that I didn’t used to understand when my peers would reference them in class. Being online even answered questions about myself that I hadn’t even thought to ask before. I learned so much about queer identity on Tumblr—cringey, but nostalgic and surprisingly helpful—and I was able to learn more about my own gender and sexuality as did so many others. While some good came of my new life on social media, there of course were the dangers of being a young impressionable person on the internet. One of the things I was exposed to immediately was the abundance of new people I could make friends with. As you know, Mama, I wasn’t exactly popular when I was fourteen—and, who was? And what’s more tempting than a whole new contact list waiting to be created? Before I could form any genuine connection with a stranger on the internet, you caught on and promptly

had me delete all of the apps I hid from you. From that point on, you strictly kept me offline and away from social media. The funny thing was, the entire time I was online, I kept thinking about what you said about reputation. Of course it helped that it’s always been your favorite philosophy so you talked about it all the time, and still do to this day. The short time I was online in middle school, I thought about how I was perceived by the people I shared chat rooms with and those who saw my posts. What versions of me did they know? When it all came to an abrupt end, of course I was frustrated. And of course we were at odds with each other at the time, but in retrospect, I’m grateful that I chose to fully perfect interacting with others in reality first, as opposed to launching myself into the online world head first.

As soon as I blew out the candles on my sixteenth birthday cake—a chocolate cake with raspberry filling that you made for me every year—you handed me a card with your sweet words on it and a note that read

“Because nowadays, interests can lie anywhere and so many lovely people can be met just by a comment. Maybe we are not meant to be singular, ourselves.”

something along the lines of: Go ahead and get online, Er Bear. I’m not gonna stop you. Love, Mama. And with that, I grabbed my phone from the back pocket of my jeans and downloaded just one app: Instagram. This time, it felt right. Feeling truly authentic in my own skin since I had time to fully form a personality, I felt prepared to make genuine and meaningful connections online with acquaintances and strangers alike. Recently I’ve been reflecting on the differences between the ways that my friends were raised and the way that you raised me. I often wonder how our time spent online has impacted the way that we interact with others in real life. Keeping in mind constantly the golden rule that you always taught me—you only get one reputation—I always made it a point to be nothing but kind and purely honest to everyone around me. It wasn’t until I began to form online relationships when I realized that for some people, personalities and reputations were no longer a singular thing. I’ve noticed in my own

small instances of forming online friendships and from observing friends who have placed a heavy emphasis on having internet friends, that most people find friends based on particular niches. If a person has multiple different interests, which is just a given of being a human, they are likely to have many friends in these different corners of their own little sliver of the universe. In order to continue these connections, they must be separately authentic in each of these places, a concept I wasn’t used to.

Before going away to college, I remember helping you set up your very own Instagram account. Now that I’m away at college and you’re still back at home, I love seeing your cute comments on my post, something most of my friends here at school poke fun at me for, but I love to see how you’ve warmed up to social media. It’s so interesting to watch your own ideas about internet culture and the online world change and evolve over time. Maybe you realized too that in the world of the internet, reputation

for the everyday user is no longer a singular thing. Of course it’s important because how else are we going to feel authentic and create our own special personalities? Because nowadays, interests can lie anywhere and so many lovely people can be met just by a comment. Maybe we are not meant to be singular, ourselves. And Mama, let me tell you, the people at college are fantastic. I have never in my life met so many different types of people and it’s spectacular. Many of them I got to know online, my first true online friends, but others I got to know in real life. So many of them grew up online, and they are some of the most well rounded and sincere people I know. As we are different in our own ways, I’ve learned so much from them. I can’t wait to keep growing with them and within myself. xoxo, Your eternally grateful daughter <3

Para noia

VISUALS MAYA SERI MODELS MATEO FLOREZ, LUKE HOUSTON, SARAH ANNE MUNSON, LOREALI BARCELOS, ALEX BUNIS

REMINDERS (WE ARE NOT IMMORTAL)

WORDS NICOLE CODIANNI VISUALS HADLEY BREAULT

I no longer worry about what is going to happen when I die. Any questions about the circumstances of my death, I have grown to realize, are futile. It is going to happen, whether today, tomorrow, or in thirty years. It is going to happen to me, and to you, whether we like it or not. The truth is, I don’t care to figure it out.

We are given a life; we are not guaranteed it.

It is quite simple to reconcile with this. While we are not truly alone, we remain singular in this fact, for your days are numbered differently than mine.

And so, I’ve spent the rest of my time noticing the reasons as to why we cannot go on forever. The following is what I have found. These are the reminders—

That this world waits for no one. That with our unpromised existence, we are given what we need. We retain the moments where we remember how fragile, precious and porcelain the seconds are. Where we pause when a loved one speaks, cries, stumbles, laughs. There is no telling what will occur when we die, but we know what happens as we live.

And while I don’t wish for it, I feel great relief in knowing that one day we will no longer continue.

We are not immortal. <><><>

The day I am born. Mom sobbing in the hospital room. Grandma and the ice chips. Dad fainting. Fluorescent light on all of their foreheads. Mom picking my outfits for school, most of them corduroy. Legs dangling from the monkey bars. Crayon-written letters to the North Pole. Abuela’s perfume surrounding her coffin. Paint brushes and palettes that I am not allowed to touch. Growing tomatoes in the backyard. Learning to use the big-kid scissors on blue construction paper. Copper-haired Grandma. Sunny side-up for breakfast. Dad’s laughter. Sirens. Police trying to ring the bell even though it’s broken. Swimming in the ocean. Police knocking on the front door. My sister’s first words. Beer bottles, broken glass reflecting onto the sunroom’s wood. Holding Dad’s belt loop as we cross the street. Preferring him over Mom. The tire swing in the backyard, built by Dad. Flies eating the fallen fruit in the grass. My first kiss. Yellow candles on my birthday cake.

Realizing Dad is home, now, all-the-time. Hand turkeys. Falling off my bicycle, blood on the knees.

Discovering Dad was actually let go. A goldfish I won at the carnival, swimming in the bowl. Needles. Melted ice-cream in the fancy china. Trains. Grandma’s surgery, scars on her legs. Hurricane Sandy. Mom’s ruined watercolors. Running out of hot water, electricity, heat. The Christmas candles being lit in October. The fish upside down in the tank. Flushing him down the toilet, flushing it all down the toilet. An anxiety attack in the Kohl’s clearance section. Strands of my hair on the carpet. Roombas. Sunburn. Publishing my first poem. Dad leaving his new job in the city. Grandma putting presents under the tree. Hydrangeas at the funeral. Nightmares. An empty plastic chair at high school graduation. Grandma’s curls, now silver. Dad asleep, in a tux and on the couch without a blanket; covering him with the family quilt. The

dog, eating the pet rabbit. Biting my nails until there is red.

Blowing him instead of the flowers. Counseling. Grandma, pouring her coffee, calling herself a snowbird. The rebuilt boardwalk. Joan Didion. Mom still holding my hand at the doctor’s office. Pale latex gloves. Crinkly paper atop a medical recliner. Roses at a funeral. Panic in a bathroom stall. Dad’s thin frame, waiting for me in the entryway. Mom’s swollen fingers. Her easel on the back porch. Movie theatres. Our first words, exchanged over Instagram DM. Noticing my hair growing back. Velvet couches in my therapist’s office. Another lover, leaving, walking out the door. Realizing Santa’s handwriting has always been Grandma’s. My first time. Forgetting to turn off the oven. Understanding why Dad and I are sad, quiet, half-full. The dog, never eating again.

Mom’s turquoise jewelry. Telling extended family I’m going to be a writer; witnessing the

horror on their faces. Thumb wars with Dad. Getting him help. Baby teeth in a plastic box, sitting on Mom’s dresser. Breaking up with him in his favorite restaurant. Humming a lullaby as I drive down the Robert Moses. The Shawshank Redemption each December. Needles, again. Thinking of downing the Guinness before Dad can. The blue eyes of my college roommate. Norm Macdonald. Watching him twist the ring on his middle finger. Crying as it thunderstorms. Remembering the waves that destroyed the street, the backyard, the town.

Grandma’s earrings. Taking someone’s virginity. The smell of acrylic paint. A bob cut. Dad disappearing, for some days at a time. Failing my driver’s test. Skinny dipping in the sea.

Returning home to Boston. Dad returning to work. Letting Dad know, before I go, he is my best friend. His laughter, a second time. The whir of an MRI machine. FaceTiming Grandma. Buying corduroy jeans that don’t quite fit my thighs. Nightmares, only once in a while. Mom’s painting in the bedroom closet. Hanging it up when she visits. His

arched back while he plays the piano. My palms covering my old handprints. Not going to New York for the holidays. Candlepin. Strands of me in his sheets. Seeing the little moons of my fingernails. Riding a BlueBike without directions. Worrying about what will become of us. Mom tucking my hair behind my ear, telling me not to smile with teeth. Grandma promising me it is alright. Dad’s head buried into my shoulder. Writing this down, writing all of this down.

CHIPPED

VISUALS JONAH HODARI MODELS SHAYMAA SAUNDERS, MAYA WRIGHT

WORDS JESSICA FERGUSEN VISUALS KAITLYN JOYNER

I live in a with youhologram

Confession: I’ve been watching The D’Amelio Show lately. What’s worse? I’ve been enjoying it. Not because I find it well-made or thought-provoking— the exact opposite, actually. The reason I’ve been streaming it amid countless, objectively better shows is because of its mindlessness; it’s been a distraction from all the stress that comes with being in your final semester of college and merely existing in today’s world. It’s a place for me to go where the biggest problems are which multimillion-dollar mansion to live in, and not what I’m going to do or where I’m going to be for the rest of my life. I’m not ashamed to admit it: it’s gotten me through some mentally rough patches. It sounds dramatic, but as much as I appreciate more substantial shows like The Handmaid’s Tale, sometimes we don’t need yet another reminder of how cruel the world is.

We all do it. Whether you’re down a rabbit hole of YouTube video essays on bizarre conspiracy theories, endlessly scrolling through TikTok after promising yourself you’d watch ‘just one more,’ or adding dozens of items to your online shopping cart that you’ll never actually buy, distractions are an inevitable part of life. And it’s not necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes we need a ‘brain break’ or somewhere to go mentally when reality is too, well, real. We know that we’re not being productive and there are other things to do, but we can only take so much! I’ll lay in bed on my phone until the wee hours of the night with an unchecked ‘to-do’ list, voices in the back of my head reminding me of going to bed or of unfinished work, and the random TikTok people exclaiming I need to step away from the app as my finger instinctively swipes, desperate to get another burst of dopamine.

i live in a hologram with you.

Yes, you! It doesn’t matter if we’ve never met before, we’re all existing in the same universe, doing whatever we need to scrape by. We’re all captivated by these distractions, and we can’t blame ourselves. Can you imagine how miserable we’d all be if we didn’t have anything to detract from our hard feelings? Like a shot with no chaser, burning down your throat; a freezing day with no gloves, the cold air biting at your fingers until they’re numb; wearing Doc Martens without breaking them in, hobbling down the street with raw heels. Distractions protect us from letting all of our negative thoughts swallow us up.

I don’t want to be a cynic. I know that life can be great sometimes. I feel it when I look out the window at the perfect time to catch the sunset, when I laugh so hard that I cry, or when I taste my family’s cooking for the first time in months. But, like all things, life has its monotonous, tragic, unfair, bleak, [insert your adjective of choice] moments. And for every seemingly endless day at work or school, we need an intense workout or a cheesy Netflix original to brace the hard feelings. It’s a defense mechanism of sorts. Who needs a therapist when you have The Kissing Booth, right?

explosions on TV / and all the girls with heads inside a dream

Knowing we’re all in some ways living by means of distractions is comforting in a sense. It’s easy to be hard on ourselves for not participating in this toxic, American ‘hustle culture’ and not constantly being productive (how boring would that be?). But it’s impossible to live that way, and anyone who is truly spending all their time working is probably not thriving in any other aspect of their life.

I’ve been living in ‘survival mode’ for the past couple of years, focusing on what will get me through one day to the next, even if it might not be productive, positive, or constructive in any way. But if not for distractions, I think I would just be consumed by existential dread; bogged down by stress. I feel tinges of guilt when I spend my free time rotting in bed instead of applying to jobs or cleaning my room, but when I spend the majority of time working or in class, anything that requires even the slightest amount of brainpower can seem daunting when I don’t need to be exerting myself.

One of the lessons I think we learned from the pandemic was

a) how shitty the world can be, and b) the importance of living People quit their jobs or changed careers because they realized they don’t want to spend all their time working at a job they’re unhappy with. People took up hobbies like crocheting or jewelry-making, partially out of boredom, but also to find healthy outlets for their time. Most distractions are just that—positive ways to channel feelings of stress, anxiety, and depression.

it’s so easy in this blue / where everything is good

If you don’t believe me when I say distractions can be a good thing, I get it. I’m a 22-year-old who watches Hulu reality shows in my free time and scrolls on TikTok to watch videos of dogs lip-syncing until 1 a.m. But you can believe people with more qualifications than me. Healthline reports, “Distraction aims to create distance from the source of emotional distress so that you’re able to process those uncomfortable feelings.” We can’t blindly make our way through trauma, stress, and other big feelings; there needs to be a safety net in place to make these emotions more manageable. That’s where distractions come in. They feel good, and they give our minds a well-needed break. Who could blame anyone for wanting to be distracted by something? Countless times, I’ve asked people around me to distract me, whether I’m getting a shot or overwhelmed by a major assignment. But distraction implies a temporary avoidance of the task or issue at hand. When

“I feel tinges of guilt when I spend my free time rotting in bed instead of applying to jobs or cleaning my room, but when I spend the majority of time working or in class, anything that requires even the slightest amount of brainpower can seem daunting when I don’t need to be exerting myself.”

we scroll through socials in the middle of writing an essay, we are planning to come back to the issue and eventually resolve it. The problem comes when distraction turns into avoidance or denial, or when the distractions we’re choosing are harmful.

make believe it’s hyper-real

Just because something’s a coping mechanism, doesn’t mean it can’t be harmful. For the most part, distractions make us feel good—that’s why we do them. But there’s a fine line between constructive and destructive distractions: when taking a power nap to feel refreshed turns into sleeping through classes and work, or unwinding with a glass of wine at night turns into a bottle of wine. Sex, alcohol, drugs, or too much screen time can feel good in the moment but can get in the way of our responsibilities.

And I hate to admit it, but our parents were right: too much of a good thing can be a bad thing. Even supposedly ‘positive’ distractions, like reading, exercising, or engaging in a hobby, can take away from work, schoolwork, and other commitments. Distraction—or avoidance—can’t be the only way you’re dealing with your stress or issues. Healthline also suggests the balancing coping

strategy, which “helps you to bring logic into the equation,” such as “making lists, being honest about how you’re feeling, and asking for help.” Implementing different strategies can prevent you from getting too wrapped up in one thing.

As with most things in life, it’s all about maintaining a fine balance—between work and play; between coping and avoiding; between our distractions. I know I can manage my use of distractions better, but I also know these distractions are part of what keeps me sane, and there’s no way I’m giving them up. And there’s nothing wrong with that! I’m not a robot who’s going to endlessly work on a loop. So give me The D’Amelio Show or give me death—or something like that.

Lyrics from “Buzzcut Season” (2013) by Lorde.

I’LL LOVE YOU FOREVER

VISUALS DREW MITCHELL MODELS ASHA FLUELLEN, SEPTEMBER SCHULTZ

VISUALS MASON VAUGHAN

WORDS MARY KASSEL

VISUALS DARIA SHULGA

Whale Fall (v.) - a collective term for the whale carcass, the process of dead whale fall, and the formed deepsea ecosystem.

Part One: The Fall

The reason whales are so big is because they have no natural predators. This is a generalization, but it’s true. Believe me, I watch NOVA. All the big sharks, think The Meg, went extinct leaving a wide open niche for whale-eating that no one occupied. With no one around to eat them, whales got bigger, and bigger and bigger. And, they’re so nice about it too. Gentle giants. Except for dolphins who apparently are quite mean. Give or take about 80 to 90 years, the lifespan of the blue whale, with no enormous sharks to chase them, the whale will die of natural causes. Although, being eaten is natural in the grand scheme. So, what happens next? Where do

these creatures, larger than life, go when they die? No cremations underwater. First, they’ll float. All the gasses that have been building up their whole lives collect and make them buoyant for the first couple of days post mortem. Eventually, they’ll start to sink, and the currents will carry them. There are so many currents in the ocean, so many migration patterns, so many paths leading to specific places. Endless tubes of water and winds below the surface carrying bodies all over creation. Maybe they’ll end up in the one and only place where eels reproduce. Maybe they’ll end up at the bottom of the Mariana Trench and never be seen again. Somewhere too deep and too cold for the best of our technology to follow. Even the brightest lights and the toughest metals get swallowed by the darkness down there. Mostly, they’ll just sink to the ocean floor somewhere.

Maybe not the deepest and coldest, but certainly nowhere they’ll be disturbed by the likes of us. The final resting place might be somewhere quiet. Somewhere gentle. Somewhere to rest at last. But, their remains will get no rest. They’ll outlive them. Be their legacy. They’ll be a vital tool to the ecosystem of the ocean floor. A feast that lasts decades.

Part Two: The Feast

The scavengers eat first. Crabs and eels, octopus and sleeper sharks feed on soft tissue and flesh picking the bones clean. What a meal for someone who may be waiting months for the next time such a gift comes their way. Before the boon of the whale arrives, they’ll have been living on marine snow. A pretty term for the waste and dead of the sea that must eventually find its way to the bottom. The ocean floor, famously inhospitable, but teeming with life straight

out of a horror movie. Fish with lightbulbs for eyes, sand eroding faster than the grains can be counted, levels of pressure that would make your head explode and crush the air of the oxygen tank in a heartbeat. What kind of creatures live where even the sun dares not shine? The kind that can make their buffet last up to eighteen months. The whale’s decomposition is slowed due to the depth and temperature, and these animals may live from meal to meal, but they’re smart

enough to make this one count. Only in the ocean could this happen. An ocean so alien to us that the cold honest truth is that no one knows what’s at the bottom. Just ten percent of it has been explored. For all we know it really could be mermaids, krakens, and the wreck of Sinbad’s ship. Probably just the bones of those who went looking for them.

For the whale, the bones and cartilage sink into the sediment, enriching it with nutrients practically unheard

of at these depths. This can take five years. In swoop the little guys. Smaller crustaceans and wiggling sea bugs dig through the surrounding sediment searching for overlooked tissue. Dirty work, but who’s counting. It’s too dark to see any sideways glances from the snobbish cephalopods. After all, it’s easier being small in the ocean. Even if the whale lived 90 years and had no predators, you’re still eating it in the end.

Part Three: The Forage

Finally, the bacteria that dares to make their home in this hostile land dissolve the fatty bits inside the bones which emit hydrogen sulfide. They spread, taking over the skeleton like moss and glowing in the darkness. A beacon to all that the food is still good and there’s still a place at the table if you’re hungry. The mussels, clams, and snails answer the call. Settling on the bones making it the seat of their colony,

perhaps for decades. By far the longest stage yet. The new life that comes from this death is incalculable. There have been entirely new species recorded found only on the bones and carcasses of dead whales. Entire categories of animals living their lives, carving out their niche, propagating their genes and we almost missed it.

Even when the whale is gone, the bones finally breaking apart into dust from years of sustaining the lives of others, the impact will live on

forever. The next generation of scavengers, bottom feeders, and those who scrape the last rungs of the food chain hold pieces of this whale in their bodies. Pieces that will be passed through the DNA from offspring to offspring. A biological hold stronger than a Thanksgiving tradition. Animals that could give evolution a run for its money because they just won’t die. They’ll spend lifetimes hanging on for dear life. Literally. Because what else is there to do? If you were

dropped at the bottom of the ocean and told to make it work, what other choice would you have? Might as well wait it out a little longer. There could be a whale about to fall right in your lap.

Part Four: The Future

We should all become whales and never die. That way, at least, we could become useful in our crusade to live on, and not in a creepy seeing your children as yourself way.

Instead of encasing ourselves in stone and staying separate from the Earth, even in death, we could embrace it. Lay our bodies in the dirt as they begin to rot away and let the mushrooms go to town. The scientists say whales mourn their dead. Do you think if they could they would build mausoleums as we do? I doubt it. If they could choose I believe they would keep things as they are. A beautiful balance predicated on millions of years of trial and error. Survival and extinction.

The ocean, the whales, and everything else swirling around down there has been here far longer than I have, and who am I to mess with perfection?

But, hey, that’s what we do. We mess and mess until there’s nothing left to make messy. The ocean has not come out unscathed and the whales haven’t either. Patches of garbage, animals choking on oil, and a slow death in a fisherman’s net. These are not pretty pictures, but rest assured, the sea will have the last laugh. It was too much for us. We had to turn to the sky and reach out for space because what was right within our grasp, our own life’s blood, was too deep and too murky to understand. A black hole is scary, yes, but if a black hole opens up around the Earth tomorrow there’s nothing I can do about it. That’s not something I was meant to understand, and kudos to those who are trying. But, the ocean is life and water. I’m made of it and it’s made of me. It created us, you and me and we can’t live without it. We’ll probably drown ourselves before the ocean can do it, but I really hope we don’t. I hope somebody finds a way for us to live on, just like the whales do.

VISUALS LIDA EVERHART

LIMINAL MODEL MELODY CHEN ASSISTANT/STYLIST EMILY HUGHES

VISUALS HADLEY BREAULT

The first time I experienced the end of the world, I was four years old. It was a beautiful summer day in early July, and I was the bell of the ball at my birthday party. Adults buzzed and we as children held discreet meetings between our dolls, stuffed animals, and the lions painted on a south-facing wall.

Wanting a glass of water, I asked my dad very sweetly if he could please carry me up the stairs. It was my birthday, after all — I didn’t want to walk. He, however, in a rotten turn of events, chose to carry my best friend up the stairs before me. Naturally, I began to cry.

This was a huge blow to the parameters of my dad and I’s now four-year-long relationship. I had thought I was the most important

person in his world. I had thought there was no one whose needs or wants could ever surpass my own. I had thought he would prioritize me in every way he possibly could, especially when I wanted something as simple as someone to carry me up the stairs, let alone on my precious day.

Well, apparently not.

My world has come crashing to an end many times after that, as I presume many worlds belonging to preteens, teenagers, and twentysomethings have. So many times I’ve suffered the end of the world, the end of my life as I was familiar with it. And while I am sensitive and prone to dramatization and this is all a result of my privilege as a white girl who can afford to be dramatic, I don’t think

I’m necessarily wrong when I perceive a demise. Each time I cry over a discernible life death (what you may refer to as “change”), I am positioned anew. Most of the time, my role, my perception, or the way I am perceived changes. I will, usually, thereafter live my life in a different way, however small the shift is, because I see things or am seen differently. After all, our perception of a thing is our reality, right up to the moment when we change our perception and our reality changes.

Think: The Truman Show and Joycean epiphanies. Think: The different times in your life when one of your key perceptions changed, and how that affected how you went on living your life.

If we are to return to that fateful day in 2005, my life changed because I realized

that I was not the center of the universe. Crushing, I know.

Consider a function, something that, famously, relates an input to an output. f(x)=ax+b; y=6x+8. You plug different values into x to get different y’s, and what you are left with are points that sit on the graph and map out your function. Consider x=6, so y=44. The point sits at (6,44) on the grid. If x=-33, y=-190, and your point is (-33, -190) — so on and so forth. Let’s follow this logic: What if x = a bad haircut or bleached eyebrows or a move to Los Angeles. (Of course, we can’t necessarily solve for y, but) It affects where we sit on the grid, how we slide up and down, who we are next to.

Many people, especially those who are conditioned to be girls, become keenly aware of how they look at a young age, and how changes in that look affect how they’re perceived. Gxrls, in particular, learn how to manipulate that look in order to achieve different results.

When a friend of mine was eleven, her mom brought her to get her curly hair straightened. When the process was over, she burst into tears because she couldn’t recognize herself. She had realized that there was this part of her she didn’t know existed, a more feminine, “girly” version who wore pin straight hair.

She noticed, too, that she acted differently when her hair was straight, because she felt more feminine. Beyond that, she acted differently just knowing this part of her existed, waiting to be unlocked by a straightener and a couple hours of her time — Spiderman has a

similar relationship with his latex suit. When she realized this part of her, her world expanded to encompass these two roles.

As we grow up and experiment with our appearance, these worlds continue to swell. They swell until we get a bad haircut, at which point they burst.

Points of singularity are points where a mathematical object or point in a function set begins to behave in an unusual, undefined, or chaotic way. Many times in my teendom when x equaled a bad haircut, or someone finding out about a piece of gossip I was spreading, or accidentally liking a photo on someone’s Instagram that was posted 3+ weeks ago, or my crush not texting — or Kik-ing, rather — me back, or picking up my iPod to see cracks consuming the glass surface, I felt flung off the grid; y = life over. My heart sank to my stomach and I mourned my once promising future. These admittedly melodramatic moments, in which I thought, in all earnest, that my life was over, made me feel completely out of control, completely in panic, like I had completely lost my grip on the terms of my reality.

I feel at the brink of societal collapse when I bleach my eyebrows. When my grasp on myself and the way I look, and in effect the role I play in the world, seems tenuous.

Isn’t that, after all, the trouble with coming out? Accepting a new role at least in the eyes of those who closeted you. Does societal collapse feel the same as the collapse of a role you’ve played all your life? The social death of a part of you that never really was? I feel that when I chop my hair off and bleach my eyebrows, because it cracks my role in society wide open like a chestnut. It forces me to empty and stuff it with new things and become a new iteration of me, a kind of Frankensteining of self.

It’s alive, it really is, or at least it feels that way. And that kind of life starts with an end. My friend who has curly hair now feels empowered by this ability to switch up her look, to change the way people perceive her, to have that power over someone. In this way, she is not passively observed, but an active participant in your looking at her.

I walk through an airport and I feel like I’m in the place just beyond the brink of a societal collapse.

everyone’s role

That is,

“Does societal collapse feel the same as the collapse of a role you’ve played all your life? The social death of a part of you that never really was?”

is up in the air, up for debate, completely inconclusive. Mine, yours, theirs, is tenuous, in between somewhere and inside of nowhere. Possibilities abound under the fluorescent light. Think: high school hallways. I’m anyone and nobody. Everything I could buy in an airport — pad thai from Panda Express, cheap headphones, a magazine — contains nothing of me in it, betrays nothing of me inside it.

Airport air is thin. The white walls and harsh lighting are inhuman, are of a room that makes you forget where you are. Bright lights tend to do that. Think: Don’t Worry Darling. Think: simulation. In an airport, things feel steady and still, like a river that’s always moving but never stops to consider where it’s going. You share every facet of this moment with everyone else: You, me, and they flow with something bigger, sweat clings to your, mine, and their skin and we all smell bad, we’re hungry but would rather not get Panda Express or spend $15 for a smoothie. We disappear under the artificial light, float up above the crowd, become someone totally other than who we are.

I moved to Los Angeles this year. I couldn’t bring much with me, and I left most of the people who know me well behind. I didn’t have much of any creature comforts with me, so nothing tethered me to the version of myself I was before. I did not set out with any intention to change, but with nothing and no one to keep me as the someone of before, I knew, in theory, I could change every little thing about me. Plug a hundred different values in for x to get a hundred different outputs.

I didn’t do that, but I rest assured knowing I could.

I think this is why I always change my appearance at beginnings and ends; before or after I get a job, or move, or start or end classes. I don’t like being compared to who I’ve been. Or changing my appearance because in my head, it changes the terms of my relational agreements. Once, I disclosed to my friend that I didn’t want to bleach my eyebrows because I was talking to a someone new. I didn’t want to change myself in the middle of a beginning.

I was afraid of luring them in with one version of me and then changing form once they’d taken the bait, as if I

was afraid a charm would melt away.

I like L.A. because people seem free to take a lot of stylistic risks, no matter where they are on a timeline. A friend of mine put it nicely, when she said everyone here plays a character, personally or professionally. Different styles populate the street and new art galleries open every day. People are always inspired to plug different inputs in to get different results.

This also, of course, leads to a bunch of people living beyond their means, because they can dress and act, mostly, however they want. The supplies are at their fingertips. Plus, there is an added pressure of looking Good. People buy things they can’t afford for simple lifestyle and aesthetic promotions. They plug a $400 shirt and $1200 boots in for x, in hopes of y equaling, well, a slay, a stunt, a serve. It’s a sort of infection, spread by a bug who does not bite, but sucks, until you max out your credit card.

I feel it sucking now.

I just made an offer on a pair

of German, leather ballet flats on Depop.

No moms exist here to say: No, put it on your Christmas list and then we’ll see; No, we have food at home; No… because I said so. Of course, this is true once you grow up, but this seems especially true in L.A. The city lives without limits, lives without moms. Hopes are never dashed because 1) there’s always another opportunity, 2) there’s probably a loophole, and 3) there’s always a payment plan. Worlds, when they do implode, are only ever on a large scale and are only ever catastrophic.

Think: serial murder, city council implosions, air thick with smog and smoke, bankruptcy, homelessness, rock bottom, blacklists. The apocalypse feels particularly near in Los Angeles.

The kind of small-scale, subjective, life-overs are few and far between, left behind in rural or suburban or small town and limit-full teendom. And it’s only when you lose these things that you realize they are the guardrails you bump up against, and which keep you on the proverbial right track.

In L.A., every possible value for x has been plugged in before and will be again. Forget measures or measurement, restriction or limitation; I will buy German ballet flats and pins and charms and useless treasures from a Russian man parked on the side of a winding road, who wears purple gloves and a purple hat, but neglects shoes and socks. I will feel encouraged by an endless, blank, blue sky and a lackadaisical haze. And perhaps I will continue to live with few checks and fewer balances until it all implodes, until I, like many others before me, drain my bank account and must return home. Perhaps I will sprint toward a real and honest end of the world and look great while doing it. And perhaps it will all go up in flames, but at least I will be wearing beautiful shoes and carrying a box full of lovely, vaguely communist treasures — and one thing is for certain: my eyebrows will be bleached.

THROUGH NOT PAST

VISUALS JESSICA O’DONOGHUE MODELS LOLA SPECTOR

VISUALS SYDNEY GRANTHAM

Bruised Meat // Beautiful in the Light

WORDS SARA VALENTINE

God created Eve from Adam’s rib and Cain broke Abel’s body over a stone. We brush up against each other as we come together and as we fall apart. Creation is often more violent than you know.

Go on and lay your head down on that bruised apple He calls a chest. Listen to the vibrations as he talks.You can peel away the waxy skin if you like.

Long spirals of Red Delicious hit the floor and it will not bring you any closer.

It will never bring you closer, Not in the way you want, the way you desire.

If you trace the frame long enough they say it will become muscle memory– If your hands sink into the flesh, Do Not Be Afraid.

There is a core to everything. Please forgive me for trying to become your worm.

You can play Operation here a little while longer. Feel around. Take it in.

I give you my permission. Take a rib or two with you when you go. There is no room for you in another body, but you can carve out a temporary lodging if you like.

On the first day, there was Light. Actually, there was darkness and then there was Light. This order is not important. Before the Light there was Very little (we call it “Nothing”) And so there was Nothing for the Light to expose.

You should know that if I turn on the light tonight, I do not care what it might find on our bed.

Always it begins with a head on a chest. Laying down on that bruised apple he calls a home. The thought begins to take shape—

A slow stirring of something (a serpent?) waking up.

What if you just Slipped?

Only a little–It’s an easy mistake to make, fingernails trailing and slicing and peeling. You could even call it an accident, if you like. You could reach down and pull and stretch and tug on any strings that you find. You have my permission. Twist their tendons through those slender fingers, And never mind the knowledge that you have gone bad

I mean, really, truly rotten. You have been growing inside of me from the beginning. Let us not forget that even rot desires life. Digging through that body you found will only get more blood beneath your nails.

DOMESTICBLITZ

HAIR FAITH PINNOW MAKEUP EMMA HIGGINS LIGHTING LUKE HUSTON, MAYA SERI ASSIST TOVE JEGEUS, DEANNE ARCHAMBEAU, MAGNOLIA ELLENBURG, ELISHA WILDMAN

VISUALS HAYLEY KAUFER MODELS FAITH PINNOW, DAVID STAATS, PIPER, CLAIRE, ALEX

SHACKLES OF SOCIETY IN THE MULTIVERSE BEYOND AND

WORDS MARIYAM QUAISAR

Society doesn’t let us feel like individuals, but how much does it truly matter if our socalled individuality may just be replicated in another universe?

3.7 billion years ago, the earliest form of life made its way on to earth, and experienced predetermined conditions allowing it to survive, create, and evolve. Fast forward to about 200,000 years ago, homo sapiens—the first modern humans—developed. Over the past couple thousand years, mankind has transformed from lifestyle to lifestyle, and society to society… up until this moment.

Until now, groups of humans have dictated how their people will live in order to be accepted by society and its norms. Since conception, our decisions have been made for us, whether it’s by our parents, our teachers, our coaches, our peers, or the looming, invisible norm police. Everything we have done and will do is not a reflection of ourselves, but of the community we resonate with, and the greater communities surrounding us. And unfortunately, this will continue far, far beyond this moment.

Free expression of spirit is lost—or maybe it never truly existed—due to the interference of our conscious minds. We shut down and lock up the singularity that creates diverse human beings, and, consequently, our beings mentally and physically suffer the burden of conforming. In terms of physical scrutiny, the way in which we have treated and transformed our bodies is a reflection of how pressured we are to abide by the “unsaid” rules on body normativity.

All communities have notions about the “normal” body which vary across cultures. The influence of a society’s values and traditions sets acceptable versus unacceptable standards on how somebody should look and live, stripping an individual of their individuality—the power of personal choices. Tremendous decisions like what college to attend, trivial decisions like what bag to bring to class, and tolerable decisions like what type of man to go on a date with are all shaped by what the collective society would condone. But society commands nothing as severely as it does the human body.

Body normativity crushes a person’s ability to feel control over how their body looks because it’s either accepted or not, with very little in between. In this white, American society, there is a pressure to have (basically) negative body fat, a grabbable ass, bouncing tits, sharp jawlines—whatever the current societal trend may be. These societal regulations block an individual’s path to

recognize their body as their own. Instead, the body becomes a product of society that is shaped and toned in unnatural ways.

These pressurizing norms hold very little power when examined in the big picture, just as individuals do. In reference to the earth, we are so miniscule and insignificant; in reference to the multiverse, we are just another copy of ourselves. Despite these ever-changing, inconsequential body trends, individuals continue scrambling to meet the current (apparently deadly-ifyou-don’t-follow) standards.

Right now, there is a blend of early 2000s fashion trends mixed with modern day body standards—the ability (and confidence) to wear low waisted pants. In a few years, high waisted skinny jeans may resurface, so the pressure to have a flat waist falls away because a person’s stomach is no longer on display. The point is, while body normativity

does not need to stay consistent, people still must diligently adhere to them despite all the arbitrary remodeling.

Past civilizations saw excess body fat as a sign of wealth and prosperity, now it’s looked down upon. Tattoos, which used to represent important cultural and societal symbols in a variety of communities, are now linked with a “rebel status.” Women used to desire smaller butts and thinner thighs so as to not be labeled “fat,” now we are exerting our lower body twice a week to

grow our glutes, or getting plastic surgery to physically change our bodies to comply with society’s definition of an attractive body.

The list goes on. As societal norms in regards to how a person’s body should look have altered, the manner in which people react to them transforms with them. When will it end?

The answer: it simply won’t. Individuality does not exist— we are pawns of society and its rules.

But, how important is it to take control of our bodies when our “uniqueness” may very well be limited to this universe? We are specks in the biggest picture—specks that are copied and pasted in dimensions across space and time.

At the end of the day, the notion of individuality slips through our fingers not only when we allow others to dictate who we are and how we look, but also through the phenomenon that a replica of each individual from this uni

verse exists in another. And if we are replicated in another universe or dimension, then what purpose do we really have on this earth to be or feel special. Our singularity ends right there: when the notion that another version of you, maybe one that’s just wearing a different colored sweater, exists right over the multiverse barrier.

What we do, who we are, what we feel is not our own. It is shaped by the environment around us that forces certain actions and reactions. As society collectively decides what

way of life—especially how a being should look—is acceptable, individuals give up their power. We become products of societal norms, regardless of how hard we think we are fighting back. The laws of the collective society get stronger as another person comments on the size of their butt or the size of their jeans. Our individuality is struck down when we compare, which is a thing no human cannot do.

But, if someone else, someone very similar to you not so far away, may very well be doing the same and feeling

the same, why does it even matter? It matters because whether we are specks or not, we are living a life that demands to be seen as special.

We are living a life that doesn’t deserve to be bound by social norms. We are living a life that deserves self expression that breaks the shackles tied by the norm police. We are living a life that deserves adventurous exploration into who we are as a unique part of a collective, not as the collective.

THE IN THE MANHOLE Mermaid

MARINA MAN

VISUALS

MODEL SOPHIE JIN

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