CONTRIBUTORS the design team Brian Rio Krista Richards Caroline Curtin Matt Chase
the lit team Rachel Gray Emylisa Warrick Sarah Eyer Ryan Fazio Savannah Windham Graham Greene Will Franklin
the MUSI C team Peter Longofono Shane Lennon
t h e k i o s k i s a n awa r d -w innin g s e m i - a n n u a l p u b l i c at i o n f e at u r i n g t h e u n i v e r s i t y o f k a n s a s ’ p r e m i e r e stu d e nts in a rt & l it e r atur e , d e s i g n e d & p u b l i s h e d by s t u d e n t s .
tr av e l itin e r a r y Artwork 18
Josh Meier
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Alex Moore
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Jennifer Hunt
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Matt Cook
59
Sarah Sullivan
63
Tristan Bowersox
82
Maryann Stenzel
86
Carly Hoover
90
Megan Dejmal
Literature 15
Loren Cressler : Ode to a Mustache
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Alyson Fuller : Keep Albuquerque Quirky
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Chelsea Brown : Salvation: €2.50
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Loren Cressler : London to Amsterdam: 5a.m.
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Rye Musgrave : XIII Ways to Look at the Month of May
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Sam Anderson : Broadcast Network
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Ian McFarland : Picklewiches
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Sam Anderson : Amerigo
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Lee Handly : Arête for Walt Whitman
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Nitzan Meltzer : In Our Image Alexis Smith : Canvas
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R.J.S. : This Cellophane Scene
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Alexis Smith : No Nodding
Ode to a Mustache Loren Cressler
Jim Croce lies stretched across his ship’s mast ribs and bowling ball skull leathered and unsexed, signature mustache fallen probably onto vertebrae through a former mouth. Still he wafts across my living room and pumps my toes and thrums my blood and cracks my thumping heart and lumps my too sticky throat. I sit and impel my own mustache groundwards from too slow follicles and beg for shagginess, that I might look that goddamn good shirtless ignoring a casual cigarette dangling from too dry lips. 16
Keep Albuquerque Quirky Alyson Fuller
A land where everyone’s a pueblo Cow·boy and In·di·an: n. 1. Restaurant. 2. Tattoo parlor The people? They smell cacti from honey Eat honey from mountains and glaze it over TV sets A walk to work or a bus stop Everyone’s a history A church in a basin, or Corrales Shadowed by Santa Fe They force Italian for the tourists or locals Who aren’t pueblos Pueb·lo: n. 1. Clay house. 2. Freezing = 60 degrees
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josh meier
Zebra Oil on panel, thread, nails, light projection
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Salvation: €2.50 Chelsea Brown
The blue crystal rosary I had blessed by the Pope and later had delivered to the hotel
I quickly removed the crucified Christ for fear it would ruin my outfit.
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Loren Cressler All too familiar, this watching the sunrise from the wrong end and drinking wine with breakfast as others wind to bed and I begin a day without finishing the one before it. Crisp, awful, empty morning from I don’t know where. Garishly glaring late night daylight blinds; gibberish squishes out in place of my words and confuses because this hour should be useless.
Still, expediency demands, frugality demands and logic is abjured and I fly and sleep demands and I never knew I left the ground and suddenly a m s t e rd a m .
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Alex moore Untitled Photograph
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X I I I Way s t o L o o k a t t h e M o n t h o f M ay based on Wallace Stevens’ “13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird” Rye Musgrave
two students severed significance sharing a twix bar in a shoddy 21-year-old vehicle. It’s a cold day in May.
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II Nothing is gained or lost when living your life by complete numbers. The season of May is disordered, and chooses its own values.
III I had been so careful I had frisked her up and down But her eyes were Molotov cocktails IV Intellect that leveled buildings— Saw the Beatles live in Colorado Thought they were OK. V Putting toast in a toaster Too much of this is poem already What am I to do? The month of May is way ahead of me
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VI You bite a pen, you breathe in, the air is humid with dead creation. You breathe out nothing new. In this way, pens taste of deceit. VII Frames Frames in a basement picked up at a general store decades ago
Trapped inside one Are two beautiful young strangers The corner reads “May” VIII The treatment for insomnia may cause death. Alcohol may increase these risks. One more sleepless night won’t hurt.
IX An old weed bullies a sapling In the shade of a great oak. It’s the end of the month and the sun is going down. X Doc entered with Dad’s new pistol and left mid-joke to euthanize a very sick dog. Doc returned with a new joke, and wet eyes.
XII Mike is dying and all I can do is sweeten my coffee
XIII At the end of a very long night out, I snuck into my teacher’s house Because I fancied her daughter. In the morning they found and woke me on the living room floor, for breakfast, which, as it turns out, was anti-depressants and scrambled eggs. May turns up in the oddest of places.
XI Every time I lock my keys in my car it was you I was thinking of What we had’s long rolled under the seat. There was a name that went with it, but Let’s consider that lost. 32
jennifer hunt Untitled Tapestry weaving
Broadcast Network Sam Anderson
the sky-gauntlet— sixhundredandtwentybillionof bones turned into missiles somehow, over a few nights— we resemble our god in our selves eyes, how the hell else are we go’nna explain that sky?
35
i a n m c fa r l a n d
It was a friday night, which probably meant we were watching Die Hard in Dave’s basement. “We’re not watching Die Hard again,” I said. The three of us were lounging around as if tossed from above into our seats—recliner, beanbag, whatever. After sitting in the dark for several hours, we’d destroyed an impressive number of Mountain Dew cans crumpled on the floor, and when we ran out of those we moved to orange juice concentrate. Spencer, a stout guy who had been trying to grow a beard ever since he lost that bet, had a few pretzels on his t-shirt. All seventy-five inches Dave sprang up from the floor next to him, no longer clapping at the television. “Yes, we are. It’s the greatest movie ever in ever,” argued Dave, quite factually. “No, it is, but we seriously just watched it.” “You’re exaggerating,” screamed Spencer. “Am I? Really?” I asked, desperately, pointing to the television playing the end credits of Die Hard.
This was nothing new for us. We’d been hanging out together since the beginning of High School, and had pretty much locked the whole routine down since Sophomore year, when we made a blood oath over our first beers—to “Memorize every single fucking line in the greatest movie of all time that doesn’t have Samuel L. Jackson in it.” You’re probably wondering how we hadn’t gotten tired of the movie yet. Well, first of all, it’s not like we gave it all our attention —we would usually shoot shit with the movie on in the background, only paying attention at the best moments, like when they told Carl his brother was dead. And secondly, I mean, it is Die Hard. It could legitimately be the best movie of a decade that gave us both Bloodsport and Ordinary People. And somehow, the movie kept getting better each time we’d watched it for a while. But though I hate to admit it, it’s lost some of its effect on me recently. In fact, I’m kind of tired of the damn movie. “Listen, all I know is that not wanting to watch Die Hard means you’re probably gay. And, while I have nothing against my homosexuals, I am not gay. Spencer, are you gay?”
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does h av i n g s e x with jeff goldblum make you g ay ? n o , b e c au s e h e wa s i n j u r a s s i c pa r k . h av i n g s e x w i t h j e f f g o l d b lu m j u s t m a k e s y o u t h e l uc k i e st p e rson on e a rt h .
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“Does having sex with Jeff Goldblum make you gay?” “No, because he was in Jurassic Park. Having sex with Jeff Goldblum just makes you the luckiest person on Earth.”
“Then I’m just lucky.”
“Alright, then it’s clear. We have two handsome, manly straight men that want to watch Die Hard. Chris, are you gay?” “Let’s see if I get you here— wanting to watch a movie about a man who would rather handcuff dudes in New York than sleep with his Wife makes you straight?” Spencer and Dave were eager to come back, their mouths eager to spit up more pop culture bacchanalia. But just as they were about to speak, they realized they couldn’t think of anything to one-up me this time. “And— ” I rushed, realizing I had struck gold, “The bad guy is played the dude that looks like a chick in the Harry Potter movies.”
another F r i d ay l ost d ow n t h e d r a in They tried hard as they could to think of something to retort with, but nothing came. Bitter, Spencer swore: “Someday, I’m going to kill you for that.” “Alright, so what are we going to do?” asked Dave. “We could try to meet some girls,” I suggested. “You know, go to Aaron’s concert at the Bronze.” Neither Dave nor Spencer were on board with this idea, judging from the unison of “Meeehhh” that fell from their mouths. “I’m probably more man than any of those girls would be able to handle. I mean, you’re talking to a guy who watched an entire season of The Simpsons without any bathroom breaks on a dare,” suggested Dave. Added Spencer, “Once you’ve been with Jeff Goldblum, you don’t really need to be with anyone else.” “Hey, we should go get sandwiches,” suggested Dave. Spencer apparently agreed, using his outside voice as his eyes widened, “We should get sandwiches.”
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I wasn’t very hungry, but it sounded better than another two hours in the basement. “Yeah, alright, let’s—” but before I could finish, I was cut off by the guys, who needed to make shout— “Sandwiches!”—as they stood and stampeded for the stairs. Dave didn’t want to pay for the gas to drive, so we walked instead, passing the neighborhood uneventfully. I’d walked this street everyday for a good chunk of my life to get to Dave’s, and it only bored me now. All I could think about was how this was looking like another Friday lost down the drain, spent with Dave and Spencer quoting Arrested Development and watching torrents of Doogie Howser, M.D. Fuck, couldn’t we do something interesting once? “I’m just going to throw this out there. If either of you order a sandwich with nothing but pickles in it—and you eat it all— I will pay for it,” offered Dave. “That’s an intriguing offer, but there are some finer points that I would like to iron out before accepting it,” queried Spencer. “Shoot.”
“Well, first of all, I think we can assume that you mean the sandwich is nothing but pickles, in addition to the bun of bread.” “Yes. Thank you for clearing that up.” “And what size are we talking about here?” We all three agreed, shouting so loud it probably woke someone up. “Twelve inches!” For reasons that didn’t need to be explained, we all thrust our crotches forward as well. “Also,” I added, “I think there has to be an incentive thrown in, to encourage the challenge. Perhaps chips and a drink.” “I would certainly throw in a soda, but I might be willing to consider purchasing chips as well if you were to finish the picklewich in under three minutes.”
break up repetition of circles possibly blow up stop watch pull quote this page
We collapsed into the door of the Sub Shop. Without realizing it, we had broke into a sprint for the counter, trying to be first in line. I was the last to make it there. “Your finest picklewich, milady” requested Spencer. As he went on to explain just what exactly he was requesting to the girl behind the cash register, I spotted Jimmy and Mark in the corner. I saw a lot of these guys in High School, but hadn’t seen either of them since. I headed over to say hello. “Hey man, what’s up? You headed to the Bronze tonight?” “Maybe, I was thinking about it.” “We’re headed there, wanna come with?” asked Jimmy. To tell the truth, I was kind of hoping they’d ask me this. “Yeah man, you should totally come,” seconded Mark. “Yeah, you could probably use an excuse to get away from those guys,” Jimmy said as he nodded towards Spencer and Dave, who were haggling with the cashier over how much they should have to pay for their theoretical sandwich. “Come on. You must be getting tired of them.” 46
“Yeah,” Mark agreed, “They’re pretty fun, but I could only take so much of them.” I almost accepted right away. But then, I don’t know. At the last second, it seemed wrong. Like, I wanted to go, but it felt like I never could ditch Dave and Spencer, no matter how tired I got of them. I didn’t understand why, but as Dave took his first bite into the picklewich, I regretfully responded, “Maybe another time. Say hi to everyone else for me, though.” “Totally. See you around.” I walked up to Dave and Spencer’s table. “You know what we should do when we get back? We should watch Die Hard!” suggested Dave, after finishing his entrée in an impressive 2:34. Spencer exploded, “Ah man, Die Hard! I love that movie!”
MAYBE ANOTHER TIME . SAY H I TO EVE R YO N E FOR ME , THOUGH . 47
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M at t C o o k
The Battle of Mount Oread Digital matte painting
Amerigo Sam Anderson
Amerigo with the wrinkled sides and the Mis’ouri River in his hair, skinned the mule on the one side from selling off elephant hides, and all Canada’s iceglooms and pailsheds on his back, carrying her, on, through ice ages of her soaking body— he persists, lumbering and impossible, hood over his head pitying and a sheetmetal breast, red cities inside the chambers of his heart burning in sane—he been at the forge for ages, ol’ Amerigo…
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Amerigo his shoes are longsince highway robbed from him, I saw them washed out into sad Mexico ‘s moldy sea—some old cheese man on the run got em while he were twisting in his sleep, between rocks that still sloop ships to old friend Bretons and rocks that can almost see the Far East, where still you are dreaming, Amerigo— dragon tattoos and plastic milks and closer, silks (and she knows you ran out of money while you were still awake making jokes)—
FAR EAST
now youre paying her your american shen you got from yr shovel-hole in the backyard of ‘Regard Mansion, of the falling columns— but Amerigo it aint all across that sea and friends a’yours dont always meet your hands with shaking plastic— Amerigo your middle is my own— because i name it Wheat Belly while i eat from your skinny tables and slat-chairs, because i’ve lain me in your fields of calico and dreamed there (and named them that, even though really theyre brrr lap)— because i know what it is to write home on dirty paper, all that i have for my mother with her apron on— because with your shoe-shine fender automobiles i am dreaming— we are machinists together, cranking out highway lights and chrome-plated stars, hand-over-hand in wartime, because the same company man of ours draws his pay from the same tank of overseas melting Chinee plastic drizzling— 56
of your sorrows, Amerigo we are no end, we have no Vaspucci for you, no woman. When your children are screaming, lighting fires on flags flapping at your fingernails & kicking your old wooden ribs, out in the wind, raging and drunken— we are drinking with you— eye-beams of your whiskey from the same glass we pounded outa sand in jail and tempered our own, our own workin gloves with the iron under the fingers, protecting your heart from a bad break out at those ocean bucks—we will drink with you, Amerigo, but your old shoes you wore out walkin on rocks—we can only sling your crock’ed old arms over our shoulders and shrug when they ask us where we are goin when you, man, cant walk—
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s a r a h s u l l i va n
Here Come the Hair Models! Fabric screenprint on cotton with pigment
Lee Handly
You read and you feel it, fleeting before you, Momentary, transient, ephemerally it whispers, Leading you toward, calling you further to That which is your arête. Your name, an assemblage of meaningless characters, A designation for a definition unknown, Has meaning for others, but not for yourself, Devoid, bereft, of arête.
Thinking in paradigms, cyclical, repetitive, Doubtful of your own lucidity, Checking mirrors, clocks, spinning in circles, A mnemonic for nomenclature: Arête. And yet, unexpected, the blossoming of the lotus, A moment uncontrollable by time, No ripples, untouched, pristine in its beauty, Purpose; understanding; arête.
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T r i s ta n B o w e r s o x Roadtrip Collage Photograph
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in our image b y N I T Z A N M E LT Z E R
“If you’ll follow me to this carving at the base of the hill, you’ll see a wonderful example of what we call a palimpsest. You can see the way
“What’s this one doing?” He indicated a figure with curls sprung upright and arms outstretched. I hesitated.
the earlier art has eroded, while the more recent additions on top remain intact. Compare the hunting figure with this stylistic eye.
“He is praying,” I said, referencing the illustrious Emmanuel Anati, one
Which one came later?” I stood back from my tour group as they
of the only scholars to speculate about this mountain in recent history.
argued over the relative ages of the petroglyphs. The mountain
For lack of dissenting opinion, his was the interpretation that all the
staggered out and above from where we stood, and offered no shade,
tour guides had to go with. But this mountain was different from the
and even the December sun shone like a moving knife against the
rest of the ruins in the Holy Land. It was the one place where I was sure
polished rock patina. Damp necks craned towards the tiny carvings,
religion was only an afterthought; it sat scattered with practical flint
thousands of years old, that marked Har Karkom as one of the most
working sites and old bones. The boy’s face wrinkled in doubt and I
important and most overlooked archaeological sites of Israel.
sighed. The sun signaled that the tour was over, and I sat in a nearby tent while my group loaded their bus back to modern civilization.
I searched my mind for the next part of my script, which I repeated daily as a tour guide for the Cultural Preservation Centre. A boy who had strayed from the group pointed to another carving on a boulder nearby.
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Sam entered the tent with water and I began prodding him once more to give me a ride east.
“What do you need to see the ostriches for, Keren?” he asked. “There’s a perfectly good zoo I could have driven us to without even leaving Tel Aviv.” Sam was not interested in my pursuit.
“What do you want with those bird monsters?”
“I have good memories about the ostriches.” “If I remember correctly, the story goes that your dad was in a hurry at the time, and that one of the ostriches tried to poke your eyeball through the fence. Here’s the bottom line Keren,”—I am always so impressed when people have figured out their bottom line—“if I give you a ride to Kibbutz Gal-On, you’re treating me to that fantastic South African restaurant they have there.”
That night, there was a torrential downpour. Most of the Negev never sees more than 50 millimeters of rain in a year, but for two hours that night the rain fell, and 22 millimeters filled the desert’s southern-rolling depressions and threatened the thinly constructed drainage systems of the roadways just outside our site. By the time we rose to leave the next morning, the sun was shining again, and the desert appeared as if it had tried on tropical and, embarrassed, decided it wasn’t its style. Only small streams of mud were visible. But after about an hour on Route 90 we encountered an impasse. Water had begun collect in the small, inefficient channels and drains of the desert, quickly overflowing into a depression about 30 meters wide on the road. Some more adventurous drivers had gotten their cars lodged in the makeshift sand swamp. Ahead of us the traffic was backed up and redirected off the road and to the north. I sighed and sank away from the sunlight mocking me through the window.
“I thought this was supposed to be a desert! If I had known, we would have taken the ark.” Sam laughed and relished the veer onto sandy terrain.
“The smaller problems always indicate a larger issue.” I listened as two
“Of course she’ll never tell us the truth about the two of them, though.
women lounged in sweats near their kiosk at a Bedouin market. We had
Always asking broad questions about the situation or social justice or
spent hours following the same group of cars through the sand, and
Africa. Like if we have enough of these conversations suddenly we’ll
had finally stopped at this market too far north.
come up with the answer that we’ve been searching for all along.”
“Ask those two. They look like they know what they’re talking about.” Sam smiled at me, and I raised an eyebrow. The sun was just becoming
“Even if we do, she’ll still have to kiss that broom when she gets home at night, so what have we really accomplished?”
unbearable, but the women languished in lawn chairs as though they had been ignoring their wares since time immemorial.
The women sensed me hovering and looked at me without emotion. I felt compelled to justify my presence.
“It’s always about that horrible goatee that he never trims they’re in public, but you can see for yourself the strain in her smile when she reprimands him… Don’t you imagine that at home in their bedroom
“Do you know the way to Kibbutz Gal-On from here by any chance?” I asked.
it finally becomes about him not listening to a word she says?” Sam gave a smile and a shrug, as if embarrassed for his gender.
“Gal-On…” “Where now?” “Are you sure that’s what it’s called?” “I’d be surprised if there was such a place.”
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a re y o u s u re t h at ’ s w h at it’s called?
I ’ d b e s u r p ri s e d if t h ere wa s s u c h a p l ac e .
It was, in a way, a surprise when it was first founded. The little
We had been driven so far astray that Sam suggested we stay with a friend in a nearby
commune had been erected overnight in the late thirties, in the days
town for the night. By late afternoon we pulled into a small place with dirty stucco
when the British agreed to overlook any building that took place in
and a perpetual haze of smoke. The residents were mostly former students back
the dark and bewildered European refugees tentatively spread out
physically, if not mentally, from a summer of revelry in Thailand or India. That night
into the wasteland before them. My grandparents had been among
we watched the evening news and Sam began to ferment on the couch. He became
the original builders of Gal-On, and had lived until recently within its
roused and belligerent from the first headline, his copper cheeks reddening and his
large green gates. In their home, impractical tact and old fashioned
fingers suddenly spindly as they flailed between challenges to the anchor, our host,
European manners still informed movement and conversation. Despite
and finally the neighbors mimicking him audibly from their porch. I cringed as he
the secular lifestyle of the Kibbutz movements, compassion had an
approached the din, from which I could hear political arguments and violent sexual
almost religious importance, and as a child, I saw only the harmony
propositions. His friend dragged him away before the brunt of the brawl, and as we
between the nature surrounding the community and my grandparents’
walked back to the car a few minutes later I asked him, like a disappointed mother,
nurturing and not the harsh contrast between traditional refinement
why he couldn’t state his opinions quietly and in the form of suggestion. “We don’t
and desert dirt.
suggest. We argue.” From behind us one of the women tossed a glass salt shaker, which shattered on the ground at our feet. Sam was sullen for the first time since we had set out. We slept in the truck bed, under sharp, ice desert stars.
“There’s no such a thing, sweetie.” The graying gas station attendant
“In any case, no roads from here will take you directly.” One woman
assured me with the air of an eminent scholar that Kibbutz Gal-On
clutched her child and gazed out at the vast expanse of desert and for
was about as real as Oz, even as his colleague beckoned those nearby
a brief moment there was something sentimental in her expression.
for a second, third, and fourth opinion. Stern looking women began approaching. I was already sorry I asked and craned my neck in search of Sam, who had abandoned me for false idols at the counter inside. He leaned on an elbow and they tossed back masses of black curls, stoic, unfazed.
“ Of c o u r s e t h ere i s . I s w e a r I h av e a c o u s i n t h e r e , o r at le a s t a n o l d cl a s s m at e . ” Her emotion evaporated, and each woman reasserted herself with
“ W h o a s k e d fo r a n A to B? ”
I honked the horn with chutzpah. My patience, my composure was
We passed through the Kibbutz gate when the sun was at its peak, and after Sam
chafing between the oppressive heat and the abrasive people. Sam
parked he waved awkwardly and headed for the restaurant, which stood out with
didn’t look up from his perch at the counter. I was drained of subtlety
its bright blue awning and mosaic tiled tables lining its front. He walked inside,
at this point, and exited the car, heading towards him. He could sense
and disappeared down the length of a mahogany bar. We had parked in the
the impending wrath and backed away from the women apologetically
neighborhood, and I knew that the farm was on the other side of the settlement,
even as he recited his number. He turned me on my heals, wary of the
probably almost a kilometer away. There were no street signs, just rows of white
embarrassment I was intent on inflicting, and led me out of the station
stucco and orange terra cotta and bright, flowering bushes between dirt paths.
with both hands on my shoulders like a father leading a stubborn child.
Familiarity clutched at my stomach and lingered at the house at the end of the first row, where my grandparents used to live. It had been handed over to a different family of the Kibbutz by now. Nothing belonged to any one family or person in this little socialist paradise, but I still felt the draw of the patio, the urge to turn the silver handle of the heavy oak door. The time I had spent there was certainly mine, and I hadn’t felt such possession of the present since. I walked past it, my senses attuned to every nuance of this strange moment in which my second home officially became something else, a memory usurped. I turned back towards the restaurant, suddenly conscious of and averse to the fact that this would be the first time I had walked these paths alone.
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I wa l k e d pa s t i t, m y s e n s e s at t u n e d t o e v er y n u a n ce o f t h i s s t r a n ge m o m e n t i n w h ic h m y s ec o n d h o m e o ffici a lly b ec a m e something else,
a memory usurped.
“Sam,” I leaned on the restaurant door frame, inhaling spices and adjusting my eyes to the dim light of shade.
“What would you like, beautiful?” She gathered her shoulder length curls ineffectively behind her neck, and I saw Sam watch as they fell back onto her collar bones. She smiled like she knew.
“Done already? I was sure next time I saw you you’d have feathers in your hair and your clothes would be in shreds.”
“Actually, I’m just here for the ostrich farm for now…Come on Sam, take it to go?”
“You’re coming with me. Please?” Her expression faltered, and genuine disappointment grazed her brow. He suddenly leaned back from his drink, his expression evincing childlike disbelief.
“Wh-what? I did my part. Go on, go before they start assigning us a room and adding our names to the task lists.”
A woman walked in from the beaded curtain of the kitchen with
“Oh, dear… they closed it years ago.”
Sam looked up, as if wary of my reaction. I pressed my lips together, mentally reconfiguring.
“But come and sit!” She slammed a glass next to Sam. “We can recreate
a steaming plate of curry. Her hips were wrapped in a brightly
the ostrich farm right here with our memories!” She danced behind the
patterned scarf and seemed to move independent of the plate that
counter and poured me coffee. Sam pulled out the chair beside him.
sailed on her outstretched hand. She set it before Sam, looking at me.
“Tell me. What is this trip to the ostrich farm all about? Studying wildlife? Creating art?”
“It is a case study,” Sam grinned. “Of the tendency between humans who have an affinity for ostriches to mimic their behaviors. This reserved one here, for example, is fond of sticking her head in the sand.”
S h e p l ace d a t h o u g h t f u l h a n d o n h er h i p a n d s w u n g a l a d le .
“ I ’ l l t e l l yo u s o m e t h i n g : I h av e n e v e r s e e n a n o s t r i c h ac t u a l ly p u t h e r h e a d in the sand.” In fact, most of the ostriches I knew were quite ready to face reality, and usually craned their necks for a better view of the situation… Such majestic creatures. From them, I have learned the secret to elegance despite an awkward physique, and the difference that a full set of eyelashes can make. I love their refusal to conform. No, they will not be flying, not today, not ever. Yes, they will be tasting your hair.”
I loved her immediately.
Hours later, Sam dozed in the truck and the sun slanted inward and
“Don’t you feel lonely for people who understand you?”
inflamed her gold jewelry as she leaned toward me, her arms folded on the countertop. She had listened attentively to me as I told her about
“Anyone can understand me if I say what I mean.” She inched forward
Har Karkom. About my trip here. About not finding any explanation for
and looked at me, and I felt plain beside her. “How many words have
why I wanted to come or any explanation for not finding my way back
you ever said that expressed exactly what you meant? I mean small,
here since my childhood. About only finding words for disagreeing
intimate words. You can mean everything about the world, the crises.
with Anati, always only finding words I couldn’t say. And how I wished
But I mean about yourself. About what you need, like a child.”
I spoke freely, but not the way I seemed to always be spoken to. She
I shook my head, smiling.
began to tell me about the stifling, gossip filled life of the kibbutz, and how she considered every disapproving stare a sign that she was doing something right.
“The problem is that we’re too ashamed to say these things. We’re nobody’s fool. Well, I don’t mind being somebody’s fool—it’s always the fool who speaks truth nobody else can bring themselves to say, is it not?
“I have a secret: I never listen to the women here. Or the men, for that
People intentionally forget that life’s short, especially, it seems, when
matter. Most people will only offer you morbid diagnoses, misguided
death is staring them in the face every day. You know what you tell the
theories, and bad recipes. In any case, I sort of like being an outsider.”
next kid who asks you about the praying picture? You tell him exactly what you told me—tell him the figure is dancing. Start there.”
Alexis Smith
cool Renoir shaded to the time and it’s easy to say it was a strange dream about anything as we’re objects together still, waving our arms
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M a r ya n n S t e n z e l Untitled Screenprint with marker
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This Cellophane Scene R.J.S.
There is something about this scene reminds me of a train whistle splitting oil gray nights of summer in a town maps have omitted. The tracks bow and flex at the weight added to their own cars swaying back and forth empty, unnamed.
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Pushing ever forward colliding with the air in front of them the clacking in time like a headboard banging in some rented room forgotten like we forget the intrusion once the gates have lifted releasing us alone
C a r ly H o o v e r
Sony Center, Berlin, Germany Photograph
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No Nodding Alexis Smith
N o d s a r e e a si e r in ni g h t or m ay b e t h e y ' r e not but l oos e r f or so m e r e a son a n d so m e ti m e s p e o p l e wa nt to no d . To nod vigorously. It's the quirks all the fidgets of others just frisking off night in uncomfortable movements that aren't really too bad aren't really too far away from something that means into people's chests. But yes quirks.
And the mad necks holding people staying up and the necks on pillows weak with not much weight and the necks of dog-tired workers up already and going to gas stations in the half dark. All these necks. All of them nod sometimes. But you see morning's never about that. Lock-jaws hold around. Hold around faces upkept by necks and I'm not saying bodies are it. I'm not saying bodies are all. No nods can wait till later and maybe we'd prefer Advil and not really worry about feeling any sag. Easy as quirks in trucks jugging up off their starters into the jug-uging rough roads that take them to the place. Or places at least with or without. 90
S o m ov e o r d r i n k or g o or stay o r d o n ' t lo o k around just don’t lo o k a r ou n d
And it's important to take note that in all in any in places all anywhere are people who think they've lived. And it's kinda like a quirk these small-eyed people who think they know more. And so light another something or go another place to get through that because they hurt a bit. They hurt a bit the place around them and walls are blacker or whiter or not what they really are in those places maybe or hopefully so keep on nodding the truck down the road and notice the truck is pointless in all this.
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 But go somewhere. or don't and stay. somewhere still in that. as your skin ages but this isn't bodies we're talking about. And he liked that he knew more or felt more or just got to say it. Liked that he had the throat to say it. And so move the truck and squint in the sun trying to see less till you make it to night. it's just not about the saying. It's not about the saying in all those altered walls. So move or drink or go or stay or don't look around just don't look around and envy the necks flabbed out on pillows. Doing the right thing maybe or maybe just done with it frankly. oh to open frank as a door frame with no door. No nodding at all.
M e ga n d e j m a l Breakfast Photograph
t h a n k yo u Jane Hazard, Mainline Printing, Chris & Nancy Curtin, Tad Carpenter, Dan Padavic, Andrea Wertzberger, KU Student Senate, Coca-Cola, Department of Architecture, Design & Urban Planning, Department of Fine Arts, GrainEdit, The What-Took-You-So-Long Plan, Travlin’, Mister McGibblets and ninjas with cleavers.
Tra v e l Tu n e s
S p r ag u e : La Putain R ust y S cott : As She Goes J a m i e B on e : Nikolia Kapustin’s “Etude Op. 40 No. 3 (Toccatina)” For e st o f Luxur y : Perpetual Bliss Hi g h Di v in g Poni e s : Sleeping Bag B i g S tac k Da d dy : She Jo e G a r v e y : If We Were Together O h O K : People R ust y S cott : Ghost Motj ust e : Rome
