Return by Prism Journal

S P R I N G 2019

Return

RETURN Letter from th e E d i to r Return represents a calling across oceans and mountains and stacks of textbooks. Sometimes it’s the voice on the other end of the phone, pulling you out of your daily routine and into a place you can visit through the words they say. It’s a memory flashing before your eyelids because of something you heard or a photograph of your former self. As we finish spring term, many of us at Oregon State University are in a period of reminiscing. We’re thinking about how we decorated our rooms during our freshman year, the moment we figured out our major, and all of the other brilliant highlights on the path behind us. And while there are so many incredible things just over the horizon, we won’t forget the experiences that truly made us who we are at this university. If Prism has been part of your journey in any way- through finding a poem or an art piece you identified with or by sharing your perspective with our community- please know that we are honored. Your self-expression is incredibly meaningful to our community and world. I urge all of us to stay true to our values, our passions, and our creativity as we move forward, bringing all of the lessons we’ve learned at OSU with us. That’s the beauty of returning- you can always find a way home.

Erin Dose

VO LUME C XXXIX

W ho We A re Prism is dedicated to the self-expression and creativity of Oregon State University students. Any student, regardless of major, may submit visual or literary art pieces to the journal via our website. Submissions are evaluated by a review committee comprised of student volunteers and the Prism editiorial team. Print editions are released with the intent of sharing the perspectives and values of OSU students. In addition, Prism runs a blog titled Backmatter and a podcast, Beyond the Page. Both feature more student work, as well as explorations into the artistic climate of our community and world. orangemedianetwork.com/prism

UNDONE

APRIL JA MES INK DRAW ING 1

E D I TO R- I N - C HIE F

REVIEW COMMI TTEE

Erin Dose

Johnny Brunac Lois Dalton April James Mara Weeks Lisa Wilson Joe Wolf

ASS I STA N T EDITOR Ardea C. Eichner

G R A P H I C DESIGN E R Mara Weeks

COV ER A RT I ST Carlee Wormington Which Way Home? | Collage

Prism Art and Literary Journal Published by Orange Media Network Oregon State University Corvallis, OR 97331

TABLE OF CONTENTS 1

Un d on e | A p r il Ja m es

Op en Roa d Jou r n ey | Tay l or Wel l s

H el iotrop e | L is a Wil s on

Su p er - E go | L u ke B en n ett

T h e H a rd es t Wor ker | Gra ce B rod

Grou n d ed | M ir ia m B a r n es

Stor ies on S k in ... | A rd ea E ich n er

Autob iog ra p h er | Ad el a id e F it z gera l d

Poetr y on D is a b il ities ... | Su s m ita Pa d a l a

My S k in ... | Joh n ny B r u n a c

Ta ga l og | S y m on R a m os

Su m m er S n ea k | S ier ra Freih oef er

20 22

7, 0 0 0 M il es Away | Weim in g S h i

L os t in th e Waves | L oga n Rob in s on

B y th e S ea | L oren a Nava r ro- S l u z n is

C erea l C a nyon | Jos ie C a m at

B eauty in C ol or | A n ia Ty

Rep ercu s s ion s ... | Joh n ny B r u n a c

24 25

26 27

TH E H A R D EST WORK E R Grace Brod | Ink

32 33

34 35

36 37

38 39

40 * C O N TENT WARNING

H ow to f it | Nath a n Wau g h L on e | Jos hu a B aya n i

T h e D eat h ...* | L oga n Reck Wa l ter | S a ra Ker r

A l l - in - On e | Y i Z h ou

D is com p os ed | Reb ecca Cy r Nep tu n e | A s h l ey Peters on

Eyes | I s a b el l a Joh n s on

P RI SM AR T & LITERARY J O UR N A L

OPEN ROAD JOURNEY TITLE TAYLO R W EL L S P H OTO G R A P H Y

AUTHOR | MEDIUM

S P R I N G 2019

GROUNDED sit bone connects to thigh bone connects to floor grounded the scars on my legs connect the tiles like mortar freshly painted toe nails glisten under a lamp made for desks moved to the floor by hands connected to a body searching for roots the veins in my feet flow seamlessly to mesh with the patterns of grey, white, pink dorm room tile earth is home and floor of any kind can make a passable attempt at haven Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m comfortable here grounded in harshness but unconstrained by the lines of a desk the boxes of a chair books read just as well on floor and stories write just as easily

MIRIAM BARNES | POETRY

P RI SM AR T & LITERARY J O UR N A L

HELIOTROPE I hadn’t really stopped to catch my breath the way I used to before I became purple pen on an ever-growing to-do list Sprinting forward until I realize I’m where I never thought I’d be a place I didn’t trust existed Like sailors on the moon cursing the seas they left behind waters that have long since dried up and even before that were nothing like they remember I can still turn back stake a claim in the desert make the scorpions my friends I can choose to believe this midnight velvet violet is not for me, even as it blossoms in my hands But I will give its roots room to grow and stop worrying about the dirt under my nails I want this fantasy-made-reality after all So I retrace my 16-year-old wishes to the night sky star-hopping in search of another lavender light and your hand in mine

LISA W IL S ON | POETRY

S P R I N G 2019

STORIES ON SKIN: HOME GROWN

A R DE A E IC HN E R | INK AND MARKER DRAWI NG

P RI SM AR T & LITERARY J O UR N A L

SUPER-EGO

LUKE BENNETT | DI G I TAL ART

S P R I N G 2019

AUTOBIOGRAPHER

iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been writing myself down for two decades scratching off mask after mask, saying, look at the face; am i myself yet?

ADE LAIDE FITZGERALD | POETRY

LOST IN THE WAVES

LOGAN ROBI NSON | PHOTOG RA PHY

S P R I N G 2019

POETRY ON DISABILITIES: IV. WHITE DISABILITY

White. The color of paper. The color of peace. Apparently, the color of beauty. And the color of purity. If only its history was not so red. Our ancient epics are untold for the tales of a young upstart called Shakespeare Our languages compared to Greek, the language of learning. Similes facilitate understanding but they do not ring true Our scientists, our writers lost to the desert sand dunes Autism. My diagnosis. Also discovered by a white man. I do not speak but I wonder what my brothers and sisters were doing. Were they killing each other in war? Were they exploring pleasure for a book? Were they staring at night skies looking for animals? Or were my ancestral fools only focused on foods? I do not speak but I still ponder. I do not speak but I still ponder all the words unsaid. I do not speak but I still have my story to tell. Will you listen to me as you sit on my ancestorsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; land? Will you listen to me as you lick the chocolate, the color of mud and my skin? Will you listen to me and understand as I do not speak but reveal my tale?

To read this piece in entirety, visit our website: orangemedianetwork.com/prism

S US MITA PADA LA | POETRY

P RI SM AR T & LITERARY J O UR N A L

BY THE SEA

LORENA NAVARRO- SLUZNI S COLLAGE

S P R I N G 2019

MY SKIN TELLS THE BEST STORIES

walking out of my grandfather’s self-proclaimed house of memories the only thought swimming through my head is the thought of getting a waffle from that cute shop on western avenue where i grew up with the waitresses calling me sweet pea or honeybun or baby cakes the damp air leaves kisses on my skin reminders, she said, so i’d never forget the feeling of the ocean’s breath

JOHN NY B RUNAC | POETRY

P RI SM AR T & LITERARY J O UR N A L

CEREAL CANYON

JOSIE CA M AT | P HOTOGRAP HY

S P R I N G 2019

TITLE

AUTHOR | MEDI UM

P RI SM AR T & LITERARY J O UR N A L

TAGALOG Pacific princess crafting her words like royal decrees, like poetry, like gusts of velvet promises. It tastes of foreign melody, of Pacific composure, melting like the insides of Ferrero Rocher. Her voice is as soothing as obsidian as the soul is bright, carrying speech to me, neatly packaged with the warmth, the delicacy of a thousand LBC boxes. Pacific princess flirting with deep rhetoric, a song as sweet as honey, like victory in Balgatasan, with vocal chords that belong on the frets of a guitar made in Heaven. Seven thousand islands in the Philippines, not one of ‘em as impressive as her eyes when lit with language, a not-so-subtle reminder that God’s a linguist and frankly, you’ll need a divine translator to fully grasp the message.

SY MON RAMOS | POETRY

S P R I N G 2019

BEAUTY IN COLOR

ANIA TY | INK DRAWING

P RI SM AR T & LITERARY J O UR N A L

SUMMER SNEAK 18

SIERRA F REI HOEF ER ACRYLIC PA INTING

S P R I N G 2019

REPERCUSSIONS OF PUTTING A FORK IN A TOASTER

for the first time in years my former self decided to show his face under golden hour glow while it paints my face as i walk through the empty old lot on seventh, my fingers grazing each dried daisy as they spark, catching fire magnifying glass we call a cloudless sky tag teeming with the oregon sun her warm air circles me like vultures to prey tracing every inch of my skin making the hairs on my arm stand up on end i am not a boy i am a forest fire

JOHN NY B RUNAC | POETRY

P RI SM AR T & LITERARY J O UR N A L

S P R I N G 2019

7,000 MILES AWAY WEI MI NG SHI | PHOTOGRA PHY 21

P RI SM AR T & LITERARY J O UR N A L

HOW TO FIT

You treat me like a stranger on the horizon random icy elliptical asteroid distant point source for a shadow Maybe I should go live on the horizon dance twice daily in its orange sun bloom wave at you with my silhouette from there Might that fit in your world? In two dimensions, might I fit in your world? look at me a shadow stretching

NATHAN WAUGH | POETRY

S P R I N G 2019

LON E

JOSHUA BAYA NI | P HOTOGRAP HY

P RI SM AR T & LITERARY J O UR N A L

THE DEATH OF VINCENT VAN GOGH CONTENT WARNING

A gunshot goes unnoticed in a wheatfield near the end of July. Cold and breathless, a man bends into himself. He falls, Rises, Falls. Hours later, he returns to his inn with a face as dull as the day before. On the way to his room, he groans, and clutches at his stomach. The innkeeper sees a gash below his heart. His teenage daughter discovers suicide. Before long, a dozen faces surround him. “I can still save you,” says a voice. “You will be spared,” says another. Someone asks him if he has the right, As though it could be held by anyone else. Only the sun rises. “I wish I could pass away like this,” he says to himself. Tears are shed. A dream is fulfilled. The man thinks of wheatfields And searches for clouds beneath the lids of his eyes.

LOGAN REC K | POETRY

S P R I N G 2019

WALTER SA R A K ER R OI L PA I N TI NG

P RI SM AR T & LITERARY J O UR N A L

ALL-IN-ONE

Y I Z HOU | DIG I TAL ART

2019 PROVOST’S LITERARY PRIZE ARTIST STAT E M E NT S

DIS CO M P OS E D BY R EB ECCA C Y R

G ENEVIEVE BY ANDREA F ENNIMORE

Death is scary, so I tried dealing with my fear of that in this piece. Writing, in general, really comes down to a good chair. Otherwise, you’ll find yourself wondering, where’s this neck pain coming from? Am I aging? And then you’ll never get anything done.

Half the stuff I write doesn’t even make sense to me, but I try to see if anyone else understands. Stories are a great way to do that. “Genevieve” is based on a true story. It is stuck between what could have been, and what actually happened.

S P R I N G 2019

DISCOMPOSED

It’s fourth grade. School will start in ten minutes. I’m sitting against the wall outside, wearing a puffy, purple coat. The nylon sleeves are making swishing sounds when my arms move. This cold morning—frozen grass, exhaling condensation clouds—a boy named Adam leaves his place in line to walk down the wall, and ask his favorite question. “Do you believe in God?” “Yes.” “Do you believe in God?” “Yes.” “Do you believe in God?” “I don’t know.” “You don’t know?” In line to wash our hands before lunch: “Who do you love more? Your parents or God?” At lunch: “I love God more. God made my parents. You can’t love your parents without God.” Back from recess, sitting at our desks: “Rebecca. You’re going to Hell. You don’t believe in God. You’re going to Hell.”

To read this piece in entirety, visit our website: orangemedianetwork.com/prism

R EB ECC A C Y R | P ROVOST’S LITERA RY PRIZE

P RI SM AR T & LITERARY J O UR N A L

NEPTUN E

ASH L EY P ET ERS ON | PAIN TING 28

S P R I N G 2019

GENEVIEVE

Audrey Kieran swore the strangest things always happened to her. Instances where, for a second, the world just seemed a little more tilted on its axis than usual. And when asked what the strangest thing that happened to her was – because this was always the icebreaker question in school – it was the same story. Sage Peters, her best friend, had heard the story multiple times. She could tell it herself, could quote verbatim what the woman on the phone said to Audrey, and sometimes, she was even there when the woman called. The theories Audrey shared with people about who Jessie really was, why the woman had the wrong number in the first place, if the woman had dementia or was simply playing a prank, well Sage herself had come up with all of those folklore. It was their favorite pastime, getting lost in the life of a woman they’d never be able to pick out of a crowd. Well, it was Sage’s favorite at least. “She just calls,” Audrey started to explain. Her voice was glinting with anticipation of telling her favorite story. Sage stood by, readily listening for the moment she could add in whatever was left over for her to tell. She knew the story just as good as Audrey did, and didn’t know just as much as she did too. “There’s not a pattern really. Sometimes it’s when I’m at school, well usually it’s when I’m at school. But since my phone is on silent, I don’t hear it go off, and she just leaves a voicemail.” “What does she say?” asked Jeremy, their fellow groupmate in sophomore biology. “I don’t know, stuff about what the doctors tell her at checkups. Sounds like she’s just talking,” shrugged Audrey. “The weirdest part is that she thinks I’m Jessie, whoever that is.” “She calls you Jessie?” Jeremy’s eyes were wide with wonder. He was probably thinking how odd all of this was, what a strange thing it was for this to happen to a normal girl like Audrey, and how interesting it made Audrey to have this happen to her and nobody else.

To read this piece in entirety, visit our website: orangemedianetwork.com/prism

A N D R E A FE NN IMORE | PROVOST’S LITERA RY PRIZE

P RI SM AR T & LITERARY J O UR N A L

SOLES OF SHOES

NEPTUNE

AN DY B ROW NE | ASHLEY PHOTOGRA PHY PETERSON | PA I NTING

S P R I N G 2019

LOVE BITS

As I handed him his receipt I noted, the boy tagging behind him had a matching bit of Love on his Neck. And I began to feel less alone that day. I began to understand why my friend never covers the bits of love her partner leaves on her Neck and Thighs. I forgot how resistant and powerful this love is; I forgot that it no longer has to hide. The love on his neck was barely visible, not hesitant, but careful, like trying something new. It was Sweet. It was Small. And it was so very Whole.

C E PH POK L E MBA | POETRY

P RI SM AR T & LITERARY J O UR N A L

AGENTS

From limited knowledge I know one thing The spray off those long leaved palms left long lived wrongs

MURP HY C ALDWELL | POETRY

S P R I N G 2019

FOUND IT

ANGEL BLACK | DI G I TAL ART

P RI SM AR T & LITERARY J O UR N A L

MASKS

TY SOKALSKI DIGITA L PA INTING

S P R I N G 2019

EYES

A thousand doorways All the stars like eyes unbroken Gaze And luster We do not break for gold asunder We bow there Absorbed in night the king sees not However many his eyes unlaced The world rises in the morning He brushes her lips, Moth wings against marble, cracked Her fingertips, They breach his heart to dust, From dust to dust A mountain grows From their trust ten thousand eyes like doors Open and shut

A thousand and scores These cliffside eyes The world sighs under the burden What in this life is certain? Orion sky on sidewalk chalk She watches the night against the cold For him She would be his nothingness, his bride If he would not be king We watch the mountain glory Crowned in ashes Blood stains the rain She catches Against her skin On his knees he weeps All the world drips from his hands Paper crown torn from his head By her eyes Her silent eyes Gold silent gazing Eyes

ISAB E LL A JOHNSON | POETRY

P RI SM AR T & LITERARY J O UR N A L

RED-EYED TREE FROG

Twin Marbles, alive with fire, burn tirelessly through the smothering darkness of night in the jungle. Persistent fixtures of the forest understory, they are but sparks in history. Ephemeral derivatives of a larger flame.

JACOB DE RKSEN | POETRY

S P R I N G 2019

SELF DELIRIUM BR A DY RO B I S ON M I X E D M E D I UMS

P RI SM AR T & LITERARY J O UR N A L

WEIGHT OF LIVING

C IN DY TAM | MIXED MEDIUMS

S P R I N G 2019

I CHALLENGE MYSELF TO REST CONTENT WARNING

When I am empty and hollow I slip into the soil to save myself for eternal rest I expect the earth to swallow the nothing I have left... I taste life coat my lips and find residence inside my lungs I follow my body step out of its sorrow Sunbeams sew us together

IN DIC A B LUE | POETRY

P RI SM AR T & LITERARY J O UR N A L

DOMINOâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S VS. AMERICAN DREAM

ADDIE MIL L E R | DRAWI NG

SUBMIT TO PRISM We’re growing, but we’re still your home.

Next year, Prism will be annually produced with only one submission deadline.

This change won’t limit any creativity, as the Prism we know and love will continue to uplift the experiences and emotional climate of OSU. Student creatives will have even more opportunities to share their voices, as we will be featuring auditory and video art in a digital version of Prism as well as through our website and our podcast, Beyond the Page.

OSU students of all majors and backgrounds are encouraged to submit one to five pieces of auditory, visual, or literary artwork through our website. If you have questions or would like to be involved with the production of Prism, reach out to us at prism@oregonstate.edu

Submissions are accepted until 11:59 p.m. on November 22 for the next print publication.

Find us at orangemedianetwork.com/prism/site/submit/ or by following the QR code.

So I retrace my 16-year-old wishes to the night sky star-hopping in search of another lavender light and your hand in mine Excerpt from â&#x20AC;&#x153;Heliotropeâ&#x20AC;? by Lisa Wilson, page 6