OSU’S ART & LITERARY MAGAZINE FALL 2015 | VOL CXXVIII
Breathe
B R E AT H E Breathe. A concept we all take for granted in our day to day lives. The hustle and bustle of everyday activities force us to forget the one thing we do the most. Breathe. After a long day, be it at work or school, traveling or on a hike, we all do the same relaxing action once we’ve made it home and kicked off our shoes. We breathe. We take a deep breath, inhaling, eyes closed and then exhaling a sigh of relief. The very action of breathing, albeit necessary, is innately relaxing and calming. A deep breath can quell anger, clear one’s mind, even keep sadness at bay. A deep breath is universal. That is the concept this edition of Prism, number 128 and my inaugural edition as Editor-in-Chief, encompasses. Without ever meeting one another the 20 contributors of this edition have come together to make not a magazine, but a work of art in itself with its own identity. Breathe. The crisp imagery coupled with breathtaking poetry and powerful prose incite that feeling of serenity sought after by taking a deep breath. Releasing that held breath after the last line of a story; a gasp after viewing a beautiful painting for the first time; that steady rhythm of breathing while falling into the meter of a poem. This is the true beauty of Prism: unintentional collaboration, creating something more than just the individual. Alone, each of the featured pieces are great, but together they have the potential to be something special and I, along with my staff, invite you to immerse yourself in the creativity that is Oregon State University. To put it simply, we invite you to sit back, relax, enjoy, and breathe. I’d like to give a special thanks to my predecessor Megan Haverman, not only for everything she has done for me, but everything she has done for the Prism. We would not be where we are today without her two years of input and dedication, thank you Megan. Lastly but certainly not least, the previous edition of Prism (Spring 2015) contained a small typo. On page 30 Brittany Sundberg, the Provost winner from last year and author of Green-Eyed Girl, had her named misspelled and for that, we sincerely apologize. Brittany’s story is available for reading on our website, along with additional content not available in the magazine. Without further ado, please take a deep breath and enjoy.
Thank you for reading,
DARRYL OLIVER EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
A Deserving Mount CLARA SMITH | WATERCOLOR
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PRISM MAGAZINE :: FALL 2015 :: VOL CXXVIII
EDITOR IN CHIEF// //ASSISTANT EDITOR Darryl Oliver Nicholas Browning GRAPHIC DESIGNER// //DIGITAL EDITOR Tracy Sokalski Devin Curtis LITERATURE BOARD// //ART BOARD Tessa Barone Alex LaCesa Marlena Chan David Tran Patricia Lin Yile Trang Ethan Heusser Jynwaye Foo Mitchell Buechler COVER: GLACIER BACK COVER: //STRIKING NATIONAL PARK// Aaron Davis Shanna Roast Photography Photography 480
//PRISM MAGAZINE Published by Orange Media Network Student Experience Center Oregon State University Corvallis, OR 97331
541-737-2253 prism@oregonstate.edu Printed by Lynx Salem, Oregon
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Back Inside Cover Image: “Crashing Waves” by Bob Witcher on Flickr
CONTENTS// 1 A DESERVING MOUNT Clara Smith 4 K SARAH SARAH Ian Woosely 5 ELEPHANT NO. 2 Amy Hodges 6 1962 Luke Campbell 7 HONEY Alison Lehmann Junior Gonzalez 8 UNTITLED 9 UNTITLED Adam Wood 10 FOR LEE Eric Callahan 11 HEARING DAMAGE Ethan Heusser Lauren Morgan 12 JOHN 13:14 13 FISHING Ashley Howarth 14 BEFORE Bryanne Gillespie 15 TREMBLING SEVERANCE Matthew Rubio Aaron Davis 16 THOR’S WELL 17 LOVE POEM TO A SOMEWHAT STRANGER Eric Callahan 18 UNTITLED Jesslyn Gillespie Ethan Heusser 19 THE REFLECTION 20 THE MOUNTAIN’S CALL Alex Connal 22 TEDDI BRIDLED Clara Smith 23 THE CORPORATION Ethan Heusser 24 THE STARS IN YOUR GLASS Nathan Waugh 25 PRODUCT PLACEMENT Junior Gonzalez 26 THE WEB IS STILL THERE Luke Campbell 27 3:48AM 8/13/10 Kaylynne Masuo 28 UNTITLED Adam Wood Nathan Waugh 29 WINTER ON THE COAST Alex Conall 30 THE WAY OF THE WIND 31 THINGS Ian Woosely 32 FOX EYES Ashley Howarth Adam Wood 33 THE MARK OF MAN 34 RAIN GUTTER Luke Campbell 36 LETTING GO Alexandra May 37 THE MARK OF MAN Adam Wood 40 CALM MORNING Aaron Davis
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K Sarah Sarah IAN WOOSELY
tonight i cant sleep i cant just take a moment to pause to turn off the record in my head spinning spinning repeatable rhythms resonate residual receptions reminding me of why im in the predicament was it the thought of the unknown or the fear of embracing my failures these complacent thoughts suppress my desires numbing numbing melodramatic mewlings measure mediocre musings as complex thoughts aim towards a higher ambition its not apathy that inhibits me rather a fundamental desire to live im not lazy just rational resetting resetting brought back begrudgingly by belligerent breathing i take a moment to calm my reckless heart i demand a truce because i cannot win and im not about to watch myself lose forgetting forgetting
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enervated eyes easily eclipse exonerating i remember that whatever will be
Elephant No. 2
AMY HODGES | WATERCOLOR AND INK
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1962
LUKE CAMPBELL “Do you want another?” “Yeah.” “Here. Take four or five.” “Thanks. When did you know you were going to live up here?” “I think I was twenty four when me and your grandma moved up here.” “And how long have you been here?” “You don’t know how old your grandpa is?” “Yeah, of course I do.” “Forty seven.” “You’re not forty seven.” “That’s how long we’ve been here.” “Right. That’s a long time.” “1962. You see what your father is doing?” “Yeah.” “Do you do it?” “No, I don’t think I could ever.” “Good. You know me and grandma do it.” “Didn’t really cross my mind.” “I didn’t smoke it till we moved up here, actually.” “So you’ve been smoking for forty seven years?” “I guess you’re right.” “What made you start smoking?” “One of your grandma’s friends.” “What did grandma say?” “She had already done it.” “How long?” “Longer than me. They all wanted me to do it. ‘It’s good stuff, man. It’ll change your life, man.’ I told them to fuck off a few times. But eventually I gave in.” “That’s it?” “Yeah. They didn’t have to work too hard.” “So how was it?” “I’ve been doing it for forty seven years.” “Right.” “Don’t ever do it.” “Yeah, I know.”
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honey
ALISON LEHMANN she smells of honey a balm for my weary end of day I push my nose into her hair her cheek I nuzzle her temple inhale again the fragrance of her skin lingers in my nose there is nothing in the world like the scent of my daughter my only girl curled into me my womb from where she came she is warmth to me she twirls my hair absentmindedly I breathe deeply eyes closed this moment is but a moment I will never forget the scent that is my child
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Untitled JUNIOR GONZALEZ | PHOTOGRAPHY
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Untitled ADAM WOOD | PHOTOGRAPHY
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For Lee ERIC CALLAHAN In my Grandma’s garden, the carrots are in back. Take the gravel path around the middle lawn, and under the reaching branches of a tree, careful for the fallen crab-apples, regrets in disguise, that litter the ground. Then weave between the petunias, clustered in clay pots, and the smiling daffodils who meet you with their friendly yellow. Here the path comes to an end, heralded by a handmade bench, rough pine upon the fingers. Pull off your shoes and sweated socks, and step forward into the uneven grass, catching dandelions between your toes, freeing their cloudy seeds. Sunflowers, rising high in their summer zenith, are the final view before your prize. Proud and tall, they block the way and you must go around, or push through their limber stalks, if so impatient. There, in the back of the garden are Grandma’s carrots, growing safely in dirt homes, maturing to a sweet, delicious crunch. If today could be free from time, I would not seek their crisp delight, but instead sit upon that wooden bench, and listen, as Grandma taught me how to make a garden live.
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Hearing Damage ETHAN HEUSSER Kissing thistles and wishing for a wish; the dirty little story comes out in the wash. the memory echoes my sense hasn’t been the same since. King of Goodbyes, Queen of Doubtful Letters, Royal Kisser of Lesser Thistles I am hearing damage daily dealt below the belt and whisked away by the weather in vane; There the blood drips upon the Crown and suddenly all that’s left in the air is pain.
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John 13:14 LAUREN MORGAN | PHOTOGRAPHY
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Fishing ASHLEY HOWARTH | SCREEN PRINT
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Before
BRYANNE GILLESPIE The darkness collided With my skin. Seeping and leaking into pores Into my lungs; suffocating. The nights collided into sunlight Eternal eclipses upon my lips. Grudge tendrils clinging effortlessly Onto veins, where they knew they could live. Until that fateful night when the epitome Of darkness snuck its way in.
I still remember how I used to sing I was so young then. Melodies would tumble freely. Notes formed with purpose and poise.
I still remember how I used to sing. The songs were dead before they reached my lips. The songs were dead before they reached my lips.
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Before.
Trembling Severance MATTHEW RUBIO
Out of the nebulous darkness: tendrils of gratitude illuminate the iris, compulsive sycophant host to a helpless gray vanguard — complicit precursor — immaculate conceiver. The brush fire of your body pools around fulvous street light, thighs a fusion of a swan and the spring; a wraith in the midst of a maelstrom. Your gaze is found in yesterday’s rain — iridescent, opaque — bruised by its unforgiving force. Criminal lips — old scars stroking an ephemeral cigarette — She, whose dusk begins when I arrive, conveys that pleasure is a recurring departure; a stowaway marooned on an aimless Greyhound.
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Thor’s Well AARON DAVIS | DOUBLE EXPOSURE PHOTOGRAPHY
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Love Poem to a Somewhat Stranger ERIC CALLAHAN
I met you in spring, walking the paved ways of a park. You were dressed in deep blue, like rivers at dusk. We were strangers, and although no words passed between us, you told me something. Two smiles, mine and yours, ours, a brief bridge that formed from lip to lip, carrying a little message, bottled and given to me with kindness. The words I read in between the bindings of your cheeks, told me that things were okay, that nothing could touch us in that moment, that we were impervious to tears and everything that comes with. You passed on, flowing down the pathway and out of my life, but that moment lingered, and began to stretch, it kept getting longer and longer, an elastic moment, still wiggling in my heart.
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Untitled
JESSLYN GILLESPIE I remember stories about how my father did not trust the bees, so he pollinated the trees himself using a Q-tip. In the mornings before work, he’d walk to the orchard in his pajamas and transfer pollen from bud to bud. There were twenty trees and thousands of buds. On those spring evenings after work, before he even smelled dinner or greeted his daughters, he would return to the orchard, business shirt un-tucked, Q-Tip in hand. In summertime, we ate apricots and lumpy-but-loved peaches.
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The Reflection ETHAN HEUSSER The glass is smooth and supple; Liquid lightning, bending eyes. There is a grip of the moment In a mercurial front-facing smile. Light enumerations are made, fingers Rapping discipline on the table. Somewhere, the other side Is also smiling backwards. I will show you flame In a handful of pocket-mirrors
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The Mountain’s Call ALEX CONALL The mountain kills its poets, and the mountain maddens bards: the chair of the giant who slumbers here—it furiously guards whatever secrets gifted once to those with fae regards. Turn away, O would-be poet! Turn away, O hopeful bard! You’re worth more living than inspired, more than Annwn’s discards.
“The mountain kills its poets, and the mountain maddens bards.” Her name was Tesni, bright, warm, strong. Listener, take heed: do not set foot alone on this mountainside, do not proceed to sleep on its peak as young bards do, assured they’re guaranteed to be the lucky one who lives and whose poetic need will win them wisdom, fame, acclaim—beware: her corpse still bleeds. Her name is Nia, and be warned, she lives in living hell: her senses scrambled, language lost, unable to compel her lips to speak any five straight words with meaning clear as well. Her scribblings are nonsensical, her written words misspelled— do not sleep on the Giant’s Chair, for it will be your farewell.
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But you’ve heard of Taliesin, and you’ve heard of Morgan bright: you think Ceridwen will bless you if you sleep on the peak tonight, and Maman Brigitte will protect you across the sea—and yes, She might. Bring candle flame and hazel twig; befriend the small well sprite; I’ll see you dead—or mad—or bard—at coming of first light. Young rhymer, now you’re on your way: there’s nothing I can do to save your life with your mind set to see this challenge through. I hope you listened and obey—you’ll win, and be imbued with eerie talent, vatic sight, which the world will misconstrue. Who cares? Please live, Brigitte’s girl! For I did, and so can you.
“Bring candle flame and hazel twig; befriend the small well sprite; I’ll see you dead – or mad – or bard – at coming of first light.” You’re better a living rhymer than dead poet, but your art must drive you, to face the mountain or to tear yourself apart. That’s crucial to survival. Poets haven’t quite a carte blanche to address all ills of the world, but you’ve talent and you’ve heart. Just win—just live—just write—that’s all the wisdom I’ll impart.
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CLARA SMITH | SCRATCHBOARD
Teddi Bridled
The Corporation ETHAN HEUSSER I believe that The Corporation is a well-meaning individual. Some days it walks into the house with muddy paws and forgets to close the door, others it mewls for milk and I regret that I am no mother. But the well-meaning industry churns day and night, trying its very best to make a difference maximize impact and deliver deliverables with a gilded wedding-bow. (The Corporation is married to its job as a tireless courier.) The headless snake, after all, coils and writhes with singular purpose And though the purpose of daring individuals is never truly lost, The Corporation is an old and forgetful grand mother enraptured in a grand design and decorated with post-hoc grand intentions, finger-painted with passion; The Corporation is a wizened homeless man reaching out with open arms that tend to take rather than receive But there is no more fuel for there are no more vacant lots
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The Stars in Your Glass NATHAN WAUGH You found this cup of stars in the path when you were young— rain spitting against neutron skin— an experience of space that changed everything. Now it sloshes in your chest leaking a little with each tumble. As you’ve discovered, a sip leavens heartache of which there has been much and satiation achieved— no more is needed please. But the leak remains and more than time is being lost.
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So pour out the cup chase it with burning sky smooth and forgetful solutions of universes swallowed staining glass slides with galaxies under microscopes until all things are clear and exactly as they seem. Where the cold is only an absence of suns, not a message from something that used to be warm radiant and yours.
Product Placement JUNIOR GONZALEZ | PHOTOGRAPHY
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The Web is Still There LUKE CAMPBELL There once was a spider Who climbed on my car Her ambitions were great But the distance was far Her web was crafted Between the window and mirror She was looking for a ride I wish you could have seen her The drive wasn’t long And I tried to watch my speed But by the time I was home She was nowhere to be seen
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3:48 am 8/13/10 KAYLYNNE MASUO If here I sit awake, in dream while stars adrift this endless stream and time itself does coincide with countless dreams just thrown aside. I do not try and fake a face for those that see me out of place. It’s not for them to judge and break What’s taken me my life to make. I know that I am not the gem that selfish selves may think of them, but I don’t fall for petty lies that cause deep, reflective cries. With such words that hurt and scar I know how hate can set the bar. So while I sit awake in dream, I hope my sleep is what it seems.
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Untitled ADAM WOOD | PHOTOGRAPHY
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Winter on the Coast NATHAN WAUGH Blustering— this pooh bear cold of bitter sorts swollen from the coast. Creation— night temperature, creation, body tucked in wool. Glim pulse stars— creation, the needle fire which gnaws each tethered fluffy stuff thought carried off by wanderlust to infinite drifting horizon smeared where pelagic dusk meets human skin by medium of old messenger; whistling, ancient, blown far from coast tells knowledge of home. From coast come— drapes mountain range in shimmer flame— drapes my thoughts in cold— Oh bother.
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The Way of the Wind ALEX CONALL The way of the wind is to blow where it will, though changed in its course by sunlight and night and by walls and by trees, butterflies, seas. The way of the wind is to blow where it may, and if the wall’s in its path then the wall shall not stay. The way of the wind is to blow and be still, in motionless moving, awaiting the moment to gently or briskly blow once more potent. The way of the wind is to be ever-moving, never where-it-was, ever where-it-will-be. The past is behind
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and the present is fleeting and no breeze is the same from one moment to next. The way of the wind is to be ever-seeking, not content when becalmed, and ever-meeting strange new friends and others and seeking respect for oneself and for all. The way of the wind is to blow with great force and topple the structures that were built (of course) to preserve the power of those who have got it and deny the power of those who have not it— as they stand against the way of the wind, soon enough there will be no more wall.
Things IAN WOOSELY We act like our hearts are these, things Toys that can be repaired and damaged, even shared But they aren’t The heart is created in perfection Envision something so pellucid That you can’t be sure it exists But upon its first beat, it breaks One crack appears on its surface, visible And then another appears alongside it, ugly The heart comes to exist as shambles Until eventually it becomes so fine That the wind sweeps it away Forever free But until that moment We clutch onto it Seeking to find Someone Something To take it away for us To let it be free But the more we do The more we tighten our grasp Breaking, Grinding, Crushing The wind is calling Can you hear it
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Fox Eyes ASHLEY HOWARTH | SCREEN PRINT
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The Mark of Man ADAM WOOD
| PHOTOGRAPHY
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Rain Gutter LUKE CAMPBELL
Lue planted his bare heels in the rain gutter and dug his knees into his chest. The sun had set ten minutes ago and there was a light purple hue dominating the street below him. Street lights flickered on and off trying to decide whether it was truly dark or not. “Kiss me.” Lue moved his chin to look to his right. “With tongue?” “If that’s what you want.” “Can I wrap my arms around you?” “If that’s what you want.” “Can I bite your lip?” he asked. “If that’s what you want.” Lue nodded and gazed back at the purple road. “Are you going to kiss me?” “If that’s what you want,” Lue said. “Yes.” Amber put her warm hand on his cheek. He could smell her armpit, but he was sure she could smell his too. She turned his face to look at hers and they closed
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their eyes. It was a brief kiss disturbed by a slow car on the road. “Is that what you wanted?” asked Amber. “I think it was.” “Are you happy?” Her face was beginning to vanish in the approaching darkness. “Why wouldn’t I be?” “Kiss me again.” Lue leaned in and stuck his tongue in her mouth. That was the first time he had ever done it. She bit his lip, and he bit hers back. Lue’s foot slipped but he replanted it. “Maybe we should get down,” he said. “I like it up here.” “Why?” “No one else is up here.” Lue watched a car drive down the road with its headlights on. Most of the street lamps had now turned on. Their orange light cast perfect circles on the road. “Don’t you think my mom can hear us up here?” “If you fall she’ll hear you,” Amber said.
She scooted further away from the edge. “I won’t fall.” Lue dangled a foot off the two story house. “I don’t think we should kiss again. Just in case.” “Is this a punishment?” “Maybe you shouldn’t fall.” “I didn’t fall.” Lue looked at the floral print on her swim suit. She didn’t seem to notice, or care. The flowers reminded him of his dad’s Hawaiian shirt.
weight on the gutter. It broke off and fell in the grass below. Amber grabbed his arm and pulled him on top of her. “I like this better,” he said. Amber pushed him off. “I told you not to fall.” “I didn’t. You saved me.” Lue went down the ladder first so he could hold it steady. “What color are the flowers?” she asked. “White.” “Lucky guess.”
“He could smell her armpit, but he was sure she could smell his too.” “What are you looking at?” she asked. “The flowers.” “That would be a first.” “We should get down.” “You don’t want to be up here with me anymore?” “It’s getting late.” Amber straightened her back and planted her hands against the roof. “Fine.” She stood and brushed small bits of dried tar from her leg. Lue began to stand but put too much
Amber planted her feet on the grass. “What the hell, Lue?” Lue looked past the white flowers to his mom standing on the concrete porch. She pointed with her office-lady-nails at the fallen gutter. “I don’t know how that happened,” he said. “He fell. I’ll see you next weekend.” Amber walked away barefoot down the road.
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ALEXANDRA MAY | PHOTOGRAPHY
Letting Go
The Mark of Man ADAM WOOD | PHOTOGRAPHY
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Contributor’s Notes IAN WOOSELY
“And in the end, we were all just humans, drunk on the idea that love, only love, could heal our brokenness.” - Christopher Poindexter.
KAYLYNNE MASUO
Microbiology The poetry I write tends to stem from personal experiences. While I am passionate about the sciences, there is something to be said for the connection between an artist and their work. I am in constant awe towards the transcendent ability of art to connect people across time.
I just want to make cool things and do hoodrat stuff with my friends.
LUKE CAMPBELL
History; Senior I owe my love for writing to my mother, who read to me and my siblings as kids and encouraged us to always do what we love. The Web is Still There is my first poem to be published.
My work is focused on documenting real horses and cowboys in modern times. Horses have always been in my life and have influenced my artwork from the beginning. I paint in a realistic manner rather than abstract in an attempt to accurately record real events, people, and horses, so those unfamiliar to the lifestyle can experience cowboy culture. You are welcome to view more of my work by searching #clarasmithart on instagram.
NATHAN WAUGH Biochemistry; PhD 1st year Existence is beautiful. Even the darkest moment contains unlimited potential; the brightest ones are bursting with it. I try to live life to reflect that. Thats why I take breaks from studying science to create art infused with science. Its also why I smile at strangers when Im tired. Yes, those two things really are related! I hope my poems make you contemplative—either about nature, or about the stories that strangers have to tell. Because theyre about both. And I hope you will smile at a stranger today, and look curiously at the sky you both share.
BREE GILLESPIE
ALEXANDRA MAY
CLARA SMITH
Liberal Studies, Elementary Education, Writing minor; Junior I like to write about past events, mostly, and I tend to lean more towards story writing than poetry(though poetry would definitely be next on my list). I’m a very busy gal! I have 17 credits, work 20+hours a week and log around 10-12 hours a week with my teaching practicum, so I mostly get to write poetry in my small breaks and for my writing classes.
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AARON DAVIS
I’ve always wanted to make pieces that make people feel something, not realizing that that would mean I would need to feel something real in the process.
JUNIOR GONZALEZ
Digital Communications, Photography Push boundaries.
AMY HODGES
I create the things that I can’t put into words, and I hope that somehow, somebody will understand what I’m trying to say.
LAUREN MORGAN
English, Education; Junior I’m so thankful to call the Pacific Northwest my home. The beauty of Oregon is everywhere. Photo taken in Coquille, Oregon.
ASHLEY HOWARTH
Animals have always been an inspiration for my art.I have spent a lot of my time outdoors exploring new places, and most of my pieces are based on animals that I have seen or come across during the course of these wanderings. A large percentage of my art shows the calm, serene and cute side of animals, however, I also occasionally like to show the unfortunate reality of what animals sometimes have to live through such as animals getting hurt by trash left behind. I do this in order to help people see that animals can get hurt and are affected by the harmful things that humans introduce into their environment. Hopefully, this helps people become more aware and conscientious of how they exist in the world with animals.
SHANNA ROAST
Art and Education; Junior My world has become more and more beautiful the more I seek to photograph it.
ADAM WOOD
My work is to find truth, travel and adventure
behind the lens as well as away from the lens. Culture is my subject and their stories are my passion. My name is, Adam Wood and I am a story teller using photography as my medium. My goals are to connect, build and develop real relationships with cultures around the world and share these relationships as stories. Stories of the wild and tame, nature and people and their interactions on earth. Welcome to the beginning. JESSLYN GILLESPIE English, Writing minor My favorite activity is fiction writing. Other hobbies include guitar, cello, running, mountain biking, and helping on the family farm. I have two great sisters, too many dogs, and an absurd love of pumpkin pie. MATTHEW RUBIO It seems a poet must provide an insight worthy of inscribing on an epitaph if he is to be placed in the canon of historical significance. I have yet to manufacture an axiom of wisdom so admirable, but I find it an employable line of work nonetheless. My current rate for epitaphs is 3% of inheritance. ALEX CONALL Alex Conall is a queer feminist Hellenic polytheist. They keep not having enough time on their hands to write all the stories they keep being inspired to write. They also crochet, crossstitch, and are trying to learn to weave, in defiance of the capitalist assertion that store-bought is always best.
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Calm Morning AARON DAVIS | PHOTOGRAPHY
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“The wind is calling
Can you hear it” Ian Woosely “Things,” Page 29