Gravity by Libertas Magazine

LIBERTAS

V o l . 19 , n o. 2

the gravity issue

SATREBIL editorial EDITORS IN CHIEF Jordan Luebkemann | Will Reese POETRY Rachel Beeton & Jenn Chalifoux FICTION Tim Rauen & Meg Mendenhall NOT FICTION Ben Wiley FILM Edie Nicolaou-Griffin MUSIC Michael DeSimone TRANSLATION Katie Kalivoda & Graham Whittington ART Dani Steely

Contributors Elizabeth Welliver, Scott Cunningham, Jordan Luebkemann, Tom Champion. Calley Anderson, Rachel Mitchell, Madeline Parker, Tim Raven, Michael DeSimone, Madison Rogas, & Elizabeth Harry Libertas belongs to the students of Davidson College. Contact the editors at libertas@davidson.edu

special thanks to. .. Faculty Advisors: Paul Miller, Scott Denham (emeritus), Zoran Kuzmanovich (emeritus), Ann Fox (emeritus) Previous Editors: 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

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Elizabeth Welliver

Meditations of Gravity

Scott Cunningham Ashley Parker (trans.)

4 ---

The Weight of a Watch Always There

Jordan Luebkemann

pantoum IX.VII, or, de la gravitation d’un lit

Tom Champion

The Heath

Calley Anderson

Remember ‘68

Rachel Mitchell

Written on Water

Madeline Parker

The Last Train

Tim Raven

Out Of Phase, Pt. II

Michael DeSimone

Michael’s Relevant Music Picks

Madison Rogas (trans.)

Excerpt from El mundo alucinante

Scoot Cunningham

Last Word: Hang In There

featured artist ELIZABETH HARRY Elizabeth was raised by a tender, loving pack of wolves that ran the dunes just outside Wilmington, NC. Today, she is a senior studio art major, and she doesn’t know what she’s going to do when she grows up.

1. Gravity is a natural phenomenon by which physical bodies attract one another. My father says that I was a product of the 1992 state wine festival. My mother says that I was conceived after she prayed to Mary at a pool of holy water. Liquid pours down their throats as the 28-day ellipse of the moon pulls body to body, egg to womb. Can sperm swim upstream? Can children force their parents to love? In June, I emerge from my mother in a pool of water and blood. My father says I looked like a blue-skinned alien. My mother says I had the hands of my grandmother from the beginning. I learn the gravity of a baby is not enough to force anyone out of divorce. 2. Gravity pulls all objects toward the Earth.

to the full moon. We point to all that defies gravity: shadowed treetops, distant owls, hazy skylines. He loosens my lips, in an instant, over and over, weeks pass in bliss until I am too rooted to be hooked up, I realize. I am a tree branch wanting to build a nest; he is a soaring bird ravenous for “peak” experiences. I suppress discontent from disturbing the oceanic silence. Violent rip tides pull me from an anxious sleep as his blue moon stare creeps into my dreams; I have no words but fear. The voice of Gravity whispers as I wake, “I never told you it would make you feel any more grounded if you leapt off the roof.”

Gravity is the god of mortality, I think. Like the breath of the grim reaper, he makes children fall off of their blue shiny tricycles and scrape their knees; he makes tall buildings crash to the ground as airplanes comet into the sky. Human beings yearn to sprout wings in defense against gravity, to build legacies of miraculous plastic – look! I can fly across time zones without using my arms. We play make-pretend immortality as we make towers of red Lego blocks, smoke to transcend the fuming streets, diet to become as thin as atmosphere. Even our cellular phones are sold to be skinny. I used to minimize my waistline so men could pick me up and twirl me. I used to think that if I weighed less, I would be less likely to die alone.

I wanted to rewrite him as my father, to remember being grounded in my body once, to reach across lost continents and place together missing pieces of myself taken by aliens and divorce. But my inner compass is misdirected. I cannot find a map to loving well.

3. The farther an object lies from the ground, the faster it falls. I believed I could only love tall men. Perhaps I still think this-“Only four percent of women would be willing to date a shorter man,” the magazine says. I am told to be towered over in romance. Thinking I am invulnerable, once, I take that risk to climb on the roof to put fingertips one inch closer

Meditations of Gravitation

Elizabeth Welliver

4. Gravity gives every object its relative weight. It is autumn now, and I am exhausted of Falling. The centrifugal force in my womb no longer draws you into my cocoon of solitude. I am a tumbling leaf, shaken from the sobbing trees. They stand naked outside my window. I close my weighted eyes. Wind carries me to November ground where it all began, where I wait in darkness. I know I will be buried frozen, weighted beneath the surface. Now, gravity, be gentle with my body, I am the fragile apple waiting for her descent from the tree. 5. Gravity is a constant force on Earth. Falling never ends. The water tumbles at full force day and night. She pours her words over creviced rocks. I wonder how she loves all she touches down below. I lie down and place my head at the foot of her tumbling body – looking upside down, I lift my arms like I sit on the edge of a rollercoaster, waiting for the plummeting shock. Gravity just begins: the drop makes buoyant, infinite laughter rise up out of my lungs. This is resurrection: we lie down, naked, at the feet of pouring water. We fall upwards baptised by rocks and roots; we bury our bodies in leaf piles and pray to be ripened by spring. Falling never ends: gravity just begins.

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The Weight of a Watch A watch is like a ball and chain---Trudging along with heavy hours And minutes promulgating the painFul pass of time----I find my heart cowers At hearing more bells, and so in vain I remove my watch to forget----an hour.

Scott Walker Cunningham

Always there by Pierre Reverdy Translated, Ashley Parker I need to see myself no longer and to forget To speak to people who I do not know To cry out without being heard For nothing all alone I know everyone and each one of your footsteps I want to tell all and no one listens Heads and eyes turn away from me To the night My head is a full, large ball That rolls on the earth with little sound Far Nothing behind me and nothing ahead In the emptiness where I descend A few brisk currents of air Fly around me Cruel and cold These are the poorly shut doors On memories still unforgotten The world like a pendulum stops itself People are suspended for eternity A pilot descends by a string like a spider Everyone dances lightly Between sky and earth But a ray of light has come From the lamp that you forgot to put out On the landing Ah it is not finished Oblivion is not complete And I still need to learn to know myself

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pantoum IX.VIII, or, de la gravitation d’un lit “we is an intimate pronoun which shifts its context almost as the I blinks at it” - Jack Spicer we’ve been stumbling forward since we got back falling is also horizontal a vast circle can appear straight time feels linear even as we repeat ourselves falling is also horizontal these days i don’t escape the pull of a few drags smoke would dissolve over your head i am captive under heavy thumbs these days i don’t escape the pull of a few drags your nails tear my back, we’re horizontal again this feels like home (the final moments before the fire will erupt from the laundry room, consuming everything) your nails tear my back, we’re horizontal again orbit is a swift cell do you fall into me as i fall into you? maybe to newton, but you were never interested in rules orbit is a swift cell if the earth turns her back on the moon the moon cannot wander there are thumbprints in its back if the earth turns her back on the moon in the sea there is still a many-chambered nautilus i occupy her with ringing echoes it is dark in her depths in the sea there is still a many-chambered orange a vast circle can appear straight i thought i might bring a small light time feels linear even as we repeat ourselves

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Jordan Luebkemann

The Heath

Tom Champion

George Fyler could feel the pistol quiver against his chest. His heartbeat accelerated every new moment. The crowd had intimations of riot, as the men shouted curses that were lost in the steel plant’s pervasive smog. Charles Andrews, with his ostentatious outfit and demeanor, was beginning the meeting. All of the Northfield Steel plant employees stood close together, as if to signify their unity against the expected outcome of this assembly: harsher conditions. Sweat beads rolled past the corners of George’s eyes. Andrews stood with other high-level executives on top of a makeshift stage and projected his voice downward to the crowd. George patted his Derringer pistol sensing the rapid rhythm of his heart against the cool metal of his loaded gun. He fixed his intent eyes on the man in the suit standing above him. “I have some news to share with you. Starting tomorrow, wages for all employees of the Andrews Northfield Steel plant will be reduced from $3.00 a day to $2.50,” Andrews declared. The crowd’s yelling and cursing amplified. Clods of dirt soared toward the stage but deteriorated in the air, falling on the employees closest to Andrews and the executives. George Fyler waited to draw his pistol. He wanted to hear everything that Andrews had to say before he pulled the trigger. But George didn’t know how far he would allow Charles Andrews to go before firing his gun. His heartbeat hastened. He wasn’t even sure that he was going to kill Andrews. The nausea induced by his thumping chest and the overwhelming sense of uncertainty made George ache for a cigarette. He lit one that he had hand-rolled that morning: inhale, rush, exhale. His heartbeat lessened. He puffed his cigarette earnestly, now considering that he also wasn’t sure where he would kill Andrews. He glanced ahead and saw some openings in the crowd near the stage. George has only fired a gun twice in his life, and that happened to be the day before when he purchased the Derringer pistol. “In order to make the Andrews Northfield Steel plant as profitable as possible, we will be instating some other changes,” shouted the heartless millionaire. Charles Andrews was known for one thing: money. In 1876, only several years before, he was named the second richest man in North America. But Andrews’ reputation for avarice and brutality outweighed his lofty title, driving him to try to rise above the humiliation of second place. He started a massive restructuring

of his national steel plants’ employee contracts, a move that saved him colossal numbers in funds. In the last year alone, Andrews instated two wage reductions and an increase in working hours; these new changes meant that most of the employees (who already got by with meager means) were struggling to maintain the breadline. Andrews, on the other hand, had the power to bail out the Treasury of the United States. “Working hours will now last from 6 A.M. to 6 P.M. Monday through Saturday,” he commanded. “That is God-damn outrageous,” screamed a dark-skinned man standing next to George. “We won’t stand for this,” howled another, accompanied by a chorus of bellowing. A riot was brewing, men were chanting Steel Union mantras, and dirt clods fell from the air onto the crowd. George knew that it was the moment to act. He pushed ahead, finding it difficult to navigate through the chaos. Forty feet from the stage now, George kept wiggling through the sea of angry men. The distance was still too great for a clear shot, and George noticed that his hands were shaking. He avoided a few wild arm swings from the men nearby. Andrews’ speech had tightened the conglomeration of employees around the stage. George saw Michael O’Keefe a dozen yards ahead, an employee who worked near him in the plant. The poor Irishman had eight children and a wife three months dead from cholera. He would never be able to feed his children with these wages; ruin loomed ahead. George’s heartbeat was almost audible. He came close enough to O’Keefe to see the wrinkles carved around the corners of the Irishman’s eyes from sweat and physical decay: tears of a steel worker. “The board of Andrews Steel is working to shut down the Northfield Steel Union. This process will be expedited should there be any reaction to these measures,” said Charles Andrews. Only a few minutes ago, George didn’t know what would herald his gunfire; but the dissolution of the Northfield Steel Union seemed to him like the shining star of Bethlehem. He was no longer lost in decision, but as the moment of action threatened, George felt the emptiness in meaning of his mission. He didn’t have a personal vendetta against Charles Andrews; O’Keefe’s wife died because of the family’s inability to afford a doctor, an indirect result of Andrews’ intolerable wages. George wasn’t married and his hard-earned wages sustained him. His parents left him an orphan without

any living relatives. To him, reduced wages and longer hours wouldn’t kill a family because he had no family. He glanced upward to Charles Andrews. George was now within fifteen feet of him and could see the glint of his golden Swiss watch through the noxious smog. George told himself that maybe he was going to kill Charles Andrews because he was alone and it wouldn’t really matter. There were no consequences to his family and no one to leave stranded; he could serve the justice that men like O’Keefe never could. As he took another look behind at the despaired face of Michael O’Keefe, George reached his hand under his vest and drew his pistol out halfway. His heart was quiet. “Any employees found involved with the Union will receive...” the steel magnate stopped speaking. Charles Andrews saw the unmistakable shimmer of a pistol in the hand of a man directly ahead. He slipped his hand in his pocket and continued, “...A-hem, will receive a notice of dismissal.” Andrews was well acquainted with guns and was never known to be without one. He gripped the butt of his pocket revolver. George was still gazing back at O’Keefe when Andrews took notice of the pistol. George started to extend his gun toward Andrews in an almost silent salute. It was almost over. Time slowed to a standstill. George’s eyes lagged behind his head’s turning. His other senses felt dead. Only vision guided him now. George’s eyes met the barrel of Charles Andrews’ revolver. Andrews fired two shots, both escaping through the back of George Fyler’s skull. Gravity pulled him down into the mud like a sack of meat. Andrews, gun still drawn, dismounted the stage and walked over to George’s corpse with the other businessmen. The workers were enraged. The bellowing and cursing accelerated, causing the other executives to draw concealed revolvers. The panic of death and the uproar caused by the drawn guns manifested into several seconds of unprecedented terror. “That’s enough,” shouted Charles Andrews, firing two shots into the air. The atmosphere imploded; no one spoke, no one moved. Charles Andrews looked down at the lifeless George, spat on his face, and proceeded to crush his head in the mud. He faced the crowd. “Are the terms clear?” The crowd was static. “Back to work, now.” A few of the workers were told dispose of the body in the heath, behind the smoke stacks.

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REMEMBER ‘68 FADE IN: INT. CONFERENCE ROOM The screen goes from black to color as a camera is turned on. There is a table littered with books, loose papers, chip bags, empty wrappers and coffee cups. Four people sit at the table, two on each side. AGENT ETA walks over and stands in the middle of the frame, staring into the camera. AGENT ETA All right, so 1968. A year of foreign gunfire, domestic battlefields and international revolution. There was so much going on in so many different places, from Germany to Paris right back to our own soil. But it seemed like everywhere you turned, the spotlight was on the good ol’ US of A. Problem is…everyone hated us. They hated what we were doing, what we were fighting for, what we weren’t fighting for… AGENT ALPHA A lot to take in, I’m sure. Agent Eta turns to look at AGENT ALPHA, who shrugs his shoulders. Agent Eta faces the camera again, sighs deeply and pinches the bridge of his nose.

AGENT OMEGA What exactly are you defining as ‘real changes’? AGENT LAMBDA Well, we were instructed to take 1968 and redo it, reopen its representation. We all know what happened and we all know that we can’t change any of it. So our second best option is to tweak with how the people in the future will look back on it. Change the perception. AGENT GAMMA That still doesn’t tell me what I need to do. AGENT ETA You could just leave. It’s not like you do anything anyway. AGENT GAMMA I’d watch what you say to me research intern. AGENT ETA Not a research intern. AGENT OMEGA Well this is wildly counterproductive. AGENT GAMMA We have two more days to somehow ‘redo’ an entire year and we haven’t done anything concrete. That, my friend, is counterproductive.

AGENT ETA It was infectious. These movements attacked the fundamental idea of Americanism, and that didn’t make everyone happy. But what if we could change that…change what people felt? What would it take to transform such an explosion of ideas? What lengths would you have (MORE) AGENT ETA (CONT’D) to go to just to control how our citizens remembered it all? What it took to get here, what sacrifices were made, whose lives had to be lost in order to do it? Our wiser, unnamed political compatriots left it up to us five to figure that out. And we better. No one knows exactly what happens if we don’t follow through. Then again, no one knows exactly what happens if we do, either.

Agent Gamma stands up, frustrated, and begins pacing behind his chair. Everyone watches him, waiting for the moment when he will explode. The camera fast-forwards, as if tired of waiting, until Agent Gamma’s explosion. The camera rewinds to catch the moment.

AGENT ALPHA Don’t be silly. Success happens!

AGENT ETA Are you gonna sit down, or—

AGENT OMEGA That’s one way to phrase it.

AGENT GAMMA Why should we do this? What do we gain from it? We won’t get any recognition for doing our country this “great service”. We do all the work, keeping up America’s image, and all we’ll get is a pat on the back and this documentary that goes into a classified file? That’s bullshit!

AGENT GAMMA The big boys like success. Agent Eta may be young, but he knows how to be successful with these kinds of things, right Eta? AGENT GAMMA “These kind of things”? I literally have no idea what you’re talking about. AGENT GAMMA It’s a good thing that this mission won’t be left in your capable hands then, isn’t it? Agent Eta, annoyed, closes his eyes as if blocking everything out for a moment. AGENT ETA D-Day in three days. Talk about a Time begins to skip ahead, like someone the camera. When it stops, we see AGENT the white board while everyone else

time crunch. is fast-forwarding LAMBDA standing at focuses on her.

AGENT LAMBDA Look, I know we’re all tired. We’ve logged a lot of hours and we’ve done a lot of research at this point, but we need to start making real changes. Collecting research is only part of the job.

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AGENT LAMBDA Enough! Agent Gamma if you can’t sit here and listen without commenting on everything you don’t understand then I suggest you take Agent Eta’s advice and walk out that door. But I’m guessing our superiors won’t be too fond of that, which means you won’t be going anywhere, will you?

AGENT LAMBDA Calm down— AGENT GAMMA I could be doing something useful with my badge. I don’t do others’ dirty work. AGENT ETA You work for the government. It’s all dirty work. AGENT GAMMA Believe that if you want to. See how long you have a job. Agent Eta and Agent Gamma continue bickering senselessly. Agent Lambda rolls her eyes and waits for it to filter out. Agent Omega and Agent Alpha laugh through the entire altercation. Agent Alpha wipes tears from his eyes as the bickering reaches an end. He looks to Agent Lambda, who has since gone back to looking through research. AGENT ALPHA Now Gamma’s anger may be a little displaced, but I have to

Calley Anderson say I’m just as curious as he is. What plan have you come up with for us? AGENT LAMBDA Right. We already have the research, so I think it would be best if we take all these events and sort them out into groups ranging from positive to negative.

what events got the most coverage. Then we take it to the streets, ask our contemporaries what they remember about these events. AGENT LAMBDA As creative as that sounds, how does this range of memory change anything?

AGENT OMEGA Positive to negative? How are we gauging that?

AGENT ALPHA Oh that was just the plan to get our foot in the door. Once we have the completed list of most and least memoAGENT GAMMA rable events, we take the least memorable ones out of the And how do you deal with events picture. (MORE) AGENT GAMMA (CONT’D) AGENT ETA that are in between? Resurrection City, for example, was I’m sorry, but are you suggesting we just pretend a whole positive to some people and negative to others. section of history doesn’t exist? AGENT OMEGA Same goes for the Catonsville Nine.

AGENT OMEGA Happens all the time.

AGENT APLHA And the Chicago Eight.

AGENT ETA Not really.

AGENT ETA Chicago Seven.

AGENT GAMMA You sure about that?

AGENT APLHA Eight. AGENT GAMMA Can someone check that? Agent Omega rolls his eyes and reaches for the remote, as if to turn the camera off to prevent this nonsense being shown. Agent Lambda, however, snatches it from him before he can.

AGENT ALPHA Nobody is pretending these events don’t exist, Eta. We just tailor 1968 in a way that only focuses on the most important events. AGENT LAMBDA How is that going to work?

AGENT LAMBDA Stop doing that! And I see your point. We’re just going to look back at how people perceived the events as they occurred as well as how they perceive them now. See whether anything has changed and move forward from there. AGENT ETA I hate to throw a wrench in your plan, but perception is not exactly the strongest way to gauge the positivity or negativity of an event. Individual perceptions are too relative to serve as a base scale. AGENT LAMBDA I get that, but there’s a bigger picture here. Once we determine what events have historically been perceived as positive or negative, we tweak them accordingly. It’s really all about wording, using the right adjectives to portray what happened. Make the good ones sound great and the bad ones sound better. It can work. AGENT ETA I still think perception is too unstable to use as our baseline. AGENT ALPHA Then we use a different baseline. AGENT LAMBDA Which would be what? AGENT ALPHA Instead of positives and negatives, let’s sort these events out by range of memory. AGENT LAMBDA What? AGENT ALPHA We have folders full of photographs, news articles, interviews, footage, and the like. Take all that stuff and see

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Writ

ten o

n Wa

Rach

ter

el M

itche

i. people wrote love letters once. did you know? mother says i read too many novels, but i can’t help the thought of pens on paper, spilling a sea of slanted cursive sloping and stretching across the pages like horizons where suns almost always rise

ii. there are things i want you to know but sometimes the words are like Adam before breath, before God, ashes to ashes dust to dust churning thoughts poised at my lips syl.la.bles linger as if in amber, motionless

iii. every one saw it. how we were. how our handsfittogether like colors in the sky at dusk. every one sees it. how we are. (how the Serpent wound itself ‘round the Tree).

iv. a tempest. they say the heart is like a tempest. as if it can’t keep its head on straight circle crooked lines jagged Boom-boom it thunders, my love is near. Thrack it is stricken, struck a sudden splinter of storm, my love is gone. we are not – we are not even that but it – it tremblestremors trembled. (cardiac muscle cannot gape like a chasm between beguiling Serpent smiles can it?)

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v. the apple is sticky, slick with juice curling corners of pink lips from which knowledge has never felt so glib a sin my nakedness irreverent Truth intruthintruthintruth there is no truth in hope I know I am Milton’s Lost ignorance marred, yours still you are all that is left that is holy.

vi. (the fruit of the damned tumbles to the dirt, already a stain where teeth lips skin bite red intersect) i wrote this love letter once. stamped it, sealed it, addressed it to you

it can.

some

it does.

creation

(this is my body, broken for thee)

ago.

T h e L a s t Tr a i n

Madeline Parker

Last night, you showed up at my door in a soaking wet pea coat and a face stained with either tears or rain—probably both—and I could not hide my surprise at your arrival. You have a knack for that, reemerging from God-knows-where right when I’ve finally let you dissolve from person into ghost, presence into memory. I think you smiled when I opened the door because you never have been one to notice the nuances of human interaction; otherwise, you would have detected that my eyes did not look happy to see you. “I caught the last train over here. Sorry for not calling first.” That was all you gave me as you pushed past my still, shocked body that was pressed up against the doorframe—a plump overnight bag in your hand and little droplets of water falling down onto the floor from the ends of your dampened auburn curls. “It’s raining like a bitch out there. Did you know it was pouring? Cold rain, too, for this time of year. God, it is cold in here, too. Do you have the AC on or something?” You continued on like this for a minute, posing questions in part to me, in part to the stiffened air around us, because hearing your own voice usually helps to calm you down. I used to think that was endearing— now, wholly narcissistic. I stopped listening to your spiel, but I figured that somewhere in the ramblings, you already had or would soon ask for a cup of hot tea. Coffee was for the weak and dependent, you always said, and tea for the calm and collected. Bullshit. I think you just can’t handle the biting bitterness of a cup of black coffee, and I refused to serve it any other way. “Earl Grey?” I asked you as I forced my body out of its stationary spot by the doorway and into the kitchen, the first words I had spoken. Once displaced into another room, your voice was a little more distant, an echo coming from the high-ceilinged living room, and for a moment, I thought I could propel you back into the past just like that. So long as I stayed in my tiny, safe kitchen with the kettle of water building up to its humming whistle, and you remained in the front room, we could stay as we were. But then you appeared at the kitchen door, bag slung over your sloped shoulder and head cocked to the side, a small streak of mascara tracing a line down your left cheek—those green eyes not as made-up as usual but no less vibrant. “Luce, did you hear me? I asked for chamomile,” you said, looking over at the Earl Grey packet clutched tightly in my hand. “I don’t fuck with caffeine this late at night. I’m not you.” And you were right, since my mug was poised on the counter with a strainer resting atop its circumference and ground coffee sitting in a flimsy, paper filter. I was a caffeine junkie. “So, what brings you here, Maya? It’s been, what, four years?” I finally initiated prolonged, direct eye contact; the truth always has to be wrestled out of you, and I’ve found over the years that staring you down makes the whole process evolve more quickly. But, as often happens, you surprised me. One sentence, four words, and a stern, three-second look later and you had revealed the reason for your visit, the overnight bag, the excessive—even for you—amount of self-preoccupation you had displayed since arriving at my doorstep. “I’m getting a divorce.”

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Ou t of Ph a s e ( P t. i i ) “We’re in a taxi now.” Sam had been in a taxi for several minutes. A homogenous mass of trees flashed across the window, each as brown and utterly deciduous as the one before. Going to the lake house, I presume? Good. “Yes.” And then, “What do you know about the lake house?” Oh, just what I read in the police reports. The simulacrum glanced back from the driver’s seat and flashed a smile from under a faded Yankees cap. Tell me what you see. “Trees, mostly.” The memory was from late May and Sam could not see far through the foliage. “Like a tunnel, and it’s just us on the road, no one else for miles. Oh, and for some reason you’re driving the taxi.” The simulacrum looked surprised for a moment, then set her eyes on the road in front. That’s interesting. I’ve always wondered if I show up in my patients’ memories. What else? Sam tapped his chin while he thought. “Hmm… I spy with my little eye something brown.” He waited for her to guess, but she didn’t take the hint. “It’s a tree. I spy with my little eye something green. Leaf. I spy… trees and leaves. Trees and leaves, trees and leaves, oh – I see some blue through the canopy… I see a phantom half-reflected in the window, watching, waiting, longing to switch limbos with its double, wondering if God is scarce in either plane. One of us isn’t real but I don’t know… Sorry, that became another Lucyism.” Can you tell me about Lucy? I know you say she’s not important, but she’s in your thoughts. That, at least, is something. “Would you like me to explain general relativity to you? That’s in my thoughts too sometimes.” You don’t have to be sarcastic with me. Sam considered saying something sarcastic. Instead, he let the silence in the taxi linger. Finally, he said, “Lucy is difficult to explain. And even if I could, she wouldn’t want to be reduced to an explanation.” I think Lucy would want you to cooperate with your therapy. “Hmm… I think you don’t know Lucy. Oh look, we’re pulling into the driveway now.” The taxi lurched as the front wheels transitioned onto gravel, and a crunching sound replaced the relative asphalt quiet. The cab pulled to a stop and the driver, now transformed back into the shabby, middle-aged owner of the Yankees cap, began unloading the trunk. “Hey, life-sized Barbie, why don’t you help with the luggage,” Sam said to the simulacrum as he struggled to wheel a suitcase over the uneven driveway. The simulacrum crossed her arms. “In these heels?” she said. “You really are crazy.” Sam glanced at the hem of her dress. “You don’t have feet,” he said. “You’re just floating there, like a ghost. Or a jellyfish.” She scowled. “I would prefer ghost. I don’t like jellyfish.” Sam returned the scowl. “Me neither.” Are you talking to someone? “Uh, nope. Just saying words. Must be another Lucy poem. Very modernist. Nothing too interesting. Shall we?” Sam held out an arm for the simulacrum. Shall we what? “We’re going inside.” The lake house looked thoroughly nondescript from the 11

LIBERTAS, Vol. 19, No. 2

T i m R av e n

outside. It was thin and tall, firmly anchored and very sturdy. The original foundation was some seventy years old, Dr. Latham had told him, but the entire exterior had evidently been redone since then, for the building showed no signs of great age. Still, in the memory, the house looked more rundown than it would in three months time. Leafy vines decked the unswept gutters and worried into cracks in the house’s wooden siding. A thin pollen coat dusted the windows and cobwebs gathered in the corners of the panes. A small shrubbery platoon encroached on the property, and Sam remembered several sweaty hours with the weed whacker. Silently, he cursed himself for putting the hours of work into the place’s upkeep that he had agreed to perform in his internship contract. All for nothing. The inside of the house looked like a blueprint – rectangular and bare. A staircase to the upper levels huddled against the back wall and a door to the left led to a collection of back rooms. The simulacrum hugged herself and shivered. “It’s chilly in here,” she said. Well? Are you inside yet? What do you see? What do you remember about the house? At Dr. Masler’s prompting, the windows on the northern and western walls threw open their shutters, undamming a torrent of golden dusk. The light solidified gradually into furniture and bits of clutter, all sharing a monochromatic glow that gave the house’s interior the appearance of having been dipped in caramel. “The automatic shutter struck me, that’s for sure. Almost jumped out of my skin, Bugs Bunny style, you know? Honestly, people with automatic anything should put a sign on their door. Warning: beware of psychotic house.” “Well you certainly got your revenge,” the simulacrum said, grinning. Sam chuckled. “I certainly did. Not my intention though.” What wasn’t your intention? “Never mind. I’m just talking to myself.” Very well. Anything else? “Mostly what you’d expect from the vacation home of a physics professor who doesn’t really vacation.” Sam began to pace around the room while the simulacrum followed, peering over his shoulder. “We’ve got some notebooks, and a writing desk. Compass, ruler, coffee cup, coffee dregs, hard drive, Dell power cable, other kind of compass, graphing calculator, star charts. Some of this stuff is really obsolete. Five generations of stargazers and physicists lived in this house – six if you count Lucy – and I guess Dr. Latham doesn’t throw much away. There’s probably a Newtonian pendulum around here somewhere.” A Newtonian pendulum popped into existence at the corner of the desk. Sam lifted one of the silver spheres and released it, smiling at the back and forth clatter of the miniature apparatus. “Ah, third law of motion. Got to love it.” The simulacrum crossed her arms and frowned thoughtfully at one wall. “There should be an Einstein poster here. The one where he’s sticking out his tongue.” An Einstein poster appeared over the desk. Sam resumed his pacing. “Let’s see here, we’ve got a couch, coffee table, a couple of armchairs. A commendable attempt at a living room, I’d say. There’s a whiteboard with equations on it that I was probably supposed to decipher, but I never did.” Do you regret that?

“It looks like a Greek crossword puzzle,” the simulacrum said. Sam chuckled. “No, I don’t regret it. I had more interesting things to do. I’m more of a gadget guy; never liked unapplied math. Dr. Latham kept all the equipment I needed out back in a gazebo by the lake, so I spent most of my time out doors.” You must have spent a significant amount of time upstairs with your friend Lucy as well. What sort of things did you two talk about? While Sam paused, trying to decide among four or five sarcastic responses, the simulacrum glanced over from across the room, where she had been examining objects on the desk. “Oops,” she said. “That was an accident.” She giggled.

Sam ignored her at first. “Oh, you know… weather, the last season of Gossip Girl… wait, why did you say ‘upstairs’?” Oh, came Dr. Masler’s startled response, followed by an uncomfortable pause. I just thought, you know, the upstairs would a better place for socializing, away from all the clutter. And it might be less draughty up there. “You don’t believe that, do you?” said the simulacrum. “But I could talk to Lucy anywhere, couldn’t I? It wouldn’t have to be only upstairs.”

Well, yes, of course, I mean, I don’t see any reason why not. I don’t really know anything about your relationship to say one way or the other. “Except you do know.” Sam’s voice had gotten louder. “You know that I have to see Lucy upstairs because that’s where the mirror is. You know about Lucy. You know all about her. You’ve been baiting me this whole time, leading me back to her.” I really don’t know what you’re – “Don’t lie to me!” Thunder rumbled far out over the water. Sam found himself sitting in the old wicker chair while the simulacrum stood at the edge of the cliff, blonde hair whipping in electric storm winds. I’ve detected a scene change. I take it we aren’t at the lake house anymore. “No. We aren’t.” Sam deliberately kept his voice level, though he could barely hear himself over the wind and hungry waves. Sam, I know you’re scared, but you can’t keep dodging these important matters. We have to talk about Lucy. “You’re a coward,” the simulacrum called out to him. The storm sounds buried her voice, but Sam didn’t need to hear it. “I don’t have to talk about Lucy.” You do, Sam. I can tell there are demons inside of you and they’re killing you. “She’s complicated. You wouldn’t understand her.” The simulacrum laughed. “You don’t even understand her.” It doesn’t matter. This is for your benefit. Sam, you have to talk to her. “What do you know?” I know what I read in the police reports. They mentioned her. Icy jolts of rain streaked down. The simulacrum turned away from the cliff and started towards him. “Of course they did. You remember that day, don’t you?” Suddenly, Sam’s chair vanished and he fell with a thud on the muddy ground. The simulacrum loomed over him, a lightning halo crackling about her in the gray sky. “When the cops and the firemen came they found you in a ball in the driveway, saying her name over and over again. Lucy, Lucy, Lucy.” “Stop,” Sam pleaded up at her, but she smiled and kept on. “I killed her, oh God, I killed her.” “Stop it. I didn’t do anything wrong.” Sam, what’s going on? “Nothing wrong?” The simulacrum squinted down at him. “All that innocent girl wanted was your love and companionship and you couldn’t give her even that small courtesy. You could have prevented everything, but you lost your composure, and now she’s dead. You think I haven’t known everything all along? I’m in your head. I read you like a dictionary. You keep no secrets from me.” Stumbling in the mud, Sam lunged at the simulacrum. She dodged, and his momentum sent him tumbling toward the sound of breakers. The simulacrum sneered. “Typical,” she said, and a great wave overtook the cliff and buried them. Cold shock – tearing currents – blackness. To be continued...

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Exerpt from El mundo alucinante by Reinaldo Arenas Translated, Madison Rogas

Hands are what show the advancement of time best. Hands that before age twenty star t to age. Hands that never tire of investigating nor give up. Hands that rise triumphantly and then descend defeated. Hands that touch the tr ansparency of the ear th. That rest timidly and briefly. That do not know and feel that they do not know. That indicate the limit of a dream. That suggest the dimension of the future. These hands that I know and never theless confuse me. These hands that told me once, â&#x20AC;&#x153;tr y and escape.â&#x20AC;? These hands that already retur n hur riedly to childhood. These hands that do not tire of slapp ing the darkness. These hands that have only felt real things. These hands that I now can hardly master. These hands that have changed color s with old age. These hands that mark the limits of time. That rise again and search for their place. That show and remain trembling. That knows that there is still music between their finger s. These hands that now help to hold me. These hands that stretch out and touch the meeting. These hands that ask me tiredly that I die already. 13

LIBERTAS, Vol. 19, No. 2

picks

music

michael’s

#relevant Michae l De S im o n e

here are songs that are meant to be played in the haze of the early hours of morning. During the final remnants of an alcohol and marijuana glaze from the night fading away or the mental gymnastics that come with thought during post-witches hours, one only wants music that compliments the off state of the world. On “4 in the Mornin’,” Nipsey fully captures this off key time. His flow is slow and simple, with broad pauses between lines. He allows the track to breathe and the instrumental to take over. And this instrumental. This is my bread and butter. The chopped up guitar sets up a fantastic counter melody to the traditional trap beat, but the vocal sample is what keeps this track on repeat. The indecipherable moan speaks years of tired, somber longing, misty enough to be a memory that only floats into a drowsy mind in the late hours of the night.

4 in the Mornin’ Nipsey Hussle

You would also enjoy: The Joy feat. Pete Rock, Jay-Z, Charley Wilson, Curtis Mayfield, and Kid-Cudi by Kanye West, Blow My High (Members Only) by Kendrick Lamar, Dreamin’ by Big K.R.I.T.

still may be wishing for that new official release from Jamie xx but this is a more than welcome taste of what will eventually come. Making an appearance on a mix by Young Turks affiliate Pional, this untitled track breaks away from the summer melodies of ‘Far Nearer’ and the xx throwaway melodies of other official solo releases. Instead, Jamie enters his own dream world, opening with a looping harp and repeating female vocal sample whispering “come on, let’s go.” The track moves to the club with a subdued dance beat but never reaches a comfortable foothold. A pair wordless of male and female vocal samples fade in and out, suppressed synth sounds shimmer in the background, and off beat melodies appear to give the track a constant edge. The tune only flirts with the idea of existing on the dance floor, instead it walks around the club and searches its lost corners for new ideas, even for just a second. As a sampler for the new Jamie xx to come, we find an independent electronic voice, one that should have come to prominence years ago.

Untitled Track Jamie xx

You would also enjoy: Say Something by Fort Romeau, Put On by Galcher Lüstwerk

f Flume’s mixtape of his self titled album is a collection of bubblegum rap and pop vignettes from the most deserving underdogs in both genres, then How to Dress Well’s interpretation of “Change” is some I <3 the 60s interpretation of Grease with pink varsity jackets and an overwhelming sense of joy. His vocals are equally breathless and breathtaking, creating conviction through “oh-my-god” breathless vocals. This is sugar at its finest, sweet enough that you know this is your just desserts and transparent enough to deserve the straight-to-the-point- without-an-ounce-of-irony-moniker-of-pop-music.

Change

(feat. How to Dress Well)

Flume

You would also enjoy: Show Me The Meaning Of Being Lonely (Ryan Hemsworth Jersey Bootleg) by The Backstreet Boys, On and On by Autre Ne Veut, Gettin’ Wood by Trippy Turtle and Booty Beaver

annon’s classic New York hip-hop sound may function well over Pro-Era rappers but he has a different agenda for his first solo album. 216 opens with a chilling piano line reminiscent of Silent Hill and it only gets darker from there. Bannon moves from the town to the city alley, dropping his piano only a minute into the song to invite Burial and trap inflected vocal samples, sirens and drum machines into his work. The coldness becomes controlled paranoia slowly crescendoing in power and speed, climaxing three minutes in with Castlevania strings shrieking over all. From there, Bannon slowly takes one backward, allowing one to experience his haunted house one more time. Once the piano keys drop like icicles again to close the track, one wonders how this extended play of material only lasted five minutes.

216

Lee Bannon

You would also enjoy: Ashtray Wasp by Burial, Anne Bonny by Death Grips, Can I Just Laugh by Young L

LIBERTAS, V o l . 1 9 , N o . 2

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