January 20, 2017 Dear reader, What is unconditional? How can we even define such a thing? This is the question we set out to pose in our first-ever issue of Collage Fromage. Our collaborative zine brings together varying perspectives via written and collaged art. In making this issue, we explored the idea of the unconditional, and we hope that it inspires you to do some exploration of your own, whether that happens in your mind, at book club, or in this January air as you shout from a rooftop. What the F*** is going on? What is it that we can truly depend on? Is there anything about being human that doesn’t depend on circumstance? Today is Inauguration Day. For better or for worse, we'll embark on a new era, which is in countless ways completely life-changing and historic - and utterly meaningless. Decades from now perhaps, we will be defined by our solidarity - or lack thereof - in the midst of a hostile and divisive landscape. But more importantly, the face and depth of our solidarity will determine the lives we live and the experiences we endure.
-! Paige Slaughter
&
f
?
t
t
€Y&.,
q'x',i .:)
1*
ffi
rm
{fr; tfitl f
19,lH t,fugFd -
.gEH*1k I 8**
f4E::d%es
Yw$
gsTG NORTH
.'.
-/
I
I
\ I
\ \t
s
(}t"
Curled sky.
/.*-bf
*."'*$
singular de!
t r e e s,
all oa op
t
,
"affi ffi,mii i
Local lesends sussest masical orisins: The
lehua blossom (top right) and its'6h1'a tree,
--rr-for to
exampk are cursed loyers turned
flora by the jealou:
ttolcano soddess Pele
ITNCoNDI
f
\-,'
\\^
Are conditions by choice? Of course, there are some conditions in this human “condition” which are not by choice. Take gravity. Or oxygen. Those are two conditions which, were we without them, all other conditions notwithstanding, we would fail to thrive. We’d asphyxiate and fall off the planet into the wild blue. They’re unconditional. Aside from those natural conditions which are immutable, it seems that the conditions we live with, we choose to live with. Well, then, maybe conditions aren’t unconditional, but rather conditional. In other words, maybe conditions are by choice. The irony is that these conditions (choices) can also be unconditional. In my world, there are some conditions that are unconditional, at least as I see them from this temporal vantage point. Love is one of them. Love, to me, is a choice. I choose to love you. I, therefore, commit to the choice of continuing to love you and aim toward making it work. I don’t think I’d make that choice if it weren’t mutual, and thereby implying a mutual contract of choice by two.
Unconditionally bound. Another condition in my world would be inspiration. I endlessly seek inspiration to propel me forward. I have no drive if not galvanized by some notion that moves me. If I’m not inspired, I’m not budging. That’s unconditional, too. Another condition in my world would be my spirituality. This is a choice I made to live with in my everyday life. So far, it’s one of the best choices I’ve ever made. Why? Because, it seems, having something higher than myself to believe in feels like something far more reliable than a dumb old human like me to count on. This condition of spirituality feels like I can actually count on something, which is a rarity in this human life. Again, unconditional. I want something to trust. Some call it faith. If I can’t have faith in something higher than myself, I would feel like a rudderless ship, wandering in circles. I don’t want to go in circles. I want to get somewhere. Where? I don’t know, but I do know that I don’t want to travel in endless circles. Am I going in circles here?
Perhaps. And, maybe that’s the rub. Maybe this dichotomy just exposes itself as an experience within which two apparently contradictory truths can exist at the same time, in the same place. But then, that’s how life works, no? Unconditionally so. by Christine Feller
tff==
-'z
LiSTENT oR
I
WI
LL IIAVE MY WOROS
No
Untitled by Avery Glassman
She woke up to an overcast day, bright gray, the kind that still makes you squint when you go outside. There was mild frost on the antique window panes of her bedroom. Part of her was confounded at her own awakeness, with such finality had she fallen asleep the night before. The drive home had felt static and unmoving, at the same time long and instantaneous upon arrival. She lay there for a few minutes, letting the blurriness in front of her slowly ebb to the corners of her vision until it eventually melted away. She sat up. Her body felt lighter than usual, a little uncomfortably. She wiggled her toes under the down duvet and patchwork quilt that was given to her years ago by women in the New Hampshire quilters’ guild. The women had been ancient then; surely most of them were gone by now. They worked communally around the edges of the quilt frame, their noses inches from the needles they threaded in and out of the batting with alarming precision. When they gave her the quilt she noticed a strange combination of pride and, was it apprehension? Or pity? In their faces. Something that at the time seemed to say “Be careful” but which today she recollected was closer to “Take care of yourself”. Peeling off the covers so as not to disturb her still-sleeping husband, she slid her legs off the side of the bed and felt the nubby carpet underneath her feet. Its obviousness satisfied her, even as she dreaded being alone with her thoughts this morning. She stood up and walked over to her closet, gravitating toward the plush robe her daughter had presented her with two Mother’s Days ago. She couldn’t remember the last time she had worn it, and today the loops of fabric felt like shock absorbers on her skin. She let her hand glide along the molded banister as she tread lightly down the walnut stairs into the kitchen. The room was pristine, having almost never been used in the past two years, the cleaning staff nonetheless wiping down the granite countertops and dusting the sconces whenever they came to do their work. For a moment she felt like a trespasser, unsure which route to take
around the island to the refrigerator. The white cabinetry seemed overly bright. The fridge was well stocked. Normally she skipped breakfast, opting instead for a coffee and milk mixture of some sort. Today she reached for a plate of homemade blueberry pancakes covered with tin foil. She ate two of them cold, with cold maple syrup she poured over top liberally. As the sugar hit her bloodstream she sat at the kitchen island and let her mind wander. To do so felt like the ultimate luxury. There was so much to think about, and so little. For the past twenty-two months she had been a harbinger of certainty to all those around her: staffers, family, the public, herself. It had been the opposite of liberating. To always know, always believe in yourself, these were taxing requirements. There had been mention of no room for mistakes, but the real pressure came from there being no room for self-doubt. She had always been a reflective person, confident in her self-criticism. Her intelligence made it impossible to have anything but a separatist relationship with herself, yet she had come to relax into this and derive strength from it. A love-hate relationship is a relationship. Is love. She was no stranger to heartbreak, and let it gently consume her now, the overwhelming sadness already beginning to work its healing properties. She looked out the bay windows at the naked trees, the bright gray, and the dampness that clung to everything. Moisture after a parched fall. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the mud room hallway and in it, her Wellingtons. A pause was in order.