issue two
HIN DSI GHT
HINDSIGHT ISSUE #02 FRONT/BACK COVER ART: MIKEE DE GUZMAN CURATORS: natalie ng SAM ROSS Colleen Brown W: hindsightzine.blogspot.com
“An ache for distant places�
by Mitchell Collins
City Limits by Isaac Ahrens
wan·der·lust /ˈwändərˌləst/ noun
a strong desire to travel: a man consumed by wanderlust
Lacma & Venice by Megan Sistachs
Stephen J. Edwards PHOTOGRAPHY
by Stephen J. Edwards
by Stephen J. Edwards
by Stephen J. Edwards
Goodbye by Natasha McGirr Once again, I pack up my life. Who’s to say I will be the same person there As I am now? A new start, a resurrection. There is a strange sadness in living out of a suitcase. Never remaining in one place for long. I love the danger of distance. Pulling at each other’s strings. Testing our strength, our commitment. Do not be fooled, I will miss you. Because I always miss people.
Chicago by Catherine Gao
Rebecca Sather Jenkins PHOTOGRAPHY // TRAVEL JOURNAL
“We landed in Frankfurt, Germany early in the morning. We wandered the beautiful, old city as the sun rose over the river and the rooftops. In the tiny Bavarian town of Durlach, we strolled through the town’s Christmas market in the falling snow, warmed by the bonfire in the centre of the town. We stopped for the day in Strasbourg, an extraordinary city on the border of Germany and France. Paris on a December morning is like nothing else on earth. Bare trees, La Tour Eiffel and hundred-year-old street lamps. We strolled along the Seine, winding through quaint bookstores and cafés.”
“The Parisian lane-ways quickly worked their way into my heart.”
“Landing in the Northwestern United States makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside. It always has.”
“Road trips, pine trees and lots of rain.”
“The mountains are home.”
by Rebecca Sather Jenkins
Arrive without traveling by Colleen Brown What is the point of traveling, when wherever I go, I am stuck on the inside, of my own mind. I’ve created places, where no human is able to reach. Words can only, take you so far; but how far is far enough until I can reach you? No mountain, will tell you who you are or what you are to do; with your hands, that carry so much spite.
Don’t fret just yet, the future hasn’t even turned on your road by Colleen Brown
You’ve spread out maps, on your kitchen table; telling your mother and father that you need time to think, time to breathe. So if they are able to, for them to make their way to their bedroom and to shut the door and bolt both locks and for them to act as if you were never born. Don’t place too many marks on destinations that you have yet to learn about. For there is some truth, hidden behind each city and there is always heartbreak no matter where you travel. If you show off your spine, you can reveal to strangers that you’ve had a history of bending backwards. Showing the ones you love, just how much you care. Even though your spine shows others more than they wanted to see, they’ll be able to take something from your past and learn how to grow into more understanding individuals. It takes someone extraordinarily beautiful, to be able to look at the scars on your wrists, with a straight face. But it takes someone with a heart, that is full of pure intentions, to be able to kiss those scars; in hopes for those burden of memories, to never return to the surface again. So do not fear of crossing unknown borders, for there will always be someone there who will open their arms for you to press your body against theirs. And do not fear of the nights in foreign places; because there will always be a light that is inside of your mind to lead the way for a new adventure, to begin.
By Austin Seidel The Grand Canal runs through veins as 800 acres sit stagnant under six million pairs of soles. The product of gold is a collection of pretty leaves and water-spitting rocks with marble for skin and eyes that could pierce meteor showers. The grotto is always cold to the touch, even in the summer when Louis takes off his knee pants and wades until his hair is soaked, along with the neck of some girl named Marie or Belle or Fontaine. During the winter, one thousand trees are packed into boxes. Hold an ear close and you can hear them scratch against cardboard until they peel. When winter is over, a funny little thing happens (according to the tour guide with the bald face): they stretch. Move their limbs and breathe a sigh of relief because, as it turns out, their branches haven’t been cast off to hell and Louis hasn’t stolen the sun himself. Grande Eaux happens on weekends and the orange peels line up along with the bones of relatives. If anyone looks close enough, they can see that the water is actually brown—not blue— and full of royal piss. So much for the show. So much for scrubbing silver spoons until raw skin becomes stone. Mirrors create an identical twin of something that should not be repeated, that should not be awake during the night and left to wander frescoed halls while clutching a dagger close to the chest. The soles and the Grand Canal found that eating cake causes cancer and look what happened to the people. Now they’re packed in a box and stored for winter.
Hunghom by Austin Seidel The harbor sleeps between your sheets. A man named Lee serves you tea in a hotel. He has crooked teeth, the kind that have bitten off more than gums can chew. (People walk through thin streets.) (They spread city lights between their thighs.) The night, fits you like a glove and the stars blink from the grooves of silver-stained buildings. You feel translucent among solids. You feel stripped. All the salt, all the curves in the air, all the smoke from the ground. You feel stripped from your sweet-tea skin and you begin to wonder how you’ve survived through 16 years, 5840 days. You do not want to leave. Your skin is soft around the edges. Your words float between red taxis. You are a cavity filled with 234 islands.
by Theresia Zimmermann
Lusting to Wander by Loren Wann My breath escapes; it’s a race against time. The window pane becomes it’s lover, smothered with warmth, while goosebumps seem lonely as they prickle my cold skin. My fingers tremble; a silent fright. I suck in a breath and the window pane’s lover hesitantly recedes. My skin is still cold but there is a distant, deep ache rattling my restless bones. My eyelids lift; a steady gaze. That dark empty night, full to the brim with a starry crowd - almost too much to bear. My feet are jittery; eager to take flight. I press my body against the glass. I am a captive here, buried beneath this ceiling. The pages of those books are only an escape for a little while. I press a little harder. I’m clawing now. I need air. Sweet, fresh air to impede this perpetual monotony. I press a little harder. Maybe it will shatter and I will be free. My eyes plead with the moon, but the moon only stares back at me blankly. He has all the freedom in the world.
To a Better Place by Becky Smith
Lauren Brown ART
by Lauren Brown
by Lauren Brown
Wildflowers in Michigan by Ramna Safeer I did not ask for your letters. They filled my mailbox like bullets and you told me once that diamonds were not your favorite gem because they asked too much to be seen. I wonder if that was why you kissed me in new places, because I did not ask to be seen and I was a postage stamp collection of buckled knees and half-uttered whispers. In the mornings, my skin tore around my body’s punctuation and my blood halted around crescent breaths and there was nothing to these poorly structured bones but you. In Michigan, my mother had dreams of New York lovers. She told me that this was her Vienna and I would find her sitting cross-legged on the foot of the stairs and pressing wildflowers. She would kiss them and form her mouth around invisible promises and she pressed them between newspaper clippings and blank journal pages and she would sing songs that reminded me of off-white skies and taupe. In Michigan, the wildflower fields are plenty. I did not ask for your letters but you sent them anyway and I read them all between the secrets of tulip stems and petals and sweetness. I came home that August and packed that summer away into lockets and wore them consecutively for months and I still have not run out of memories to wear around my neck from that year. I did not ask for your letters but their words have kissed my thirsty lips in times when droughts tickle our toes and your envelopes still remind me of those wildflowers.
Mikee De Guzman ART
by Mikee De Guzman
by Mikee De Guzman
by Mikee De Guzman
The Great Perhaps, by Anna Xie We are trees, Situated in a loveless place, unable to move. We grew our roots into the ground And called the forest our home. We are surrounded by other trees, And the view is nice. We thought we were happy, This is not happiness. The people we used to love climbed our limbs, Explored every inch of it with sweaty palms and sticky fingers, Remnants of summer. The people we used to love leaned on us For support, we dried their tears with Leaves because that was all we could do. The people we used to love told us secrets, We kept them safe and sound despite The weathering years and growing distances. The people we used to love told us lovely things Carving jumbles of disconnected syllables on our trunks, Words that meant something at the spur of the moment. The people we used to love stopped loving us, Because if they loved us, they would not leave us here With all these memories and engravings in our hearts. Overhead, the geese are packing up, Their nests neatly stored in their Burlap suitcases. They are migrating to someplace warm And full of love for the winter, They called it the South. (What a lovely-sounding place) We felt our hearts stir as they Bid us adieu, looking beautiful and Free up in those smoky skies. Uncertainty washes over, quieting the Rebellion that raged within us. Silence. The snow falls quietly as we Stare blankly ahead. We are trees. We grew our roots into the ground And called this loveless place our home For far too long. We grew our roots into the ground, Paralyzed by our uncertainty, But what for? What are we waiting for?
by Gemma Topliss
CONTRIBUTORS Art: Mikee De Guzman Lauren Brown Becky Smith Gemma Topliss Theresia Zimmermann
flickr.com/blindingflash llyfr.tumblr.com flickr.com/minnsmig flickr.com/gentle-insomnia azurum.tumblr.com
Photography: Stephen J. Edwards stephenjedwards.com Rebecca Sather Jenkins flickr.com/averona Isaac Ahrens flickr.com/i-w-a Mitchell Collins flickr.com/mitchell-collins Catherine Gao flickr.com/catgetslost Megan Sistachs facebook.com/GypsyMaePhotography
Writing: Austin Seidel Colleen Brown Natasha McGirr Ramna Safeer Loren Wann Anna Xie
vvelours.tumblr.com/ mostlyfiction.tumblr.com nancy-clutter.tumblr.com a-vaunt.tumblr.com/ octoberwood.tumblr.com
HINDSIGHT ISSUE TWO © hindsightzine 2012-2013