Project Oh! Magazine - Issue #4 by Project Oh! Magazine

ADDITIONAL SUBMISSIONS BY

FEATURES Maylanie Mendez

Louis Chavez

Alex CastaĂąeda

No Image Photography

Ross Langley

Illustrations Paintings

Drawings and Sketches Photography Photography

Omar Juarez Brian Demarest Lisa Little Nicole Maramo Kevin Gardner Patrick Spurlock Nicholas DeJesĂşs Photography Carlos Fierrros Jeremy Gonzalez Nobot Man Aiken Elizabeth Urias Terry McGhee Jorge Guillen Paul Rivas

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All of the work shown in this issue of Project Oh! Magazine was donated by the artists themselves for use in this issue and is not to be redistributed or reprinted without their consent. We would again like to thank everyone who submitted work and participated in the creation of this issue. For more information on specific artists or information on contributing to this magazine in future issues, please contact jeremy@projectoh.com or visit our website at projectoh.com for more infomration. Sponsorship information is available at projectoh.com/sponsors for persons, businesseses, or organizations who are interested in supporing the production of this magazine by way of ad space or donation.

Maylanie Mendez Maylanie is a multitalented artist with a kind and creative heart. Her passion can be seen in her work, but is not often put out on public display. After seeing some of her illustration work we knew we wanted to share a bit on her behalf. Maylanie enjoys working in various types of artistic mediums. Her interest in illustration was peaked while participating in a weekly challenge called “Illustration Friday.” As part of the challenge, illustrators were asked to submit their interpretations of a specific word chosen weekly. From there, she began to create her own characters which are often seen interacting with nature. Her goal is to one day incorporate her characters into a series of children’s books. “I think what I love most about illustration is that I get to sit back, get lost in my own little world, enjoy the process and learn a thing or two along the way. I try not to think very hard about the result. So, I love that every outcome is a surprise to me.”

Louis Chavez To the left we see famed blues musician Robert Johnson making an offering to achieve some much sought after success. “Legend has it that he sold his soul to the devil at the crossroads for fame and talent,” Chavez explains. Fortunately for Louis, no such deal needed to be made to obtain some talent of his own. The blues plays a heavy hand in influencing Louis’s work, as seen in the portrait of Blind Lemon Jefferson (page 21), but it is not all about the blues. We get a sample of other areas of interest with a piece created for a potential children’s book and also an appearance by Magic. After 20 years, his passion for painting is still strong and it is that same passion that has ultimately drawn him to Bakersfield where he feels he has more time to do what he loves. “I grew up watching my father paint. He painted when he could, he had many mouths to feed and he had a full time job. I remember watching him and wanting to be like him.”

et Art Mexican Stre r on Paper ke ar Pen & M ez (Oms) ar By Omar Ju

Drawings By Brian

Demarest

“Oh God” Acrylic on Canvas By Lisa Little

“Overflow” Acrylic on Canvas By Lisa Little

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Coachella Styleâ&#x20AC;? Model/Fashion: Nicole Maramo Photographed by Vanessa Cabrillas

Drawing By Kevin Gardn

“Lollipops and Lunatics” By Patrick Spurlock

Photo By Nicholas DeJesĂşs Photography Model Christina Gray

Drawing By Carlos Fierros

Ponder the ghosts by Jeremy Gonzalez “That should be me,” she said as she dropped another cigarette into her purse. “I should be there. Not her.” He was by her side, watching, but not listening. Her words were just background noise to an increasingly restless parking lot. They both stared at no place in particular. He scratched his beard, placed his head in his palm and mumbled incoherently, “no body cares…” I couldn’t care less. I just watch the eyes. They are so defeated,

lifeless. The guy to my right is pouring his heart out. Nobody is listening. Just me. But I am nobody. I watch the eyes. I fabricate their lives. Always the watcher. It is raining now. The scene is devoid of color. Their coats now pulled up to their faces. They scatter like ants, running from the same substance that keeps them alive. It is ironic. I shift my gaze to the skyline. A lonely black sky, scattered lights in the distance. This is honesty in its purist form. Just a darkened landscape, cold, wet, and unapologetic. Few things make me feel more alive.

It is cleansing in a way. A way to remind you that you are part of something bigger. I keep going back to what she said: “That should be me.” The words nag at my mind. I can’t help but imagine the context. The truth is, I know exactly what she is saying. I know exactly who she is. A car passes by. A pair of eyes fix on me for a couple of moments before giving up. I am walking now. The streets are reflecting the light posts. I laugh for a moment. It’s cold. My skin starts stinging. My nose starts to take its leave from

my face, or so it seems. I kick up the puddles. I ponder the same questions. I offer new answers, and then I question my answers. “Why am I here?” I ask. I look at the moon. I know it’s listening. It never answers. It just listens. I look back down at my shoes. I think about the people in my life. I wonder where they are right now. I think about how strange memories are. I look back up at the moon and say, “that should be me.” It looks at me. It listens, but it never answers.

In Case You Were Wondering by Nobot There is no easy. There is only smoke and mirrors The filtration process of my mental export Just a series of deliberately placed dots -- a constellation of disconnection I’ve built a home of one-way mirrors It sits atop a hill closest to the moon It houses me, king of the wild things Through a thicket of trees and at the edge of sea, soothing and free I’ve left you maps in riddled echoes I’ve left hash marks in the sand I’ve traveled back and forth dropping bread crumbs from my hands But the only callers are the ravens rapping at my door, and nothing more Though, my loneliness is not placed in sorrow I could only hope to see tomorrow, your face and many more But those who’ve come to see me have found it not-so-easy For when you rest your gaze upon this place you see yourself and not much more Yet still I sit here rocking In my chair, half hearted, talking Hopeful that tomorrow will be bring me more In the bellows are my utmost mellows, the secrets of my tangled prose But just who will catch my cryptic banter? That’s the thing, no one knows? 46

3-2-1 Take Down! by Man Aiken I loved you in low tide as the moon tried to peel you from this Earth. Alone as winter words that were spilled upon your birth. Like a mystery wrapped with twine, forever within itself. You are my frozen time when it seems there’s little else. I walk along the seams between demensions black and blue. And I hope the metallic glare will reveal false intentions true. Therein darkened by the thoughts of never being known. And sheltered from the rain born of never having shown. The stars are much too kind to release me from this wake. And the laughs that echo fallaceies are foresaken in this place. With your artificial pain and my misdirected banter. We bind the wit back to our souls and live life forever after.

Same Time Tomorrow by Elizabeth Urias “August, tell me what happened.” The Doctor asks. “You know what happened.” The boy responds. “Yes, but I want you to tell me why it happened.” The Doctor shifts in his seat. August exhales and purses his lips. “I know what they’ll do if I tell you. What’s in it for me?” “You get to clear your conscience, August. You can do the right thing. Now, go on, tell me what happened.” August looks at his feet and grins. “I watched her. For months, but you know that. It’s in my file. May I see it?” “No,” the Doctor answered, “go on.” “I waited for her. She looked extra beautiful. Her hair was in a ponytail but some of it was falling loose from the sides. She was

wearing those big sunglasses, like the ones that Audrey Hepburn wore in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. “ “Mmhmmm,” says the Doctor as he scribbles on his notepad. “She was wearing that perfume I like. I could smell it on her.” August stops and watches the Doctor take his notes. “Go on, August, tell me what happened next.” “You already know.” “Yes, but I need you to tell me. We talked about this, remember?” The Doctor is getting impatient and August can sense this. “What’s in that cabinet behind your desk?” “Things. Now come on, lets hear the rest.” “What kinds of things?” “August, please.” The Doctor says sternly. “I don’t feel like talking anymore today. Same time tomorrow?” “That’s not how this works, August. Now, tell me what happened next.” “What happened next...what happened...” August repeated to himself. “I watched her

get out of her car. She was almost to the front door when she dropped her keys. That’s when I decided to make my move. So I walked over to her. Said hi. Ya know.” August stares at the Doctor. “And then?” “And then,” August says dreamily, she spoke to me. “Her voice was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard. I can still hear it now. It’s still in my head, just like I can still smell her perfume.” “Tell me about her disappearance, August. Tell me about that.” “Actually Doctor, we really are out of time.” August gets out of the leather chair and makes his way to the door when he stops and picks up a small mahogany frame. “Who is this woman, Doctor? She’s beautiful.” “That’s enough for today August.” The Doctor says. “I’ll bet she smells nice.” August whispers to himself.

‘Insecurities’ By Terry McGhee

“Gnothi Seauton” By Jeremy Gonzalez

Tasting your tenderness My lips sliding Across your sympathy Your claws Leaving scars In the debris That used to be A taller version Of what you see

There is a quiet between these walls. I draw the curtains and watch the movies dance about the room. Their shadows are comforting yet so distant. I can see Time escaping. He frees himself in the night. This is clarity.

I write to gain some insight on why I live and breath. I write. Repeat. Write and wonder still. I write in case they’ll forget me And I hope they never will.

Only ashes and dust Remain Scattered in the aftermath Of your lust Watching the dark descend Fearing the storm’s path The rains that may Wash it all away In tears of wrath

I can see the ghosts of millennia past sprinkled about the infinite depths of our mysterious beholder. I can see back in time, sometimes centuries, sometimes hours, sometimes billions of years. I think of the shadows of shadows of shadows that I have never witnessed. I think of the futures too far away to meet. This is scope. I float along the coast of riddled questions and journey down the leagues of unknown seas. I travel to places that very few can find me. It is a yearning that never leaves. It is so quiet along the way. I always trek alone. A calm and distant home. This is serenity. I need that flesh to keep me warm. I need to exist in others’ shadows. I need them to see what I have seen. Only then could they understand me. Heed your only vessel. Know thyself. Share your distant journeys and travel farther and farther still. I want to see you there. This is comfort. I write to release my questions. I write to release my fears. I write to record what I consider both neither there nor here. “I write to remember” I write to believe.

There is a quiet between these walls. There has and always will be. I will always exist in disarray. I am here. This is me.

As the angels collide By Man Aiken The silence creeps into my ear like a fog. The deafness is debilitating. She sings in circles of refracted light. It pulsates through my bones until my heart is pounding against the scaly interior of my ribcage. The poison slithers down my esophagus until I am weightless in a sea of wandering voices. I drift through the questions and disconnected answers. There she is, the unyielding dream sequence, layer upon layer dripping with post mediocre consequences, distilled in a city of broken sentences. She is pristine, pure light, encapsulated within her crystal fortress. I can feel her waves permeating my entire being. I begin to vaporize. Her light consumes me from the inside out until there is only white. She is nuclear. She is my everything. Rip me apart, atom by atom, until there is nothing left. Return me to star dust and remind me that nothingness is all there is. A vast vacuole of incredible nothingness. 47

“Beautiful Dark Skinned Chicana” by Jorge Guillen Beautiful Dark Skinned Chicana I have a fist full of stars to throw up into the sky cause I know some people that forgot how to DREAM. Beautiful Dark Skinned Chicana I got streets full of broken glass cause the ghetto doesn’t let you escape if you keep your eyes closed When You wake up I want to be in your dreams. “WW-III” by Jorge Guillen If you have not gotten it by now, you never will. It will mean that me and you won’t arrive in paradise together. If you have not figured me out by dawn day’s early light. You can forget the words and empty promises we shared last night Arte,poetry and activism! How else do you expect to lead a revolution?.

“Untitled” By Paul Rivas Violence an American Tradition From the start Lacking any real empathy No longer connected Gleaming from opposite ends Friends turn into strangers We ignore one another Paranoia and hate destroys our love Forgetting from where we came With no one to blame Things need to be Better, why not? Just particulars floating In a universe so cold The world rots away The air reeks of rotting flesh And burnt blood Souls gone for eternity When all we wanted was everything We are left with nothing Continue moving forward Never look back Stare into the eternal light Let the clouds disappear into darkness Let the grittiness that rests on your shoulders go

These Words by Jeremy Gonzalez

I say these words to inspire you, to inform you, to melt your heart so it slides effortlessly down to your small intestine. I say these words because for a moment I was asleep. I was quite literally asleep. And in the haze, in my daze I wanted to light my thoughts and let them float around the room. I wanted them to dance for you. But the words I say are not words at all, for I sit just 3 feet tall, with a machine that catches all, of these words I meant to say but have instead sent away, on a post which by the way, makes no sense, but hey, that’s what I want to say. Goodday. #mate 48