Paper & the Sea issue 1 by Kelsey Ipsen

PAPER & THE SEA · THE

“ D I S TA N C E ” ISSUE

· WITH

Hannah S., Icahn SAELAO, Elizabeth KEMPINSKI, Deanne AVELINO, James MCKNIGHT, Mia CASTIGLIONE, AIMEN, Lane HANSEN, Joely BARBER, Georgia OWEN, Abdullah JABAI, Kelsey IPSEN, Rebekah CAMPBELL, Jaclyn CORRADO & India HARRIS

· MAY 2012

1 P&S

PAPER &

THE

SEA |

THE

“DISTANCE”

ISSUE

1 P&S

Kelsey Ipsen

EDITED BY

Amber Ortolano Kelsey Ipsen & Marc Salesina W E B S I T E paperandthesea.tumblr.com C O N TAC T paperandthesea@gmail.com C OV E R P H OTO G R A P H B Y DESIGN BY

P L E A S E N OT E T H AT YO U W I L L F I N D T H E AU T H O R S ’ C O N TAC T D E TA I L S O N O U R W E B S I T E .

CONTENTS A Creature from the Sea

E D I TO R I A L

The “Distance” Issue BY

KELSEY IPSEN | 4

Drowning BY

F E AT U R E

FA R AWAY

FAVO U R I T E

Untitled BY

J O E LY B A R B E R | 2 7

Untitled BY

HANNAH S. | 6

GEORGIA OWEN | 28

Anatomia, she BY

WRITINGS

LANE HANSEN | 23

ABDULLAH JABAI | 29

| “ D I S TA N C E ” A Series of Handpicked Letters

Untitled BY

Distance and Dreams BY

KELSEY IPSEN | 30

ICAHN SAELAO | 8

ICAHN SAELAO | 11

P H OTO G R A P H Y

| “ D I S TA N C E ”

Untitled Series BY

REBEKAH CAMPBELL | 33–38

Untitled BY

ELIZABETH KEMPINSKI | 16

Untitled Series BY

Honolulu Moon BY

DEANNE AVELINO | 17

J AC LY N C O R R A D O | 3 9 – 4 5

Untitled Series BY

J O E LY B A R B E R | 4 6 – 5 0

Untitled Series Fragment BY

Untitled BY

INDIA HARRIS | 51–55

JAMES MCKNIGHT | 19

•

MIA CASTIGLIONE | 20

Untitled BY

AIMEN | 22

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P& S

EDITORIAL

THE

“ D I S TA N C E ” I S S U E

KELSEY IPSEN

PAPER & THE SEA is a magazine dedicated to sharing and exploring stories and expressions gathered from across oceans. It is clever, engaging, creative and wistful. It explores the connections and differences between ideas and people. The layout of the magazine is designed to be focused mainly on the texts and photographs. Marc wanted it to be almost unnoticeable but based on ‘hot typography stuff ’. This issue of PAPER & THE SEA examines the idea of distance in all it’s forms. I wanted to gather and connect stories from faraway places across the oceans so I put out a call for photographs and stories from people interpreting the idea of ‘distance’ in any way they knew how. Everything I received you will find nestled in these pages, I hope you find what you’re looking for. •

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1 P&S

F E AT U R E

Faraway & Favour ite

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His accent was the definition of Australian. He throws around ‘mate’ and ‘sweetie’ when he doesn’t know your name, leading your gaze to his soft, honey coloured eyes. You laugh quietly. In response, he’ll just run a hand through his wavy brown hair and give you a genuine, winning smile that makes your heart skip a beat. — H A N N A H S.

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1 P&S

WRITINGS

“Distance”

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UNTITLED

ICAHN SAELAO

This winter has been cold and bitter, and it has tested my belief in my ability to ever be looked at with the same affections, desires, or adoration that I have looked upon others. For years I have struggled with what it means to love and to be loved. I am sure that many people experience this sad and lonely journey, and although seemingly ironic, it becomes that much more tragic because loneliness cannot be shared. In this winter, I looked at a girl who resided in Australia, and at the time I resided (and still reside) in the United States. In the past I have been told and discouraged from how much distance can dissipate the true affections that you are allowed to feel for a person, but to me these statements were made by people who cannot understand how distance can strengthen affections rather than weaken them. I know that what you are about to hear is just a stale variation of “absence makes the heart grow fonder”, but might I plead you to bracket that impatience and truly understand what it is I am trying to communicate here. The distance that separated us was not merely in terms of space, you see, but in perspective and affection. Distance is quite a sad thing when you think about it. It is as though there is an insatiable urge within us that calls us to minimize the amount of distance between you and every other person around you. Maybe that is what it means to love. It seems as though all people ever want from love is to reduce the amount of distance between them and the object of their affections. I am no different in this desire that at times can be somewhat carnal. What makes these affections of mine even mildly noteworthy is that I am self-saboteur in this pursuit of closeness. I try my hardest to not be so distant from others, to minimize the distance between myself and everyone around me in hopes that I can eventually achieve both a literal and figurative closeness with someone. The

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closest I have ever gotten, ironically, is with the girl to whom I had previously mentioned that resides in an entire continent away from me. For the first time in my entire life did I finally feel close to something; that there was a possibility that I would not be pushed away again to only take a step in the path of sadness and loneliness yet again. Well I can say right now that I would not be writing this if this story ended with “there once was a girl”, but if anything, I feel there is nothing but distance between her and I. Our correspondence has such space between it. I look upon her with the romance and passion of 23 years that is writhing within me to flourish, but are again repressed and unrequited. She had once told me the lesson she has discovered she was meant to learn in this life was to find and keep her voice. At the time, to the person I had once considered a friend (yet eventually did I consider her to be far more) did I discover that my service was to give her (and others) a voice. I am not sure what happened first, that I lost my voice, or gave it away willingly, but I found myself distancing myself from my voice. I took a vow of silence and gave away my voice in exchange of her happiness; in that exchange at least she could have a chance at satisfaction. I look upon her now, and I see a girl whose voice hides no shame; a voice that is prolific and fills the hearts of men with longing and lust. The winter has been cold and bitter. What began as an effort to reduce space and distance only resulted in the creation of more space and more distance. This vow of silence has began at the beginning of winter and it has been in a way, destructive, but it is the suffering that I endure so that she can be happy. You may wonder how a man sustains himself without the ability to speak, but I have in my possession shelves of black day-books I have written in order to live in this world. The day-books alone are mysteries in themselves; strings of conversations with no context and therefore, no substance. I share with you today, the two pages that I have used more than any other thing I have written. I share with you today the shame, regret, and guilt of 23 years. What I am communicating to you now is not a tale of distance mind you, but an attempt at closeness. •

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— D I S TA N C E A N D

D R E A M S

ICAHN SAELAO

For years now have I become familiar with the experience of lucid dreaming. I am all too aware of how deceptive one’s own senses can be, but these dreams leave me with sensations far after I have awoken and the dream has ended. These dreams have felt so real that I wake up with that feeling of a lingering kiss on my lips to which I then pursue in my waking life. My dreams become a pursuit of a reality that I so badly want to have... The dreams that I have to offer here are an example of the effects that distance can have on a person. The girl whose affections I have longed for so deeply have now manifested themselves into my dreams yet I cannot manifest her because there is so much distance between us. Although there is a great space between her and I, there is a closeness unlike

any other. She inhabits me and my dreams despite the displacement. g PART ONE h On most nights, I sleep and wake to the sound of trains. The most peculiar thing about this is that there is not a train station within miles and miles of my home. I’m not sure if I’m hearing the faint cry of reunions, departures, or happenstance encounters, but I hear the shriek of all those things in the form of a train. This could partly explain the reason I ride the train so often; perhaps I secretly indulge in those encounters as if they were my own. To hear the sound of a father and son reunited, to bid a farewell to a friend, or even to hold a harmonious happenstance are all the secret things that I yearn for.

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When I think of a train, I think of someone leaving, yet trains are an interesting median that reduce distance and amplify closeness. Maybe it isn’t those chance encounters necessarily that I seek, but just a chance to feel close. On one night in particular, I slept to the sound of a train, and then it started. I stepped off of a train that had neither light nor people. I stepped off onto a station to see all those things I had previously mentioned. I heard people laughing and I overheard melted conversations. People strode by to catch their train or to pick up their tickets, and all the while I stood there waiting. Again I’m waiting, but instead of feeling the usual torment that I am so prone to, I patiently and quietly stand in the middle of all this movement for something. So many trains are coming in and out of the station in lightning fast succession, it’s as if time is being played in fast forward. That is when I saw her. It was so cliché, but the moment I stared up, a train had departed, and she had taken its place. She wore a black dress, a black bowler hat with a blue rose in it, and deep red lipstick. Just like how I imagined her, she looked absolutely beautiful, and even then, that does not describe how incredibly radiant she was in that moment. She smiled at me, and it was as if I had been in a dark room my entire life and just now did someone turn on the lights. Everything became bright and more vibrant the moment she

smiled. I took her hand and kissed it because that’s what you do when you see a girl so beautiful. Just like I had promised her so long ago, I had suitcases of roses just for her that were wonderfully red and alive despite the fact they had been uprooted or cut at the stems. As quickly as I had seen her smile, I saw her in tears when those suitcases burst open. I felt an urge to kiss her with all of the feelings I had in my entire life, but I chose to wait. I held her as she cried tears and tears, and it reminded me of the first time I ever held anyone, except that this time I felt like pulling her inside of me. I wondered if it was the roses that caused her to cry or if it was something else. I thought that maybe if I held her close enough to me that we could absorb each other and all of our feelings and suffering would finally be shared. We turned and walked along the train tracks that had then been devoid of trains and people and all the while we talked. We made each other smile and laugh and my smile never faded as we were together. I felt happy. The happiest I have ever felt, even within a dream. g PART TWO h The beginning of my dream was marked by the moment I opened my eyes and saw a room of people. I felt a disorientation that one feels when a once sunny day is overtaken by dark clouds. In moments, I orient myself to the room and then do I understand that it’s a celebration of some sort. There was so much laughter,

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so many people, and so many lights. As if I had been searching for something in the room, perhaps an exit or perhaps a drink, did my eyes meet hers. Even in a room full of movement did its occupants seem so dull, so I continued to meet her gaze in what was probably seconds but could have been longer. She wore a white collared shirt with a black rosebud pin at the collar. She smiled, and it wasn’t the smile you make when you laugh or when you feel bashful, but a smile that you make when someone notices you. I returned a smile as if it was the only way I could say “hi” and then did I turn away from all the noise and chaos. In an instant, I am on the rooftop of the building that stands so high above the city. For a brief moment, I alone occupy that wonderful nest atop the city at night, that is, until I heard the door from behind me open and close. It was her. She stood by me in silence, as lovely as she was, and we looked over the city of flickering lights in the night. In a moment usually characterized by shyness do I find it in myself the courage and certainty to hold her hand. I expected them to be cold, as if the coldness of her hands reflected some deep seeded sadness within her, but I felt only warmth. I smiled to myself in that moment. Time no longer existed and as if prompted by some sort of association, did I began to tell her a story. I told her a story, to which I now tell to you, about a city trapped within perpetual darkness; a city of darkness. In this world

there were many cities, all of which were made of a single earthly element. A City of Stone consisted of many statues and pillars; marble doorways and granite sidewalks told a story of a city that had such firmness within its foundations. Another city was built entirely of trees and although not as solidly built or strong as the City of Stone, it stood tall and had such age and wisdom within its foundations—the City of Trees was known for its wisdom. And so was every city that was comprised of a single element was known for a single characteristic. So then what was there for the City of Darkness but sadness? The people within wanted so badly for their city to be beautiful and radiant, but it was so obfuscated by all the darkness. One day the city felt such sadness and unhappiness that they felt an impetus within themselves for change. The city’s inhabitants discovered a way to capture light, and thus the city dwellers began to mold and shape light into a material of construction. Little bits of light began to decorate the once melancholy town. As more and more light was captured and shaped, the people of the city felt less and less sad. How strange was it that the mere presence of light in the City of Darkness began to alter the life that the city dwellers were all so accustomed to. They had only known sadness in their city, but began to feel something quite foreign and alien to them. For each city was known for one characteristic alone, yet that now was beginning to change. Pillars of light emerged everywhere and illuminated the city. There were some spots of the city that still re-

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mained dark and it was so easy to think that darkness is all there is, but the light that did exist was so bright that all it took was an over the shoulder glance something truly radiant. The City of Darkness knew such sadness, but it was because of that did they now feel such joy in seeing their world bright and full of light. It was because of the city’s dark past that they were able to feel so much more happiness than the rest. Without that juxtaposition, a city of light alone would be shallow, but the small dark caves of the city is what gave it meaning. Henceforth, the City of Darkness was not known as the City of Light, mind you, but the City of Light and Dark, and it was by far the most unique and romantic city. As I told this story, I failed to realize how much impact it had to the lovely and petite girl that stood by my side. The climax of the story had her covering her mouth with her other hand, but she kept her hand in mine and squeezed as if to say something but couldn’t. I cusped her face in my hand and she looked at me with investigating eyes. What was she looking for? There wasn’t terror nor overwhelming passion that coursed its way through my veins, but when I kissed her, I felt a reunion. I kissed her so tenderly, for fear that my story had shaken her foundations so much that any more would break her. I kissed her with tentative lips because passion is something I can easily be overcome by, and that isn’t what it means to learn patience. I wondered if she was the City of Darkness and I the City of Light; part of

me thinks it’s the other way around. I didn’t want to stop kissing her, and I wanted our little cities to collide with each other for as long as possible. A kiss so tender and gentle inspired within me more passion than any kiss from former lovers. She pulled away, still looking at me with those investigating eyes. Her gaze slowly glanced towards the light of the city and she whispered to herself “a city of lights.” g PART THREE h The night everything changed was the night she let me touch her in a way that I have never touched anyone else. I stared at her as she undressed, and I could hear the sound of flowing water. As if taking in the beauty of a sunset did I take in the beauty of her body. She turned to leave the room to enter a drawn bath as she waited for me. She looked at me eagerly, and it was the look in her eyes then that I knew I had craved for my entire life. Before touching any part of her, did I kiss her forehead, as if to say “take care.” I ran my fingers through the stands of her dark black hair with steady hands; being sure not to tangle or pull or tug to cause any discomfort to her. This moment was tender, and only in my dreams was it the only way that I could touch her. Her body felt like an extension of me, like my hands so easily guided her body as fluidly as it would if she had melted under the firmness of them. I washed her body and cleaned her gorgeous black hair in the water with as much intimacy as I had to offer. I look at

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her only once to see her eyes closed, and to see her biting her bottom lip, maybe her soul was trying to escape through whimpers and gasps as I touched her in a way I had never done before. There was a passion in the way I molded and felt her hair, but a tender touch that can only come from the hands of a man that truly loves you. I wonder what sensations she felt at my hands so lovingly taking care of her. There was something about having a person in your hands that was so vulnerable that made me feel so... capable. The girl that I had within my grasp felt like a wounded creature that I was now mending. In a way, it gave me such joy. There was something so intimate and tender to me when I felt another's hands running through my hair. I pursued that feeling for

as long as I can remember, but was starved for that sense of touch. As she stood up, I wrapped a towel around her and pulled her into the cavity between my arms. I patted her down meticulously, kissing her shoulders as they dried. I learned the mysteries of her body and laid kisses on each discovery. I felt such overwhelming love for her then. The moment I finished drying her once moist skin did I pull her mouth to mine. I poured all of the things I had to offer into her, as though I had just cleansed her body, she had cleansed my heart. I teared at the idea and relief that she allowed me what I had been denied for an entire lifetime.•

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UNTITLED

ELIZABETH KEMPINSKI

We are two people who know distance like the scars on the backs of our hands, like these numbers are written across our bodies as mile markers. We know better how to love far away, how the pit of your stomach aches late at night when you miss someone. Goodbye was a word that always sounded too permanent, so we made sure never to learn how it tasted in our mouths. Instead we hid in the spaces between the numbers as they grew larger and smaller: 11 miles... 747... 7,413 and back again. 11. We wove together days of note passing and walks in the park with nights made up of static and whispers. You told me your secrets and I told you mine. 747. I sat in an empty cabin eating strawberry pie. You were sitting alone on the overnight bus. You wished me happy birthday. 7,413. You called me each of those summers and it was hard to hear your voice over the sound of the waves. I tried not to worry about you. Instead I imagined telephone wires stretching across the Atlantic. 11. You cooked me eggs in the middle of the night and I cried into your shoulder. We danced to an old song in your kitchen, a song that I sometimes think is the rhythm my heart beats when I'm happy. We kissed in my driveway, making sure it sounded like a sentence waiting to be finished— •

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HONOLULU

MOON BY

DEANNE AVELINO

I remember when we first landed there. The stars weren’t shining and we didn’t see the magic.

You declared it a bust and we stuck our middle fingers to the camera as it flashed like the fireworks on New Years Eve, just before midnight, when people were screaming and crying for a better time.

We wanted to be where the heels clicked against the pavement, where the horns of cars honked in clumsy melody.

Then we woke up.

The magic came, the adventure, like Gandalf knocking on the door to Bilbo Baggin’s Hobbit Hole, we realized that nothing was better.

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We brought to life alligators made of sand and lazy nights and the children that we had gobbled so long ago.

We stood on mountains that erupted with our inexplicable wonder that declared we had fallen in love.

I am always looking back out that window for the chance to stand on the mountains where we once stood, never falling, only looking.

Never lying, only living.

The moon and its gravitational pull, pulling me back there, pulling me everyday, like the waves that swept away my only other saving grace.

And I will go there with or without you, because I am the one it wants and you can’t ignore mutual love, not anymore, not when it comes with the price tag that it comes with today. •

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FRAG MENT BY

JAMES MCKNIGHT

—he seems to me god-ridden who has gannet half the night, who has eaten half its burn. That right holds to mile hold his body-mile next yours. Your hearing body that lips his words; that eats his words that eat my words. And quiet of listen turns laugh: damp reddish reed-hair in ribs spools tight, that quiets in chest, is wing-beaten breast. Is blind eyes blind for looking. Tongue-broken, listen, hear his fire-words. Inside my mouth is ash unburned. Rush of sweat is water above the sick-fire near-breaking skin woke under. Yoke me, Pale Grass, take pale body that, longing, cannot endure, but must— •

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UNTITLED

MIA CASTIGLIONE

I was on a train and then it was a car. There were no other cartrains anywhere on the roadtracks. There were no people. It was only me and my iPod, but it wasn’t called an iPod. It was just an mp3 player because no one had invented iPods in that world. I only had music with no words to listen to and it all made me feel lost and confused. I didn’t know where I was going in my head but my heart knew which in the dream made my legs happy and my arms sad, so they dragged around and couldn’t hold things up for my eyes to look at. The cartrain stopped and I had to get off. The complete lack of people at the station made me wary; it reminded me of Hostel but then I remembered I wasn’t in a foreign country. I was in a country I knew. I could speak to people here, though we spoke some weird language with hums and whispers instead of words. I had a backpack full of books that I never read and I was planning to sell them for some kind of tickets that I would have died for. I felt like Dakota Fanning in that movie Hounddog lusting after those tickets. My bag got heavy so I sat on the sidewalk. There were trees and houses but no animals or people. There were no gnats or mosquitoes and I felt alone. I took out one of my books and started reading without understanding. The words were not words I knew and I didn’t know how to figure them out but I kept reading anyways. I could feel someone breathing next to me so I turned my head a little. I was greeted with an interesting face. Curly hair, freckles, green eyes. Pink lips. Peach fuzz on her upper lip, like mine. I wanted to be close to her only to realize I already was. She smiled at me and hummed, “Hmmm. Hah. hmm hmm.” I whispered back, “Nahh.” I don’t know what we said.

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We were at a house. There was a dog, it was fluffy. There was music playing in the background like a sad movie always has. She let me into her house and into her life. She showed me photos of herself as a baby and then she showed me herself all grown up and I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to touch her but I was repulsed by the thought of being so close to someone. I whispered that to her and she hummed while she cried. It had been years that we were a something and not alone, but I left her and we were alone again. I had another book in my bag that I didn’t know how to read and on the cover there was a photo of that girl I had loved. The curve of her hips and her short curly hair and that peach fuzz I wanted to feel when I first met her. I kept walking down the same street. I met a boy and he asked for a book to read. I gave him one and kept walking. I was in a house that I’d seen pictures of. There was one other person inside and I wanted to know her but she didn’t want me to know her. We sat under a table and flipped through books, pointing at words we liked and making stories out of them. She had the best ideas. We did that for months. We didn’t sleep or eat or take care of ourselves. We sat under a table and pointed at words. I had a small camera. I took a picture of her and tacked it to a wall. She had brown hair and glasses. She was warm all the time and hummed about how cold I was. We rarely touched but she didn’t mind. I whispered that I wanted to keep her. She hummed, “Hmmmm,” and smiled. I took it as a yes and we kept pointing at words. Years passed and she got bored of me. Months passed and we stopped making stories. Weeks passed and we slept. Days passed and we stopped pretending to read our books. Three hours passed and I left her. She hummed while she cried. I whispered that I was sorry. She didn’t look up from her hands. I walked some more. I read the rest of the books without understanding them and then the bugs came back. There were squirrels. There were birds. I stopped whispering. I stopped humming. The music was gone. I was still alone. •

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UNTITLED

AIMEN

There’s a list of things that tell me to call you, tell me to stop thinking so much, tell me that the sea has nothing that I can’t conquer. We were pirates, remember? We were the worst of us all, the best that would ever sail and we never stopped believing that we could be anything we wanted to. I saw the stars the day you left and skipped oceans to be a thousand miles away, and I saw the stars fall and shatter into the crunch of leaves that you stepped on unknowingly. Define it, define this distance that flew you into clouds and into another plane horizon that never set quite like mine. Define your words as they step out of your mouth because all you do now is slur with jet lag and lost ambition. And maybe your knots didn’t change, they stayed like mine did; they seeped through and tossed around like they were searching for light, for something newer, for change. I used to be afraid of change but now I’m more fearful of spaces. There’s a line in a song that goes something like “you’re almost gone, you’re good as gone” and maybe that’s true. No matter how much you say that you’re still the same sea loving pirate that you were, your knots unraveled your heart and your lungs took in something else. I could blame the distance for everything, I could, I could, and I did. But sometimes, the oceans can’t do anything and sometimes it’s in your hands. And I know it still is. It still is. •

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CREATURE from

THE SEA BY

LANE HANSEN

In the mornings of early summer the man walked a well-worn path along the sea. He sat on the edge of the earth’s end and waited for the kisses of the salt water ripples. The sun sang a song as it rose from its bed and warmed the waters with the touch of its arms. The man fell in love with the beauty of the sea, with its stretching body and fluid movements. An ache grew in his chest, a fire behind his heart, trapped inside the pale fingers of his rib cage as he stared out at the distance the water covered. His ache grew and bloomed into a flower of unquenchable agony. The morning trips to the seaside taunted him with the beauty so near yet so far away. Driven by his desperation and agony the man dipped his hands into the salty water and tried to pull the beauty from the sea, his muscles taut and straining across his shoulder blades, his tears falling in pools around his feet. When finally the beauty came apart from the water he felt his heart

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shudder at the sight of the flawless creature he held in his outstretched arms. He took her back to his tiny house and laid her in his bed and fell in love with her beauty all over again. She slept all day and woke up to his moon, occasionally catching a glimpse of the sunset; crying because the world was on fire. She watched him while he slept, while he fought to keep his eyes open for a second longer, just to stay staring at her. She wrote him a thousand letters, begging him to take her home, to release her to the waters, to free her of the body her too-large heart was suffocating in. But every morning when he woke the words transformed themselves in his eyes to declarations of love. Yet the man could see how much she missed the place he had torn her from. He could see that her arms longed to wrap themselves around something more than the circumference of his waist; how her eyes wanted to see further and deeper than his world allowed; the way the sea still ran through her blood, changing and morphing her with the tides; the way she talked in her sleep of all the shores she had touched and all of the simple people she had fallen in love with. The man loved these stories and he begged her for more, praying that her sleeping ears would hear his pleas. She told him of the places he had not seen—places he never could have imagined. She told him what they smelled like and how they tasted, how the different pieces of land stretched out to caress her, how their many languages were like food to her ears and how she could change shape depending on where she hit the land. She told him of the tears lovers had spilt into her body and the pain that rode in her waves. She spoke of distance with a fearsome combination of love and hatred and her words wove through a hundred dialects; mimicking the people that mourned what she had taken and

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celebrated what she returned. The man dreamed of the places after she had woken and the string of stories was cut. He was sure that the sea covered several lifetimes beneath her bright blue waters. How else could these places be so diverse from his home if they did not exist in a different time altogether? And now, in feeling the wonders she had experienced, he ached to return her home. But for a moment he felt he could touch these faraway places simply by holding the beauty of the sea as close to his heart as the limits of his body would allow. From my perch by the sea, with my arms spread wide like wings, I gaze across the glowing water and wonder what those far away figures are like. From my perch by the sea I imagine their bodies; the curve of their growing spines and the pale moons of their nails, imbedded so deeply beneath their skin. (Does that skin feel any different than my own? Do their freckles glitter over their noses and cheeks like droplets of the water that keeps us apart?) Can those people across the sea, inscrutable specks blurred by distance, see different colors in the darkness when they blink their eyes? Do their brains remember to flip the world right side up inside of their head? Do their tongues feel like liquid fire when they speak with their handsome accents? What differences does distance carve? From my perch by the sea I stretch my hand out, curl my fingers around the houses I have imagined. I close my fist around such faraway places and their world drums the soft flesh of my palm; a thousand heartbeats held against my body. •

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DR O WNING BY

J O E LY B A R B E R

Her hands looked like a corpse’s underwater. Because they were so tiny and blue, so bony. Her hair floated out behind her in its braid, little tiny strands escaping. Underwater, the dyedred just looked dark. A long-lost mermaid, artificially returned to her natural habitat. I couldn’t really see her eyes behind her dive mask; the bubbles of air constantly escaping from her mouth were the only way I could actually tell she was alive. She seemed farther away underwater than she already was every day. We couldn't speak; we had to use sign language. For a month that spring she didn't really talk to me, and we didn't use sign language either. She and I dreamed of the water all the time, but separately. We always had that in common: both of us wanted to be part of the ocean. Our connections to reality, as to each other, had their weak points—some weaker than others. Words failed us again and again. Some days the world around us didn't seem real at all, and it didn't matter where we were—we were still underwater. We couldn’t communicate with anyone, even each other. Maybe, some days, not even ourselves. the only thing that could understand either of us was the water. And in land-locked Ohio, we were drowning without water to breathe. •

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UNTITLED

GEORGIA OWEN

Carefully tracing the sea green paths under the translucence of my skin if only I could remember is it arteries or veins that lead to the heart then maybe I could find you again. •

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anatomia, she BY

ABDULLAH JABAI

Her existence was heavy it was as if I had the whole sky resting upon my palms and I felt the stars dancing their way through my rib cages. Thoughts of her would soar underneath my skin and there were times where I felt her words curling around my bones, trying to hold on. I remember how she invaded the corridors of my mind, planting her self within the depths of my skin, and wrapping the moon around my writs until I woke up with a few stars in my palm that night. Her finger tips always melted within my skin like a spoon of sugar dissolving into a cup of tea. I would implant my fingers over her skin, utter stories with my hands, and read her words with my tongue. I remembered how the roses flourished around her collar bones, they dressed her just like how my lips did. It was memories like this where we had the moon rubbing upon our bones. I remembered her voice, her words were a soft touch, the feeling of comfort nestling between my bones. As for now before I sleep I always gaze upon the skies and remember your eyes, how delicate you were and how narrow your pallid bones used to be along with the calm shade of your skin. My bones ache for you, my skin yearns for yours and my eyes crave to find you. All I want is to feel you, smell, and breathe you in once again because your fingers were the only language I ever understood; they once told me everything. •

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AHANDPICKED SERIESLETTERS OF BY

KELSEY IPSEN

g I h I told you about the boy in the ocean. How he had waves in his hair and in his hands. How he would put his hand over my eyes and when he left I would open them salty and gulp like a fish. I told you how his hands were all tangled in the moon so that he kept coming and going and making the sand cry dry. He left me notes to read when the tide had taken him, I spend whole days counting the grains of sand, new waves coming to kiss my knees. I hear his whispers crashing on the bed of my ears while I’m sleeping, I wake and then point out the puddles of anemone pools he’s left drying quietly around our feet. You hung them up surely on the washing line for me and they looked like giant silver dollars. You're still reflecting the sun. I’m still finding grains of sand tucked up in the lining of my pockets and the pockets of my bags and the bags under my eyes. You said my voice was soft like dreams, I'm in them, I’m dwelling. I said he waved at me and sent me right to sleep. you pinched my arm, bit my cheek. I asked if you could feel the shore. I meant I want to feel sure. I saw blood soft on your teeth.

g II h I was being selfish when I pulled you from the sea. The salt water had made it so I could see through your skin, so I could see your veins singing in deep notes that dampened your surfaces. You shivered in my air and you forgot. You forgot

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about your see-through skin, about breathing, about the way your eyes crash like waves against the shore of all your built up thoughts. You form pools in my mind like water caught between the rocks and I can’t shake you. I slept for a week and woke to salt water tracks on my cheeks reminding me that I can’t break you. Your teeth drip like pearls from your smile and your shirt caught in the wind like a sail that I couldn’t reach and I couldn’t reach you but you were never gone. I can just cup my hands so they resemble shells over my ears and hear your echoes in hollow caverns like my own swelling heartbeats. I’ve got stitches from where I thought of you and didn’t mean to. See, the time passing is hurting me, the past four hours have left scrapes on both my knees. I don't know if I can pour you back into that sea but wait. Just wait. I’ve placed myself in bottled notes for you to read in cold places and they will move those oceans inside of you.

g III h But how could I forget you? My own bones are yours, sometimes my foot, my finger, my shoulder, moves without my own reason and I wonder what happened to you that made your fist clench so tight that my nails leave moon creases in orbits around my palms. Sometimes my neck bows under the weight of you. Suppose I am crossing the street and my neck drops, my eyes glued to the ground and the cars don’t stop. what then? You need to look up more! I need your eyes to drink in the sky, the pale blue gathering your lashes together, softly like dew. Look up! Once you did and I saw a window of shattered glass in greens and blues. It felt like I was underwater and light, like I was floating with waves lapping at the curves of my feet and rivulets of those transparent bottles pooling in my collarbone hollows. I miss you, I miss my bones. I felt your last cigarette burn my throat all swollen. I felt my words show up rasping. I felt my words entering my ears and turning into different words. I felt them sounding like your voice .I tried to leave you behind me, I tried to leave you but my intentions turned into unshakable bones. Distract me! I reach for a cigarette, a lighter, a book, a pen. I run. I run more. You’re burning holes in my feet. Distract me, please. My hands jump while I’m perfectly still. I reach for paper, for keys, for your thoughts that are bending my knees. You tried to let me go, my hand loosened but your finger twitched. I felt my palms, my wrists, my sugar coated lips, you’re burning wholes in me. •

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1 P&S

PHOTOGRAPHY

“Distance”

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UNTITLED SERIES BY

REBEKAH CAMPBELL

P A P E R & T H E S E A · T H E “ D I S T A N C E ” I S S U E · P H O T O G R A P H Y · 33

P A P E R & T H E S E A · T H E “ D I S T A N C E ” I S S U E · P H O T O G R A P H Y · 34

P A P E R & T H E S E A · T H E “ D I S T A N C E ” I S S U E · P H O T O G R A P H Y · 35

P A P E R & T H E S E A · T H E “ D I S T A N C E ” I S S U E · P H O T O G R A P H Y · 36

P A P E R & T H E S E A · T H E “ D I S T A N C E ” I S S U E · P H O T O G R A P H Y · 37

P A P E R & T H E S E A · T H E “ D I S T A N C E ” I S S U E · P H O T O G R A P H Y · 38

UNTITLED SERIES BY

JACLYN CORRADO

P A P E R & T H E S E A · T H E “ D I S T A N C E ” I S S U E · P H O T O G R A P H Y · 39

P A P E R & T H E S E A · T H E “ D I S T A N C E ” I S S U E · P H O T O G R A P H Y · 40

P A P E R & T H E S E A · T H E “ D I S T A N C E ” I S S U E · P H O T O G R A P H Y · 41

P A P E R & T H E S E A · T H E “ D I S T A N C E ” I S S U E · P H O T O G R A P H Y · 42

P A P E R & T H E S E A · T H E “ D I S T A N C E ” I S S U E · P H O T O G R A P H Y · 43

P A P E R & T H E S E A · T H E “ D I S T A N C E ” I S S U E · P H O T O G R A P H Y · 44

P A P E R & T H E S E A · T H E “ D I S T A N C E ” I S S U E · P H O T O G R A P H Y · 45

UNTITLED SERIES BY

JOELY BARBER

P A P E R & T H E S E A · T H E “ D I S T A N C E ” I S S U E · P H O T O G R A P H Y · 46

P A P E R & T H E S E A · T H E “ D I S T A N C E ” I S S U E · P H O T O G R A P H Y · 47

P A P E R & T H E S E A · T H E “ D I S T A N C E ” I S S U E · P H O T O G R A P H Y · 48

P A P E R & T H E S E A · T H E “ D I S T A N C E ” I S S U E · P H O T O G R A P H Y · 49

P A P E R & T H E S E A · T H E “ D I S T A N C E ” I S S U E · P H O T O G R A P H Y · 50

UNTITLED SERIES BY

INDIA HARRIS

P A P E R & T H E S E A · T H E “ D I S T A N C E ” I S S U E · P H O T O G R A P H Y · 51

P A P E R & T H E S E A · T H E “ D I S T A N C E ” I S S U E · P H O T O G R A P H Y · 52

P A P E R & T H E S E A · T H E “ D I S T A N C E ” I S S U E · P H O T O G R A P H Y · 53

P A P E R & T H E S E A · T H E “ D I S T A N C E ” I S S U E · P H O T O G R A P H Y · 54

P A P E R & T H E S E A · T H E “ D I S T A N C E ” I S S U E · P H O T O G R A P H Y · 55

P& S 路 May 2012 路