https://soundcloud.com/gsmst-music-technology/sets/digital-ham-sandwich Zoe Elise – Backpack Digital Ham Sandwich
Infinitas The City Issue 2 Spring 2015
Notes from the Editor We are proud to present the second issue of Infinitas, GSMST’s biannual literary magazine, and we would like to thank everyone for their contributions. The collection of works we are presenting is a reflection of the theme The City. We presented GSMST students with the opportunity to share their opinions and interpretations of a city. We are proud to say that the student body delivered and are even more proud to be able to share each of these amazing artistic works with you. Thank you for coming along on the journey that is Infinitas.
- Stellah
Indiya
Editor-In-Chief
“What strange phenomena we find in a great city, all we need do is stroll about with our eyes open. Life swarms with innocent monsters.� -Charles Baudelaire
Table of Contents Untitled
Nnemella Wisu
Art
Good Ol’ ATL
Cindy Sanders
Art
1
City Sounds
Elly Ren
Poetry
1
Street Lights
Brian Ball
Art
2
The Old Ruins
Jessica Solomon
Poetry
3
Untitled
4
The Adventures of the Average Postman
7
Untitled
8
Atlanta
Quinton Tran
Poetry
9
Lost in Anguish
John Moreno Vasquez
Poetry
10
Mother of Myth
James Siochi
Short Story
15
Personality Anarchy
Anonymous
Art
16
Karoshi
Saman Muhammed
Poetry
17
One Way
Marlyn Rivera
Art
18
The Fleeting Future
Janice Cherono
19
Taken Over
Allison Chan
Art
20
2 AM in a City That Never Sleeps
Britt Longe
Poetry
21
Urban Timepiece
Mohammed Reza Momin
Art
22
Kingston
Jordane Bloomfield
Poetry
23
Swarming and Smog
Swarming and Smog
Art
Kathleen Bradbury
Art
Devin Le
Eva Lanatta
Short Story Art
Poetry
Table of Contents 24
Comparing Graffiti and Street Art in Atlanta
Melissa Ge
Nonfiction
27
Graffiti
Cam Tu Nguyen
Art
28
Ode to Morality
Jacq Whitmer
Poetry
29
America
Bekka Song
Art
30
Anchorage
Jonathan Jeffrey
Poetry
31
From the Eye of the Storm
Rodshai Johnson
Poetry
31
Urban Skyline
Nia Meadows
Art
32
Walking With the City
Evonie Harris
Poetry
33
Soda, Rodin, and Plane Crashes: The Effect of Robert Woodruff on Atlanta’s Art Culture
Blake Lowe
Nonfiction
34
Coffee Shop
Ruby Rhoden
Art
35
Together in the City
Jyot Batra
Poetry
36
The Demand of a Painful City
Nathaly Mandujano
Poetry
37
Portland’s “Anti-Urbanization” Movement Reaches New Heights
Blake Lowe
Satire
38
Her
Duncan Bennett-Conner
Poetry
39
Passion in the City
Sharon Flores
Poetry
40
The City
Kathleen Park
Poetry
City Sounds by Elly Ren An electrical buzzing The low metal hum The industrial music With construction for drums The traffic is trumpets And buskers play strings As I walk through a crowd I hear them all sing A rattling storm drain And morose pigeon coos The ringing of bike bells And the tapping of shoes It needs no conductor And there’s none to be found The city is throbbing It’s a gathering of sound.
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The Old Ruins by Jessica Solomon We debate with every piece of land Look in disgust at swamps and deserts And say, “We can fix it,” With our little hammers and shovels Ready to take on every challenge given Every hurdle nature throws at us And tell her, “We can fix it And we can fix you.” We remember that we came from dust From dank, swampy mud Life’s breath pushed in us We are lucky to move, miracles to think We remember that we are the ones Who marred nature with our jaws and hands But we want to forget And cover ourselves with gold and silver Call ourselves new suns and moons Make our man-made stars brighten up the night Create smooth, reflective, branchless redwoods And say, “We have fixed it,” We forget the ruins of Angkor Wat The Titanic crushed by ice and wave But one day, someone will come to earth And find not towering, man-made perfection But masses of vines and ivy Shrouding the shambled shame and pride of man
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The Adventures of the Average Postman by Devin Le You know, work was always a hard thing to do in the freezing weather. I shivered as another chill breeze swept through my layers of clothing and touched my bones. Rubbing my fingers together, I hoped that I could feel the blood circulating through them again. Of course, I knew it wouldn’t work, but even fools needed hope every once in a while. I pawed at my satchel, trying to reach for the few letters that this apartment needed while shuffling from the heavy, oppressive chill to the warm confines of an air conditioned heaven. The differences in temperature had me shivering even worse though, as my body tried to get used to the newer, nicer air. This was my last stop for the day, and I was ready to get back to the post office to clock out. My back was on fire, and my feet were killing me. I went to the various slots where I could slip mail through and proceeded to monotonously slide letter after letter through the slits of each respective letterbox. When the last letter slipped through, I felt my heart jump in elation, and with a little triumphant smile, I turned around to head back. My heart nearly stopped when I was met face-to-face with the most horrifyingly bright person I’ve ever met. They had a smile that stretched miles and an aura that radiated warmth and sincerity. Oh how I hated those people. I gave the brightest smile I could muster—which, I admit, wasn’t very bright—and muttered an “excuse me” and tried to trudge past the offending person. Having such sunny disposition, I automatically placed her in front of me, blocking my way. I guess it was time for me to try a different approach. “I’m so sorry ma’am, it seems I’m in your way,” I said, mustering as much politeness as I could possibly gather. The perky girl shook her head, almost violently, and kept that infuriating smile pasted on her face. My hands twitched as I suppressed the urge to punch something. No one should be this cheerful at seven in the afternoon. “Nope!” she said, making me wince (Her voice was like a warm oven. How does one make their voice sound like that?). “I’m exactly where I want to be.” “And that’s right in front of me?” I shot back. “Yes,” the answer, simple, succinct, and quick, hit me hard, causing me to take a step back in surprise. I was out of rebuttals and only had one question in mind. “Why?” I said, so thoroughly confused as to why someone would want to be standing in front of someone without a good reason. “I don’t have any money that I could give you,” I added, cynicism quickly taking over. The girl laughed, which sounded like wind chimes (Seriously. Who actually laughs like that?), and shook her head again, this time without giving me the fear that her head would fall off. “Can’t a girl stand in front of a guy and make small talk?” she supplied, eyes sparkling with a little bit of playfulness (Sparkling?! Seriously? Is this girl a fairy tale princess or something?). I blinked, still incredibly confused. Then it was like a light bulb turning on. “You’re new to the city, aren’t you?” I asked, finally understanding where this crazy girl was coming from. She tilted her head, for the first time expressing a bit of confusion and hesitance. “So what if I am?” she asked in innocent quandary, and not in a rude, defensive manner like how I would have expected. Quandary. I sighed quietly. Oh, in another life I could have been a poet. I beckoned the girl to follow me, and she finally stepped aside to let me through. I led her out of the apartment and into the bright sun and cold wind. She blinked 4
uncertainly, staring at me as if trying to figure out what my motives were. I spread my arms out and gestured to the large skyscrapers and tiny alleyways. I pointed to the kids running in the streets and the crowds that didn’t look anywhere but where they needed to go. Turning her head to the side, I showed her the busy roads and the angry people. This was the modern city at its finest. “Look at what you see here. This is the city. See all of the crazy drivers and the bad people? That’s the city. See the dirty alleyways and the broken lights? That’s the city. You see the boarded up buildings and the jaded homeless. That’s the city.” I pointed at the girl whose eyes swept through the scenes that I described. “You? You are not from the city.” I hummed low in my mouth, silently appreciating how smooth I delivered the lines. Poet. I was ready to turn away and leave the girl to her own devices before she suddenly spoke up again. “I don’t see it,” she said. I paused. Now I was the one who was confused. Was she blind? Did she not see what I had pointed out to her? She pursed her lips, forming it into a thin line before crossing her arms. “You know what I see? I see kids having fun. I see old friends meeting up with each other and people enjoying their time together. I see bright cars and bright lights and everything else besides. I can’t see energy, but I can feel it blasting through me like waves. I see grand buildings and beautiful skyscrapers,” she said, slowly and subtly accentuating the right words. She continued on. “I know there are bad things in the city. I know that everything isn’t sunshine and rainbows, even if I don’t look like I believe that. But you know what? I’m not going to get hung over the fact that there are dark things in the streets and bad things under. I’m going to see both sides and love both. I may not be from the city,” she said quietly, eyes pinning me down, “but I sure can still love it.” I didn’t know what to say. She hit back every point I threw to her and did it eloquently. I ended up just shaking my head. “If that’s what you think then you’re going to be in for a big surprise.” She just gave a small smirk. “Well, I can see that neither of us are going to give up on our views.” She just gave a nonchalant shrug. “I wasn’t really expecting to change your mind today anyways. Luckily,” she paused with a thoughtful look on her face, “I’ll have an opportunity to do so every day from now on.” Another blinding, bright smile. “I hope we enjoy every little squabble that we get into,” she paused for a second, chuckled and quipped, “ha, I’m such a poet.” Then she headed back inside. I blinked rapidly, still trying to figure out what had happened. In a daze, I pushed through the crowds and arrived at the post office. Before I realized it, my co-worker, done with her own rounds, plopped in a seat beside me. “How was work today?” she asked casually. I thought back on the girl with the unnatural attitude and all the things she said. I looked around and thought, maybe she wasn’t wrong. I grunted. “Eh, it was no big deal,” I answered. That’s it, I decided. I would come back to that apartment every day to deliver mail anyways. So I guess it wouldn’t hurt to have a little chat with her now and then. For the first time in a long time, I was starting to look forward to work. 5
The silence stretched out for just a moment before I remembered my own manners. “How was yours?” I asked. My co-worker paused for a moment, looking out into the distance as if remembering something that happened to her today. By the end of it, she had a slight smile, and she gave a careless toss of her hair. “Eh, it was no big deal,” she answered. Huh. Interesting. We settled down and we both stared at the wall, deep in thought, wondering if both our lives had just changed for the better or for the worse.
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Atlanta Quinton Tran Fifth Child of Georgia, Cola Maker, Pilot of Men Terminus of the Railroad and the World’s Urban Ocean Bustling, persistent, prosperous, City of the King: They tell me you are exotic and I believe them, for I have witnessed your blotches of color roaming the streets, intertwined like patches on a quilt. And they tell me you are dangerous deceased and I confirm them; I have seen the walking dead tear the flesh from my people like wolves devouring a deer. And they tell me you are intolerably busy and my response is: On the faces of my brothers and sisters I have seen the darkness that deprives the mind of its rest. And having answered so I reply once more to those who scorn my city, and I return the scorn say to them: Come and show me another city with hospitality so strong to be uplifting and attractive and artistic and authentic. Bearing potent plagues despite the defiance of its nation, here is a daring eager thrasher singing victory over the squeaks of frightened cities; Rich as a king decorated with gold, persevering as the Phoenix rising From the ashes, Stubborn, Filming, Dancing, Running, Calling, Inspiring, Acting, Against the ruin, covered with scars, defying with firm dignity, Against the oppression defying as a bull defies, Defying even as a damaged soldier defies who has never surrendered to its taunter, Struggling and defying that within his charge is pain, and within his Blood is the spirit of change, Defying! Defying the bustling, persistent, prosperous, defiance of the bull, recovered, victorious, proud to be Fifth Child, Cola Maker, Pilot of Men, Urban Ocean of the World and Friend of the King.
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Lost in Anguish by John Moreno Vazquez Life all around me But I will only see death Why can’t you come back? Trapped in a city with constant reminders of the death of her loved one, the girl is alone. Every ounce of sympathy directed towards her adds to her eternal sorrow. Unable to escape the city in fear of poverty, she continues her life walking the same street they were killed. Surrounded by constant cacophony and people who would never understand while the person who murdered them roams free. Sitting in the road at night, she waits. She will come to them.
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Mother of Myth by James Siochi The Witching Hour Waking up at three in the morning is never a great way to start your day. Waking up at three in the morning with intense abdominal pain and cramping is even worse. But, quite possibly, the worst way to wake up at three in the morning is to intense abdominal pain because you happen to be pregnant. The funny thing is, when I went to sleep six hours ago, I was decidedly not pregnant. Even I, with my notoriously bad eyesight could not have possibly mistaken my being not-pregnant. I also could not mistake the fact that the baby bump was growing fast enough that I could see the change as it happened, despite my lack of glasses. “Well that’s not supposed to happen, though it certainly could explain why I was not pregnant when I went to bed.” My second thought went something along the lines of “At least I don’t have any further to fall from the high school totem pole.” Very selfish behavior, I know, but at least I’m honest with myself about it. A couple minutes of fumbling around for my glasses (jokingly referred to by my mom as Grandma Glasses), several Google searches, and approximately 3 more inches later, I came to the final conclusion that no one had gone through anything like this before. Not quite true, as I would later find out, but I didn’t really know what I was looking for at that time, beyond “Help, I’m suddenly pregnant” and “I can see myself growing.” I took the opportunity to time exactly how quickly my impromptu child bearing was progressing and, after I had figured that out, realized that I had absolutely no idea how large I would be at the end. “Well that was a good use of twelve minutes. Not.” Putting my main problem aside, I needed to figure out how to handle the dual situation of what my mom would say and then what my teachers (but more importantly the school body) would say. “Especially since it’s a private school. I’ll be known as ‘That-Girl-Who-Got-Herself-Pregnant’ by tomorrow. Unless, of course, I give birth to whatever-the-heck is growing inside me first. Won’t that be peachy?” Obviously, preparing for the possibility that I would have to go to school while obviously pregnant was, unequivocally, a Good Idea. That way, I could come up with back up plans if my main plan fell through. There was really only one problem with my Super-Awesome-Plan-To-Not-Become-The-Hot-Gossip-Topic-For-The-Next-ThreeMonths. I had absolutely no idea how to magically become not pregnant within the next two hours, aside from giving birth. Which, considering the very likely possibility (based off of nearly all horror stories ever) that whatever it was might kill me on the way out, was not exactly an option I liked. All my thoughts promptly went out the window and were replaced with “Outta time” when a knock sounded on my door and my mother’s lilting voice wafted in calling “Claire sweetie, time to get up.” “Claire, you got five seconds to come up with a really credible excuse or your bacon’s cooked.” Thanks, me. I totally didn’t know that. Spillage I froze. I completely froze. 10
I had no idea what to say without sounding suspicious, because I’m usually not up until my mom comes through the second time, and if I didn’t answer mom would come in anyway, assuming it was business as usual, and then she would know. So I froze. Which mom promptly assumed was me sleeping, so she came in and turned on the lights, opening her mouth in preparation to wake me up. The words never came. She froze too. We stared at each other, me trying to come up with a credible excuse on the spot, and her, presumably, trying to comprehend what she was seeing. Then, mom said the single most unexpected thing I have ever heard her say. “That’s… new. I thought I was done being surprised.” “What.” “That probably came out wrong.” “No, seriously. What? Why are you not freaking out? I mean, I’m pregnant.” “I know, I just never thought it would be you. When I found out you had terrible eyesight, I thought for sure you would take my place.” “Mom, you’re not making any sense.” “I’m sorry sweetie, I just… I’ll just… sit down, and then I’ll answer any questions you have.” So saying, mom slowly lowered herself onto my chair whilst I took a seat on the bed. “Where do you want me to start?” “The beginning would be nice.” “Fair enough. So, a long time ago…no. It will take too long. I will summarize. The gods are real, and it was mankind’s belief in them that made them real. Specifically, it was the fact that mankind took their existence as incontrovertible and made it part of their everyday lives. The last era of the gods, the era of the Greeks, Romans, Norse, Chinese, and more, was the most powerful and held the most belief in them. So much so, that the myths and legends surrounding them were also able to become real. “Those stories were able to survive through the Age of Reason, the Scientific Revolution, and the rise of global, organized religion. They managed to preserve the artifacts and creatures from the myths inside the City, awaiting the coming of new gods, gods of an age when all of humanity was interconnected.” “So that’s what I’m pregnant with? The next set o-of gods? And what happened to your voice?” Mom looked faintly embarrassed. “Sorry sweetie, my voice tends to slip whenever I think back on the old days.” “Wait, you were alive back then?” “Yes, I had a bit of fun with rearranging my name for modern times.” “Oh. Ohhhhhhh. Taylor Gemma Philippa… ok, that explains how you know so much. Also, is it weird that I’m not freaking out more about this?” “No, it’s probably a failsafe of some sort.” “Oh ok. … Mom, is there any sort of special place where I’m supposed to…uh…have the kids?” “Why yes, I imagine the City is adding your sector now. Why?” “Because I think my water just broke.” I doubled over in pain. 11
The Tree of Life “Oh. Right, umm… well, we’ll need to get to the nearest Agartha outlet. Or ley line. Or call the Bifrost. And we’ll need to let them know we’re coming. And find something for the pain.” “So…how long will that take?” I strained. “Not long. Huginn! Muninn!” With an odd fluttering noise, two massive ravens appeared in midair next to mom. “Well ok. Odin’s personal ravens. That works.” As mom quickly talked to the two ravens, one cocked its head to one side as if listening to something quiet, and then flapped away. Before I could start wondering where it had gone, it flapped back, carrying a goblet of some sort in its claws. “Oh yes, thank you Huginn. That should help.” Swiftly moving over to me, mom took my head in her lap and put the goblet to my lips. “Drink up. It’s fresh ambrosia mixed with powdered alicorn. It should ease the pain.” Taking a hesitant sip, I tasted the sweetest concoction I have ever drunk in my life. I greedily drank the rest of the goblet and almost instantly felt the pain ease. “Thanks.” “Can you stand?” “Yeah, I feel much better.” Shakily, and with my mom’s help, I got to my feet. Mom looked at my legs and then said, “We probably shouldn’t use the Bifrost.” “If the Bifrost is what I think it is, then I totally agree with you.” “Right then, next stop, the ley lines.” So saying, we started slowly moving down the stairs. “I don’t recognize that.” “No, it’s not really part of any one culture and it’s a more modern belief, so it’s best used for quick point-to-point transference. We can use it to land at the Yggdrasil entrance in the City.” We stepped into mom’s study and she tapped a sequence on the doorframe of the supply closet. “Mom, what are you-“a bright blue flash cut me off and the doorframe seemed to glow for a second. “I just connected the doorway to a line that passes by. It’s a bit unstable because the line doesn’t normally run through here, but you should be able to step through. In my experience, an unstable line feels like one of those moving walkways at the airport. “Now, fair warning, the ambrosia should protect you from any negative effects during transit but it will fail once we’re inside City limits. The City’s energy field is already randomly oscillating on a good day, but once you step inside, the randomness and energy spikes of conflicting areas will likely increase.” “Why?” “Once you’re within city limits, it’ll start growing the new section. That’ll toss the field off kilter and the resultant energy spike will temporarily negate anything that runs off of the older belief fields.” “So when I’m inside, the field will do the magical equivalent of an EMP and I’ll feel the full effects of the birth?” “Basically, yes. It might also accelerate the birth.” 12
“Joy.” Gingerly stepping forward, I put my foot through the door and experienced the sensation of both moving and not, as though the world was moving around me while I was standing unnaturally still. I nearly threw up, but something felt like it was quieting my stomach. “Thank you ambrosia.” The sensation faded, and I took a moment to observe the odd nature of the interior of the ley line whilst waiting for my mom. The interior was somehow both the night sky and an iridescent, cloudless day, and a seemingly endless clear white line stretched and disappeared into the middle distance. My mom stepped through behind me, took my hand, and together we walked the line. City of Cities In an endless stretch of time, and yet none at all, mom squeezed my hand and I knew we were about to enter the city. The feeling of pressing towards a barrier had appeared a few steps back (or was it miles?) and in a never-ending instant, we broke through. A brief moment of disorientation faded and gave way to the most magnificent sight I have ever seen. Gleaming spires and shining pinnacles standing next to castles of old. Islands shrouded in mist, carrying buildings beneath instead of above. Bridges amongst the clouds and gaping maws in the earth. A tableau of different cultures spread out like a tablecloth before me. It was breathtaking. “Welcome to the western half of the City. This is the Norse sector.” “Wait wait wait, is this all of the mythological cities gathered together?” “Yes. In order to preserve them we combined them. The differences in individual belief fields supported the failings in others.” I took a moment to take in more of the scenery when an oppressive weight seemed to press down on me. Then, the pain struck again, thrice as bad as the first time round and nearly sending me to the ground, but mom caught me before I could fall, just as more people ran up. “Quickly, let’s get her to city center.” As they carried me through the streets, I caught glimpses of other places. A castle. Camelot, my mind supplied. The Parthenon. The World Tree. Asgard. Lemuria. Olympus. Shangri La. Suddenly, the architecture drastically changed. Paved streets gave way to a matte black floor. Buildings gave rise to black skyscrapers with lines running up them. Circuitry? I felt myself come to rest on a bed as black as the rest of the area, and found my vision following suit. I passed in and out of consciousness, but the pain was always constant. Several times I opened my eyes to see my mom staring back at me, tears running down her face and my hand clasped tightly in hers. Other times, I would wake to see pulses running up the lines traced upon the skyscrapers, seemingly in time with my contractions. Finally, mercifully, after what felt like hours upon hours of labor, I felt one last burst of pain. With bated breath, I held off the blackness until I heard a cry from beside me. Before I succumbed to the pain again, I managed to form one word that sprang unbidden to mind, but felt like the only possible thing to say. “Information.”
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Karoshi Saman Muhammed My dad Works day and night, Night and day, Overtime and under time, With and without pay. He left Two short weeks back And never returned. At 4 AM he Collapsed onto the factory floor, A quality manager Only 44 years old. They said he had been Stressed beyond belief, From upcoming due dates And forthcoming defeat. Constantly calling On the phone, Arguing about wages And diminishing turns. We families received No compensation For the long, Unpaid hours Our loved ones worked. Now large Corporate companies are Being pressured by court. They call it Karoshi, Death by overwork.
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The Fleeting Future by Janice Cherono A sliver of sun slips through, the forever smoky air. The stale, sharp smoke fills the lungs on a pale hazy morn, Many awake and pause to grasp a yawning lungful of the pungent aroma Allowing a content sigh to escape. Drowsily all prepare for the day gaining. Neatly families gather to fleetingly interchange interaction and vanish to their diurnal obligations. Slipping away from the gatherings, young children journey to school amidst the dense lilac smog Where they sit at here legends about a time when the sky was blue and drinking water found naturally And mythical creatures called “animals” roamed alongside humans. Next the adults of the family saunter away to work, each in one’s own car. Tactfully all speed away leaving ashen gray clouds suspended in the lavender air. Sliding into work on time, they work on making the world New and technologically advanced. After the work and school day ends all gather again in their households To exchange the date’s happenings. Later the entire family unit Unites for the daily medication to avoid the common lung disease. Remembering another morn lies ahead of them, all arrange for the coming day, Each doing his or her own thing. Children chattering cheerfully, imagine all the “animals” they heard in school: beasts flying without engines, Animals called “mammals” who were similar to them… The children giggle gleefully at such tales. Neatly, adults lay artificially prepared “nourishment” on the table and everyone collects for Supper. The world quickly darkens and Unanimously all leave the table to slumber For the children lay in bed sleepily, and the adults Fitfully attempt to doze… Everything is quiet within the household Restfully the household slumbers to the lull of the house and frequent coughing fit of others. AT MAN’S WANT, NATURE CAN SUFFER……. How you going to help the environment and avoid, the fleeting future?
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2 am in a City that never sleeps By Britt Longe
How far will you walk for men who will never hold your feet in their laps? Stop bartering with bone You cannot trade your flesh for what you want You only ever end up selling yourself short It’s two am in a city that never sleeps You can hear the hustle and bustle from your bedroom window It reminds you of your mother Fast paced and slow wrapped up into one It reminds you of your mother The buildings stand tall; they stand concrete and firm Never bowing to the wind Never apologizing for their form, never looking down YOUR MOTHER IS A SKYSCRAPER And it would take a HURRICANE to knock her down And it did You hear screams of drunken passer byes It is now 3:30 am, 3:30 am in the city And you are reminded of your father Like her, you hear him in the city You feel him every time you walk alone at night You see him in every drunken fool Every bitter miser Every arrestee Every time you walk past the battered women’s shelter on 15th and 3rd You see him in the face of every broken woman and scared child Men like daddy create women like this You are disgusted
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Your father was the twin jet The twin jet that took your mother tumbling down How far have you walked for these men? Who would not lay your head to rest? Who would not hold your feet in their laps? Who don’t care about you? Hurricanes, who strike and never look back How far have you walked for your father? It is 6:00 am in the city The sun is coming up now It creeps through the window Tiptoes to your bed Kisses you on the cheek And curls up beside you It caresses your skin so softly As if it’s chasing the night from your brain.
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Kingston by Jordane Bloomfield Pirate Haven Cosmopolitan of the Caribbean Child of the Palisadoes Home of the Runners and Reggae They tell me you are slum town, and it may be true, for I have seen Downtown’s crowds, hungry for labor. They tell me your people’s eyes are always red, and some think it so, for they have seen the leaves growing. They tell me you are rife with crime, and it may be so, for Captain Morgan’s body rested in your soil. And having answered so, thumb my nose at those who scowl at this my city and I scowl back and say: Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be glad and industrious and artistic and so themselves. As they shout over a Ludo game played on the porch, here is an underdog small, but with the fire of thousands, Bright as the tongues of the easy flames lapping at roasted Jerk, Sweating, Singing, Creating, Growing, Dancing, dancing, and paused for rest Along the shores, dancing barefoot with tough soles Under the moonlight, dancing as the young dance Dancing, as though nothing lies beyond the sand Dancing, as though morning will never come, Dancing, and singing that under his skin is the blood of whole nations Dancing Dancing the raucous, jubilant dance Youth, clothed with spirit Beaming, proud to be the Cosmopolitan, Haven for pirated, Child of the Palisadoes, and the Home of Runners and Reggae
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Comparing Graffiti and Street Art in Atlanta by Melissa Ge The anonymous tagger-turned-street artist Banksy, who now has works that sell for hundreds of thousands of dollars, started off in 1980s Bristol with stencils. Since then, he has moved from the streets to museums and movie screens. In order for this to have occurred, he had to give meaning to his work. Instead of needlessly tagging walls and train carts, he gave all his pieces an anti-capitalist meaning. For example, after police officers accused squatters at a Tesco Metro Supermarket protest of making petrol bombs, he responded by creating a “commemorative souvenir poster” of a “Tesco Value Petrol Bomb” with its fuse already lit up. He donated the money he earned to the People’s Republic of Stokes Croft, a local urban revival organization. If other graffiti artists could give their work purpose, then they could reach even higher points as street artists. Most outsiders consider street art the same as graffiti, but they differ in meaning, style, and targeted audience. They share the same origin, however, making it impossible to have one without the other. On the other hand, members of the community and artists of other media alike believe their differences prove more significant than their similarities. In order to restore the relationship between street art in Atlanta and its audience, officials need to show a larger support of street art without completely denying its history. They could set up free walls around the city for taggers. Instead of immediately arresting taggers for vandalism, they could have them work with local street artists on murals around the city. Like Los Angeles, Atlanta could have some street art curators find art to display in annual museum exhibitions. To prevent an incident similar to the Hyuro art mural, authority members should take more care in organizing the location of a new piece and communication with the area so they know whether or not the piece will upset the community. In the end, while it is not possible to disregard the relationship between street art and graffiti, street art remains a better alternative. Street art and graffiti differ in meaning, style, and intended audience. Art Republic defines street art as “traditional graffiti art work, as well as stencil graffiti, sticker art, street poster art, video projection, art intervention, guerrilla art, flash mobbing and street installations.” This holds true when the artist has permission to create a piece on otherwise private property. Graffiti is considered vandalism because it was done without the owner’s permission. While taggers and other graffiti artists use mainly spray paint to tag, or sign, their names, street artists such as Banksy use stencils as well as a variety of other materials. Tags are an indecipherable form for anyone unfamiliar with graffiti, while street art is meant for everyone to view and enjoy. Sometimes, murals and other pieces portray a rebellious and provocative message, making it short-lived by authorities. Oftentimes, however, street art is only meant to please the public. The pictorial nature of street art also differs from scribbled graffiti due to the fact that street art is meant to beautify the environment. In 2012, the Atlanta-based organization Living Walls commissioned 28 female muralists from all over the world to paint walls, subway passes, and foreclosed buildings all throughout the city. All artists had permission to complete their work and in the end, the locals enjoyed them very much. All in all, the differences between street art and graffiti lie in the intent, style, and audience of each. While street art and graffiti do not have much in common, they do share the same origin. Most people do not consider their history as important, but authority members and the public should think about it when devising solutions that may denounce graffiti or praise street art. Since the emergence of modern graffiti in the late 1960s in New York 23
City, the sub-genre known as street art has spread to Atlanta and other populated cities all over the world. Before street art, tagging was the dominant form of graffiti. Graffiti writers would tag, or sign, their names in large, stylish letters. This made it a vain and egotistical practice. It started in the 1960s when Demetrius, a teenager whose job as a messenger allowed him to travel all throughout the city, started signing TAKI 183 with a permanent marker. Since then, he has inspired a generation of graffiti writers. After the invention of spray paint, tagging became more popular due to the fact that it made the job quicker and easier so the police did not have time to catch them. Other styles and techniques have developed into street art. While Banksy uses mainly stencils in his anticapitalist street art, Atlanta-based Brandon Sadler, commonly known as Lean, uses paint in his work. Communities should look at their similar history when creating solutions for vandalism and street art. Atlanta has had its share of controversy regarding public art. For example, after the world famous Os Gemeos were invited to Boston to paint a mural on the side of a ventilation building, their work sparked much debate. While “The Giant of Boston” pleased some individuals, it upset others who thought the colorful headdress held a darker meaning. Luckily, they were able to leave the city without getting their piece painted over. Unfortunately, some artists commissioned to Atlanta have not had as much luck. Pierre Roti, a French painter, was invited to Atlanta by Living Walls where he spent 11 days on an alligator-man painting that represented the “brutality of capitalism.” At the same time, Living Walls also commissioned Argentine painter Hyuro. Her mural depicted a naked woman putting on a dress that turns into fur. She sheds the dress which then morphs into a wolf. Both murals were vandalized before being painted over. Roti’s “An Allegory of the Human City” was painted over due to property right issues. The owner of the building was not the actual owner, but the Department of Transportation was. The Hyuro art mural received complaints from the neighborhood. It was built across from a church, but the church itself did not complain. These two incidents led to a new ordinance that requires approval from NPUs and proof that the owner of the property is the real owner. As you can see, street art is not immune to vandalism, but whether it is public disagreement or property right issues, street art still faces much controversy. The debate between street art and graffiti will never cease unless authority members, the community, and organizations such as Living Walls band together. Unlike Portland, which has all businessmen keep a list of people who buy their spray paint, and Denver, which has a team who responds to 150-200 graffiti removal calls a day, Atlanta has not been as severe in eradicating tags and other forms of vandalism. Recently, however, the police and other departments formed the Graffiti Task Force in order to capture and arrest taggers as well as whitewash all their tags. A list of murals including Living Walls’ works and pieces commissioned by the city remain intact. This program recognizes the difference between street art and graffiti, and so far it has not received much complaint. Other solutions for supporting the growing distinction between street art and graffiti involve better planning and coordination. Since the Hyuro art mural and Pierre Roti’s piece, the new ordinance requires official documentation from the owner as well as an application review process that spans across the Transportation department, the Urban Design agency, and the OCA. Although the application process now takes much longer to complete, about a month, artists and organizations should expect less complaint. In 2011, Roger Gastman acted as a curator of “Art in the Streets,” the nation’s largest exhibition of street art and graffiti. Atlanta could have street art curators and the Museum of Contemporary Art of Georgia could collaborate to host a similar event. Free walls around the city can please graffiti artists and decrease the number of people caught 24
tagging without permission. Street artists can post their work on personal art blogs as well as community websites. Google’s street art database catalogues pieces from all over the world. Raising awareness online makes it easier to distinguish between the two styles. In the end, there are multiple solutions that solve the controversy between street art and graffiti. In the past few decades, the debate between graffiti and street art has raised several sociopolitical issues, including what makes things private or public and what constitutes art. While museums and pop culture artists may embrace street art, people unfamiliar with the term may see it as graffiti picked from the streets. In reality, the genre graffiti and sub-genre street art have evolved into two different art forms. Where do the similarities end and the differences begin? To begin with, they each have their own style, meaning, and audience. And although they come from the same place and time period, these differences carry more significance than their common history. While cities and art organizations commission street artists to create pieces for the public, graffiti artists and writers tag or vandalize only to satisfy their own egos. The beauty of street art comes from its wide array of materials and techniques while graffiti is tagging through the use of spray paint. In order for street artists to display their work without protest or debate, authority members, outsiders, and other artists need to promote street art without completely disregarding graffiti. NPU’s, or neighborhood planning units, should collaborate with the art organization, whether it is Living Walls or another group, to organize better communication between the artist and the community. They should consider the location of the piece as well as the style of the piece itself since some outsiders may find it offensive. To satisfy graffiti artists and prevent them from getting fined or sent to jail, Atlanta should build free walls throughout the city. Street art curators could scour the streets and contact artists whose work is good enough to be displayed in a gallery. All of this and more can help make the growing distinction more well-known and accepted.
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Ode to Morality by Jacq Whitmer One would try to describe a Thought to Another Another would explain, in passing, to The Few The Few would meet, they would say, ‘It’s An Opinion!’ An Opinion would spread to The Community The Community would speak, ‘Let’s call it A Rule!’ A Rule would be known by Other Communities Together They would gather to form A Culture A Culture would let it be known, ‘It’s Tradition!’ A Culture would interact with Other Cultures Other Cultures would meld into Many Cultures Many would persuade Others to form All But One All, of course, would convene to say, ‘It’s Morality!’ One, yet abstaining from All, would think and maybe One would try to describe a Thought to Another
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Anchorage by Jonathan Jeffrey Northern Light of America, Oil Manager, Military Dabbler, Fueler of Jets and Second Heart of the World’s Airways; Cold, rumbling, rushing, Yet those who dismiss you as a castaway speck, as a craggy, weary rock detached from its homeland’s gleam—those ignorant carpers I beat back brazenly and ask: Where else can one alight upon a city with people lusty and strong, immersed in the wild land and daring to reap it while it still remains untamed? Running along an icy shore are dog and ship and plane and he, joined in a never-ending striving among the grit and frost, leaving dark prints and tracks that linger upon the light layer which cushions every footfall, every foot gone further; Hardy and with a pioneering soul is this frontiersman, not buckling under any pressure and not pleading for assistance from any other, Independent, Bold, Striding, Fighting, Grunting as he bears heavy weight, roaring as he bears some more, Under the snow, ice biting at his lip, burdened but still living with a freedom forged only when tested by the sharpest, whitest flame, Under the stars whirling above, living with an enlightened sense, perceiving the crisp air and the salty sea and the frosty meadows of pale flowers all at once,Living his big, wild life than no man sheltered in a cruel civilization’s warmth below may live, Running still along that shore, he rejoices he is living even as he lives one day more, one minute more, one moment more, another month, another year, time blending into one large, joyous life that is fresh and sharp and clear— Living! Anchored not is he in the gravelly, grimy ground of the continental realm but in the shifting, shining, streaming snow of the empyreal North who sits upon her children with a motherly blanket of speckled white; Always living on is he in his cold, rumbling, rushing life, and always proud is he to be Northern Light, Oil Manager, Military Dabbler, Fueler of Jets and Second Heart of the World’s Airways.
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From the Eye of the Storm by Rodshai Johnson New Orleans The city that sings the Katrina blues From the eye of the storm, my city was torn, right before my eyes. Once destroyed, but now restored all the way from Springhill to Shreveport. It’s not the way it used to be, but it will always be a home for you and me. Street cars driving up and down the city tattooed with graffiti, strange but pretty. People roaming the streets with rollers in their hair, but it’s normal to natives so we don’t really care. All these things make me love where I’m from, but I had to choose to stay and sing or escape the Katrina blues. I’ll never forget where I came from, but I have to move on. So long New Orleans! I hope you find a new song.
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Walking With the City by Evonie Harris You are coming and going, Like the birds escaping the ice but coming back for the fire. Searching for a new purpose in life, When the one you had has burnt to dust. Worrying about the little things, But your life, though vast, Does not have space for that. And still you go so strong. Your paper wings carry the bricks you’ve stacked, Each with their own engravings. With so many, you’ve built your wall, Holding the tsunamis in, and keeping the sunshine out. And there is no justice in what you’ve gone through. With it all being too soon. Your eyes still glimmer. Your heart still flames. Your being still grows. But you still float among the waves as they crash into you, Dragging you down to the depths of the sea Where we then meet again. And we talk, as if we’ve all the time in this racing world. And it all starts the same. I say my phrase every time. It is because you shouldn’t be here, Dining with me, Lying with me, Conversing with me. Yet here you are, in front of me. I’ve one thing to say, “Why do you still walk with me?”
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Soda, Rodin, and Plane Crashes: The Effect of Robert Woodruff on Atlanta’s Art Culture by Blake Lowe In American history, there are many stories of miraculous events that shape an area’s future, for better or worse. Like the gold rush in the west, the glorious planned capital of Washington, D.C., and the melting pot of cultures immigrating into New York City, Atlanta experienced a defining moment of its culture in the 1960s. However, the event that defined Atlanta’s art culture for the better was more tragic, unlike its benevolent effects. On June third, 1962, a plane full of one hundred and six of Atlanta’s high society leaders and art patrons crashed at Orly Airport, leaving only two crew members alive. But out of this fire, as it had before, Atlanta regained its wings and came back stronger than before. Thanks to Atlanta Coca-Cola magnate Robert Woodruff, Atlanta’s art culture has rebounded and is stronger than ever. In the late first half of the 20th century, the city of Atlanta was growing—postwar stimulus and increasing urbanization in the South made it a sort of hub for Southeastern business. By this time, one of Atlanta’s greatest corporations—the Coca-Cola Company—had been on a long profitable streak extending even through the Depression. The company could, in part, thank its long-time president, Southern businessman Robert W. Woodruff. His father, part of the group of businessmen that bought the company in the early 20th century, hired Woodruff because of his keen skill in sales. Woodruff grew the business through marketing Coca-Cola as an everyman’s drink, even guaranteeing the on-duty WWII servicemen the drink for five cents wherever they were stationed in the world. This granted the company unlimited sugar in a time when all food was rationed. In the 1950s and 1960s, like Woodruff, many Atlanta business leaders regained or found new prosperity in this pearl of the South. However, Atlanta’s business prosperity was not felt as much in the cultural sector. Many of yesteryear’s elite social practices, such as tea clubs, horse races, and ‘debut’ parties held for girls coming of age, were still coveted from the South’s 19th century past. In fact, A. Abrams writes that the yearly visit from the Metropolitan Opera was “the most dependable artistic professionalism the city was likely to experience at the time.” Although the Met performances were popular among Atlanta’s upper crust, most of the city’s residents had no access to the arts at all. Even among the upper classes, the arts were seen as a woman’s pastime; rich housewives had a tradition of going to college, joining the Junior League, marrying a young successful businessman, and volunteering for the arts to fulfill their Junior League requirements. To be short, Atlanta was culturally starved. A group of women volunteering for the Atlanta Art Association considered ending this cultural drought a challenge. In order to fund a new center for the arts and to publicize the association, a group of women volunteers, headed by Anne Merritt and in partnership with Air France, planned a trip to visit all of Europe’s great art cities. They hatched the plan in 1960, and by 1962 the ‘grand tour’ was a reality as the group of Southern aristocrats and art patrons, mostly women, embarked on their voyage, acting as ambassadors of the new art culture of Atlanta. But, as the group departed from Orly Airport, the chartered jet failed to stay airborne. "The plane went up about 6 feet and came back down and bounced around, zigzagged and finally broke in half," remarked Milton Bevington, a witness of the crash and the husband of one of the passengers. It was, at the time, the most fatal plane accident in history, leaving two stewardesses at the back of the plane alive and another 130 passengers and crew dead. The story garnered national attention, prompting even Martin Luther King, Jr. to postpone a sit-in 32
and Andy Warhol to create a painting based on a newspaper covering the incident. Atlanta was in the national spotlight, and the world waited for its response. The people of Atlanta could have mourned the loss of their citizens and kept this tragedy merely as a bitter memory, but instead of forgetting, Atlanta decided to dedicate a brand new arts center as a tribute to the loss of its people. Atlanta had already been experiencing a cultural revolution, being the center of the Southern Civil Rights Movement and the base of operations for Martin Luther King, Jr. Because of this, Atlanta’s businesses started to realize the benefit of supporting the city’s culture; it gave a message of a welcoming and refined society for prospective investors. Along with the mourning public, Atlanta businesses donated millions to the proposed Memorial Arts Center. Among these was a mysterious anonymous donor who ultimately donated four million dollars for the new institution. This was the work of none other than Robert Woodruff, the former president of the Coca-Cola Company. One of his many anonymous donations, Woodruff requested, unsuccessfully, for his name not to appear in the name of the arts center. The Memorial Arts Center, now known as the Woodruff Arts Center, was to become the foremost cultural center in the Southeast. Today, the Woodruff Arts Center works to provide the city of Atlanta with access to fine art and to encourage further development of art in Atlanta. As well as holding exhibits at the High Museum of Art and performances at the Alliance Theater, the center provides incentive for other independent art businesses. In fact, “A recent Americans for the Arts research project ranked Atlanta number one out of the 100 largest American cities for its per capita number of arts-related businesses.” Although some of this encouragement is financial support coming directly from the Woodruff Arts Center, local businesses also contribute to these arts centers. Following Woodruff’s example, business leaders realized that supporting the arts improves the city’s overall image, promoting the city to customers and investors. Atlanta is now a hub for the arts and cultural development, recently adding the Center for Human Rights to its long list of cultural centers. Because of Robert Woodruff, the city came springing back to life after grieving the Orly crash. In the lawn of the High Museum of Art, near the corner of Peachtree Street and 16th, stands a bronze statue on a marble plinth. This inconspicuous statue, The Shade by Auguste Rodin, was a gift from the French president to the city of Atlanta to be used as a memorial to all those lost in the 1962 crash. It depicts a broken figure, seemingly cast down, but not quite fallen. The statue bears a striking resemblance to the city of which it was bestowed. The limpness and downcast pose symbolize the grief after the airplane crash. However, the man is not totally down, and the pose suggests motion, symbolizing the need for Atlanta to rise once again after the tragedy. Robert Woodruff spearheaded this comeback, leading the city through mourning into a rebirth as Atlanta has done for its entire life.
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Together in the City by Jyot Batra A cult of evils lie in the city Disrupting the nighttime’s peaceful darkness Hodgepodge spread on the streets emit pity. The monsters pollute the nighttime canvas Disrupting its beauty with shining rays. Society’s roar transverses around Leaving a bickering that always stays And can never leave your mind like a scar Lost in the city, so easy to be Like wandering through a boundless jungle Without any lush, verdant greenery Instead steel and glass behemoths mingle Yet there’s no other place I would rather Spend life with you, for our kin to gather
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The Demand of a Painful City Nathaly Mandujano The heavenly bodies in the sky illuminated me to desire One last night with you to reflect the manner You innocently spoke commitment in your words But the track of sorrows repeatedly played in my city As pain demanded to be felt, By the throat, As I sit in the darkened alley, sponsoring the Relief of unnecessary criticism and excuses I gently begin to tap my foot to the humming Of fake giggles and pitiful laughing amuses My throat tightly caresses a complex solution Advertised to nourish my hunger for return And the acid slowly flows down creating a sensational burn By the lips, As I sit on the sidewalk, crumbling to the Running footsteps of night time fears I gently begin to tap my foot to the humming Of domestic violence and shedding tears My lips gracefully whisper phrases Carrying jealously and envious plots And I give it the power to hallucinate my thoughts By the fingers, As I sit on the deserted curb, supporting the Heavy weight of my fears I gently begin to tap my foot to the humming of my heels My fingers mildly strum the rigid strings of my guitar And the chords harmonize an addicting song heard to the stars By the fists, As I sit on the trembling subway stairs, My mind runs on helpless illusions And bold phrases you said I gently begin to tap my foot to the humming Of the hallucinating voices in my head My fists carefully enclose your hazy memory And the lyrics of Medicine loosely command Me to smash the shimmering mirror in front of me By the hands, As I sit on the hotel’s balcony edge, Balancing my fate in life vs my hunger for pleasures that are left I gently begin to tap my foot to the humming Of my city’s lies, persuasion and theft My hands slowly slide along the sole of my shoes And the whispering of my sins lightly encourages me to set my tears loose
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Portland’s “Anti-Urbanization” Movement Reaches New Heights Joe Stantalloni, PCB News by Blake Lowe PORTLAND, OR—The Northern coastal city of Portland has long been known for its enthusiastic, sometimes excessive, counter-culture movement. Many observers have criticized the city’s inhabitants for their love of all things old, from vinyl records to Decartes-style facial hair. Today, in a bid to push this trend to the next level, the city has renamed itself to West-Portwych-Upon-Strand and changed its official language to ‘Ye Olde Englisch’. “Moore changes doth come hither,” says a statement released by the newlycreated feudal commune estate on Saturday. The city plans to shut off all electrical, telephone, Internet, television, and sewage systems in the coming weeks. “Those who communicate through the use of carrier pigeons or by means of small notes affixed to the tails of squirrels or other small rodents shall retain the ability to communicate within 15 miles of West-Portwych-Upon-Strand,” assured the statement, citing the reason for the 15-mile radius as “a defensive measure by which safety shall be achieved from the malicious faraway kingdom of Seattle.” Observers have already bashed the township’s decision, one outspoken commentator being Seattle City Council member Stanley Gershwin. “These people live in a fantasy. They’re like pet cats. They like to pretend that they can live out in the wild, but they eventually have to come back inside,” Gershwin said in an interview on Seattle’s local PCB News affiliate. Others, mainly the denizens of West-Portwych, fully approve of the decision. “I mean, we had Renaissance fairs just about every weekend around here,” recalls WestPortwych resident Harold the Green of West-Portwych (formerly Jacob Bauer). “This is just a continuation of that.” Some who live in the newly-ancient town are disillusioned with the decision. “My biggest qualm would have to be with the new coffee prices,” says a bloggerscreenwriter-filmmaker-biographer-graphic designer-musician who wished to remain anonymous. “It’s gonna be thirty doll—I mean, two shillings and ninepence—a cup. I can’t charge my Mac—I mean, fruit-powered sorcery box—anywhere either […] I’m moving to Colorado,” he later remarked. The city of Seattle has not yet officially responded to West-Portwych-UponStrand’s recent declaration of war.
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Her by Duncan Bennett-Conner O’ how in time she’s grown Once a parcel she was She grew and ‘came beknown Now perfected she does An Angel’s gleaming, own With a promise she says Of a future near throne But few dreams ‘fill she does One day will come a man To take her for owning Then she’ll put up a stan’ But men will keep coming For she is a city And a city she’ll be
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Passion in the City by Sharon Flores He travels around the world, Claiming the countries he visits as his. He casually strolls through the city’s hectic streets, Carrying his phone in one hand And his illustrious passion in the other. He recognizes the hidden beauty in anything and everything, And captures every moment in life worth capturing, Ranging from a pair of skyscrapers in the city night To a building’s reflection in a mirror in broad daylight. He does not use his talent to boast nor for fame, For he chooses to simply use the camera on his phone. He just perceives certain points in life through a different lens, And uses his camera to graphically seize the distinctions. He believes that each subject has different angles to appreciate, This is the main trigger for his creative ideas. Then, he often takes extreme measures, Such as standing on restaurant chairs or lying down on city streets, Just to obtain a virtual image of his idea. He never permits the idea of appearing silly to others To prevent him from doing what he loves. The result? A picture that makes you believe That time was completely stopped in the busy city scene Just to be taken and shared with the world.
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The City Kathleen Park On blinding sunny days, the city catches eyes Glass high rises parody the blue cloudy skies. Soon enough, The sun dozes down from orange to pink to night Regardless of time of day, the city beams bright
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Credits Advisor Mr. Gabe Andrews Editor in Chief Stellah Indiya Staff Jacq Whitmer Ash Akash Gavin Helmuth Evonie Harris Shai Johnson Nia Meadows Kathleen Park Armand Gillam Special Thanks Mr. IV Bray Ms. Jennifer Prince
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