Broke by Libertas Magazine

LIBERTAS V ol . 21, n o. 1

the broke issue

SATREBIL editorial EDITORS IN CHIEF Michael DiSimone & Meg Mendenhall EDITORS Samantha Gowing Alyssa Glover Maddie Saidenberg Tom James Madison Santos

Contributor s Elizabeth Welliver, Callan Gies, Alyssa Glover, Samantha Gowing, Graham Marema, Tom James, Maddie Saidenberg, Casey Deluca, Emma Cardwell Libertas belongs to the students of Davidson College. Contact the editors at libertas@davidson.edu

special thanks to... Faculty Advisors: Zoran Kuzmanovich, Paul Miller (emeritus), Scott Denham (emeritus), Ann Fox (emeritus) Previous Editors: Jordan Luebkemann, Will Reese, Emily Romeyn, Vincent Weir, Mike Scarbo, Vic Brand, Ann Culp, Erin Smith, Scott Geiger, James Everett, Catherine Walker, Elizabeth Burkhead, Chris Cantanese, Kate Wiseman, Lila Allen, Jessica Malordy, Nina Hawley, Kate Kelly, Zoe Balaconis, Rebecca Hawk, and Hannah Wright Founder: Zac Lacy visit us online: sites.davidson.edu/libertas

LIBERTAS b r o k e O ct o b e r 2 0 1 4 Emma Cardwell

3-7

Joy Ride

Callan Gies

Sleeping on your Couch

Casey DeLuca

Memoir

Elizabeth Welliver

Strip Mines

Graham Marema Alyssa Glover

11 ---

stain glass Scarred

Maddie Saidenberg

Cryogenic Ex

Madison Santos

Easy Listening

Michael DeSimone

#Michael’s Relevant Music Picks

If It’s Broke

Last Word

featured cover ar tist

Norma Barksdale is a senior Art History and French minor from Oxford, MS. Her cover image is inspired by a scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo.

Joy Ride

Emma Cardwell

I couldn’t even wait to wash my hands before I tell you. They’re sticky and in the bend of my right index finger there’s a gunk of ketchup, brown like chocolate milkshake dried, but I know it’s ketchup and not ice cream because I didn’t have a milkshake at Wendy’s, I had a double cheeseburger and lemonade. I’d like to wash my hands, but I won’t. I can’t until I tell you. It happened like this, a few hours ago on the way home: I was sitting behind Sam in the captain’s chair and I heard a noise that broke me up into a hundred pieces. You must be thinking I was on a boat. I wasn’t. I was in our minivan in the spot behind the passenger’s seat, which my dad calls the captain’s chair. It doesn’t look out over the ocean and there isn’t a wooden steering wheel to hold onto in the captain’s chair. Although, when we drive over the bridge, you can see the bay out the window. It’s just where I sit. And when we first got the minivan my dad stuck a mini spyglass and compass in the back pocket of the passenger’s seat like I was Jack Sparrow or something and told me that was my helm. I didn’t even know he knew I liked to sit on the right. How do you think he knew that? How do you think he knew I like that side where the sun shines in my face only during the sunset on the way home from the shore but not at all when we drive down in the mornings? I have no idea. But he’s smart, my dad. He’s really smart about things. We talk a lot about movies, and I know he thinks I’m smart too. Anyway, now you know what to call the chair on the right in the back behind the passenger’s seat if you ever see it on television or in the movies when it gets famous. “The Captain’s Chair.” It’ll be in a movie someday because it looks like it’d be in the movies, like someone important should sit in it. Our whole car will be in the movies. It will be in something with Jamie Fox and Hugh Jackmann and the whole thing’ll be a comedy because no one will expect to see Jamie Fox or Hugh Jackman cruising by the bar at 3am or around an open dusty lot like they do in their movies in a 2002 Chrysler Minivan. And even if that was the sort of thing they acted in- if they ever stalked gangsters or kicked up dust cruising by in big red clunkers- the last thing a member of a movie theater audience would expect is to peep into the back tinted window of the thing and find Django or Wolverine sinking into my captain’s chair, feet up on the console, eye looking through my spyglass. So it would really give folks a run for their money. It would be an Indie, maybe, a big surprise. But dad always says anything goes in the movies, and he’s really smart about things, so I don’t know. Maybe it wouldn’t be a shocker at all. My hand is sweating now, the right one with the ketchup design. Last time my hand sweat this bad was when I dropped my book in the toilet and had to use the hair dryer to soak up all the water. I had just gotten up from the toilet after a nice, long sit, and was wiping up things and I had put the book on the back of the john because I couldn’t hold it and close up shop at the same time. Well, the back of the john must have been sweating from the heat the way the toilet 3

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does in the middle of the day and slippery, because my book slid right off and into the bowl. My mom made me sit in her bathroom and dry out each page until it was fine again. Holding that hair dryer with one hand up to the page which you’re holding with the other hand at the same time really burns the hand holding the page after a while. My fingers got hot and kind of swollen and big and sweating. Beats me that the pages dried at all with me oozing out juices simultaneously. You know what else beats me? The fact that Tarzan never loses grip of a swinging branch once in that Disney animated version, even when he’s got a girl breathing down his neck and his palm must be slimier than the snakes he wrestles. Jeez. How does the jungle boy do it? Anyways, I better hurry before my mom comes back in and tell you what the noise was. My mom is outside unloading the car. I just heard her tell my dad not to leave the trunk open and whenever she brings up the trunk you know they’re almost done. They always unload the trunk last. I’d unload it first if I was them. All the heaviest bags come from there. Why would you wanna carry inside the heaviest bags last when you’re dog tired and have already unloaded most of the other stuff ? The trunk takes so long to unload too. My grandma helps sometimes with the trunk unloading. But ever since she started talking funny and never really being quiet my mom’s made her go and stay inside. I don’t know if I want to tell you my Grandma talks funny. She just talks too much. Too much about the weather and the way government should be smaller, like it used to be, and the messiness of my room and the houses on our street that always look redone or brand new. My grandma notices everything. She’s smart like my dad, except she doesn’t get snippy if you ask her to repeat something. Most of the time she’ll say things twice anyway. I like that about her. And even if you do ask her to repeat something, the second time around it will have an all new beginning and end- maybe even the end will start out first and the beginning will be the last thing she tells you. It’s interesting. You learn a lot listening to her but you gotta pay close attention if you want to appreciate her talk about the world, otherwise you might get lost in what she’s saying and enter another. You got to be able to sort through it like you do the speeches the President and the people on Fox News do when they’re talking on about really important stuff. They trick you, on that channel, because most of the time half of what they say is not important. It’s your job as the responsible citizen to differentiate what’s smart and what’s not and what you should be able to remember. And for a moment you might not think what they’re saying is smart but just a jumble, like my grandma talking, but once you sort it through, you step back smarter yourself because you were

I was sliding down my jeans I swear you could probably hear my dick screaming at the top of its lungs like the slinky dog in Toy Story when Woody needs saving. Only this thing was not slinky in the slightest. Another funny thing. The faucet made the biggest squeak when I went to turn it on, I thought I almost broke it or something. No water came out, I guess cause it’s shot or I didn’t turn it all the way. I froze up and didn’t wanna find out which was the case so I just decided not to wash my hands at all.

the one able to pull out the worthwhile opinions. At least that’s what my dad says is necessary to do when watching right wing Television like that. He’s all about the right side of things. Maybe that’s why he knew I wanted to sit on the right in the car. I assume you can apply the right-side-of-things principle to my grandma, it’s such a smart idea. That’s one more reason why I don’t understand my mom wanting to unload the trunk last. She can’t sort through and appreciate the opinions of my grandma when she’s tired. Beats me. Alright, I’ll tell you about the noise now. I don’t know if I want to tell you it was a noise. It began with a noise but it was someone talking, so I guess it was a talk. The whole ride home tonight was strange. Right now I’m feeling extra strange and maybe I’m thinking extra strange too and so maybe the talk was only a little strange and I’m blowing things out of proportion. Maybe I shouldn’t even bother telling you cause in the morning I’ll wake up and all the strangeness will be gone anyway. But I won’t be able to fall asleep and have the strangeness gone forever if I don’t tell somebody at once. My grandma’s got her portable radio on across the hall and so if I have to stop a minute and get up to shut the door if the shouting gets too loud, don’t worry. My stopping shouldn’t disturb you. And it’ll be nothing compared to the strangeness I felt when we finally got home and I could go to the bathroom. I always go to the bathroom first thing I step in the door and so I did the same tonight. But things felt funny like all the while we’d been away someone had come into our house and shuffled everything around slightly. Nothing was moved around exactly but I sort of forgot where everything was when I sat down and felt surprised looking at my stuff in the bathroom. I shut the door all the way even though it was so dark. It felt like someone was watching me and so I tried to keep real quiet when I pulled down my pants. I felt so stiff down there you’d think there wouldn’t be even a ruffle of noise, but the whole time

But this noise in the car was stranger than the noise of the faucet. It didn’t come from the engine like you were probably thinking a strange noise in the car would, but from Melissa, my sister’s friend, who sat behind and diagonal from me in the very back of the car. Normally I would feel bad for the person who has to sit in the very back but I didn’t care about Melissa. She’s one of those girls who get people to like her by laughing all the time, even when something’s not too funny, so much that the people who start to like her actually laugh with her for laughing. She doesn’t make you laugh, but people feel inclined to laugh when she does so she’s not lonely in her laughing. And even if you started laughing at her, not in a good way but insulting, she’d probably stare right back and laugh because she thinks then you’ll feel good about yourself like you’re real funny and give her the thumbs up. She isn’t witty. When she’s not laughing she’s talking really slow and nodding her head and swallowing. Always licking and swallowing something like a big, dumb frog. I honestly think her tongue’s halfway down her throat even when she’s asleep. Her eyes bulge behind big, chunky glasses like she’s eyeing up what lily pad to sit on. She wears the chunky glasses frames girls wear now that make them look smarter than they really are. She talked a lot this weekend at the beach about her retainers and how her sister is lucky that she’ll never have to wear them and how her sister’s never been to the Jersey Shore but always spends time in the Poconos with her own friend. Big whoop. She couldn’t stop swallowing about her sister. I hope Sam doesn’t talk about me like that when I’m not there. Because when girls get talking they don’t just talk, they assume things and what they assume becomes the facts and the facts become what their

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friends remember about you. And they’ve never even met you, so how do they have a right to remember you? This weekend I could swear I started getting girly. Like with Melissa, I’ll never forget that her sister has perfectly straight teeth and no lisp, even though I have never seen her smile and it isn’t a memory but a fact. Well good thing I don’t talk like a girl, otherwise what I’m about to tell you would be blown way out of proportion and the strangeness would stick around and become something you or I will never forget, which I swear on my life can’t happen. So we had just pulled out of the drive-thru window where my mom got us dinner off the Atlantic City Expressway. She was driving, Sam was next to her up front, I was in the Captain’s chair, my grandma was next to me, and in the back was Melissa. My dad drove his car home earlier today because it was a Sunday and tomorrow he has to be at work early and because he hates the shore. He only ever does work around our house when he’s there. He never goes to sit on the beach or go in the water which seems really stupid, but I can understand him. I couldn’t explain it to you but in my head I know how he feels sort of. Using your brain the way he does must really take it out of a person. I’d spend my entire life in a captain’s chair just lounging and pondering Televison and movies if I were so bright. I’d waste it all away. I’m smart about picking up on stuff like that with people, though, their personalities. I think I’m smarter about people stuff than my dad is, but on the whole, he’s still smarter. He’s an accountant. So I’m sitting there unwrapping my cheeseburger, and we’re all trying to peel open the ketchup and pop our straws in our drinks and pick out the pickles, and I hear this noise. It came from where Melissa was sitting, but I knew the way you do deep in your gut about weird noises and where they come from that it just could not have come from Melissa. It was like a yawn, but more of a yell, like someone slipping while singing in the shower in the middle of a belt. And then it was more like a giggle and then again there was the drowned yawn, like Ariel waking up in her cushioned seashell underwater. Ariel the mermaid. I’ve seen The Little Mermaid a million times and that part always gets me. Sometimes I’ll rewind it to that scene if I ever have the remote. Sam hates it when I do that. Only if I agree to re-watch “Under the Sea” does she let me.

LIBERTAS, Vol. 21, No. 1

But by the second time the noise came, I was starting to get freaked. I turned around to see

what was going on in the back. Maybe we’d popped a tire and needed to stop, or maybe something had flown into the window, knocked itself out and died, like a Seagull. I don’t know what I thought. As I was opening my second ketchup packet, I unbuckled my seat belt and turned around. Everything was fine, except weirdo Melissa looked like she had seen a ghost. Staring down at her phone, she had one hand on her mouth and was shaking her leg so that the French fries in her lap were bouncing all over the floor. I asked her if she heard the noise, and I guess she didn’t hear me, cause she didn’t respond. And then all of a sudden, she looked up out of a haze, and the noise rose right out of her throat, low and warm sounding. Geez, it didn’t sound like her at all. I didn’t believe it. It was not at all like a frog gulping down flies and talking about her orthodontist at the same time. She didn’t say anything, but just mouthed that noise and stared at me out of her huge eyes. And then it was nice. And all of a sudden my stomach flipped and there was a tingle somewhere deep and I squeezed the ketchup packet so tight it squirted out all over me and the Captain’s chair. I was really embarrassed and my throat went dry right then. Geez, it was weird. My mom flipped out and threw the box of baby wipes at my head so hard I couldn’t see for a minute. I don’t know why she worries so much about how clean the car is. Ketchup stains seem really Hollywood to me, and if Jamie Fox or Hugh Jackmann ever did ride through a blockbuster on our wheels, the burnt red speckled leather could be eye-catching. It could win an Oscar for best upholstery or something.

I might crack into pieces like a glass bottle crushed on a busy street if someone said my name, even asked me a question or touched me. All of a sudden I wanted to be alone and didn’t want to be in that car. It was getting hot in there and I was sick of it. I had to get out. But then the noise would come again after she giggled or said something real slow that made Sam or my Mom giggle, and this time it vibrated somewhere deep in her chest, echoed just as she started to smile, and then she put her hands on her neck and looked up at the ceiling of the car and I felt the inside of me stiffen. I just couldn’t look away. Why did she have to look up all hot and mesmerized in the face at the ceiling like it was an archway of the Sistine Chapel? I keep old chewing gum up there. Geez, there is no reason anyone should feel the need to look up at the ceiling of any minivan like that, like Meg in Hercules when the centaur’s about to eat her, and sprain their neck.

Now here I am trying to tell you about it and the strange feeling still won’t go away. Every time I think of her face, it just happens. And it’s not even her face really that got me. It was the sound and then the way she kept rubbing her legs with her hands to get the grease from her dinner off of them, right near the cutoff of her shorts and Sam made such a big deal of it too, she almost sneezed vanilla Frosty, in between her thighs which all weekend she kept complaining were sunburned. And it hurt my eyes but Melissa was the worst. For a whole minute you’d have thought to look at them, so red and blotchy like that and she was drowning in her own saliva. Her tongue stayed hanging out of her mouth and on the underside was this big bubble of spit. It was blistered, but I had this sudden urge like you do in so Patrick in Spongebob I thought I might punch her. And that sure is front of a sorry-looking blind person to reach out strange, because no one ever sees Patrick laughing and wants to pum- and pet their lousy seeing-eye dog, the golden remel him. Its Squidward or Mrs. Puff you wanna hate. And all this over triever ones you feel sorry for and guilty even smilthe royal baby, cause what Melissa had been looking at that made that ing at, the Airbuds you can’t pet cause that would noise come out of her all warm and slow was something on her phone be taking advantage of the owner’s blindness and just morally wrong. But I wanted to reach out and about the royal baby in England. Well why did she have to get so expet her legs like those dogs and see if the skin was cited and scare us all to death? as hot as she kept complaining it was, or maybe I wished it was soft and squishy like a puppy’s. That’s the kind of news I hate: pop culture. You can’t sort through it and find what’s worth remembering, because who really gives a crap I really don’t know what’s happening. If everything about whether the baby blown up all big to the size of a pink hot air didn’t feel so strange I could probably have figured balloon on CNN.com looks more like the Mom or Dad anyway? It’s it out eons ago. When we dropped Melissa off at just there, simple, a squishy newborn, and people like Melissa and all those other stupid girls go crazy assuming a trillion things about one her house I couldn’t even get out of the car to say hello to her mom who always wants to know how plain thing. And they just won’t shut up. My grandma even thought I’m doing in school and all that and talks for ages it was a huge deal. Melissa squealed that it weighed more than eight with my mom. Normally I would just stand there pounds and my grandma coughed up part of a Chicken Strip. And then she did a big burp, a belch like the printer when it’s jammed with all serious and think how stupid it is that moms a dozen pages at once and you’re dying for it to just shut up and work. think so much about the traffic and the weather and what I’m doing at camp and what-type-ofNot very Queen Elizabeth. Geez. Well none of them could shut up rose-is-that-by-your-porch-Janet, but tonight I about it. thought I might break out laughing if I listened and heard one word of it. Because the tingle deep Once I got most of the red goop off my shirt, I tried to tune it out. But I just couldn’t stop looking back at Melissa, who kept making the down wouldn’t go away and by this point I felt the noise underneath her oh’s and ah’s. I tried to smack myself into facing strangest. I was getting annoyed, really annoyed, forward and just watching the trees whizzing by, but she kept doing it. but down there kept on feeling super duper happy. It was the strangest thing. And Melissa didn’t tell And a lot of times it would be real loud and high, and I would feel so happy and light all of a sudden, but excited deep down that I thought me Goodbye, which kind of pissed me off. But there

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was still the warm feeling deep down somewhere and I couldn’t look at her when she hopped out of the car or else I’d probably have grabbed her or something weird. I wanted to touch her so bad all of a sudden, I was gonna burst. It was embarrassing. Well when we got home a little while ago my dad was lying on the floor in the living room with the lights off listening to Talk Radio. He does that almost every night when he gets home, plops down in the middle of the rug, puts his hands on his stomach, closes his eyes and just listens real closely. You almost are afraid to go up to him. Up close, he breathes real heavy. I’d never poked him, but I’d always wanted to. I used to think it wouldn’t work, that he’d just keep on lying like that with his smart thoughts somewhere far away and not even notice you. But tonight to try to get rid of the strangeness I just had to try it. He woke up, but for a minute he didn’t know where he was and just kind of sat up rubbing his eyes and clearing his throat. He kept sighing all heavy, I guess cause the whole place felt really hot because its been shut up all weekend while we were away. My hands were sweating and again I felt the strangeness like things weren’t in their right place. The radio was really loud. I got kind of scared right then in front of my Dad because the sound was deafening. I never noticed how loud he keeps it and it was blasting my ears like the movies do at the scariest parts. How can he focus on what the talk show hosts are saying when they’re shouting it all angry? Doesn’t seem smart to me. But my dad just stared and stared at me standing there and didn’t turn the volume down or say a thing . At least I think he was looking at me. Right then, the oddest thing happened. I couldn’t see his eyes but I saw his hand move in the dark down from his forehead, and he seemed so far away. And then it was like a thousand movies flashing across a screen at once and I was in each one. He was sitting there and I was standing there, but for a minute he wasn’t my dad or he was, but for all I know he could have been sitting a million feet away at the other side of an open, dusty lot. Like I was Jamie Foxx staring down a cowboy on his horse and my dad was the cowboy played by Hugh Jackmann. And I wandered if he could see me as well as I saw him because for a moment I didn’t want him to see me. And right then this didn’t feel like my house at all, but swelled like a hot, black singles bar in which I’d certainly never been before. And if I moved all of a sudden it seemed like the glass of water resting at my dad’s feet would slosh and spill all over the carpet like a mug of beer on a greasy counter, or whatever it is they drink in mugs in movies. Then I felt a new feeling again. I got really nervous and the whole thing was like a Marvel film and I was the hero wondering for the first time if he’s a hero and if his biggest weakness is, big whoop, his biggest strength too. I just felt so dumb all of a sudden, like the world knew important things about the strangeness and about why I felt it, but was refusing to tell me. Like it was expecting me to be able to figure it out on my own, like I do with what my Grandma says and what the broadcasters on the news tell you. Anyways, I chickened out. I just lost it. Geez, I don’t know why. I don’t know what to do and so I think I’ll try to go to sleep now. That’s what Spiderman did when he got bit that day in the lab by the Spider. Shut out the lights early. And he woke up the next day and he was fine. Yeah, he felt a lot better. I don’t have any other choice. I really hope I can sleep feeling this stupid. Only reason my dad sleeps so easily is cause he’s smart and has got everything figured out already, doesn’t have to solve one single mystery, ever. I do feel a little better after telling you though. My hand is soaked now from holding the pencil so tight though and so are my pants with sweat. Absolutely soaking. I’ve never sweat so much down there before. Geez, it’s wet. But you wanna know the strangest thing? I keep wondering what they’re gonna name that stupid royal baby. Melissa kept saying she liked George. I like that too. And James.

LIBERTAS, Vol. 21, No. 1

Sleeping on Your Couch Callan Gies

e broke up. Or I guess you broke up with me. I always thought the expression “We broke up” was stupid anyway. Like, clearly two people didn’t decide to break up with each other simultaneously. They say it was mutual, But Somebody got fucked. So yeah, you broke up with me. Out of the blue. And that was fine. Even though it was over a text message and that morning you said you loved me. And I believed you Because you did love me, Once. I saw it in your eyes and I felt it in your touch and your kiss and whatever.

W h a t e v e r.

And you found another one. A younger one. A fresh one. And with that you crushed me. Snapped the big pieces into little ones And I couldn’t glue them back together. No matter how hard I tried. Because I did. Try, that is. So we were friends. Are friends. Friends. And then suddenly we were fucking. Fucking. Animalistic. Hot. Sweaty. Fucking. And when you drove me home in the morning I told everyone that I slept on your couch. Which I didn’t, Clearly. (Hence, the fucking.) But I did. I slept on your couch. I’m sleeping on your couch emotionally, I swear. I have no feelings for you. I’m over it.

I get it. You’re bad at long distance. Fatal flaw I suppose. (For me at least.) But whatever, now we aren’t together Because we’re friends. Best friends.

So, tell me all about the new girl Because it isn’t fucked up. Go date another freshman, Because I grew up. I know all your tricks. I’ve heard all your stories. I’m drained of love. So tell me all about her. She’s lovely. She’s smart.

But we kept having sex. And kept saying I love you. And you ran your fingers through my hair. And I fell asleep on your chest.

Just know when you invite me over. I’ll sleep in your bed with you. But I can promise, (My heart will be on the couch.)

But you were serious about the dating other people thing. So I

woke up. LIBERTAS, V o l . 2 1 , N o . 1

September 8th, 2009

Memoir by C AS Y E e D L U C A

My name is unimportant. It’s just an arrangement of letters. These letters form empty words that are nonsensically spat together to satisfy conversations that eventually dissolve into nothing. We deliberate, contemplate, and speculate until the words evaporate. We question if anyone listened or if anyone even cared. Because no one is entirely capable of reserving judgment, our innate insecurities control and paralyze our afterthoughts. Our vulnerable minds unrelentingly mediate on trivialities of the words and phrases that allow friendships and relationships to ultimately succeed or fail. So, my name was the product of a conversation between my parents. My name has no substance; it’s just a word. Tomorrow I leave my New York family and friends for the second time to attend a boarding school in Newport, Rhode Island named St. George’s. My mom insisted on a modest send-off, barring any going-away parties or interminable goodbyes so as to not jinx my second attempt at boarding school. About a year ago, three weeks into the school year, I was expelled from Choate Rosemary Hall in Wallingford, Connecticut for smoking weed for my first time. Yes, my first time. By shamelessly surrendering my girlish innocence to peer pressure after persuasive “chill-the-fuck-outs” and “calm-the-fuckdowns,” I was basically a rebel without a cause. Rebellion continued to fester inside me as I proceeded to not even get high and subsequently confess my sins to my bimbo bleach blonde Hall Counselor, who wasn’t exactly hesitant to call the deans, who then locked me in the health center for twelve hours and forced me to phone my parents. The conversation went as follows: Me (holding back tears): “Mom, Dad…you need to come get me at school” Mom (skinny, attractive, Irish): “What? Why?” Me: “I got caught smoking and the deans said I can’t come back.” Dad (big, Italian, thick Bronx accent): “Smoking? You smoked cigarettes?” Me: “No, Dad.” Mom: “She means pot, Anthony! Not cigarettes!” Dad: “Pot? Like marijuana sticks?” Me (tears trickling): “I’m sorry.” I asked the dean if there was anything I could do to salvage my position at the school to which she sadistically replied, “You can wash my windows.” On the drive home, after leaving the friends I thought I’d have forever, my mom said something to me that has haunted me ever since. “I always thought that you’d be the one saying goodbye to someone,” she told me. “How could this happen?” She began crying shortly after and I think she just recently stopped. After my acceptance to St. George’s School, however, our reserved communication grew to something more substantial. Though I retired the typical teenage girl trend of hostility and opposition toward my mother, I don’t feel any more mature. I still religiously watch Full House and stay up late reading books with a flashlight under the covers. I still jump on my trampoline, walk around with no shoes on, and refuse to eat vegetables. I still feel too young for sex and cigarettes and drinking. Honestly, I would rather watch movies on Friday nights than go to parties. But I go anyway. The entire summer was a blur of booze and boys and now it’s over. I’m leaving the friends I made at the public school I attended after my expulsion and now I have to start over. Again. Let’s hope I don’t try cocaine or something and turn myself into the Chief of Police this time around.

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Strip

Mines

he entered in the quiet slim moon silence, wind ruffled cacti that stood like shallow defenses against his calloused hands my body dry, knees cracked with sulfur mixed with volcanic ash the hills of my hips lay limp, soft and molded as the horizon he entered in the darkness hungering for copper that did not glisten at the glimpse of his desiring eyes he entered in the madness of men deranged by the conception of conquest as acceptable without the consent of the mountains and our people their stomachs are never contented, until every inch of dust ravaged at first, the digging felt like a tickle, as if someone were just pinching my insides, probing just to know where my ribs landed and where the soft patches fell behind my molehill dimples, and i resisted to opening anything more but surely he knew what he was doing when I would not easily give in, he brought machines, and then they began twisting, drilling, ripping inches of my cheeks until I was silenced, grief, the smallest relief being strange hours of emptiness when they would leave for their holiday stints to drink now it is twenty four hours of churning machines carry twenty thousand pounds of my body two thousand laborers a day getting sicker from the chemicals I am getting thinner, stomach flatter, suffocating lungs, their drugs poured into my veins, it began in darkness, it has not yet ended they entered in the madness of warquest white skin against dark people against mountains, my sister died a few years ago, they beat her open for her silver until she had nothing left but dirty waters in her crooked stance, for her burial, she was filled with dirt contaminated I have thirty years left, before the pit that was once the cradle of my abdomen becomes polverized and I have no life left to give when the machines drill, they whisper, you are mine, mine, mine, I am numbing, shaking dust, stumbling, in the moments when I wake, I am fire I quake, waiting for truth to grow stronger than their bombs now the silver they strip away from my pale body is making them sicker with time mine, mine mine, for they have stripped me of my dignity, forgotten how to stop when the rivers run green and the violence is sinking into their waters, the cancer is multiplying this is my ravaged body, broken for your drilling deeper, mine, mine, mine now the prophecies are my only resistance for on the day when the earth will have no inches left to conquer the day there will be no more silver left to feed that hunger and the grinding of machines will be replaced by childrenÂ´s cries out of the silence, the darkness, the madness, like the fire of the desert sun I will rise.

Elizabeth Welliver

LIBERTAS, V o l . 2 1 , N o . 1

stain glass

graham marema

The library ﬂooded when last Friday’s storm swelled the river. Water blossomed like coﬀee stains on the pock-marked ceiling tiles, and the storm broke down doors, broke through windows, broke every computer it touched,

and brown streams seeped into the basement where the old books were kept. Chipped black spines bloated as pages of curly letters melted into paste, and the only handwritten Bible bled out into the river. Its pages leaked blues and mauves the color of stain glass and for the ﬁrst time the Bible enjoyed the sensation of weightlessness.

Scarred

Alyssa Glover

When she grew up she wanted to learn to fight, So that she would always feel safe, Never having to relay on anyone to let her down. To stand up to them with no reservations. As she grew older she realized that being strong Was not a product of how effortlessly you broke a bone, But how easily they crushed yours. He tried. He tried to wrestle it away from her – Every facet of her emergent being, Her very means to every end. She refused to let him be her universe To let the world revolve around him, To count the years from that day. To let him appear in the depths of her mind – Shifting in and out, in and out, In and out of her brain all day, Coming as he pleased. But he planted his seed in her subconscious, Never really allowing her to be free, Leaving her here – broken. Her hope lying shattered on the floor, And her hollow shell slithering through his shadows As to not see her scars, His permanent souvenirs. 11

LIBERTAS, Vol. 21, No. 1

MADDIE SAIDENBERG

CRYOGENIC EX

You stand still in the garden (clothed this time), Your hair whipped up and shirt against your spine. I have put you and your half-gasped spring Into a cubic glacier, wheeled you in The drawered coffers of my hospital brain. Nothing grows this cold in England. Fertile, fetid country, moist as cake. Apples rot half-eaten in the soil. Hours spoil before they droop the vine. Cold here means a cup of tea forgotten— Brown spoon sticking bitter to the side— Yet another mild, shattering annoyance. May you never know the frigid hurt, the Purity that drives away all thought, The sweet crunch holding you above the ground. In my mind, then, you have died, And I, smelling sycamores, am visiting your grave. And yet—come summerside— Your flaws will breathe again, and crack Their necks and knuckles, wriggle Spindle-fingers through the block of ice.

LIBERTAS, V o l . 2 1 , N o . 1

EASYLISTENNG MADISON SANTOS’s MYSPACE PLAYLIST

Being broke, being broken physically, emotionally or what have you, having a tour ruined because a van broke down, having heavy goddestroying breakdowns (take the joke please), these are all some of the merits of the culture surrounding punk music, excluding breakdowns, that can be left to the metalcore kids. But really, punks continuously exhaust themselves of finances and mental health in touring to share their music. Bands like The World Is A Beautiful Place… who have 10-14 members at any given show and share the earnings equally, bands like Diarrhea Planet, which has four guitarists alone, bands whose entire existence hangs on a thread when their equipment is stolen, like my hometown fun boys You Blew It! this past summer. These bands aren’t trying to profit immensely from their music. They live to make the music that means the most of them and try to pay bills in between. These bands-from emo to surf rock, all falling under the umbrella of punk--allow us insight into bands that stretch themselves past their health and checkbooks to bring us audible chocolate in the form of music.

Rozwell Kid, “Kangaroo Pocket” With the coming release of their 3rd album, these power-poppers that take us back to the Pinkerton days of Weezer have put out their debut single, “Kangaroo Pocket”. If the entire new album is going to sound like this, then it makes sense that the album cover features a cartoonish man in a Hawaiian shirt without a head, because it’s going to blow every Rozwell Kid fan’s head off in a pretty fantastic way. If you’re looking for a song to get stuck in your head for the rest of your life, go for this.

The World Is A Beautiful Place & I Am No Longer Afraid To Die, “Thanks” and “Space Exploration to Solve Earthly Crises” A favorite band of mine released a collaborative EP with spoken word artist Chris Zizzamia on October 7th, and it has busted out songs that make me overjoyed that music can be this beautiful, even with its atmospheric nature that makes me think I should be listening to this at 2 AM on the misty peninsula at Lake Campus. English majors get to work on Chris’s spoken word portion on “Space Exploration…” Catch them October 28th with Rozwell Kid and others in Charlotte, I’ll be there guaranteed.

LIBERTAS, Vol. 21, No. 1

Whirr, “Heavy” “What’s a shoegaze?”- Cullen Ma Dowell

If anyone finds themselves asking that question, listen to this at the highest volume possible and let Whirr’s echoing drums and fuzzy guitars lift you into 4th dimension.

Diarrhea Planet, “Heat Wave” Count on the America’s funboys with four guitarists (and a name that works as a litmus test to sort out people who are too pretentious to listen to their music) to drop a track that teleports you to mid-summer beachside Florida. This forceful sestet of Nashville natives, including their four guitarists, have been said to put on the funnest live show on Earth, which has my seal of approval as well: from jumping off columns at the smallest stage at Bonnaroo in the middle of Summer to seeing them in a stageless bar in Raleigh a few weeks ago, I can say I’ve been lucky enough to have twice the Diarrhea (Planet) in my life, an honor that I hope you all receive. Catch their new EP Aliens in the Outfield this fall. Who knows? I might drive over to Nashville to see them again to their music) to drop a track that teleports you to mid-summer beachside Florida. This forceful sestet of Nashville natives, including their four guitarists, have been said to put on the funnest live show on Earth, which has my seal of approval as well: from jumping off columns at the smallest stage at Bonnaroo in the middle of Summer to seeing them in a stageless bar in Raleigh a few weeks ago, I can say I’ve been lucky enough to have twice the Diarrhea (Planet) in my life, an honor that I hope you all receive. Catch their new EP Aliens in the Outfield this fall. Who knows? I might drive over to Nashville to see them again. - Madison Santos xoxo

‘ orget the celestial pilot bay and imagine the explorers of Prometheus instead discovered a single black room. Amorphous patterns of poured liquid metal make floor feel like volcanos post apocalypse until with one wrong step, the room melts like dead rust. Rock turns to sludge, all drains away and reveals a single column of white light. In such dark, the crew is blinded. Goggles drop naked and the column fades and returns as a glass column of white water, translucent expect for the pale figure floating in the center. Lost in a world entirely not their own, the crew feels nothing more unknown than the recognition of the familiar in that one space. That pale is one of their own. The crew comes forward to see mangled body of a crucified James Blake, parts replaced with tangled wire, head bowed low. And once the melt settles and the room goes mute, they hear his endless plea. An eternal call for salvation made through steel wool. A knowing awareness than the harder he calls, the more he breaks. But he cannot stop. Such would be death. You may also enjoy: Secant by Ben Frost, Dark Web 004 by Giant Claw, I Never Learnt to Share by James Blake

‘n concept albums as dense as Flying Lotus’ discography, the single always comes off lacking, missing its greater context within the thematic work. Here, “Never Catch Me” is the first complete statement of You’re Dead!, the fifth track after four short jarring instrumentals (none over two minutes) full hard guitar riffs, swirling bass runs, and heavy piano stabs. Unlike past Flying Lotus work, none of these tracks transition well nor offer palatable soundscapes (free jazz is meant for no one). But after the forty second thought of “Fkn Dead,” “Never Catch Me” opens with soft piano notes that sound like salvation, death suffered, mourning past, on to next world. Here we discover Flylo’s thesis. Cosmogramma looked to space to understand the impact of life and death, Until the Quiet Comes considered the journey from life to death, letting the soul travel through the transition like a lost balloon, and You’re Dead! completes the circle, killing off its character in less than six minutes to have him/her experience the afterlife. For Kendrick, death is freedom (“You ain’t never gonna catch me now”), a breaking free of one mortal bounds of status, race, ability, and location. The children of Compton can finally dance. You may also enjoy: Cry by MoonDoctorR, Are you..Can you...Were You? (Felt) by Shabazz Palaces, Lotus and the Jondy by Thundercat

ake every filmic convention of the rave. Colored lights and wasted faces interposed between bodies and drugs. Shots always face the antagonist, his/her reactions are the only realities to directors foreign to the culture. Compose all of those cliches together but remove the story. The night is never a plot device, there will not be a fight nor kiss between strobe lights, the dance floor does not create winners. Music of this kind is not an event but an escape, a new monotony from the nine to five where the same single phrase creates an inward image of emotional reflection always avoided on FM radio. One where love and loss are brought to terms within the same gesture of limbs and the drugs numb or light pain but either way keep one away from home and normal and same. From a distance of years, dance music has no climax, no single defining shot. It is a static frequency, above what we regularly hear. And within this sound, one does what is not possible in the standard world. They fully let go.

picks

music

Mi ch ae l D eSi m on e

michael’s

#relevant ザーメン Little Cloud

Never Catch Me(feat. Kendrick Lamar)

Flying Lotus

Love Songs DJ Dodger Stadium

You may also enjoy: Fireworks (Slo-Mo House Edit) ft. Alicia Keys by Deadboy, Can’t Find a Reason by Marquis Hawkes, Waitin For Tonight (Cream Dream Bootleg) by Jennifer Lopez

’magine a high school homecoming dance with a disco ball dead in the center of two warring tribes. Powder blue tuxes dusted in dandruff facing bowed beuties free from porceline castings on Christmas tree tops. Arms swinging at their sides, each keeps their distance. No reason to break new ground so young. Instead, the trick is to look into their eyes. Hazel things open wide like a cinema screen seeing stories too good for real life. The green ones recieve the message and lock lenses like hands and faces peak smiles because they pairs all know (without message from fellow tribesman) that they are falling in love.

Coming Home

Leon Bridges

You may also enjoy: Anything by Sam Cooke, Baby by Donnie & Joe Emerson, Happiness Other relevant tunes: Dreamquest by Peaking Lights, Forerunner Foray by Shabazz Palaces, Amyehyst by Dark0, Only 1 by Ariana Grande, Back Home by Caribou, Slab Crusher feat. 8 Ball by Gangsta Boo & Beatking, Have Her Like by Beatking, How my Love Is by Locke, Begin to Begin by Lone, Chamber of Reflection by Mac Demarco, Club Rez RIZZLA’s “Club Cecile” bootleg by Girl Unit x Cecile, The FUCK outta my lane by Road Hog, Intro feat. Jay 305// NDK feat. Big Sean by Ty Dolla Sign, Hands Up by Vince Staples.

LIBERTAS, V o l . 2 1 , N o . 1

LIBERTAS last word To Libertas:

IF ITâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S BROKE

Due to the misuse of funds that occurred during Frolics 2014 weekend producing the event co sponsored between Libertas and Walt, these guidelines will be in effect for the remainder of the 2014-2015 school year. a. Before every issue is printed, a Libertas president must present a close estimate for the issue [REDACTED] to either the chair of the ATC or William Brown. This request for funds, once approved, will be available in the account for Libertas. b. Once the exact quote is available for an issue, a Libertas president must present the exact [REamount to either the chair of the ATC or William [REDACTED] Brown to check for discrepancies. c. There will be no co-sponsorships with any other organization on or off campus. d. There will be no concerts as there is not a music interest associated with Libertasâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; mission. e. The mission of Libertas will not change during the 2014-2015 school year. These guidelines are in place to show the Activities Tax Council that Libertas will be fiscally responsible for the rest of this year. Please contact either Stacy McElroy or William Brown [REDACTED] [REDACTED] with any questions.