notes for you on running slowly
and walking together
by Ellyse Givens
Illustrated by Ariana R. Jimenez
1.
The day before the marathon, I ask your mom if there is anything I should bring to New York with me. “Some stressfree energy,” she replies, “Your friend is going nuts.”
2.
I like to say that you do everything with a passion. “That’s a nice way to say I’m crazy,” you like to say back.
You’re not crazy, but I can understand why people might think so. Perhaps I did at first, when I pretended not to remember you during my sophomore orientation. I had just transferred to your high school, and you were the peppy student ambassador I had met at the homecoming dance the previous year. I remembered your voice, pointed and demanding even amid dance music. But your extroversion was something I didn’t want to touch.
Now, I just call it passion. You want to be heard so much that you shout. Your hand gestures are something to be dodged. You cry to be sadder and pound your fists on the steering wheel to be angrier. You want to feel it all.
3. When I arrive at the brownstone in Hoboken that your mom rented for the weekend, you say you want to walk. I had already slipped off my shoes, so I lace them back on—the Asics you convinced me to buy over the summer—and we bounce together down the too-steep steps.
It’s colder than we’re used to. Our usual walks begin along California’s Pacific Coast Highway, always starting at the do-ityourself dog wash in Solana Beach. There, our crewnecks fall over our shorts down to our mid-thighs. In this New England November, we wear leggings and layers of long-sleeves under jackets.
“Tell me what’s going on,” I say, looking over at you. Like me, you walk purposefully, heavily on sidewalks. But this time, you don’t put as much weight on your left leg; you wear a band around the bottom of your knee to lift your patella joint. You’re congested too; you think you might have mono. You consider not running the marathon at all.
“I just want to know how tomorrow is going to go,” you say. You could defer, which means you would have to train again. You could start and not finish. Family, friends, and friends of friends are here to watch you.
I’m proud that you’re even considering not running it, because in another version of today it wouldn’t be a question. You wouldn’t consider your own self-preservation if it meant not reaching a goal, not exceeding others’ expectations.
Letter from the Editor
My dearest readers,
I just got back from my jewelry studio class, where I spent over five hours sanding, filing, drilling, hammering, and washing my little metal box that has stains of badly-applied solder lining each side. I thought I would leave class with my project finished; shiny and ready for final crit next week. Instead, it’s only a bit more sanded, holds four new incorrectly sized drill holes, and has some pretty deep scratches on its corners. I, too, have two new scratches on my hands.
In short: it’s been a long day.
On my way over here, I ran into my friend, who had just spilled tonight’s dinner in her car. Her head was under the driver’s seat when I found her, searching for rogue leftover beans. After picking up a final bean, we let out a collective sigh. A very deep breath.
4.
We didn’t always walk. Our sophomore year of high school, it was lunches with S, and come junior year, it was giggling about Mrs. T with F. We got close on that 4th of July when I threw up in M’s hot tub. You took me outside in the dark, your arm around me as I hobbled in zigzags to my mother’s car that had just pulled up. You had never met her before. “We’ve got a situation,” you said to her. She still laughs when you retell the story.
Our high school was weird. Being one of the top public high schools in the state, it attracted some “fucking losers,” as we like to say. Nobody really dated and, for both of us, the lack of romantic experience became an indication of an inherent unworthiness. Our insecurities were evidence-backed, like the thesis sentences of our AP Lang essays.
During our freshman year of college, we realized we were normal. That we could pull anyone we wanted. We did this too many times; each guy was just something to make us feel better. It was like making up for lost time, and it was electrifying until it wasn’t anymore.
5.
I remember running as a child in elementary school. The track that outlined the field and the dust that stung my eyes. The tiny gravel bits stained red; picking them out of a newly scraped knee. I never felt athletic then, always too big to move quickly like everyone else. I remember how the track’s last straightaway hurt my chest, made me feel like I might die.
During the pandemic, I wanted to run like everyone else could. Gracefully and easily. So, I downloaded an app that told me to sprint intervals on Tuesdays, to hobble through long runs on Thursdays, to stretch my hip flexors on Sundays. It taught me how to live.
One day during the pandemic, you suggested we do yoga
If you might also need a deep breath—a bit of respite from our busy weeks—I would like to point you to this week’s articles. In Feature, we have Ellyse’s beautiful words of friendship describe her dear friend crossing the NYC marathon finish line. Narrative has Michelle considering relationships with appearance, family, and media, and Ana asking us to embrace these slow and early days. We get a review of Adam Driver and his “camp-iness” in Megalopolis from Zoe, and Isabelle meditates on cannibalism as a metaphor within media surrounding sapphic relationships, both in A&C. In Lifestyle, Ishan thinks back to a 2022 bucket list, and Gabi ponders a relationship with time.
If, like me, you might need to spend many hours in a library, you have the chance to answer the big question I know has been wracking your mind: Which Brown library are you? Thanks to Michelle (our amazing two-
on the beach. We recorded a time-lapse of our Chaturanga transitions and sun salutation sequences atop beach towels. You wore two Dutch braids.
Afterwards, we sat and looked at the ocean. I remember that it was cloudy that day, the water gray and slightly protesting. I remember my legs being crisscrossed when I told you I thought I might have some sort of problem with eating and exercise. I didn’t know what to call it. You told me to tell my mother.
Shortly after, a podiatrist told me I had injured my foot from running and that I had to stop.
6.
When you were in kindergarten, a male classmate told you that you were fat.
I think of him as we walk in Hoboken. I don’t want you to run this marathon for him, or for anyone else.
You are one of those people whose insecurities are hard to see. You are loud and surprising, and challenge the world as it presents itself to you. But perhaps it all looks different inside of your head.
Data from two studies indicate gender differences in motives for running. Men tend to run more for competition and challenge, and women for weight concern, affiliation, psychological coping, life meaning, and self-esteem.
7.
This past summer, you helped inspire me to start running again. During a walk in California, you told me: “Who gives a fuck how fast you run? It’s for you, and you only.” I think about you every time I run. I try to replace the voice inside my head with yours.
I want you to run slowly during the marathon tomorrow, to not run at all. I think about spending the day in the city with you, laughing as we watch the runners from afar.
time writer this issue!), I now know: I am the Rock, so you know where to find me tomorrow. To start off your study session in your soul-library, try out AJ’s crossword. I’m feeling proud of my 36 seconds.
This weekend I will head back into the jewelry studio with fresh energy. I will hammer with grace and ease. I will make sure to check the size of my drill bit before I use it. I hope. Before that, however, I will take a step back, recharging my metaphorical metalsmithing battery.
May our weeks be as productive as they are calm and centered. And to start that energy off, please enjoy our issue.
Beans have all been gathered,
post-pourri Managing Editor
8. We don’t reach a conclusion. “Distract me, now!” You speak with an abruptness that I miss when we are apart.
I keep trying to push the conversation topic back toward you and the marathon. I hate talking about myself; I’ve never felt like I deserve the attention. On walks, you challenge me to keep talking. “No, go back, I have one more question about what you were talking about,” you say. Nobody has shown more interest in my life than you.
For the rest of the walk, we don’t talk about the marathon. We laugh about things only we understand.
9.
We return to the condo and you tell your mom you are going to do it. You are going to run the marathon. Your mom smiles at me as if I did something; I’m confused.
10.
The night before the marathon, we drop you off with another friend who lives closer to the starting line. I put my arm around you on the bus, and we don’t talk. You are never this quiet.
11.
I stay with your mom for the rest of the night. We keep getting on the subway in the wrong direction, which makes us giggle even more. We speak of Persian music, graduate school, her relationship with her brother, my recent breakup. On the 6 train toward Uptown, which we hoped was going in the right direction, she told me that love is like an addiction. She heard on a podcast that, amidst heartbreak, the same parts of your brain light up as when the body is in physical pain. My eyes started watering, partly because I needed to hear this. And partly because I realized where you get it from.
12.
I remember telling you about my first therapist, K. I don’t remember when you started questioning her, but it was probably before I did. K told me too much about her life—her daughters, her marriages, the box of sweets on her kitchen counter that she locked when her husband would eat too many cookies. K suggested that I implement this intervention to mitigate my own binge-eating tendencies.
You always say what I am not ready to admit at the time.
13.
Around the back of an apartment complex in Del Mar is a staircase to the sea that will always be ours. We call it ‘Secret Beach.’
Sometimes, the tide is so high that you can’t see the sand; you step from the stairs directly into the saltwater. One evening there, we caught the sunset at its most orange. We were sitting on the beach writing in our notes apps, predicting where everyone from our high school would go to college. Somehow, you knew I would be in Providence, Rhode Island.
You came to visit me for the first time during my senior year of college. Before you arrived, I called my sister. She said that you and my college friends were not going to understand each other. “They’re going to be like: ‘Who IS this?’” my sister said of you.
1. Hawk Tuah
It’s true, I sidestep back and forth between the worlds of my college friends and my hometown friends. When you arrived, you were confused as to why my college friends were so intensely stressed about post-graduation jobs. You watched me interact with them and told me afterward that I said “thank you” too often.
14.
I don’t usually go for people like you. Even now, you still intimidate me.
15.
The morning of the marathon, all you texted your mom was: “I’m scared.” She, your stepdad, and I had breakfast around the condo’s dining table before heading to the corner of First Avenue and E 62nd Street, where we’d meet you at your 16th mile. According to your mom, you are considering stopping there.
16.
We wait behind the gates for around an hour, slowly making our way to the very front. We trade places with other families and cheer on Grace and Gaston and Janice, and anyone else whose names we can plausibly surmise. There are bells and music and those hand-clapper devices, plastic palms that smack against each other. We track your location and watch your dot drift in little increments across the Queensboro Bridge.
“She’s wearing all black—very distinguishable,” your mom jokes with the others. I am at the front now, leaning over the gate and looking for you in the crowd of runners.
17.
When I see your face, I scream.
Some runners come over to hug their loved ones watching along the perimeter. But you notice us and keep running, waving as if it’s easy—as if you never had any doubts. Both knees are taped, and your dark brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail. You look like a runner.
“If she’s okay at this point, she can do the whole thing,” your stepdad says.
18.
Around mile 18, marathon runners often reach a point called "the wall.” The body runs out of glycogen around this time, which is its preferred form of energy, made from several connected glucose molecules stored in the liver and the muscles.
19.
We talk about motherhood sometimes. “How do you have pride in your kids’ lives…” I say. Sometimes I talk into space as we walk, but this time, on the Cardiff Trail, I look at you. “Without failing when they fail? Without your life depending on theirs?”
Sometimes, I tell you about my mother and you understand her side of the situation better than you do mine. “You know, I would do the same thing as she did,” you laugh.
We’re both close to our mothers, close enough that it hurts sometimes. We’ve both hurt our mothers, forgetting that they too, are just daughters. I hope we still talk then, when we become mothers that are also still daughters.
People to Have on Your Podcast
2. Serial DMer from Sidechat
3. One of my exes
4. Olivia Rodrigo, so you could sing Traitor together
5. King George III, the Mad King
6. Maximillian Robespierre
7. My AP English Literature teacher from high school
8. President William Howard Taft, who got stuck in a bathtub
9. Myself from the alternate universe in which the core trauma of my childhood never occurred
10. JoJo Siwa
20. Your mom tells me that you haven’t run more than 20 miles ever. “She knows she could’ve trained better,” she says of you.
At this point, passing over the mile 20 mark, your feet have taken your body further than they ever have before. I wonder what it feels like to defy.
21.
Over tacos, your mom tells me about some girls from our high school that you “really” wanted to be friends with during your freshman year of high school. “It’s interesting and difficult as a mother,” she said. “To know immediately that certain people are not going to be your kid’s lifelong friends… But you can’t say that to them in the moment.” She looks at me. “When I met you for the first time, I knew you were a keeper.”
We’ve both struggled with friends. We’ve both listened too much, asked “how are you?” too many times to not get it back in return. In each other, we find what we hoped for in other people.
22.
There’s a picture of you as a little girl, grinning so big your eyes are closed. You had just run your first 5K. Your mom is squatting down so she is your height.
We both took part in the Girls on the Run program, although at different San Diego elementary schools. We probably both ran that 5K around Mission Bay. I think I needed you then, as a little girl. Just as I need you now.
23.
One day on a walk, you paused. “Look at us,” you said. “We’re built like women.”
I’ve always thought you were beautiful, even when your hair was black or ginger, dyed with something cheap you found at CVS. But I think so even more now that you’ve settled on your natural dark brown. It matches your eyes.
24.
We meet you in Central Park at the 24th mile. There are still smiles here, even this far into the race. Two old women hold hands as they run, bouncing up and down together on the asphalt.
25.
We’re making our way down the weaving paths of Central Park when my phone buzzes, notifying me that you finished the race. You did it.
26.
Your phone died so it’s hard to find you. You take turns calling us from strangers’ phones. We accidentally go through the security and back into Central Park, then back out again. Finally, I see you surrounded by your college friends, who are more done-up-looking than I am at this point. I come up from behind you and wrap my arms around you, digging my head into your shoulder. I cry.
0.2.
“Please know that little girl would be so fucking proud,” I text you while boarding the train back to Providence.
“Ran for her, for you, and for myself,” you reply.
“You
can’t fight
me!” “Hey—equal rights, equal fights!”
“It wasn’t just Balto; I want to give credit to the other dogs.”
echoes of autumn
finding beauty in darkness
by Ana Vissicchio
Illustrated by Cho Kang
I try to catch myself. As the autumn leaves start to fall, sometimes it feels like I do too.
Look at me! The window of this dusky classroom calls my name, the lecture droning on and on, my eyelids drooping heavier and heavier. I gaze out. The sun waves goodbye as she settles below the horizon at a mere 4:30 p.m., leaving me with nothing but another hour left of my seminar. I’m jealous of her ability to settle into bed so early.
As I exit the creaky building, I wrap my scarf a little tighter. With the streetlamps guiding me home, I focus painstakingly on the crunches of leaves on the sidewalk. My teeth feel like they’re about to chatter; my stomach starts to grumble. The weight of everything I need to finish tonight rests heavy on my shoulders. Juggling fatigue and midnight deadlines and unwarranted cold spells, everything I can usually put up with feels compounded in this pitch, pitch-black setting.
This first week of November feels riddled with rhythms of change, and I yearn for the small things that bring me joy—finding light in the pitch-black. It’s only been a few days, and yet the daylight-savings-induced darkness seems to eclipse everything that was once wonderful—early evening runs, sitting on the green after class, the simple act of finding joy in being outside, soaking in the pink hues of late autumn. Noon blurs into evening without warning, as the sun selfishly retreats into hibernation. I can feel seasonal depression creeping in, rearing her head as fall waves her white flag.
I continue searching for ways to adapt. After three years on this campus, I can’t help but feel as if I should have figured it out by now—like an early bird trying to learn the night owl’s song.
The sky feels too close, the world too dim. But I’m learning that there’s a solemn beauty in watching the world slow down around me. I begin to wake up earlier and earlier, welcoming the new, bright rays of sun at 6:30 to start my day. I embrace the darkness once she rolls around, focusing on silver linings rather than gloom. I sit by our dorm room window with my roommates, and we decompress, discussing the trials of womanhood and statistics exams. Our words float swiftly through the darkness, the quiet wind whisking away and filtering today’s problems through the window screens until they’re close to nothing. With the lights off, our stories fade away—unlit.
Our fairy lights illuminate the room. On my bedside table, my lamp sits next to my precious stack of books;
through my window, a streetlamp monitors busy cars like a traffic guard. Headlights glimmer in the distance, a blinking reminder that the world is still moving, even beyond my view. Even in the dusk, there’s still light to protect against the looming void of the ever expansive universe above. There’s still a bright moon, her craters and caverns dancing to my worries, making them a little less scary. Each distant glow is a reminder that, no matter how thick the darkness feels, light is there—scattered and soft, yet enduring.
This season, the darkness brought me stress, worry, discomfort, and fear, but it also carried beautiful, blanketing waves of silence, stars, even the aurora—a much-needed cool down from this freakish winter heat and the pyretic friction of my own chaotic life.
Fall is not over yet—I’m lucky to still relish the glow of the carmine dogwood outside my window. Everything seems so trivial next to her burning red leaves. There’s not much time left; winter will arrive, mighty as she does, stripping the trees of their dreamy foliage. So I’ve decided to stop running from fall’s darkness. I love autumn for all her parts and her phases, even in the dark. I’ll turn around and start chasing, holding on tight.
In a month, when December rolls around, I’ll glance back at autumn one last time, before she, too, disappears with the sun. I’ll whisper my adoration into the dark, even though I know they’ll only echo. Because she’ll always be my favorite season. And I know when winter rolls around, I’ll never want to let her go.
what we inherit mirrors, reflections, and the spaces between
by Michelle Bi Illustrated by Grace Tasel
I decided when I was six that my favorite color was blue. Blue like the far-off horizon as I perched at the peak of the playground slide. Blue like the crayon I clamped in my small fists, coloring in lakes and rivers and seas. Blue like the eyes of the girl next door.
She had wavy blonde hair that tumbled down her shoulders and deep, perfect dimples. We sat next to each other every morning on the school bus. When the frosty winter light beamed through the window at just the right angle, her eyes looked like wide pools of crystal and diamond, like clear ocean water.
To me, she looked like a princess, like the heroine of every story and fairytale I consumed. I fell in love with Cinderella and Aurora as they found their happy endings, followed Annabeth Chase and Bella Swan through adventure after adventure, was enraptured by women like Katherine Heigl and Reese Witherspoon and Emma Stone on screen. Even the most popular girls in school were always the ones with light bouncy hair and big doe eyes: picture-perfect all-American faces.
As I grew up, I began to yearn for something more. I wandered the aisles of my local library, and perused Netflix and every new hit movie for main characters who looked like me, hungry for a sort of validation I still can’t quite name. But stories with Asian heroines remained stubbornly elusive.
I learned that girls like me didn’t get the guy, didn’t find their fairytale endings, or lead their own stories. And so my face became nothing more than a surface I plucked at in the mirror. I cut my hair, curled my hair, bleached my hair, dyed my hair. Tugged at my eyes to make them look bigger, rimmed their edges in eyeliner and shadow. Swept contour across my cheekbones, blush across my cheeks, pulled at my lashes and lips. I dreamt of being pretty, popular, loved—the kind of person who drew second glances and stares from across rooms.
And I’d look and look and turn away, then look back and see my own face looking back at me, ever crooked and plain and flat. And I’d feel disappointment and revulsion warring in my stomach, a sinking sadness that this was the body I’d be trapped in for the rest of my days.
My sister is three years younger than me. We’ve been close for all of our lives: tussling over the TV remote, splitting all of our snacks down to the centimeter measurement, sharing Barbies and books and beds on every family trip, much to our chagrin.
But most importantly, we talk. Conversation has
always been the cornerstone of our relationship. As elementary schoolers, we’d chatter about the next Beanie Boo we wanted to get (the giraffe or the penguin?) while hanging off of each others’ beds. As kids, we’d spend hours sprawled out on the couch, debating the merits of each Harry Potter house. As preteens, we pored over the results of our BuzzFeed personality quizzes and our favorite ice cream flavors and everything bright in this new world we were finally growing into.
And then we were teenage girls together. Our lives became busier and busier, inundated with homework and extracurriculars and our own growing pains. In turn, our preferred locations of conversations shifted— now we talked in front of the bathroom mirror at 8 a.m., getting ready for school side by side. In the fresh light of the morning, lemon soap wafting through the air, we combed our hair, scrubbed our faces, brushed our teeth in tandem. We’d transform ourselves from rough and tangle-haired to clean, presentable, and ready to be perceived. Talking of mascara and lip stain, looking pretty, getting ready.
In light of all this, I got to witness my sister growing up. But it wasn’t until far later that I realized she’d actually grown up, metamorphosed from a tiny elementary schooler into a lanky teenager in the blink of an eye.
The thought hit me on one of those mornings—that while I hadn’t been paying attention, my kid sister had finally begun growing into herself. Long-limbed and slender, peering into the mirror as if an ancient language was inscribed on the glass. “Is my eyeliner even?” she asked me anxiously.
I looked back at her silhouette in the yellow dawn light, hands animated, eyes bright. I looked and all I could see was the little girl who had napped on my shoulder every car ride. I looked and looked and felt my heart quiver with sadness. I didn’t know what to say.“Yeah, it’s even.” And with that, she looked satisfied.
The last few weeks before I left for college stretched long and lazy like a cat across a windowsill. August blurred into nothing but days of endless sun and heat. In the meantime, my sister and I found ourselves lounging aimlessly on the couch for hours, searching for any sort of entertainment; not even Netflix seemed to call to us anymore.
A few days into this monotony, I proposed thrifting, searching for something—anything—to break the hot, arid boredom. 20 minutes later, I had my hands on the steering wheel and my sister on aux, off to the only good thrift store within a 10 mile radius.
She fell asleep quickly, as always. At every red light, I found my eyes wandering to her: the feathery dark hair she’d complained about being cut too short for weeks, the outfit she wore that had gone through three iterations that morning, the perfectly-angled eyeliner.
I thought of her. Then I thought of me. Then of all the little girls who looked like us—and also so very different—peering into the mirror and studying their angles, as if their faces could be reshaped if they simply wished hard enough. As I had done, as my sister had grown into.
When we finally walked in, the thrift store was loud and cluttered, swarming with older adults. Yet it was undeniably charming, as if every dusty, shiny antique and secondhand piece of clothing was winking at us.
We spent close to an hour flipping through the shelves, alternating between laughing at ridiculous graphic tees and pulling candidates for purchase from the racks. We crammed ourselves into the corner between two racks and shielded each other from the public while we tried on tops, laughing all the while.
Eventually we found a mirror; my sister turned this way and that, admiring the tank top she’d pulled from the shelf. Watching her, I was struck by the notion again: she’s all grown up. This time though, I saw her eyes trace
her own body with a sense of newfound satisfaction.
“You look good,” I told her when she asked. And I meant it.
I couldn’t quite put it into words, but there was something so freeing about it all. This moment, imperfect and hopeful, brimming with a sense of beauty all its own. The way we’d found loveliness on the very last hanger of a dusty thrift shop. The way my sister glowed.
Last week, she texted me again with another update on her thrifting adventures. She’d gone with a friend this time; they posed in the mirror, flashing twin smiles at the camera. I couldn’t help but grin back at the screen, watching her suffused in her own light.
So I’m coming to believe that maybe real beauty is reflected: borrowed from the bits and pieces of the people we love, a secondhand patchwork of color and warmth. Maybe we find it tucked away into the nooks and crannies, the body I’m slowly coming to terms with, the corners of bathrooms and thrift shops.
I’m teaching myself to search. I feel it when my friends wrap their arms around my shoulders till we can’t tell where one of us ends and the next one begins. I hear it in the sound of my parents’ swooping Mandarin, the echoes of chopsticks chiming against porcelain at the dinner table.
But mostly, I see it in my sister’s smile as she throws her head back laughing in the passenger seat, my hands on the wheel. I catch a glimpse of her eyes in the side mirror, bright and dark and warm. I’m driving towards the sunset, the wide blue horizon. I’ll drive her anywhere.
i’ll consume you— lovingly?
unpacking cannibalism as a sapphic metaphor
by Isabella Xu Illustrated by Hyde Flanders
For all its faults, I can’t help but love the TikTok algorithm. Each evening, it thoughtfully selects heartwrenching sapphic media and drops them into my eager palms with care and restraint—feeding me just enough that I’m hooked, but not so much that it feels forced. Just enough that I can tell myself that I’m consuming these “thought pieces” organically.
So maybe the algorithm was off its game when I started to notice a proliferation of collage slideshows and edits about “cannibalism as a metaphor for love.” It’s packaged the way TikTok pseudophilosophy always is: PNGs of vaguely aesthetic images pasted on a crinkled paper background, with a paragraph written in all-lowercase, serif font.
Referencing popular closet-lesbian media like Showtime’s Yellowjackets and 2009 cult classic Jennifer’s Body, these slideshows claim that the theme of cannibalism between girls in media is allegorical of love.
User Fei on Medium explains the connection well: “Love, like cannibalism, can be consuming and all-encompassing. It can make us lose ourselves in the other person, to the point where we feel as though we are being consumed by them.”
Yet, I don’t believe the pioneers of literary cannibalism ever meant for it to be an allegory for love.
It's an inherently one-sided act of consumption, where one entity engulfs another entirely. The corpse cannot protest. That’s not love. When consuming someone, the act is selfish—one person absorbs and effectively “erases” the other, which is antithetical to
the respect that love involves.
Cannibalism is the most stomach-churning version of possession.
In the TV show Yellowjackets, the protagonist Shauna’s eyes fill with hesitation as she struggles with whether to eat her ex-best friend Jackie’s frostbitten ear. The choice she’s contemplating is not whether to love Jackie. That’s been established. Rather, in swallowing that ear, feeling it slide down her throat along with centuries of cultural taboo, Shauna made the choice to possess the unpossessable. When Jackie was alive, their friendship (relationship?) was far too fractured to stomach this radical unity. But through cannibalism, she made the decision that Jackie’s posthumous body belonged to her.
This logic of possession may also explain why cannibalism is a popular trope in sapphic media. Rhetoric around female sexuality lacks conquering language: We are always penetrated, deflowered, objectified. Never is heterosexual sex framed as a female partner engaging in the act of “engulfing”— female anatomy is relentlessly rendered as the powerless victim.
Cannibalism in sapphic media, then, is a form of resistance. It’s a longstanding symbol of possession that sapphic relationships were never allowed to have. In Sheridan Le Fanu’s 1872 novella Carmilla, she writes of a young woman preyed on by a female vampire, the titular Carmilla. It was a pioneering work of vampire fiction, predating the more well-known Dracula by 25 years. It was also an early example of sapphic cannibalism—Carmilla punctures the human Laura’s breast and drinks her blood as an allegory for sexual acts.
It’s deeply unsettling, invasive, and taboo. But it brought a much-needed gravity to traditional portrayals of female romantic relations. No longer was it depicted as a frivolous activity of the bored elite, performed while giggling under floral sheets.
Rather, the introduction of violence and cannibalistic metaphors ascribes the dynamic of dominance and lust that was previously exclusive to heterosexual relationships. Goodbye, puppy love. Hello, possession, desire, and anger. We’ve been waiting for you.
But it also serves a role greater than just ascribing heterosexual dynamics to sapphic relationships. There’s something uniquely queer about this desire to adopt certain traits of your lover.
Toeing the line between jealousy and love seems to be a universal experience. I felt it growing up. Smiling at my best friend, watching her dazzle the room and effortlessly make new friends. In her radiance, she took all the light out of the room and left none for me. I felt nauseous, realizing that what should have been
uncomplicated adoration was always tinged with resentment. But I couldn’t help it—as two pre-teen girls, we were constantly compared. My own parents constantly asked why I wasn’t as talkative as her. My teachers couldn’t write my report card without mentioning her name. We were a single noun in a sentence, ungrammatical and nonsensical without our other half. Wouldn’t it all be so much easier, I thought, if I just had what she had
This constant competition forced between women—even those in a relationship—makes cannibalism a uniquely sapphic metaphor. It can never be simply about love and the desire to form a unified whole, as is depicted in heterosexual media like Bones and All. There’s an inherent element of jealousy. The line of reasoning asks: If I consume them, will I adopt their qualities, too?
It’s no surprise, then, that this niche metaphor has gained a foothold in queer female media. It addresses a decades-long cry to validate sapphic relationships as more than the superficial fooling around of young girls who haven’t yet found a proper male partner, coloring these pastel relationships with an air of darkness. Moreover, the very act of consumption—the crackle of cartilage grinding up against molars—also serves as a morbid, hyperbolized depiction of the jealousy inherent in many homoerotic female friendships. And that, importantly, is not love
from the riches of an Emersonian mind
a “Megalopolis” review
by Zoe Park
Illustrated by Junyue Ma
disclaimer: mild spoilers for Megalopolis
Francis Ford Coppola sold a portion of his winery to make my favorite film of 2024, Megalopolis. The internet will tell you that this convoluted mess was a “megaflopolis,” but this truly is Coppola’s magnum opus. Taking over 40 years to produce, it was worth waiting my lifetime two times over to see Megalopolis, and I will stand by that until the day I die. Maybe I love the film because I’m pretentious, or perhaps, inversely, all the true meanings and nuances went completely over my head, and my simple interpretations make it difficult for me to understand why it has been so poorly received; all I know is that this is a classic through and through.
The general plot draws inspiration from the Catilinarian Conspiracy of the late Roman Republic, but the film is sprinkled with clear references to the current political climate. In 63 BCE, Lucius Sergius Catilina, colloquially Cataline, lost the consulship to Marcus Tullius Cicero, colloquially Cicero. Cataline then conspired—hence the conspiracy—against Cicero. Cataline ultimately failed, leading to his exposure and exile. I did not know Megalopolis was based on these historic proceedings before viewing it. However, I quickly picked up on the allusion because Adam Driver’s character is literally named Cesar Catilina, and his rival is Franklyn Cicero (played by Giancarlo Esposito). In Latin class of my sophomore year of high school, I had the pleasure of reading Cicero’s “In Catilinam I,” an oration against Cataline. I am not always too fond or proud of my days as a Latin scholar, but I do have a soft spot for Cicero and “In Catilinam I.” This can be attributed to my roommate at the time, who was in the
same class section as me. At any minor inconvenience throughout the year, and even still today, we’ll proclaim to each other, “O Tempora! O Mores!” which translates to “Oh what times! Oh what customs!” and is a part of one of the opening statements. We also loved that Cicero meant “chickpea.”
What I failed to realize at the time of reading Cicero was that the primary purpose was to introduce us to a plethora of rhetorical devices. I know that I implicitly draw on this knowledge regularly, but Megalopolis is the only media I’ve consumed that so boldly utilizes these mechanisms––namely, tricolon crescens, a pompous way of describing a list of three increasing in intensity. Honestly, tricolons and tricolon crescens always seemed lame and not like actual tools of rhetoric––that was wildly entitled of me. Arguably the most iconic quote of the whole movie only works because of tricolon crescens. Adam Driver’s line, “So go back to the club,” only works because of Nathalie Emmanuel’s delivery of her triplet, “Entitles me? ENTITLES me? ENTITLES ME?” I will admit, the lines of triplets feel out of place because no one actually talks like this, or at least no one I talk to does. However, because this is Megalopolis, the strangeness only adds to the campiness. Even if it is a bit silly, Coppola is authentic to the text, which I admire.
So what, I appreciate the basis of the film. Why else am I lauding this film? Adam Driver. Ever since Adam Driver first hosted Saturday Night Live (SNL) in 2016, I have not been able to see him as a completely serious acteur. Though, neither has SNL––Lorne Michaels doesn’t ask someone to host four times if they aren’t funny. While that does not necessarily make him a comedian, I believe he is an incredible actor in the genre. If there is a project with Driver in it, I will probably view it expecting a tinge of comedy, even if unintentional. Driver’s strongest moments were undoubtedly his more unserious ones, particularly his screaming at Crassus’s home. At one point, Catilina is shot in the face. If this was a true drama, he would have died then and there in the car. However, this is Megalopolis, and one of the other major plot points is that Catilina wants to reinvigorate the urban fabric of New Rome with his substance, megalon. Not much is revealed about megalon other than it is the material of utopia and it does not exist in our world. Catilina heals using the megalon but regardless remains injured for a short portion of the film. During this window, he realizes he has no access to his bank account, which is run by Crassus’s bank. With no bank access, Catilina has no money to continue his expensive endeavors utilizing megalon. This causes him to scream “no” repeatedly, with each “no” more intense than the last, a crescens for sure. If Cataline’s face had not been shot and fixed by this made-up material, perhaps the scene would have true gravity to it. Then, Driver adds
emphasis to the comedy through his gyrations and general inability to sit in a chair at that moment. The entire sequence is a confirmation of Adam Driver’s abilities as a comedic figure.
Thinking about the film overall, the best chapter was “Bread and Circuses.” The portion took place at the marriage of Crassus (Jon Voight) and Wow Platinum, the gossip news reporter played by none other than Aubrey Plaza. Even though Aubrey Plaza often stirs the pot in her roles, her sole purpose in this film was to be overly promiscuous and ambitious. There is also a notable age gap between the couple, and, not even a few minutes earlier in the film, Wow Platinum had a fling with Cataline. Their marriage incited a massive party in their equivalent of Madison Square Garden. The celebration involved gladiatorial fights, acrobatics, and a performance by Vesta Sweetheart (Grace VanderWaal)—remember cursive singing girl? While the main events ensue, Catilina goes into the depths of the stadium and gets high out of his mind. Thanks to the color grading and general cutting, this sequence conveys the chaos of Catilina’s mental state at the time. While “Bread and Circuses” is my favorite chapter, the best individual scene is when Crassus murders Wow Platinum. While grim in relation to the rest of the film, the way he does this makes the scene so enjoyable. See, while Wow Platinum married Crassus, what she truly wanted was his bank to be rich and win back Catilina. She recruited Crassus’s notoriously clueless grandson, Claudio (Shia Labeouf), through seduction to help her acquire the accounts. For a slice of time, Wow Platinum does have the bank; however, she and Shia Labeouf stumble into Crassus’s chamber to find him with a massive boner. Psych! It’s a crossbow, and he shoots Wow dead in the chest and Shia Lebeouf twice in the rear. Even in the twists and turns of Megalopolis, I would never have expected such a fate for Wow Platinum, or Crassus, for that matter.
Thus far, I have seen Megalopolis twice. One of the times I even missed the aurora borealis for it, so you best believe I am in love with and committed to Megalopolis. While I thoroughly enjoy this film, I do have to admit I think my opinions would offend Coppola. I view Megalopolis like I view Riverdale. The viewers who want real, profound drama are inevitably going to be the ones who hate both. You cannot go into Megalopolis thinking it will be the next Apocalypse Now. However, that does not make it a bad film, it just makes the audience more specific. I had an English teacher who once told me that you can’t please everyone, so create your work with a specific audience in mind, and in that, you will reach many more people than if you wrote for a general body. So while I might not be the target of Coppola’s work, I certainly found immense value in it.
in time,
keep your eyes off of the clock
by Gabi Yuan
Illustrated by Chase Wu Insta: @cuubikl
There is nothing that causes me greater anguish than the thought of wasting time, if only for just a second. Every night before bed, my mind twists and unravels, looking for particular solutions to this dilemma: to maximize every conversation, every moment in-between class— even during mealtime, where the dilly-dally of wandering exchanges makes me squirm in my wobbly seat, picking my nails under the table to conceal my impatience.
I’ve always wondered where this tendency, an implicit submission to time, came from. Perhaps it began when I was a child, crying on the stairs when my parents were two minutes late to take me to swim practice. I would stare at the clock on top of the stove like an alarm, for action, to put something into motion.
I’m afraid that something catastrophic will happen to me.
Sitting in the car, I would be screeching at the top of my lungs watching the time tick away on the clock. Each scream represented a deprivation of a second of my time, with feverish trembles pulsing through my body at the simple thought of wasted time. The thought became unbearable to me, my legs kicking and kicking and kicking. Two minutes behind, I waited for whatever travesty was going to hit me.
Yet, as I ran down to the pool deck, I found the other swimmers still in their clothes, our coach still writing the set on the board. My mind floated to a momentary silence, and my scrambling feet slowed at the bleachers.
Oh, I see.
After practice, the feverish panic from before barely crossed my mind as I ate dinner, completed the rest of my schoolwork, and ran up
the stairs for bed.
It’s instantaneous—only when I turn off the light, turn to my side, and close my eyes does my conscience awaken again.
I must be forgetting something.
As I’ve grown older, I’ve learned to control these thoughts within an exceptionally tight schedule.
Yes, I eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day.
Yes, I nap every early afternoon.
Yes, I attend an exercise class every afternoon.
But methodically, as second nature as painting brushstrokes onto a pliable canvas, I must, if only for my right hand to practice a familiar ritual, write these actions into my slim, black planner over and over again, days on days, weeks on weeks, to force myself to believe that no time will ever escape my notice.
Lately, my relationship with time has withered to an intricate ebb and flow. Down to the minute, I write down everything I do in a day—the precise 18-minute nap, a 23-minute walk around the block after dinner, and 12 minutes to paint my nails before class.
I make checklists, drawing a mini square box next to each activity. The thrill of control, the satisfaction of completing one task in exchange for another, almost fulfills my need for complete control of time. Perhaps this explains my demand to organize my daily tasks from most to least easily-accomplished, saving the most timeconsuming for last. Tracing my fingers over and over again on the symmetrical square box, I shut my eyes.
I hope the box fills someday.
I’m afraid that the most demanding work might completely blow me away.
My appetite comes back after finishing the hardest tasks.
Yet, day after day of opening the planner and seeing the immense amount of work ahead of me, the lines between the reality of action to a life created out of fantasy and panic emerge. My prioritization of tasks dissipates. My concept of time dissolves.
The words in front of me plainly represent a fictitious treatment of the present, a constant longing to gain something out of the looping, large font of my handwriting.
Who am I without time? Who am I without those rigid lines to guide me back to reality, to what is in front of me? What can I do with the looming clock over my head, counting down the seconds until my eyelids grow heavy, sleep nearly there, tickling my fingertips, hanging loosely over the bed?
Perhaps the questions I ask myself mirror the childlike ones I hid away for so long. They are beckoning for a recognition that the square boxes will be waiting for me if I decide to close my eyes mid-day, outstretch my arms, and lay against the hot gravel.
My clammy hands feel warm against the pavement.
Perhaps, the box will always wait, in whatever capacity I deem fit. When I learn to grapple with control, perhaps the panic will lessen to a mumble.
Perhaps the imbalance has always been trying to prove to me that the incessant rings in my head are melodic chimes sung by the long green grass, the fields bubbling with white blooming flowers. The red cardinals flutter around me, one landing on the bridge of my shoulder, twittering:
“What is time without you?”
cross it off, add one more
o n bucket lists as time capsules
by Ishan Khurana
Illustrated by lily engblom-stryker
This week, while cleaning out the endless mess that is my Notes app, I came across a bucket list I made in April 2022. Buried under a miscellaneous assortment of song ideas, grocery lists, and other random thoughts, this note felt like a fossil of some kind. Even though only two years had passed, the bucket list felt delicate, outdated, and far back in my memory.
I don’t remember the process of making the bucket list, but I do remember why I’d wanted one: to make the endlessness of adulthood seem both more exciting and manageable. I wanted to have specific things to look forward to and a direction to move in.
I was surprised by the number of things on the list I’d actually finished. It was nice to think that the version of me from 2022 would, in many ways, be proud of what I’ve done. As I read through the old bucket list, I felt myself return to the perspective of the world I used to hold, and, consequently, felt memories from that moment become clearer than they’d been before.
Revisiting these goals feels like overlapping the present and the past, combining my current progress towards crossing items off the list with the initial enthusiasm that I felt while making it. It’s nice to feel myself making progress.
Here are some things I’d written on that list (in the order they appeared) and what I think of them now.
- Learn to Draw/Paint Things That Look Like Other Things
I’ve always enjoyed making art—I spent much of high school taking photos, printmaking, writing, singing, and playing music—but I’ve never been able to successfully draw or paint anything realisticlooking. I enjoy drawing patterns and shapes, but if I try a face or a tree or anything of the sort, the results are pretty unfortunate.
Specifically, I’m fascinated by watercolor paintings: The distinctly simple tones and hazy nature hold a gentleness that I’d love to be able to capture.
Recently, in the hopes of improving, I’ve been trying to paint something with watercolors at least once a week. I haven’t made much progress yet, but I’m happy that I’ve been trying. I hope I’ll keep making time to paint.
- Adopt a Cat
At some point in high school that I can’t pinpoint, I became pro-cat. I don’t think I was ever truly anticat, but I was definitely hesitant about them for parts of my life. This probably comes from an assortment of painful and scary interactions with them—one jumping off the top bunk of a bunk bed and onto my face claws-first, for instance—and since getting a dog in seventh grade, I hadn’t thought much about other animals.
Since becoming pro-cat, much of my social media feed is occupied by cats doing cat things. I love the balance of their unconcerned approach to life and their (sometimes) cozy, warm affection. I’d love to adopt one at some point, but I don’t think I have the space or money for it now, and my parents (and probably dog too) are not the biggest fans of the idea. I hope though, that I can convince them soon, and if not, I hope to revisit the idea when I do have the resources.
- Write a Story I’m Proud Of
I tend to look back on what I write with either an unwavering sense of nostalgia or some kind of disgust, whether directed towards my word choices or the topic I chose to write about. I’d like to write something solid enough so when I look back, I can be certain I expressed myself in the most impactful way I could. I think it’s impossible to look back on our old selves without feeling some amount of regret, but I hope to at least make present-me and past-me proud of my words and growth.
I want to write something that comes from my own experiences and grow it into a new life, a path, or an idea of how to approach the world. I want to blend the real and the surreal, drawing on fiction to explain the feelings that the world cannot. I don’t know yet what I want to say, nor do I know how I’d do it, but I know how I want it to look. I think that’s a good start.
- Crochet Myself Socks
Last winter, I found myself with more time to think than I wanted. I needed something to do with my hands—some way to channel my nervous energy into physical work—so I bought yarn, watched how-to videos, and began to crochet. Starting with granny squares and slowly working my way through various techniques, I eventually made my way up to crocheting small, two-colored whales.
I never had enough coordination or a good enough memory to crochet while watching shows or listening to podcasts, so I spent much of my time alone in my room, listening to the wintry quiet of Minnesota’s December and trying not to lose count of my stitches. I ended up with several whales in a variety of colors, some better than others, but I never tried to make anything else. I ended up giving all the whales away to friends from my old school this summer, hopeful that the time spent crocheting them would be proof of the time I spent thinking about the people I didn’t reach out to enough.
Maybe I’ll try to make socks this winter. I don’t know why younger me was set specifically on them, but I think they’re useful enough that there’s no harm in doing so. It’ll be cold, and it’ll be nice to stay warm.
The best part of bucket lists, in my opinion, is their constant development; there are several items on the original list that I’ve grown out of or away from, but I’ve also come across many, many things I’d like to do that the 2022 version of myself would’ve never thought possible or interesting. It’s remarkable how much I’ve changed in two years, and how much I’m sure I’ll change over the next two. Today, I’ll make a brief new list to add onto the above, and I wonder who the me that I become in two years will think of it.
- Walk Across Rhode Island or Another State
- (Safely) Ride an Electric Scooter
- Learn How to Bake
- Find a New Hairstyle that I Like
- Trace Back My Family Tree Beyond My GreatGrandparents
POST-POURRI
BEFOR E YOU GO
which
brown university library are you? find
yourself on campus!
by Michelle Bi Illustrated by Joe Maffa
It’s November, there’s a new, chilly bite to the afternoon air, and all of campus seems to be deep in the throes of midterm season. You walk out of class with your backpack hanging low and heavy off your shoulders. It’s going to be a long day of locking in.
You need to make a crucial decision: where to study. You find yourself drifting in one direction and then the next, unable to decide which library you’re feeling today. The sharp lines of the SciLi? The endless stacks of the Rock? Maybe even the quiet room in the Hay?
If you’ve ever been caught in this dilemma, don’t fret! Take this quick quiz to learn which library matches the very essence of your character—or maybe just to decide where to hunker down for the next six hours.
1. Your classes for the day have been canceled! What are you doing with your free time?
a) Cafe-hopping in Downtown Providence.
b) Visiting the RISD Museum.
c) Getting in an extra workout at the Nelson.
2. At the end of a long day, how do you like to unwind?
a) Chatting with a few close friends.
b) Diving into a new book.
c) Playing a video game.
3. What’s your cafe order?
a) A hot chocolate.
b) An Earl Grey tea.
c) A cold brew espresso.
4. Which of these is your favorite Brown University tradition?
a) Spring Weekend.
b) WaterFire.
c) Late Night Organ Concert.
5. What would your ideal vacation be?
a) Exploring a vibrant city filled with attractions.
b) Getting to know a gorgeous, historic small town.
c) Backpacking through a scenic mountain range.
6. What’s your favorite clothing item?
a) A soft scarf.
b) A cable knit cardigan.
c) A pair of perfectly baggy jeans.
7. What does the home of your dreams look like?
a) Cozy and warm, filled with books, art, and your favorite people.
b) Elegant and classic, characterized by thoughtful vintage touches.
c) Modern and organized, with an open and streamlined design.
8. What’s your preferred Main Green activity?
a) People-watching on a picnic blanket.
b) Journaling under a tree.
c) Spikeball.
If you chose mostly (a)s, you are the Rock!
You’re approachable, friendly, and down-toearth. You’re well-rounded and enjoy both deep conversations as well as cheerful small talk. You might not always be the loudest voice in the room, but you’re steadfast and hardworking. You have a calm, warm presence that puts others at ease. You’re cooperative and tenacious, able to thrive in nearly any environment, and you bring a sense of open-mindedness everywhere you go.
If you chose mostly (b)s, you are the Hay! You’re poised, self-assured, and a creative thinker. You likely have a strong sense of curiosity and introspection. Thoughtful and perceptive, you probably have an eye for details and the little things in life: you can appreciate the beauty of fleeting moments that many others might not even notice. You prize quality over quantity, and you value authenticity greatly. Regardless of whatever life throws at you, you remain admirably clear-minded and level-headed.
If you chose mostly (c)s, you are the SciLi!
You’re driven, energetic, and resilient. You’re most likely the friend who always has a million things to do, never one to back down from a challenge. You’re confident in your own abilities (or at least you should be!) and you do your best to take advantage of every opportunity life offers you. You’re also grounded, reliable, and probably have a great sense of humor. Your adaptability and loyalty make you a great leader, friend, and person.
by Aj Wu
“I can be a wanderer, but also find and make myself at home anywhere I go. Thanks to my finger friends, my pockets and my heart are now a whole lot fuller.”
—Ellie Jurmann, “Friends in High-five Places” 11.30.23
“Ghosts are the best fuel for my daydreams. The specters wander in and out of my half memory as I weave threads of fiction and real life together, until I can imagine a whole person who might have lived just so.”
—Mack Ford, “The Ghosts I Call Darling” 11.18.23
