Being the Editor-in-Chief of Prism has been an incredible journey. When I came into this position last year, I was excited to learn more about the Oregon State University community through what I believe is the most authentic way to get down to the core of any person, or place – creative expression. It has been an honor being able to work with, and showcase the work of so many talented artists and writers here at OSU. I believe that each editor comes to Prism by fate, and not by chance. To be in this position requires an extreme amount of passion. Not only for literature and the arts, but for people. My vision for Prism started with the desire to help others feel a sense of connection to themselves, through the expression of others. To show the side that is real, raw, vulnerable. Internal feelings that people can relate to, and I definitely feel a sense of accomplishment knowing that I am passing the baton to the right hands in continuing this legacy. Vol. 136 has taken a different approach than past volumes by having a set theme: Social Justice. I was inspired to do this after taking an Arts and Social Justice course during the Winter ‘18 quarter. There were a variety of conversations regarding what this topic meant to us individually, and learning the ways that we could each use our passion to create change. I wanted to expand on this through a platform that I truly believe is capable of creating change.
a lys s a c a m p b e l l editor-in-chief
VOLUME C X X X VI
WHY ARE YOU HERE? I am here to prove to you. To pursue my dreams I’m gonna fill people with joy, try to make people happy. I will make friends. I’m here to make my parents proud. To be the colors in the dark sky. I ask why do you care, mind your own business I say. Right now I am in Rome, but wishing I was at home. When you think you know, you may be wrong. The nerves wrack up, they must know I’m scared. Each thought dripping away– maybe I’m overreacting. You take your dream, and put it up in the sky
like it’s unobtainable, because people tell you “It’s out of reach.” A crunched up, muffled voice, resounding in the stairwell of my ears. “To show that you’re capable of many things,” it whispers, “You have to find out your purpose.” Sweetly awaiting a response. “To follow my dreams,” I say. I am here because I belong here, here is my home, here is my love. Here because God put me here, and I want to be here.
As a way of extending Prism into the community, the 2017-18 Editor-in-Chief Alyssa Campbell led a series of poetry and digital art workshops at South Albany High School, in conjunction with the Corvallis Arts Center, for the “Rebels Rising” academic enrichment program. This poem was written collectively by Melissa Reimer’s 6th period sophomore English class. The inspiration came from Christina Wright’s poem “Yogini Teacher Asks The Room”, published in Prism’s 135th volume.
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e d it o r- in - ch ie f a s s ist a n t e d it o r g ra p h ic d es ig ne r co ve r a rt ist
b a ck co ve r p o e t
A LYSSA CA MP BE L L E RI N D OSE T Y SO K A L SK I CA RI SSA K E RN
t i t l e : cent r ic me di um : cop p er p l ate etch in g
A D E L A I D E FI T ZGE RA L D
re v ie w co m mitt ee KAT I E TRE SE C H R I ST I NA WRI GHT
p ris m a rt & l it e rary jo u rnal p u b l i s h e d by o ra n ge med i a n etwork o re go n s t ate un iversi ty co r va l l i s , or 9 7 3 3 1 f o l l ow u s o n f a ce b o o k , i n st agram, tw i tter: @ o s u pri sm
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c o ntent s making waves before my eyes elements and we oak trees life is for you series: the sea and me series: halt when lisa frank goes goth windows no. 3 spatial renaissance into tomorrow inexistent 11-27-17 the lake redily open arms transparency, please you put a line down my face c hᝣ b Ă c h i áťƒ u ye a r n i n g on th e s o f t s u p p l e b a n k s o f hw y 2 05 , p a i nte d fortuna shades of her soul snail time
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krist ina a l ldridge t ia ra e la t ta nzio a pril ja mes murphy ca ldwel l stef a nie hood a ndrea mitev ta ra pierce ca rissa kern ceph poklemba el iza bet h locke jessie good ja ckson pey ton minerv a za y a s ja cen doebler chloe kehn sueha de soto a my gibson bion ha wkmorr ty soka lski a my gibson et ha n heusser
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ca de windel l christ ine hoa ng ja son schind ler
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MAKING WAVES
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k r i s t i na a l l d r i d g e
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pen
BEFORE MY EYES the image came to life: blue lava wails and flares its stifled tongue, splenetic, sharp and surly– licking waves which, cresting ever higher, catch upon the wind and rain– crashing down upon the sailors and the ships and I can almost feel it, the ocean’s spray upon my cheeks– the tension rising with the wave, smothering my breath and shrouding me in restless stillness in the face of such a wave– drowning in my thoughts and the salt within my lungs, I stare into the stormy eye and surrender to its presence– for this great wave, as all, will pass, will smooth to rolling surf and softly swelling froth– and so can sullen eyes be brightened– so can chaos again subside to peace.
t i a r a e l at ta n z i o
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p o e t ry
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ELEME NTS
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a p r i l ja m e s
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wat e r c o l o r
AND WE Trapped away with others in same, insane Setting the scene unseen Shaping oneself in places that walk in geometric gaits Spoiled with support from deep knowing kin, looking in, sharing lives in the skin The age of agenda is what seems to be known, where compassion leaves out the door down below We are not animals, surely human animals, who never seem to kindly kill A will for those under the grass, speaking crass makes more sense Bent down paths to bind in Trees of cities to display the art of self Risking worlds to dance in distance The fusion of a mind unaltered, it becomes sound, along sonder Constantly strolling along pools of reflection, aware of a person in truth To behoove living a life span separate from limits Making a way in motion, healing halfs, fully expressed Creating a love eternal, for an infinite fascination Signing a language to last
m u r p h y c a l dw e l l
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p o e t ry
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OAK TREES The oak trees had their fill of water, hibernating in their drunken slumber unbeknownst to any presence above, inside, or below them. The deck atop their roots appeared arid from half a day’s absence of rainfall and it only took a blink of sun to turn it into a valley monger’s haven, irradiating warmth like that of a hug from mother nature’s soft plump arms. With a picture painted so perfectly there’s no room for logic or reason, that only existed in the lives of those too afraid to live. Waking up to small itchy bumps, the mosquitos were cold but apparently busy before winter, tediously packaging future armies who are now fully alive and learned in the carnivorous art of hunting. While hyperaware, it’s noticeable how pieces of lush tree show they don’t care where they land, that they have no regard for personal space or that they might resemble a flesh eating insect. Sprawl space is limited, anyway, and half the boards still sticky from the previous misjudgment; that beer was ready to become the next advertisement for an afternoon along the white noise river, but its fall was loud, quick, and spread far when the glass hit the weathered wood. A volcanic explosion of froth that would never be tasted, but to be expected. So long as the annoyance of rubber soles on a glue-like surface is tolerated, the remnants of that beer could always be felt, but what a shame for something never intended to touch the labor of soap and a brush make contact with such disgruntled effort. What if mistakes were all a person knew?
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s t e fa n i e h o o d
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prose
LIFE IS F O R YO U
andrea mitev
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d i g i ta l p h o t o g r a p h y
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SERIES: THE SEA AND ME b y ta r a p i e r c e
Growing up along the west coast, never far from a beach, Tara Pierce’s previous artwork has always focused on marine life. She graduated with a BFA from the Pacific Northwest College of Art and joyfully joined the Environmental Arts & Humanities MA program last Fall. This work was completed Winter Term 2018 as an exploration into how the global environmental crisis has deeply personal, emotional impacts on individuals. Focusing on my relationship and love for the ocean, these works provide a literal visual language that expresses the feelings of disconnection, internal turmoil, and existential fragility of life that millions around the world are faced with on a daily basis.
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SERIES: HALT by c a r i s sa k e r n
A young Oregonian studying Fine Art and Spanish at Oregon State University. She is a strong believer in collecting rocks and plants that want to be noticed, and leaving the ones that are content where they are. Carissa uses art as a mode of exploration of nature, culture, and relationships. Photography, sketches and journaling are all tools regularly used in her personal and professional studies. Halt, or alternatively, Learning Liberation, is a series from a female perspective based off of finding a sense of bodily liberation. First inspired by a halter top that was a personal symbol of liberation, independence, and choice as a young adolescent, the photos take into consideration how our educational environments have shaped our ideas of acceptable coverage. Was a classroom the first time someone other than your mother told you what not to wear?
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WHEN LISA FRANK GOES GOTH All the oversaturated colors in the world will die. Cheerleaders won’t know who to antagonize – for like a week. Boys will call her a slut, like she was not just the priss on the other face of the coin yesterday. Lisa Frank will be the walking joke: you can never trust a girl who can’t make up Her Mind. Like her autonomy is not only hers, Like her body is their walking scoreboard – Like those unicorns became demons. It’s not like Unicorns and Demons are that different, both pale and horned, only appealing to a certain audience. So you could say Demons are just alternate Unicorns. But, Demons don’t always have to be pretty, joyous – innocent. And Lisa Frank wasn’t always happy, She drew her dreams on folders and notebooks – In hopes that she could get there. Escape from whatever that one hell is that’s only pink – (Hello Kitty?) When they didn’t come true; Lisa thought it would be better to wear her Nightmares. Lisa Frank scared the other girls by being herself, when she stopped being the quiet girl obsessed with all things cute. and became the one who terrified boys. Lisa Frank is the scary feminist your racist grandpa talks about.
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c e p h p o k l e m ba
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p o e t ry
The Girl who challenges your ideas of what it means to be That Girl. The one who does what she wants. The Girl who doesn’t question herself. But, Lisa Frank still likes Unicorns, She just likes Black too. Lisa Frank isn’t afraid to be the girly girl, covered in sparkles and frilly dresses, She just always Was. Lisa Frank is the Punk who still likes Pink – She just wears her pink high heels with some extra studs now. Lisa Frank still draws on her notebooks, still has flowers in her hair, and still sometimes looks like rainbow vomit, from a night of far too many cocktails. But her tights are black, and her hair is spiked, her jackets are leather, and her eyeliner is thick. When Lisa Frank goes Goth, maybe it’ll be okay to be That Girl.
c e p h p o k l e m ba
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p o e t ry
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WINDOWS NO. �
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elizabeth locke
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photography
SPATIAL RENAISSANCE Imagine different timelines with different people Sweeping rivers and rolling valleys All comingling and conjoining into different shapes and Hues and Patterns and Then take a step backwards and look carefully at yourself through stained glass Who are you in the scope of the most ideal? What does your mind conjure when given the blissful perspective of a stranger? In my eyes, she looks melancholy. This silly little vessel. She's looking off into a distant crevice. It'll always be a little darker over there. She doesn't smile often, but when she does, it's stilted and awkward As though she never learned how to properly smile. She doesn't know how to do it quite right. She has never taken the time to learn how to be content Or how to love There were always other objectives of greater importance. Pitiful thing. Ignorant poet. But she is my own, and thus I will love her and she will learn.
jessie good
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p o e t ry
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INTO TOMORROW j ac k s o n p e y t o n | d i g i ta l
photography
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INEXISTENT Tied together like the knots on rope Exhilarating breaks And countless thoughts One knot and twist after another And tangled depth of messages Ripping and sowing simultaneously The last strand reminds you to hang on You must stand alone and let your strength pull together by tangled messes Don’t fear the change to snap For you Will rebuild a knot structure that’s inexistent ;
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m i n e rva z aya s
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p o e t ry
11-27 - 17
j ac e n d o e b l e r
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ink
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DO CK TALKS
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chloe kehn
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d i g i ta l p h o t o g r a p h y
REDILY OPEN ARMS suehade soto
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c o l l ag e o n pa p e r
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TRANSPARENCY, PLEASE
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amy gibson
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o i l o n c a n va s
YOU PUT A LINE DOWN MY FACE And told me this half was Chinese, and this half was American. Your voice loud, booming around my ears. Told me I was not a full human being by my own definition but yours. Made me feel like crying an ocean to drown you. Why am I not a whole person too? You took makeup and drew a line down my face, cheeks burning red in the summer sun.
b i o n h aw k m o r r
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p o e t ry
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CHỢ BÀ CHIỂU You will find me at the market. I am the dusk beneath the overlapping tarps, the flash of a child’s eye with crooked teeth bared, the scrape of the cheap plastic chairs, dirty shoes scuffing in the dust – “A bowl of bánh canh, please.” I am the newly butchered meats hung and swaying in the artificial breeze of passing motorcycles, a dozen flies circling my sun-kissed skin. I am piles of spice as tall as a man; I am beansprouts gleaming with water, I am a basket of dragonfruit, my leathery skin protecting the shock of my white flesh; I have a hundred black seeds. I am the giant pots of broth, of tender pork, seasonings, vegetables, mint, lime, bones – I am the small woman that ladles my blood and my bones into your bowl, the meal that will nourish you, familiar as a cradle song. I am the home you lost, the sweetness and salt on your tongue that are remembered but out of reach, a thousand miles away from home. Come back here, and find me.
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ty sokalski
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p o e t ry
YEARNING
amy gibson
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e g g t e m p e r a o n wo o d pa n e l
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���� PROVOST ’S LITERARY PRIZE on the softsupple banks of hwy
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by e t h a n h eus s e r
This poem mirrors my own life experience in that it explores how the same journey can seem entirely different when examined from two different perspectives or feel different when walked two different ways. Riddled throughout is a constant tension – I and you, here and there, hungry and full – that questions whether our forward momentum is pushed or pulled. Hopefully you will find parts of yourself in that tension too, or at least in that feeling of being what’s next. e xc e r p t f r o m f o rt u n a b y c a d e w i n d e l l
I wrote Fortuna after my father died. We met for the first time a few years ago and it devastated me to hear the news. All I could think about was the missed opportunities like him being at my graduation, my wedding, and all the other important events in my life. I became depressed and couldn’t focus on my schoolwork, so I did the only thing that made sense. I wrote about it. This story helped me cope with the loss of my father, and it is my way of saying goodbye. This is the first story I have ever had published. I just wish he could read it.
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ON THE SOFTSUPPLE BANKS OF HWY ���, PAINTED for Apollonius and his beautiful homely asymptote, who needed just a little more, mothersays, because we’re almost there. but this time I know best where we walk, watching out for the safeways, tepid unenduring wondrous with my lanepaint older than my brain to this Lady of the Basilica, her benzes & v8 ford pickups & stick shifts scurrying. the sun runs far today indeed. but O Lady you lead me strangeways; the cars and vacant lots search or flinch from the form of love, rough and grafted with this asphalt, slick with rain & its unrafted runnels to which i would rejoin nothing and drift without ceremony. here hope is around the corner which is unwound over the horizon which miraculously also hungers for small children & their hunger & is hereupon engorged. like twilight, the small rocks in your shoe & speed limits
ethan heusser
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p o e t ry
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FORTUNA The ash on the dashboard makes it difficult for me to breathe and burns my eyes when the A/C comes on. Bill quickly turns it off when he sees my distress and rolls down the window instead. I love Bill, despite the fact he smokes. My mother sees the recently rolled down window as her opportunity to light a cigarette. She’s smoked the same type my entire life. GPC full flavor. She waits until we reach rest areas before she pulls out her pipe. In her mind, I dislike marijuana smoke more than the cigarette smoke. I’m cramped in a pickup with two chain-smokers who don’t get along. Lucky me. Their bickering usually gives me anxiety, but so far, they have been behaving. It’s not easy for them to put the past behind them. Both of them know how difficult the situation is for me, how fragile my mental state is. It’s only been a month since my father committed suicide. I thought I was handling it well, until I had my breakdown two days ago. I was sitting alone in my studio apartment, lying on the ground and staring at the popcorn ceiling. I couldn’t concentrate on my homework and my fingers were already raw from the guitar strings. Music usually soothes my anxiety, but I had played for three straight hours without any progress. I just lay there, contemplating my existence and genetic makeup. Who am I? What are my values? Why won’t my hands stop shaking? I could no longer answer any of these questions and it felt like I no longer existed. You enter that dark place and all you want is for it to go away. I contemplated dropping out of college and throwing away everything I worked for over the past three years. You begin to feel numb and that’s why some people cry. They want to feel something. That isn’t me; I cry.
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cade windell
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prose
I called Bill and he tried to decipher my words through the sobbing. He offered to drive down so that I wouldn’t be alone. I told him no. He lives four hours away and doesn’t need to miss any more work. He just spent the last three months recovering from a knee replacement surgery and has been having financial problems. It took about thirty minutes of talking before I calmed down and told him I needed some rest. He called my mom that night. Mom couldn’t stop crying when she heard about my existential crisis. She lived two hours away and was unemployed, but didn’t have a car to drive down to see me. Achilles, the family dog, spent the night in her room and let Mom cry on him. He usually avoids her room because of all the ash. It’s incredible how well dogs can sense our emotions. He almost didn’t want her to come on this trip with me. But Achilles knew that I needed her. He was scared for me. Kelso to Fortuna. My GPS says it’ll take us about eight and a half hours to get there. It’s a straight shot along the I-5, at least until we reach Grants Pass. I never thought that Grants Pass was also the name of a town. I just assumed it was like Cornelius Pass, a slow-windy road that leads to hick towns that bring thoughts of Deliverance into your mind. It is dark outside by the time we reach the Redwoods. “We are driving through some of the most beautiful country in the world,” Mom said. “Too bad we can’t see it,” mutters Bill. The rain pounds the hood while he drives “What did you say?” Mom sticks her head between the seats to hear him better. “Nothing,” says Bill.
To re a d t he f u l l st ory , p lease v is it Pris m ' s B a ck matt er blo g.
cade windell
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prose
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SHADES OF HER SOUL
c h r i s t i n e h oa n g
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pa p e r q u i l l i n g
SHADES O F HER SOUL c h r i s t i n e h oa n g | pa p e r q u i l l i n g
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SNAIL TIME Please take the time not to step on the snails not because it matters for the snails (though it matters for that one) but because your steps will be careful, and you need not learn or add to the cringe of killing and of absentmindedness. The steps you can take mirror the snails’ shimmering, glistening, coruscating swirls that could fill unrepeatedly the chapters of a dance manual never finished. Please don’t step on the snails, we are fragile and take a long time to move anywhere and when you look for us, keep your eye on us, for we only move slowly while you watch —and then are gone under verge and moss and mud,
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for we are tiny, and some of us race, trace a pavement only sprites could use, and just as ephemeral in the rain. Our glide guides as glue, we are always the smallest creatures holding the world together, and we have been here longer, contacted with this ground, and you will miss us in the quickness of your gait. But you must see us as everyone ever stepped on; though we have shells, they are thin protections —remember our power together— dancing— is more invulnerable. And like the old poet said, we climb but slowly, slowly, the same sacred mountain as you do.
jas o n s c h i n d l e r
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p o e t ry
CONTRIBUTOR ARTIST STATEMENTS m a k i n g wav e s b y k r i s t i na a l l d r i d g e
In my piece, Making Waves, I hoped to make something that was reminiscient of home but also had a touch of foreign elements to it. In it, you can see the wave about to crash down on the origami, a sign of the justice that is to be served. a n d w e by m u r p h y c a l dw e l l
And We is about embracing your identity in full. Despite the insecurities and doubts that may manifest, there has always been a history of confidence and resistance. It's those who fought injustice and prejudice in the past, that have given us the self-confidence we store in the present. There is an everlasting connection in times.
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b y j ac e n d o e b l e r
With the passage of time, our lives follow in its shadow. In each new segment we are reborn, but left to ponder the possibilities of our reality within the same shell. At times, it may seem that our neverending cycle is one cast in hopeless doubt. That what we do and did had no meaning. That being alive is as much of a hardship internally than it is externally. We must learn to accept our mistakes, our choices, and how those accumulated to form our sense of identity. This is a sentiment to your past self. An omen to respect who you were and the journey of growing up. It's something to be proud of. c i rc um sp e c t i o n by adelaide fitzgerald
To me, social justice is about providing a platform for those who have been oppressed to speak, something I think extends to nature (unfortunately voiceless). Western society has used and warped nature, and now is worried about saving it so that they can continue to live —not because of concern for nature itself. This poem is about how we are simply oppressing ourselves when we abuse nature, as we are impermanent.
t r a n s pa r e n c y , p l e a s e a n d y e a r n i n g by a m y g i b s o n
Yearning and Transparency are abstracted images of the desires I believe most Americans feel right now. We are pained by the increasingly cold-hearted policies being enacted on our behalves. Most of us yearn to go forwards; to reconnect and welcome our fellow human beings into a world of true fairness, equality, honesty, health, and even love. s pat i a l r e n a i s s a n c e b y j e s s i e g o o d
Women are often told to smile despite their true emotions. They're taught to continuously improve their bodies, making it difficult to love themselves as they are. Women accepting themselves is inherently feminist. y o u p u t a l i n e d o w n m y fa c e b y b i o n h aw k m o r r
Social justice is integral to our future as humans. We need to live and breathe in a world of equity and justice, not of complacency and apathy. In addition, it is important that allies consider the ramifications of their perspectives and resulting actions. A simple exercise with the intent to illustrate the duality of an Asian American identity may have seemed wonderful. In execution, however, it was far from acceptable. shades of her soul b y c h r i s t i n e h oa n g
Shades of Her Soul illustrates the intersection of wellness with mind, body, and soul. Beyond the shades that a person may wear on their skin for the world to see, they have their own world within them. As we continue to heal from trauma and oppression, self-care and community care are vital to our empowerment and being in the movement towards creating social change.
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o a k t r e e s b y s t e fa n i e h o o d
I believe we shall not take each day, nor what we often overlook as the everyday, for granted. If complacency presents itself, it might instead be an opportunity to dig deeper, open our eyes wider, or shut them even tighter and use other undervalued senses and connections to expand our experience, be it within nature or each other. e l e m e n t s by a p r i l ja m e s
I aimed to depict the harmony of thoughts, body, and elements, as one is at peace with nature and oneself. d o c k ta l k s b y c h l o e k e h n
Several shining summer days were spent out on this dock; us girls would spend hours talking about life and love. It was a space without distractions, connecting us to our environment and each other. The dock was an escape; a rejuvenation for the soul. c e n t r i c by c a r i s sa k e r n
A moment in an infinite amount of moments. A description of an overwhelming intuition. b e f o r e m y e y e s b y t i a r a e l at ta n z i o
Facing the everyday pressures of life, from social status to paying the bills, can seem like facing a great wave. Although it may seem unbearable, even if it feels as though life is coming to crash down on you at any moment, everything works out in the end, and you can be at peace again. windows no.
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by e l i z a b e t h lo c k e
This photo shows a young girl yearning to escape from this place she calls her home. The people in her life don't pay much attention to what she is going through. We must ask ourselves as viewers, what is it she wants to escape from? Why does she look trapped in her own home? l i f e i s f o r yo u by a n d r e a m i t e v
This piece represents the important element appreciating diversity has in the movement for social justice. It is my belief that together we can achieve social justice through constant open-mindedness, respect for differences, and a collective celebration of what makes us all unique.
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i n t o t o m o r r o w b y j ac k s o n p e y t o n
In this photo, I used the contrast of the setting sun juxtaposed to the darkness left behind to convey a sense of progress. I feel the piece evokes a brighter future, encouraging the reader to peer into the possibility that is the horizon. when lisa frank goes goth b y c e p h p o k l e m ba
As a non-binary person, the aspects of gender have affected me in different ways and I try to find ways to express that. When Lisa Frank Goes Goth is about the duality of femme bodies and what is considered acceptable presentation, playing on the ideas of "the bad girl" to build up a form of self. sna i l t i m e by jas o n s c h i n d l e r
Social and environmental justice are inexorably linked, just as we cannot live without our ecologies and planetary systems, we cannot live without each other, human and non-human alike. This seems to hold true in our need for resilient thinking in our fiction and in our relationships to the entities and identities around us. c h ợ b à c h i ể u by t y s o k a l s k i
This poem focuses on my experiences growing up in Vietnam, this special place from my childhood - the neighborhood's street market - calling me back to long-abandoned roots. r e d i ly o p e n a r m s by s u e h a d e s oto
This piece comments on the social injustice of the people's position—of how much say they have in the matter (any matter)—and how when a person is scared and does not understand what's going on, the easiest emotion to act on is anger. We either have to open our arms and accept it or fight back. i n e x i s t e n t b y m i n e rva z aya s
The poem Inexistent was inspired by our current political climate and my experiences at OSU. Nonetheless, together we can advocate for positive and communal change that is Inexistent.
AR T
& LIT E R A RY JO U R NA L
Submit to Prism Deadline: Fall 2018, Friday of Week 3 Open to: All majors, all mediums Submit to: prism@oregonstate.edu orangemedianetwork.com/prism
and nature says don’t be precious with me fire hungry forests stand resolute, ready tempting lightning to curl its electric appendage in its fresh foliage saying i am nothing but scar tissue nothing but remedies and recoveries destroy me and use me and still, still you burn to end i burn to an end and so nature says don’t be precious with me be precious with yourself
c i rc um s p e c t io n by Ad e l a i d e F i t z ge ra ld