illumination
The Undergraduate Journal of Humanities
The mission of Illumination is to provide the undergraduate student body of the University of Wisconsin-Madison a chance to publish work in the fields of humanities and to display some of the school’s best talent. As an approachable portal for creative writing, art, and scholarly essays, the diverse content in the journal will be a valuable addition to the intellectual community of the university and all the people it affects.
http://www.uwilluminationjournal.com
letter from the
Hi Readers! This August, I joined Illumination as Editor-in-Chief. Since then, I’ve had the pleasure of guiding and being guided— by my fellow editors and staff, the eagerness of our contributors, and by all of your art. It’s been a process full of learning and I only anticipate to learn more. Thank you to all of our contributors for trusting the editors with your work, and for all who continue to believe in putting a little part of your innermost personal selves on the page, to be seen, heard, and understood even for just a moment. Peace, Hajjar Baban
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t e a m
Hajjar Baban Tori Tiso Adi Dina Kayla Wasserman Eliana Wasserman Francisco Velazquez Ellie Spadaccini Marissa A Beaty Emma Layne Liverseed Dave Riser
Editor-in-Chief Poetry Editor Art Editor Art Editor Layout Editor Assistant Poetry Editor Marketing Director Staff Writer Digital Editor Prose Editor
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t s n e t c o n A R T
On the Cover. .......Untitled: Ellie Braun 4................... .......In a Daze for Weeks: W 7................... alter Egger .......The Routin e, the Regular 9................... s: Walter Egge .......Ups and r Downs of Bei 11.................. ng a Punkstar ......Paella Turis : Walter Egge tica: Claire DeR 12.................. r osa ......Withering Gaze: Megan 13.................. Jain ......From the Market: Celest 15.................. e Carroll ......Untitled: Eliana Wasserm 16.................. an ......Bar Scene 1: Madeline R 18.................. asmussen ......Some Thin gs About Me: 20.................. Celeste Carrol ......pattern 1_ l 2: Ellie Braun 21.................. ......Matt: Elia na W 22.................. asserman ......Cornered: Celeste Carrol 24.................. l ......Self Portra it: Erin Coron 27.................. ......Me and Em ma: Madeline 28.................. Rasmussen ......Distance as a Concept: Rya 29.................. n Prehara ......Full Moon, Drunk as Fuck 31.................. : Walter Egge ......Incongruity r : Maddy Henke 35.................. l ......Bar Scene 2: Madeline R 36.................. asmussen ......Florentine: Celeste Carrol l
P O E T R Y
12.................. ......Serendipity : Serendipity 14.................. Stage ......Departmen t Store: Tyler 23.................. Moore ......Q&A: Tyle r Moore 24.................. ......This is on e slice of jazz: 26.................. Tyler Moore ......A note to the pigeon feed ing, elderly w next to me on oman who sat 30.................. the park benc ......Contingent h from 3:47-4 :30: Tyler Moo Upon Your La re ugh: Ethan C. Dickler
P R O S E
5................... .......Dumpste r Luck: Claudi 32.................. a Rodriguez ......The Cave: Claudia Rodrig uez
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In a Daze for Weeks: Walter Egger
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DUMPSTER
u k c L By: Claudia Rodriguez
Earl couldn’t place the day exactly. He could only remember that it had been Sunday he took Lola to the park, because while on his walk, he overheard a mother explaining to her daughter that they could get ice cream after the service: “Sweetie, Jesus hung limb by limb on the cross for six hours, don’t you think we oughta find it in ourselves to sit through a Sunday mass for one?” the mother asked. From the forced frown that resided on the daughter’s face, he suspected that she would have likely used the question as an opportunity to disagree, but her chance was interrupted at the sight of Earl. Earl-- at the time, yanking his ungroomed dog through James Madison park and towards them- posed enough a threat for the woman to tug her daughter’s hand across the sidewalk and away from him. “Shush. This way,” the mother said, in a very christianly manner, Earl laughed as he recalled. Even from the other side of the patch of grass, he heard her make for certain, “Ice cream after, ok?” In response, the daughter looked at the cracks of the sidewalk and said nothing. She chose to accept her fate that, in a child’s heart, must have been worse than Jesus’s.
Remembering this, Earl made vague calculations and gathered that it was probably Thursday. Cigarette smoke escaped from his mouth, abandoning him to become one with the bitingly cold air before him. Behind the smoke, black phantoms were made visible by just a few shop and street lights. Even though Earl had spent an entire year outside, watching backpacks be transported from one coffee shop to a different one, most of the people doing the transporting still remained ghosts to him. To Earl, their company was still distant, static--useless,--like a TV with no signal. The only reason for Earl’s people watching was that there was just not much else to do. He lived across the street from an apartment building in the crevice connecting the busiest university library to a build-your-own salad place. The curb in front of where he set up his sleeping bag was his front yard, and here he and Lola sat pretty much perpetually. Though appearing identical to the rest, this night was different than others because it marked the first time Earl would not chain Lola to a nearby fire hydrant. He had spent the past month training her,
and she, proving her good character. Now, trusting that his new companion would not run off, he didn’t want to risk as much as a conversation with a police officer, who in their predictable nature, would certainly spew something about a city safety hazard as a way to scold Earl for no reason. Lifting from her belly to her hind legs, Lola investigated the space around Patrick’s looming figure. Earl responded not by shutting her up, as most dog owners are in a habit of doing, but by patting her head in gratitude. Lola’s vigilance proved their relationship to be symbiotic. If Lola didn’t provide any use to him, he would have felt obligated to give her up. He had logic to back his love for Lola. She wouldn’t stop barking until she was certain that it was Patrick who intended to invade their territory, and that made her his trusted bodyguard. That meant Lola could stay. As expected, Patrick came stumbling and with an almost empty forty in his hand, and Lola stopped barking. He slumped down beside Earl, letting out an artificially loud sigh. “It’s Thursday, right?” Earl asked. Patrick slurred the words, “Yes,
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I think,” and took another swig. It was understood among them both that there was no specific reason for the question. Neither had meetings, dates, or appointments they needed to attend to, but knowing the day of the week was more instinctive than it was necessary. With this knowledge, Earl now felt grounded into the regular experiences of human civilization, the very routine that he had been robbed of. “Where’s your drink? We’re celebrating!” This was Patrick’s way of asking for a refill. He was a lot older and a drunk, but he was also what Earl considered normal. What Earl knew of Patrick’s distant past was that he lost the majority of his money taking out loans to file a patent for his invention-- something to do with books?-- and it was during that pursuit that he became an alcoholic and divorcee. Earl never explicitly asked, but he was sure a series of uniquely terrible events followed Patrick’s failed business venture and resulted in their friendship. “It’s not your birthday, is it? I didn’t get you a present.” It was only a little funny, but Patrick laughed hard. “No, it’s not my birthday, you dick. We’re celebrating life!” he said, shaking Earl’s shoulder. “I know you’ve got something back there.” Earl got up, travelling all of three steps back to his sleeping bag. Patrick’s drunkenness didn’t always cause him to be happy like this, so Earl figured he shouldn’t shut his eyes when it did. “You can’t have any,” Earl warned, sitting back down. It was only after becoming homeless that he drank whiskey. Before, he rarely drank anything, and when social situations required that he did, he joined his lightweight, female friends with a vodka soda. He never liked feeling too out of control. “Did I say I wanted any?” Patrick snickered. The next morning, Earl was awoken at five am by a street
sweeper and he found nothing left of Patrick. Unappreciative of this early wake up call, he reconciled his anger by admitting that he appreciated Madison’s cleanliness too much to fuss over an extra hour of sleep. It was nothing to get worked up about; besides, compared to Chicago, Madison was cozy. In fact, it was likely that like Earl, the street sweeper would soon be out of a job too. Everything Earl could see from his crevice appeared perfect to the point of fake. Unlike in a real city, it looked like the little buildings with their little apartments could topple over like a cardboard cut out if Earl just wiggled them a bit. The strange place that was Madison was a place trying to imitate the structure of a city, the basic skeleton of it, but without inheriting its ruggedness. Following his eviction, Earl had used a small part of his savings to buy a bus ticket, knowing that in Madison’s phoniness, he would find comfort. He would not need to grow familiar to pet rats, late night thugs, or loud beeps and thumps in the background of everything-- things he would find routinely in Chicago. Especially when Earl decided it was pointless to wander too far from home, Madison became the obvious choice. This whole thing was all just a mistake, he might as well stay close. Time for breakfast and a smoke, he decided. Earl sometimes laughed at his animalistic ways, his thinking that rarely strayed from the subject of survival. In many ways, homelessness had actually introduced him to a visceral, rudimentary way of life that he vowed to carry over once he was back in a decent house. In his lack of possessions, he found a weird disgust for people-including his past self-- who had too many. He did not miss his cub player bobbleheads, and that meant something to him. “That’s my girl!” he said, noticing that overnight, Lola had not left her spot. “C’mon,” he said, ris-
ing from his slender, swiss-holed sleeping bag and hooking Lola to her leash. Neither of them had eaten anything since the 7-11 chicken tenders they split yesterday morning, and Earl still had nine dollars saved from a day he spent playing the flute on a different side of campus. He played far away deliberately and for two reasons: first, without ever having a flute lesson, his songs weren’t any good. Second, if people he knew heard him, they would most likely encourage him to cut that shit out. But anyway, Earl rarely exerted the effort to play songs anymore. Even though he still managed to scrape up something when he did, there wasn’t that much in it. Nobody really carried cash, so it was just better to hope that whoever did would cough something up without requiring all that foreplay. Earl danced down the street in an attempt to keep his hanging sole intact with the rest of his only pair of shoes. Apparently, the damn tape that was supposed to be doing it for him was finally peeling and losing its stickiness.Lola wasn’t making putting one foot in front of the other any easier either. She kept thrusting him forward, and each time she did, he tried to pull her in tighter. For those five minutes-- from Earl’s pigeon hole to 7-11-- his eyes stayed glued to the cement, tracking the motion of his clumsy feet. The door chimed as he opened it. In convenient store etiquette, it was understood that homeless people better not muse over their selection-- they get in and they get out. Knowing precisely what nine dollars could buy, Earl ventured into his 7-11, grabbed a bottle of water, a go-to bacon egg and cheese muffin, and some tenders for Lola before the half-asleep cashier could even form the words no pets allowed. While eating breakfast, Earl took a route to one of Madison’s finest dumpsters. There were others closer to Earl’s crevice, but this particular dumpster was worth the
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The Routine, the Regulars: Walter Egger
walk, especially now, when the rest of Madison’s population was still sleeping. Madison’s REM phase guaranteed that Earl could leave his crevice without the chance that someone else might commandeer it. Because Earl had such prime real estate, he constantly worried that either a person or a group of people-- far more prone to physical violence than he-- would claim it to be theirs, and he didn’t look to be displaced again. That was for sure. The walk felt short. Immediately after reaching the dumpster, he tied Lola to a pole and leveraged himself over into the treasure chest. Ah, his favorite dumpster. It smelled like the fresh aroma of a shopping mall, but offering only rotten bananas, a decapitated barbie doll, and a pack of gum (which actually was pretty helpful in delaying hunger, when he thought about it), its charm began to fade.
Earl began to tap his hand against his thigh and sob-- an involuntary reaction that occurred when small tasks became more difficult than they needed to be. Nothing?! He cried. Really? Fucking nothing! Thankfully, his emotional collapse stopped at the sight of a paper in the back corner of the dumpster, peeking out from under an empty Bud Light case. Two small papers actually, and he immediately suspected they were coupons. Balancing himself on the mountain range of trash, he hiked to what could potentially be his next two meals if he was lucky. Before he could lose his footing, he lunged to the papers and soon discovered that they were not coupons but tickets. He couldn’t believe the delicacy in his palms. Football tickets. The thirty-some year old man found himself with no one to thank. He didn’t believe in God, and he
couldn’t accredit himself, so he just sat there trying to make sense of the gold in his hands. In his confusion, only the words, what a real sucker, whoever tossed these came to mind, which he thought evidence of his growing Darwinism. Maybe the old Earl would have felt bad for the stranger, but now, he did not have the emotional capacity nor the time. On his return walk, he and Lola worried about logistical challenges that might present themselves. Worrying that he might smell up the stands, Earl proposed he would save up and buy a nice, clean red shirt for the Badgers. “Ok, Lola. What do you think about that?” he said. Though nonverbal, her responses always seemed obvious to Earl and in this very moment, her excitement was transparent. Earl was not big into football-like most Illinoisans, he focused his energy in being a Cubs fan-- but he
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was consumed by these tickets’ holiness. And as so, he avoided any imaginatory revisions of the events that had just transpired. He deemed that any tweak, any desire no matter how small, for something different to have happened would be the purest form of ingratitude. Earl thought about going with his mom. The thought of calling her snuck into his brain, but not in a way that elicited his actual consideration of acting upon it. It was just a thought, a random synapse of his brain, something that could be explained by the psychology of seeing a pair of tickets, as opposed to only one. Earl had not spoken to his mom for a little longer than he had been homeless-- a year and a half, maybe more. In many ways, paying his mother’s medical bills was the very reason Earl found himself homeless, but she, in her own indulgences, remained blind to this fact. Yes, she knew her expenses sucked him out of good money, and swore to him she would find a way to compensate him for it, but she had no idea that Earl was living like this. In her mind, after recovering from a severe medical emergency, she had moved out of Earl’s apartment and began her new life in Austin, married to a man Earl remembered her describing as her “last, real hope.” She thought she was leaving Earl, her grown son, alone to run his food cart business, and that was all. It’d be less messy to take Patrick to the game. Finally reaching his sleeping bag, which right now appeared fabulous to him, Earl took Lola off her leash. They would remain here for the rest of the day. While he waited for Patrick, he held out his plastic cup. Some days he begged, some days he didn’t, but today, he held out his cup because he knew damn well he wanted to buy something to eat and drink at that game. He switched hands as the hours
passed. The moment his right would give out, his left replaced it; but despite his Olympian stamina, most people didn’t have much to offer. Screw credit cards, he thought, resting his head back. Just take out your cash people, will you? The day eventually picked up in the afternoon. When Patrick finally arrived, the only task his brain could perform was to complain about his sobriety which to his body must have felt like long enough to earn an AA chip. “Earl, I need a dollar. Just one dollar, Earl,” he said. “No hello? How are you doin’, Earl?” Earl knew that even the visible undertone of his pleasant mood put Patrick in a worse one. “I will pay you back. Come on, you know I’ll pay you back! Don’t dick me, Earl.” “Patrick, no. I’m not loaning you any money.” But before Patrick could lose more screws, Earl continued, “I do have something for you, though.” Earl pulled the tickets from his pocket. Patrick went blank. “Bullshit,” he said, shaking his head. “Where did you get these?” He contained his excitement, fearing that Earl was joking. That those weren’t real. That there was no way they had tickets to a NCAA football game. “I found them in the dumpster, but I think they’re real. I mean, these look real, don’t they? Someone probably didn’t notice throwin’ em out.” Patrick swiped them from Earl’s hands, and after flipping it over a few times he concluded, “They do look real.” He paused momentarily, then, laughing he said, “Earl, these look fuckin’ real!” The two embraced, reveling in their fate. “Wait,” Patrick backed away. “We should sell these. These are worth a couple hundred bucks, you know?” He examined Earl, “You are going to sell these, right?” Earl traced his index finger up
and down his body. From far away, Earl was just a guy in a beanie, a greasy t-shirt, gray sweatpants, and decaying fake Jordans. But up close, Earl’s face confirmed the fact of his homelessness. He had a dangly dead tooth in the front of his upper jaw and his face was covered in patchy, unkempt facial hair. There was a huge scar on the left side of his face that was irrelevant to homelessness (it happened in high school), but it didn’t exactly scream I-live-in-a-stable-and-loving-environment either. “Who the fuck do you think is gonna buy a ticket from us? The only people who would can’t afford it.” The next ten days, the two labored over their Saturday plans. They agreed that they wouldn’t show up looking how they usually did; both would find a way to shower and acquire clean clothes, or at the very least a clean shirt. For Earl, this meant that he would be holding out his cup every day. For Patrick, this meant the same, plus he would be more frugal with his liquor intake. Both would occupy distant blocks so they could bring in more profit. You don’t put two panhandlers right next to each other unless they’re competing, Patrick had said to Earl, shooing him away. Business was standard. Just one night before the game, Earl was about ready to stop begging. He reasoned that he had collected and saved eighty-five dollars: enough to finance his Saturday and sustain him for a little while longer after. But even so, he kept his arm out willfully and shook his cup whenever people walked by. Just a little longer. Earl found Madison hollow during the regular week. Most students walked around alone and with headphones in, leaving the world outside of their private ones noticeably silent. But on a Friday night like this one, these same zombies that walked lifelessly to and from class transformed into roaring and sloppy
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Ups and Downs of Being a Punkstar: Walter Egger
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bar crawlers. The same people who wouldn’t dare make eye contact in the sunlight or in their sobriety were hugging and screaming over nothing in particular. “Thank you. Have a good one,” Earl said, as another quarter dropped into the bottom of his cup. Unfortunately though, this strong work-ethic crap exhausted him into a situation less fun. Earl accidentally fell asleep and was woken up by a man screaming from his food cart, which at three am, pulled in and sold tacos to drunk kids. “Hey, man! You need to move, my customers wait here,” the man yelled to Earl, who immediately convulsed awake. He looked back at that fruity, self-righteous man with an anger that he usually buried. It was normal for people to avoid Earl, but it was different to impose their space on his. He could have pulled in further away, leaving room for Earl, but he didn’t because he did not know that just a year back, he and Earl were the
same man. Earl, now a different species, wormed into his sleeping bag, and eventually regained peace in his unconsciousness. “Lola, no!” Earl cursed his dog, holding in his hands chewed up football tickets the morning of the game. “Of course! Of course!” His misfortune, apparently predictable to him. “I’m a fucking idiot—". He had kept the tickets in the same plastic bag that he kept Lola’s chicken fingers, and in order to get to her food, she chewed through the bag and everything in it, too. She had only ever done this once before, it was one of the reasons he got scared into training in her to begin with. Earl felt deeply stupid as he explained all of this to Patrick. “Well, fuck!” Patrick lifted his arms and slapped them on his legs on their way down. Earlier that morning, Patrick had bought a red T-shirt from Walgreens that he finally appeared his age wearing. For some reason,
their difference in age finally seemed like a lot now that his gray beard was propped against that college kid red. “I guess I gotta get drunk for nothing now,” he said, as if this version of the day was not perfectly okay with him. With the alcohol that he had intended to bring to the game, he began his quest to forget that there ever was one. Earl, still standing, looked blankly at his dog, her ignorant serenity taunting him. Finally, Earl said, “I’ll be back,” hooking Lola back on her leash. When he came back, Lola didn’t come with him. Patrick didn’t ask.
DUMPSTER
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u k c L
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Paella Turistica: Claire DeRosa
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Serendipity By: Serendipity Stage
You have met me before. You will meet me again. Maybe in a dream. Maybe in those few moments after a dream, where you wake and blink until your eyes are clear and swear there was something you were supposed to remember-But the dryness in your mouth has consumed your mind and it’s time to get a glass of water. You may know me by the pull in your gut when something seems so awfully familiar. Perhaps I’ve been here before Perhaps I’ve never left... Hey- Think about it later. Call your mom. Do your taxes. This is Reality. I am my Mother’s work, sculpted in clay and forged in bronze, a product of this Earth and child of Beyond. The River Spirit, looking out over St. Croix Falls and my seven-year-old head, watching my small city cut the ruby red ribbon between me and future’s bends. Posing for pictures in my fancyday dress, we all stand and smile for the celebration of love and life. But I am more that distinct sensation of cheating death: The Holy Trinity of us three stoned teenagers crossing the street without looking both ways. Laughing laughing laughing at
the close call, the headlights illuminating shadowed homes, gnarled tree branches, that glint of fear in our eyes already beginning to fade. I am perpetually present in the glowstick-stained forest and the canvas we made of the world that night, the stars we witnessed spiral around the Question Mark in the sky. If you look out far, if you look deep-the universe will reflect and I will stare back into you. Here I am. The first moment you picked up a pen and liked what you drew. The first dip of toes into crystal clear water on a hot summer day. The first time you stopped trying to make everything feel as meaningful as you felt it needed to be. What am I? simple mundane-complex fucked-up annoying-aggravating absolutely-unjust irredeemable-human conceptual-The esoteric nature-of my namesake and the way I feel about you. I am merely passing through, I am simply on my way— Oh, you have met me more than once and will surely meet me again.
Withering Gaze: Megan Jain
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From the Market: Celeste Carroll
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DE
N T M E R T PA
ST
O
R
There is nothing more biblical than loneliness. Nothing more grand or so innate.
By: Tyle rM
oo r
e
E
I walk through streets filled with such shallow air and notice stigmata on each and every hand. Some wear gloves to hide their conditions, but the blood always soaks through; that’s the thing about wounds. There is not a flicker in my mind that doubts how hateful Jesus must have been as the first bolt was hammered through his hand. I have seen the eyes of those who have been left behind, and it is how I know that we are all children, related under God; I see the same face of terror, of anger, like a mother and son would share. I was once lost at the department store as a child, huddled in a rack of clothes that I slowly dampened with my tears. I waited. And I waited. And then I wandered under those harsh, fluorescent lights and over those reflective floors. And I’m still waiting, and I’m still wandering. I am looking. Tears shifting into worried sweat.
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Untitled: Eliana Wasserman
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Bar Scene 1: Madeline Rasmussen
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t e h i m n so
gs
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t u gs abo
By: Cel
e m
Car este
roll
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pattern 1_2: Ellie Braun
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Matt: Eliana Wasserman
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Cornered: Celeste Carroll
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& A Q By
:T
“Who’s Captain Howdy? You know, I make the questions and he does the answers.” -The Exorcist An ostrich is the saddest of animals. They bury their heads to find worms and when they arise, their wings can take them nowhere. They can only run, and I tell them to never stop.
but I never pointed it out. Not a single time.
On my family’s annual road trip we’d always pass by “The World’s Largest Crucifix” lit in neon and gold. I would stare through the glass in awe
My grandma’s last words were, “I’m coming, Peter,” and every day since I dread that Peter has never responded. I wonder now if she ever dreaded that
The night I lost my virginity, my girlfriend found me in the bathroom, weeping on my knees, hands in prayer. She gathered me up and cradled me in her arms. I watched us in the mirror and continued to weep, but differently.
e yl
r
M
r oo
e
he wouldn’t respond and those last words were her last cling to hope. I often think of the blood spilled in that church in Charleston and if we are all now supposed to drink their blood at communion too. I don’t go to church much anymore, so on nights when I long for holiness I drink down a bottle of wine in their name. I learned at an early age to never ask questions about God, only about what he does.
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z z a j of T h is is o n e s li c e
By
:T re yler Moo
The last bit of horn has dribbled out and draped a rug of fog to let rest this moment of blue silence.
I stand from my chair and feel your eyes glaze over me. I now look to you: A frame of hot lights and painting of black. A pause like this can feel like an eternity so let me point you to where we were so you know where we stand now.
The intro you just heard, the piano, bass, trombone, and wily trumpet, that was your contemplative drive to work, that was when you looked to Gam’s rocking chair and properly noticed that it was empty for the first time, that was when you were ten and popped in your dad’s copy of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and saw, eyes peaking above blanket, Leatherface twirling in the sunrise and Sally laughing in the truck, that was when you wet your finger to turn the page only to pause, go back, and read that page again. The dribble into blue was your neck’s want to twist onto me when I stood, onto anything that moved, to see if something could parse the jazz, lay it down on the table and dissect its thinly sliced parts and show them to you with clear and concise labels. And let’s be honest, nothing existed before the jazz; the jazz has always been. I turn my head to one side and then to the other. I nod to you, blackness, knowing you must be nodding back.
24
Now, solo ready, with my fingers lazily slouched over these key pearls, and my teeth gripped, tongue taught on this delicate slice of wood, I lift my chest and blow: my best explanation.
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z
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By: Tyler Moore
My dearest, I thought about calling you, looking through the names and pictures of the local water aerobics class, pouring through an old phonebook, and then calling you; and if you weren’t home, then leaving a message. But that would be like seeing the movie before reading the book. I want to hear from your mouth that you do water aerobics at the local high school, and I want you to tell me that your name is Maryanne, or Shelly, or Patricia. I usually like to let these kinds of things simmer over for a while but the bravado you exuded when you just plopped down right next to me has inspired me to come out and lay it all bare for you. You obviously don’t have time for sheepish men, so I’ll just get right to it. Could you tell me how that space between us felt to you? I’ve thought about it, quite a lot actually, and I really want to know if it was just as room temperature for you as it was for me. They say that red wine is best served at room temperature. But you’re more of a here and now, skip the wine give me the grapes, no bullshit kind of woman. I like that. I wonder if you stole a glance into my eyes and saw me painting you eating those grapes. I typically reserve eye contact for the second date, but I think for you I can make an exception. That is, of course, you did in fact look into my eyes without my noticing, but a grape girl such as yourself I’m sure would; your ‘no bullshit’ and all. I’m writing to ask if maybe we could see each other again. Perhaps we could recreate the time we met when you sat down next to me, the full sixteen minutes. I could say, “wow,” again, except this time out loud. You could say, “Hi, how are you?” again, except this time out loud. I could say, “I love you,” again, except this time out loud. Then afterwards I was thinking we could go get x-rays together down at the hospital. We could put on those leather aprons, get a good look at each other, and then never take them off. I think I would like that.
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Me and Emma: Madeline Rasmussen
A NOTE TO THE PIGEON FEEDING, ELDERLY WOMAN WHO SAT NEXT TO ME ON THE PARK BENCH FROM 3:47 TO 4:03
Me and Emma: Madeline Rasmussen
ore
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Distance as a Concept: Ryan Prehara
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Full Moon, Drunk as Fuck: Walter Egger
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Contingent Upon Your Laugh By: Ethan C. Dickler
A sole streak of sunlight which splits the sky in two, Will encounter your harmonious hand Holding up an opaque coffee cup. You will bring the cup to your lips Which will form a mold around the lid, As the free-flowing fluid flushes into your mouth. Then, you will lower the cup from your mouth to the table And look up, so that your soft face forces the bright light Behind your head, and you will smile and show your teeth. A laugh will pass from your bosom to your mouth And gently caress the fresh air of the spring For a terse second before dissipating into the distance. During this time, you will lower your hand From the coarse coffee cup to your blue dress covered lap, Where it will lazily lie a moment longer. You will then lift your hand once more from your relaxed lap, Which is smoothed to the rounded edges of your legs and your lap, And you will restrict your hair from the breeze with your natural part. Lowing your hand, you will replace it on your lap, And let it linger there for at least a little while, Before lifting it again to lift the lid to your coffee. Removing the lid, you will once more bring the cup to your mouth And sip the browned water, which you dulled with milk Until the natural black was diminished and diluted. Lowering the cup once again, you will look up at me And your head will work as the opaque object blocking the rays, Allowing me to see your sentimentally situated face. All of this will happen in the future, which is so uncertain, Contingent upon you finding my frivolous joke funny And do not find me drab, as I fear you often do. _________________ 11:49 – 6 May 2019 Madison, WI
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Incongruity: Maddy Henkel
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THE CAVE I hate this song- the one Goose’s speaker is hurling up. Fifty percent of Goose’s Itunes library is purely an attempt to justify his classic rock t-shirts; the shirts came first, the music came second, but he’s blissfully unaware that anyone knows that. The other half of his library is just bad, which is what accounts for the song playing right now. Something by Migos, I can tell because half the lyrics are saying who is singing the lyrics. It seems that Mona Lisa likes the song, though. The corners of the fake gold frame in which she resides bangs against Goose’s dark red walls, as if she were somehow fond of the tune. I’m glad she can even enjoy it over all this talking. ‘Do you want this?’ Heather’s eyes inquire as a midget-sized bong approaches me again. Sometimes weed makes me paranoid, but the bowels of Goose’s couch is a place I know well, allowing for a beautiful, marijuana induced paralysis. I pick up the piece from next to my feet and press the top of it against my mouth. The smoke bubbles and rises like a wonderful potion. Inhale. “Someone’s about to be very, very couched,” West calls out from across the center table. Exhale. I give him playful, fuck-off eyes, ones a stranger might mistake for real fuck-off eyes, and then recline into my comfy real estate. Above Mona, Christmas lights dangle, circling the room and illuminating the otherwise lightless cave, but they’re brighter now than they were a minute ago- more
BY: CLAUDIA RODRIGUEZ
alive. Mona Lisa probably thinks they’re stars. … Someone stole my eyeballs; they reached their hands past my defenseless eyelids and scooped them from their sockets. I’m not blind though, I’ve been traded a better pair. Goose’s walls are redder, the pattern on his tapestry, finer. Everything remains as it was, except sharper, as if the universe was somehow teasing my usual, complacent lack of clarity. Meanwhile, Goose’s eyes scan his table for the top of his grinder, and as instinctively as breathing, I help him search. A green and purple lava lamp, tobacco remnants scattered essentially everywhere, an empty plastic bag, the many unnecessary tools we use to smoke weed, but no grinder top. Goose smacks both arms of his chair. “Guys, I think my grinder ran away,” he announces with defeat. West chuckles. “I would too if I were him. All this bullshit work all the time, like, he’s practically a slave.” Heather perks up, apparently also in defense of an inanimate object. “Very few things make him not a slave.” We laugh out of our noses and throats, but not our gut until West invites us, “Goose is to grinder as Steve Jobs is to Chinese high schooler.” Nothing can ever be that funny unless it’s also a little sad. ... Amongst us, it is known that we- Goose, West, Heather, and me- are the only property holders in the cave. We circle around the center table in
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a very strict order, the cul de sac of a neighborhood: I sit on the leftmost part of the silk couch with Heather to my right, West sits on a drum throne to the right of Heather, and Goose, in his slinky chair, completes the circle to my left. We were not purposeful in choosing this order, but we are very deliberate in maintaining it. Sometimes, uninformed tourists-- the drug dealer, the pizza man, girls Goose and West actually want to fuck-sit in one of our seats, instead of the fold up chair tucked behind Goose’s bed, and we all stone them until they bleed and leave. Other times, we sit in the wrong seat just to start a resolvable fight. “Shall we?” Goose asks in an unprompted, naughty British accent, grabbing his grinder top from under the table. I didn’t notice he was sprawled out on the floor until he spoke. He doesn’t wait until he is completely back in his chair before he grinds about one gram more. Goose is frugal with his words (and weed), except when he’s high. It’s not that he’s timid or awkward, he’s just selective of the things he says. The result of this being that when he does speak, he’s magnetic. But only when he’s not high. For me, watching Goose get higher and higher is like other people’s Bachelorette or Sunday night football. “Dude… are you -laughing- kid-laughing- kidding me.” He’s laughing so hard he can’t breathe. Heather is laughing too, but I can tell by her blank stare she doesn’t know why which, in turn, makes me laugh. Finally, Goose turns to Heather and I and speaks, “Guys, -laughing- West grabbed his mom’s phone to look at the time- laughing- and saw fucking- laughing- Bassnectar playing on her screen.” Laughing. … This weed tastes weird… chemically. Apparently there have been several cases of people unknowingly smoking glass infused weed and dying. That’s what my mom told me. She frequently sends me news articles via Facebook to scare me away from drugs and boys. I think I can feel the glass in my throat. “This weed tastes weird,” it comes out nervous even though I had intended it not to. Probably because I had intended it not to. “Like how?” Goose responds with a weird smile
on his face. “Like glassy,” I say. They all look at me, and then look at each other. Heather speaks on behalf of everyone. “What the fuck does glass-y mean?” They laugh at me and I join them. … I wish the rain would leak through the cracks of Goose’s window, course up my body, and slide down my throat. A while ago, we told Goose that he needed to stock up with items that distracted from his surplus of Dasani water bottles, the only ‘food’ in his fridge. We explained that even though sufficient (or excessive) water is convenient for situations like mine right now, it’s mostly weird. And not environmentally friendly. And we don’t want to associate with it any more. We all told him he needs to get something else, even if it’s just for the sake of having something else. Now, whenever water comes up, we address the lingering issue. “West, do you wanna grab me a water?” West routinely complains that his permanent seat, closest to the fridge, gives him unfair tasks and favors to perform that will always go unrepaid. “Yeah, yeah. That’s exactly what I want to do.” When he doesn’t feel like fully explaining this injustice, he drenches his words in sarcasm, but no one cares as long as we get the water. He leans over, opens the mini fridge, and before grabbing mine, looks at us- looks at the fridge- looks at uslooks at the fridge, each time with a crazier look on his face. Goose’s Dasani Fridge is the eighth wonder of the world. He hands me my Dasani, and I take a gulp, thanking God I don’t live in Tanzania. … “Turn this up, turn this up,” West demands, his tone saying ‘just wait, you’ll thank me.’ I grab the remote off the shelf next to me and turn up the volume; I love this song too, and there’s nothing worse than being able to hear yourself sing over good music. Tash Sultana started as a street performer. She gained so many fans busking that eventually she was popular enough to make an internet presence, and now, book actual shows and festivals. She has the voice of a god-damn angel, and even better, she can play twenty instruments. “She’s one of the only people I really care about
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seeing live right now.” Goose states his (and my) opinion as moral compass north. West shakes his head. “You’re overlooking so many people.” “Who? I’ve seen everyone I care about.” “So many people. Um, fuckin’, Big Gigantic, you’ve never seen Big Gigantic. Would that not be insane?” Goose, smiling, says , “You’re right, you’re right,” seemingly delighted to be wrong. … “What the fuck do you mean what do I mean?” Heather bursts out. “I’m saying that you don’t choose eating, you don’t choose ‘breakfast,’ so how could you choose what you want to eat for breakfast?” She’s not wrong, but for most people, the premises of her argument gets increasingly more difficult to follow. Just about every mentally capable person can agree that we don’t choose eating. Some people will agree that by all means and purposes, we don’t choose ‘breakfast.’ But understanding that a choice, based on two hollow choices, is in fact, not a choice, well, that’ll lose almost everyone- Goose evidently being one of those people. “Dude, Heather, I can set an alarm right now and choose to make fucking pancakes for breakfast tomorrow. Yeah, I may have not chosen that I need to eat, or that I call eating at that particular time breakfast, but I chose my fucking breakfast!” She smacks her forehead as he talks, clasping her mouth shut until he finishes so she can detonate. “Oh my god.” Her nostrils flare and teeth grit, warning signs of her growing frustration. “You have the illusion of a choice, you think that you’re freely choosing pancakes, but you didn’t choose the god-damn pancakes. There are just countless operations and variables that you can’t see, leading you to believe you have a choice in the matter.” She’s right. On top of the ‘breakfast is a construct, eating is a need, neither is a free choice’ concept, even with all the realistic breakfast op-
tions in the world, I am incapable of freely choosing what I want for breakfast, because all those options are not all the options. I’m pretty sure no breakfast place on planet earth serves human thumb as an entree, but I don’t have the energy to even offer this perspective. It’s clear that we have progressed, naturally, into the portion of the night when we share our latest, most profound criticisms of the world- our freshest wounds. … Like our seat arrangement, it is understood amongst us that anger is a form of passion, and when a person shows anger, it’s not always directed at the person they are speaking to. We scream at each other, but not at each other- everyone knows this, and it deeply annoys us when a tourist voices their concern, usually with phrases that do the opposite: ‘woah, calm down.’ We are all much calmer than the person who demands us to be calm. We are so calm we can be angry. Some people just don’t understand the concept of recreational disagreement, and even worse, some people take the disagreements at face value, i.e. ‘are we really arguing about pancakes right now?’ Nothing of importance is worth explaining to whomever reaches that conclusion. And really, after making a comment like that, you’re marked by us: the ‘untermenschen,’ indefinitely, until you learn not to be stupid. Silence falls in the room like rain breaking a long drought. … “’Some people see, some people see when they are shown, and some people do not see’,” Goose recites semi -pompously. “Oh, sick dude, follow me on Tumblr?” West is always the quickest to makes us light again. We all laugh, mainly at ourselves for knowing that we’ve all seen that quote on Tumblr and nearly come. My eyes float away from the circle to Mona. She’s still banging against the wall, dancing.
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Bar Scene 2: Madeline Rasmussen
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Florentine: Celeste Carroll
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NK S HA T L A I C Wisconsin Union President Publications Committee Director Publications Committee Advisor
SPE
Through the publishing of our 6 student-run journals and magazines, the Publications Committee of the Wisconsin Union Directorate provides a creative outlet for UW-Madison students interested in creating poetry and prose, reporting on music and fashion, or delving into research in science and public policy. We celebrate creativity on campus by providing hands-on experience in publishing, editing, writing, and artmaking.
Tanvi Tilloo Carlo Romagnolo Jen Farley