G SIS
Reflections on Genesis
When I look back at who I was, I see a reflection of my current self. I have not forgiven nor forgotten what she’s done. I carry her mistakes as if that is who I am today. I expected better from her. I wonder why I did the things I most deeply regret and always come up with the same answer. She didn’t know.
That no one else could change how she felt about herself. That she could make mistakes. That she could live truthfully. That she was valuable.
There are many iterations of myself that no longer exist. I appreciate what she did for me. I am proud of where I am now. I look forward to what they will do. I am not who I have been, and I am not yet who I will be.
Life is about reinventing yourself over and over again. A constant, evolving process. A process that is sometimes intentional. A process other times subtle, and unconscious. A continual state of Genesis. - Anonymous
A Letter
You stir me like cold honey dribbling into warm tea, until your sweet facade becomes intrinsically yours, intrinsically mine Your finger twirls the sticky lip of the cup, it taunts you You never need to ask anymore, that taunts me
You run rampant, a shadow dancing in the warm crooks of my limbs, the stretched underbellies of my weakest points. Your feet flutter and you leave no footsteps but traces of you are everywhere. Your eyes search beyond my tangible ends, fueling the glazing, grazing gaze of hands reaching through me, beyond me
Once claimed, my personhood dissolved into a projection of what I could become. It was an ugly gnarly thing, you couldn’t bear to look away, fascinated by what fell apart. You wanted to dissect me until I was nothing but strayed parts, and yet to claim them would be a rejection of self
Later I heard you laughing that you checked it off, that you’d gotten there first, and it wasn't worth visiting because the grass was dry and the leaves were trampled and all was trodden on. New territory, unwalked, something left untouched, stake your claim. A problem to be fixed, or maybe even, something to be had
And now I look and wonder if I know for sure the face with my name, that what I have is mine. I don't know what it wants, only what it's supposed to give, and I used to think I cared to, but now there’s nothing left, so I don’t, and I don't have a body, and I don’t know what parts are mine, and whose limbs these are, and I want to forgive you but I never will because I see your faces in everyone I hate, even if they don't deserve it the way you do Your shadow still makes my back cold and I feel myself fitting your mold, and the hatred overflows out of my body and from my chest pours this gooey liquid of my charred, burnt remains, my body, my brain, take it all and don’t give me back.
I resent the thrill you once sent up my spine, racing to stain it in my brain, just in case this was the last time, your honeyed facade a threat, disguising the bitter taste you’d discard in my mouth. I lived in the growing shadow of abandonment in our last hour. You were the sweet syrup slipping through my fingers, I was scrambling for drops fruitlessly after I’d finally had a taste.
Where is the line between what you think you want and what you get? When your body is public property for so long you start to walk between whatever lines are there, you never draw them yourself.
-Maya Olson
She always was a tomboy, ever since she was little. Once she was old enough to dress herself, she rarely wore the color pink, or purple. She didn’t like Justin Bieber, or One Direction, or any other artist that liking could term her “boy-obsessed” (though this made much more sense when she later realized she wasn’t that interested in boys but that’s another story). She liked to play soccer with the boys at recess, and definitely had a superiority complex about it. She didn’t like when she finally started getting boobs “who would ever like wearing bras?” Sports bras became her go to, as did baggy t-shirts anything that would make her forget that her boobs existed. When she got a pair of Timberlands in eighth grade and started wearing them more than her Uggs, her friends called her a hipster At a time in her life when all she wanted was to be part of a community and fit in, this comment felt like the kiss of death. She knew they meant it to be endearing, but she didn’t like that there was something different about her for them to comment on.
In high school, she liked wearing dresses for the homecoming dance, and sometimes on other occasions. And other times she hated it the way her mom would ask “is that what you ’ re wearing out to dinner?” when her sister was wearing a pretty dress and a full face of makeup and she was in jeans and a button-up shirt Or, if she was feeling peoplepleasing, she would wear one of the dresses her mom had bought for her and would fidget with the bottom hem all night, which was constantly feeling too short. She usually felt like a normal girl, because what else was there to feel like? But sometimes she didn’t Sometimes she felt that even when she wore the same things her friends did, she didn’t fit into them as well, and that everyone noticed. And eventually, she realized that sometimes she didn’t feel like a girl at all.
\Not that she felt like a boy she didn’t Just like a person One who fit more into the girl box than the boy one but maybe the edges of the box were blurred, or her limbs stuck out the sides or her head out the top.
She guessed that people who felt like that used they/them pronouns, so she guessed she could use them too. But it felt so foreign. So other. And she didn’t like feeling other But she tried Blamed it on internalized transphobia over self-hate Her close friends started using they/them for her, and she loved them for it, the way they so naturally adjusted. She realized the person probably misgendering herself the most was herself.
Now, they use they/them more than she/her They still feel like an imposter all the time, and worry that people think they are doing it for attention. Sometimes they think they are, but then again they never were someone who liked feeling different. The imposter syndrome remains regardless, a voice in the back of their head telling them that they are attention-seeking, and taking up space in the non-cis community that other people with more “real” feelings deserved.
They’d been thinking about shaving their head for a while ever since they were a kid they hated wearing their hair down, and always tucked it behind their ears to get it out of their face. The fear of judgment tamed the urge for a while, but one day on a cross country road trip with their friend, they bought an electric razor at Walmart and shaved it all off in the hotel bathroom. Looking in the mirror afterward, the euphoria was like nothing they had ever felt before: a feeling of being wrapped up in stiff paper like a present all their life, and finally popping out and shouting “here I am! I’ve been here all along!” As if they could finally breathe, and smile with their teeth, and not care about drawing attention to themselves “Wow, it looks amazing!” their friend exclaimed They must have mumbled a thank you, but all they could focus on was the feeling of the peach fuzz soft under their fingers, and the shape of their head. They guessed that feeling gender euphoria from a shaved head was a pretty genderqueer thing, and that they were the one pushing the feelings of being an imposter on themself
When they got their first binder, an old one from the queer resource center at their school, they cried in the bathroom mirror at the joy of seeing their body flat under a t-shirt, and knew what they were feeling was real. They wished it hadn’t taken them so long to realize, but sometimes life is like that that you don’t acknowledge your feelings as real until they’re standing right in front of you, looking you in the eye in the bathroom mirror, with a shaved head and a flat chest and tears in their eyes.
It’s a common occurrence for them to feel like they can’t enjoy girly things anymore like there’s a pressure to conform to the standards of a gendernon conforming identity, which feels oxymoronic. They’ve realized they actually really like the color purple, though pink is still not quite right. They still love wearing dresses sometimes, and chunky heeled boots, and black eyeliner, and painting their nails So they do those things, because it brings them joy And what else is life but the pursuit of joyful experiences?
Sometimes wearing a binder in public is still accompanied by an internal sense of shame that they can’t quite explain, but they wear it anyway. Their sense of identity changes day to day, but they’ve come to enjoy the constantly evolving sense of self, and the ability to portray themselves to the world however they please when they wake up each morning They still feel like their parents' daughter, but don’t think they’ll ever be someone ’ s wife, or girlfriend. Maybe a mom one day though. They don’t feel like they need to prove themselves to other people anymore. Or to themselves. They can just be.
-Anonymous
@isaacprints
Maslow's hierarchy of needs places self actualization as the most imperative to achieving contentment. Operating under the assumption that this is true there is a clear reason why depression rates and mental illness has skyrocketed during our generation. With infinite images and ideals being forced down the throats of children we are given a population of people who must fight to be themselves. With pressures to contact my display yourself and perform for strangers online the path to self actualization is more tumultuous than ever. Fragmentation of self and identity is the epidemic of our generation. The dawn of social media catalysts the death of the self. Our mind have become polluted and our hearts hardened. Representing something that was supposed to be beautiful yet is unrectifiably destructive iSCREAM examines the darker sides of having all information at the tips of your fingers.
iSCREAM,,, you SCREAM,,, we all SCREAM cus a SCREEN
The ones who matter know who you are, from what I understand you haven’t gotten very far. Your dreams were big, but your ego was bigger.
This is the last time I’ll let you be a trigger. You dreamt of the limelight, as you rested your head at night, post manipulative fight; as you domineered, and sneered, inflating your might I’m ashamed to admit that I cowered, and cried, and wondered why -- which you’d respond with “ my soul intention is to bring out your light ”
It breaks my heart to know that the friends I let go, were always right It pains me to think that I wasn't the only one you put on the brink When I hear your name, no longer will I let my heart sink. With an ego so fragile, like walking on eggshells, I had to learn to be agile.
You play those around you like a violin with a sly grin.
You use sex like a tool leaving any woman to feel like a fool.
A courtship technique finessed by a -- seemingly -- harmless caress, That turns into a manipulative mess of abuse, confusion, and manifested stress
I trusted you, and genuinely wanted to the best for you, too; Though it makes me sick to admit, I tripped & fell for your tricks
I’m positive, it wasn’t just me, that was made to feel like the one to blame; While it should be you, I’m the one that feels ashamed
To have given you a second look, a second chance. To have given this heart of gold to you at all.
Now I get to sit back and watch as your second-hand-house-of-cards fall.
The only one more disappointed than I, is probably the “Big Guy” up above
You know,
the one you claim to worship and love.
While your busy holding your breath in hopes that I choke, you should be deathly afraid of the fire you ’ ve stoked
The power you ’ ve used to abuse and assault, is coming to a halt
For anyone else who may have fallen prey, PLEASE HEAR ME WHEN I SAY it was NEVER your fault
You don’t even deserve to be called out by name, instead I’ll let you simmer in the shame.
Anyone reading this, knows who’s to blame.
-Mac Brazina
Wyorado
I’ve never been here before but it feels like home. As soon as the orange dust filled my lungs and the sky went so far I couldn’t fathom it, something shifted inside me After driving over 3 state lines since the crack of dawn, our cramped legs outstretched onto the dirt road, and like clumsy children, we found ourselves reveling in the long waves of dancing grass outside the quaint ranch house. We were greeted with animal trophies decorating the house, and the familiar brown print of galloping horses that seemed to be omnipresent in generic western imagery. Along with the countless acres of ranch land that sprawled around us, the house belonged to my friend Jack’s family.
There was one long dirt road that cut through the property, and barely anyone drove through aside from the ranch managers and a sparse mail truck My friends and I learned this the hard way, when we found ourselves nowhere near the river we were supposed to float down, and ended up trudging through dust covered sagebrush with innertubes around our bodies and warm cans of Coors Light to keep us hydrated Asking the mail truck driver for a ride back to the ranch sunk our stomachs when he said he could fit us, but not our innertubes. There was an air of childlike indignancy: we were ungovernable and alone on this expansive terra firma.
The ranch beckoned to all of us, and the people we had known before this trip were completely different from the people we became as soon as we crossed the ‘wyorado’ border We would wake each other up right as the mourning doves started to sing, and tear into everyone ’ s rooms to make sure we could get outside as soon as possible We would slap sunscreen onto each other’s faces, braid each other’s hair and make each other cry and laugh We would wash our sandwiches down with beer, and traipse through the area wearing cowboy boots and binoculars; convinced they were our secret weapon in a forest filled with animals. The leaves would sparkle with the slightest whisper of air, perpetual confetti that would never fall to the ground. Maya and I sat in the middle of a forest of aspens, between dotted purple flowers and warm rocks as we pondered our brief place in time, and how our lives were nothing but a blip in comparison to the vast existence of the rocks, moss and raw sentient life that surrounded us. It was a rite of passage, to make peace with the minute role we played on the grand stage of planetary complexity The sky acted as a gaping maw of possibility, the dusty earth and all that it bore kept us tethered
The ranch had belonged to Jack and his family for his whole life, and he invited us to visit it so he could see it one last time before ownership changed hands. He would often look at our surroundings wistfully, as the rest of us soaked up the beauty he had spent most of his young life surrounded by. The rest of us could barely believe our eyes when two buffaloes roamed just beyond the road, but he nonchalantly looked out and told us that they were the last few buffalo to ever exist on private land. One night we sat out on the porch his great grandfather had built, watching the seemingly painted clouds become lined with gold as he admitted he had said goodbye to this place a long time ago It was strange, experiencing something for the first and last time, knowing that the only thing that would remain of this would be our memory of it, and it would only be tangible for the 5 days we spent there Just as nobody can step in the same river twice, no experience can be recreated with the same air of recklessness that we all inhabited on this terrain
Our legs were covered with mosquito bites, and our skin radiated with warmth even after the sun had gone down, and the only thing that would quench our thirst was brown liquor, card games and confessionals. We were fresh out of high school, finishing a summer where our parents let us throw caution to the wind and it didn’t matter if we came home at 10pm or 2am. This trip signaled the end of our bacchanalian summer, where we would drunkenly swap ice cubes in our mouths and cram into the back of someone ’ s car, passing around a bottle of wine like a microphone and professing secrets to former acquaintances We learned things about each other that could never have been discovered unless wine flowed like water, which eventually it did once we threw our caps in the air Three months of scooping acai during the day and drinking all night went by in a blur, and the sun had settled into my skin and my head was ringing from how fast it all kept moving By the time my friends and I had piled into the car to traverse the west, we weren’t ready for what awaited us at the end of the trip. We all knew that after this week, we would have to pack up our lives and scatter like seeds in the wind, settling into different lives and getting serious about our aspirations. All the people in our car had big dreams, but we weren’t focused on those just yet: we were relishing in the succulent delight of being young and uninhibited.
We were new to the open road, with our vinyl contraption strapped on top of the car that barely held our sleeping bags together By the end, the bag was torn and one of our sleeping bags had been sacrificed to a steaming concrete highway in Wyoming We planned our meals based on what foods called to us from shelves of rural grocery stores, and jumped into any body of water we could find. Cold spring water would hit our bodies and allow us to be suspended for a moment between the emotions of adrenaline and fear. We worshipped at the altar of uncertainty and would try to take in every moment of the precarious, beautiful in-between. Before stepping over into unfamiliar territory, we watched sunrise and sunset happen simultaneously, licking the salt off our lips
-Lila Gamble
The State of Being Consciously Lost
Sitting in front
Tears in m
It’s pitch bla
Questions in
Begging for
To help me ca
I see no one in
I am so lo
The wind has d
To a very Fearful bu
Inquisitive b Anxious but Sad but h
-Mayra Coruh
Death
Waking up to a new morning Sun shining from the horizon
Listening to the birds singing Grateful more than ever I’m still living
Remembering the words I used to hear every day Till you took them away So sudden, I can’t even recall
Though, I still carry them with me
They have now become my core, My soul, My joy
Enjoying every hour, Every minute, Every second I am given
Before you take my body to a mysterious world I long to seeing Either way, I’ll go So why not confess And live a life I desire
Why not surrender And just be
But Death, You should be proud of yourself
You are the greatest punishment a human being can get
Knowing someday, Sometime I will be gone I should be proud of myself for holding on so tightly that, Even if you take my body away My soul will exist With the connection I formed with sincerity and depth
And love and pleasure
-Mayra Coruh
Portraits of Self-Insertion
Based on an inversion of Velazquez' portrait of his enslaved assistant Juan de Pareja. The title refers to the idealist tenet that holds that to be is to be perceived. In a sense, Juan de Pareja, came into being as freeman after being perceived as an artist by King Philip IV.
Esse Est Percipi
Sanctus Gauchesque
Based on "Self-Portrait with Beret, Gold Chain, and Medal," by Rembrant. In this painting, I portray myself with cornrows, an inverted golden cross chain, and a facon, a dagger used by the Gauchos (South American cowboys). Through this portrait, I convey both a sense of style and status.
Based on a portrait by El Greco titled "The Nobleman with his Hand on his Chest." The hand gesture signifies "breastfeeding," in a figurative sense, as in, "I am feeding you with my knowledge, my wisdom, my confidence and my attitude." The title references Petrarch's "Rima 190," in which a white doe bears a necklace with the scripture, "Let no one touch me, it has pleased my Caesar to let me free." This is signaling a separation from the viewer.
Noli Me Tangere
Fear had trapped us in a cage. Caught us in the bondage of rage
Leaving us blind to the interconnectedness of humankind.
Is it too late to rise above these hellish gates?
To evolve beyond the barricades of hate?
You could argue that it only takes a few, to set the present status quo askew.
A small tribe determined to guide
To embody the soul’s scribe.
A community built on unity
An army sent to defeat the demons that dwell In this digitized human hell.
Though the flames burn high, please don’t forget, Why you were sent: To thrive.
To ignite your purpose and come alive.
Will you rise from the ashes, gaining strength from life’s gnashes?
Can we bond together, untethered,
Speaking truth from the depths of your core to soar higher than ever before?
When we leave this hellish world behind, will it be a safer place for human kind?
Fear trapped us in a cage, and I’ve never felt more rage.
The time is NOW to break the chain, Alchemize the pain,
That bar this world from lasting change. This generation won’t hit rewind.
As a unit we will rise.
No longer blind, to the power of unified Humankind.
-Mac Brazina
The Big Q
She is eighteen, but the man with the fedora and the suave Brazilian accent tells her that there’s no way, she must be twenty-four.
She is eighteen and up until now, she has never tasted the wind attacking her face as she sticks her entire body out of the car window, threatening the road to swallow her whole
She is eighteen and her entire heart throbs for a person she feels is connected to her on a level that can only be explained by fate
She is eighteen and has just learned that life means constantly feeling on the verge of happiness and then despair.
How does one deal with all these moments? How does one keep learning more, meeting more, experiencing more, never slowing down?
How does one never forget a single delicious second?
She is on a beach, sitting at a picnic table with five strangers and one semi-stranger The wood is rough and she’s not sure how she should arrange herself; are crossed legs too obtrusive? Are straight legs too bland? What about her arms? She wonders if it’s weird she’s wearing a sweatshirt, they are on a beach, after all. The men are talking with loud gesticulations. Two are starting to bald, and all have the beginnings of wrinkles in the corners of their eyes and forehead. They offer her a sweet donut. It’s moist and has just enough glazed sugar on it. She declines.
Rowan sits across from her Rowan is only four years older than her but it feels like they come from a planet other Earth, where years don’t line up to Earthly years They have roughly chopped hair and freckles everywhere that seem to be smattered in just the right places
Their body is nearly covered with tattoos, soaring devils and grinning clowns. When the men speak, Rowan ridicules them, picking apart their sentences until they’re worth nothing. All they can do is laugh abashedly. The girl finds herself wanting to shape herself to be acceptable in Rowan’s gaze, to their squinty eyes and goofy smile She starts to speak a little bit louder, making bold statements that she’s not even sure she believes She darts her head back to Rowan each time, seeing what response she’s eliciting When Rowan smiles or chuckles, she feels wonderful But when Rowan simply does nothing, she shrinks back into herself, allowing the men to regain centerstage.
She spends more time with Rowan in the following days. She starts to adapt the lilt in Rowan’s voice, where even in the most serious of conversations, it sounds like they’re on the verge of ridiculousness. It’s rough and nasally; it makes the girl feel powerful, like people could possibly be intimidated, no, in awe of her.
Rowan introduces her to the idea of Queerness The girl feels actually gay for the first time in her life Like, Gay Dyke Lesbian, Bisexual, Pansexual, whatever Queer
When the girl was in elementary school she always felt really fucking weird Her teeth bucked out and her freckles marred her face and her lips were too fat and her arms too chubby and she never said the right thing. Her face slowly morphed into something supposedly pretty and her baby fat was eventually stretched out to form a thin-enough body, and people told her she was beautiful, and cool, and society deemed her normal, but she still was really fucking weird.
The girl was in a circle of other teenagers after her first day working at a camp. They were going around the circle saying their favorite part of the day Roses Her favorite part of the day was seeing a dead bird on the beach; it was comforting Two girls turned to each other and started laughing
The girl was in a circle of other teenagers after her first day working at a camp. They were going around the circle saying their favorite part of the day. Roses. Her favorite part of the day was seeing a dead bird on the beach; it was comforting. Two girls turned to each other and started laughing. They muttered under their breath that they didn’t want to be anywhere close to her She had found it comforting because it was one of the first times she had felt one with the group, bonding over the feeling of disgust and despair of the dead seagull But of course they wouldn’t have understood that from a connection she found so obvious
She didn’t know why she did, or said, most of what she found herself articulating, but sometimes she couldn’t help herself from blurting them out. She almost immediately regretted them; there was a sign pointing to her saying, “What the fuck get this person out of here, they don’t belong, oh and by the way, everyone hates you. ”
Rowan and Rowan’s partner, Cole, have lives that are full of color and faceless people and exotic places and self-discovery and drugs and scariness and beauty The girl’s life in comparison seems like a picture book version of their rich and three-dimensional lives She has just graduated high school and has been on some adventures, musty bars and beautiful hikes, but has never veered far away from Comfort; just enough for stories that become more and more wild each time she tells them. But Rowan and Cole have endless stories, each one casually told as if it’s not the most outrageous thing the girl has ever heard, let alone experienced, in her life.
They take the girl and her nineteen-year-old friend to a commune on the other side of the island This is the side the two friends avoided traveling to –they were scared of the damp jungle full of sex-offenders and cults No, that was much too risky for them After all, they’re merely teenage girls
It is a much more wild place than the girls are used to. Vines hang low from the trees, and nature is an intimidating force. They visit a volcano, Cole stepping past the line marking safety, everyone else reluctantly following. They stand on the edge of the volcano, the smoke tinted red from the molten lava that’s not quite visible. It feels sacred and the girl is suddenly all-too-aware of her place as a teenage girl It is the most beautiful sight she has ever seen but all she wants to do is sprint far away from it and hug the gravel ground
The girl runs a blue eye-liner around her eye-socket, filling in her eye-lid with sparkling blue glitter She feels beautiful and wild, like a model from the 60’s, her frizzy blonde mane acting as a halo. She enters the dance floor where people fly from place to place, low-energy spiritual music thumping throughout the screened-in room and a dank smell of patchouli and body odor permeating the area. She’s never seen dancing like this, but her body suddenly has a mind of its own, flowing along with the music, every movement feeling so Right. She isn’t thinking where to put her hands, or her feet, she is simply doing Her friend looks magical and she herself feels magical She is overtaken by Feeling and her entire body throbs with energy and light! Her feet move faster and faster and suddenly she is dancing with a man who is grinning as wide as she and he is part of her soul, her body The song fades, and he catches his breath, reminding the girl that they are humans on earth.
The girl and her friend walk through the stone path, a light drizzle falling. Little kids in white clothing dart around them, expertly guiding even smaller kids through bushes and mysterious rooms. She herself doesn’t feel much older than these kids, at least not in mindset.
She imagines that here, their queerness must be celebrated, rather than shoved away. When she and her friend return weeks later, minus Rowan and Cole, they make their way to a circle of couches A man strums his guitar and a woman sings a series of sounds that dance their
way out of her throat. The circle accepts the friends without question, allowing them to sit in silence as if they are family who don’t have to prove interest or love; it’s a given
The girl gets over her infatuation on Rowan; it’s way too much stress to constantly see herself through Rowan’s allknowing eyes But one thing she does keep with her is how easy it is to become the image she holds of Rowan Someone who just does Nobody questions what or why they do what they do. She realizes that it’s truly that simple
that if she wants to tie a scarf around her neck, she can. If she wants to sing a song in a silent car, she can. If she wants to do handstands, cartwheels, or pirouettes, she can. If she wants to sleep, or laugh, or sip water, she can. No one gives a shit.
She is still eighteen, but she feels much older, much more whole. She is sitting with a nineteen-year-old girl, Mazzy, under a circle of coconut trees, dirt streaking both their hands, their hairlines sweaty from hard work Mazzy tells the girl about her own queerness, something the girl has started to embark on the journey of embracing since meeting Rowan, but is still trying to find the words to define Are the right words even there?
Queerness embodies who Mazzy is as a person It is all the parts of her that differ from society, things she feels the need to repress, things she doesn’t show people out of fear of their dislike. It’s not just the chunky necklaces Mazzy wears or the groovy purse she holds or her colorful headscarves. It’s the connections she makes in the world, between a tree and a dancing man, or a piece of coral and a duo of lovers. The girl thinks back to her childhood, the faces of confusion from the people around her when she did some weird shit they didn’t understand She thinks of the feeling of Wonder that her own acceptance of her always-known gayness gave her, that feeling of Lightness, of moving away from a life shrouded in dark judgment and people-pleasing
Queerness gives her life many wonderful, magical
moments. Time does not feel so linear and scary anymore. It is a mosaic of places and people that come back to the present and connect everything in her life into something so bold and exciting She feels tenderly towards her weird-buck toothed self, or even her pretty, socially-stressed, high-school self, and even her Rowan-pleasing confused self She knows that there is so much to go from here, but instead of feeling anxious to uncover all of that now, she will sit in the now and move as her body tells her
to move, do as she feels she must do, experience as life wants her to experience. Yearning for more and simultaneously content with the past.
-Lena Farley
We tend to spend too much time stuck in the rut of lack, wishing that we could go back, to right the wrongs of the past. The remnant heartbreaks, and heartaches, calibrating the mind with thoughts unkind, symptoms of marinating too much in our mistakes.
Ask yourself: What would it take, to give yourself permission, albeit a break, from the rigamarole of ‘shoulds’ & ‘woulds’ that begin to take their toll on your mental state and the ’ you ’ you ’ ve stifled into a crate. Please know there’s no need to disdain Though it may not feel great, make no mistake, there is purpose to the pain. Though sabotage has its own allure, rest assured, each act and scene, made your story pristine.
In all its perfect imperfections, it needs no edits and calls for little correction. This doesn’t mean it feels good, no one said that it would. All we can do is observe, discern and take in all we ’ ve learned.
In this school of hard-knocks an ‘ ace ’ is great and a ‘fail’ doesn’t make it a flop. Give yourself some space, with a little dash of grace. You’ll get where you ’ re meant to go at your own pace. Unclench the jaw, drop the shoulders, surrender life’s boulders, and just do life raw. Unbothered, unshaken, embracing the ‘you’ you ’ ve awakened.
The past can’t change, and the future is to be determined.
For god sake quit looking at yourself as vermin. Isn’t it time to permit the mind to quit with its cyclical fits, of ‘what if,’ and ‘what could be,” if you ’ re ready to break free of the cage, consider yourself the key.
-Mac Brazina
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A FAIRYTALE OF FLAWS
What does it mean to be alone, to separate oneself from the rat race to wealth? To be indefinitely invested in internal health
Rather than rested on a flawed narrative being divested?
What does it mean to be alone?
Inside one ' s head wondering what it means to be alive versus dead.
Though dark, beckons remark, Depth these thoughts do hark.
To the untrained ear, elicit worry, and fear.
But let me be clear,
These are the cognitive spaces that put your spirit through its paces.
These things you’d rather shun and make you want to run,
These are the moments of intimate introspection where we find our clear direction.
What if finding peace in one ’ s kingdom,
An alliance between brain, body and soul, Is the goal,
The key to personal freedom.
Uninterrupted, not corrupted, by tyranny, and a synthetic saga of society
The once upon a time, In perfect poetic rhyme,
A victor, a victim and a villain in disguise, ‘Does the shoe fit? Where’s the prince? When will the savior set me free?’
The answers are all outside of you, don’t you see?
This is society’s flawed fairytale decree.
Find True love, then a ball, happily ever-after for all,
That is, until the midnight bell’s final call.
An ending tied with a pristine bow, as the white knight conquers all foe, the witch in the woods warns of omens and the precarious pose of a crow.
An unsavory saga stripped of sincerity, Muddled, confused, without purpose
Nor clarity
In this flawed fiction to find solace alone means you are unwanted, Unfinished, broken and haunted. Wouldn’t it mean more, if you allowed Yourself to feel wanted?
You don’t need to fit the mold, nor distress
About being royal mister, or mistress, It only leads to unnecessary stress.
What does it mean to rewrite the fairytale, pull back the veil and to your own regality
Hail?
What does it mean to find such comfort in silence that you rescind all threats of internal violence?
Instead you call a ceasefire, Summoning a rewire, only to find peace and clarity of desire.
You can choose to be damsel, maybe even savior, all I ask is that you savor
The story as it unfolds, ridding the narratives of old.
What does it mean too choose a new path, To write new prose
Free from flawed wrath?
Perhaps edited to elicit A laugh?
The real happily ever after is
A fearless moment alone, A fairytale fed by the peace found in one ’ s head.
-Mac Brazina
1: Genesis by Anonymous
2: New Year; New Soup by Sophie David
3: A Letter by Maya Olsen
4: Narcissa by Bithiah Negusu
7: Untitled by Anonymous
8: Formation by Mayra Coruh
9: rib.jpeg by Caelan Reeves
10: Skull by Isaac Warshaw
11: Illusion of Grandeur and Ands&Buts by Isa Cayetano and Tell
Me While I Shower by Cassie Bensko and Diana Reiss
12. iScream,,,youScream,,,we all Scream cuz a Screen by Luther
13: Photos by Frankie Komar
14. If Not Now, When by Mike Buchman
15. The Fire by Mac Brazina
16, 17: Wyorado and Collage by Lila Gamble
18, 19: Roots (Triptych) and The State of Being Consciously Lost by Mayra Coruh
20, 21: Photos by Kaya Savelson, Death by Mayra Coruh
22, 23: These People Aren't Real by Frankie Komar and Collage by Lila Gamble
24: Be Mine and My Tree by Mikayla Stout
25: Health Food and On a Blanket by Mikayla Stout
26, 27: Portraits of Self-Insertion by Derek Talbott
28: Rise by Mac Brazina, Metaphysical Cacti by Derek Talbott
29: Sculpture by Luther
30, 31, 32: The Big Q by Lena Farley
33: Swells by Chase Wade
34: Time Flies by Lena Farley
35: Anticipation by Lena Farley, The Key by Mac Brazina
36, 37: Photos by Nayla Dayal
38: Diary of a Scripps College Lesbian by Jacqueline Tsai
39: New Semester, Same Shit by Alex Robinson
40, 41: We Were Born Into This by Ruthie Metcalfe, A Fairytale of Flaws by Mac Brazina
42, 43: Come Back and Haunt Me (Triptych) by Lena Farley
About Potluck
Sometimes you try to make something cool and Queer and it gets caught in and obliterated by the rusted gears of institutional bureaucracy-and it kills a little bit of you-so you make something better with friends.
This is Potluck, a gathering of intimates, comrades, schoolmates, outlaws, chums, confidantes, and even a set or two of lovers. A disconcerting styrofoam plate of baked beans, ambrosia salad, and an Easy Bake Oven sheet cake from your neighbor across the hall. A stab at returning to The Closet and making a nest out of newspaper clippings on the floor.
Made by and for people who don't really know what they're doing but don't like what else is going on so they give it a shot anyways.
We thank you immensely for reading our first issue, created with love and hard work from students at the Claremont Colleges, Cal Poly Pomona, UCLA, and even real life adults at the school of life.
Sincerely, ye
olde Potluckians
