Spring 2014
the Anthologist
the Anthologist The Anthologist is a literary and arts magazine that has served in preserving and inspiring Rutgers’ creativity for nearly a century, publishing high-quality art and writing. For copyright terms and more information visit: antho.rutgers@gmail.com RUSA Allocations Board, paid for by student fees.
2
Spring 2014
Index
volume 79. issue 1. spring 2014
Staff Officers
Jasmeet Bawa - Editor-in-Chief Deniz Tanguz - Managing Editor Philip S. Wythe - Senior Editor Elisabet Paredes - Public Relations / Editor Tiffany Lu - Copy Editor / Social Media Coordinator Zeenie Sharif - Copy Editor
Editors
Chelsea Pineda Hernan Ramos Jennifer Comerford Radcliffe Bent Dylan Vetter Tyler Davies Anna Melikhova - Web Editor Peter J. Rosa - Cover / Magazine Designer Matt Taylor - Social Media Coordinator
Advisor
Professor Brad Evans
3
the Anthologist
4
Spring 2014
Content Bee Monastery Anthony Zaleski Love Letters and Articulations Rashmee Kumar Untitled Lauren Mateo Untitled Martin King Deutung Trevor Ciccarino Love-gloves (78th Dream Song) AndrĂŠ Retrot Back to El Polvazo ~ SulĂŠcia M. Urena Untitled Jessica Bagtas Ol Doinyo Lengai Martin King Hunch on the Back of an Intuition. Emily McMaster Inside Outside Matt Naples untitled Tiffany Lu Tin Foil Alexander Grillo
10 11 12 15 16 18 19 23 24 25 26 27 28 5
the Anthologist
6
Spring 2014
Echoes 30 Lucas Rheed fragments. 34 Shayla Lawz Child 35 Tiffany Lu The Neighborhood Shuffle 36 Matt Naples Mr. Alarmey Rides his White Horse 37 Radcliffe Bent
Triggering Content Prefatory Note
43
Tatiana Ades & Philip Wythe
Child Nestor Collazo Exploited S.S. My journey through the smoke Sonya Schement
44 45 52
7
the Anthologist
8
Spring 2014
Letter
from the
E d i t o r - i n -C h i e f
The Anthologists have a lot of questions: when do you break a line of poetry? Do you twist it back on itself; let the space provide the words a moment to gasp? Or do you let the next words follow gently, like the bend of river flowing over rock? If we all die and we all know we die, can “death” be a trigger? Are undergraduates still too young to know which clichés are cliché, to have tasted the way love is not always a metamorphosis, but sometimes just the moment you dig your nails into a clementine, ready to undress skin? And if we are avoiding clichés, can we begin to ask what art is? Is it audacious to propose, naïve to say that art is just love? Art may be many things and it may never be enough. The desire for better, more, different, simpler has not run out of embers since the first torches were held up against caves walls. In this anthology, art is suspension in the way the words are cemented in typeface, images hung on our pages. From the Himalayas to the suburbs, from family to identity, our authors navigate what makes the heart palpitate, stutter, and restart. We hope this volume of The Anthologist elicits in you the same wonder and delight felt by its editors and myself. Happy reading, Jasmeet Bawa
9
the Anthologist
Bee Monastery Anthony Zaleski Monks in hexagonal cells, Engaged in the hallowed task Of making honey. They bring exotic essences— Perfumes of distant flowers; They amass them, Until the labyrinthine hive Oozes, like an enraptured mind. And the hive— That is to say, monastery— Becomes a library, Like that of Borges. Multifaceted, Its cells are prisms. Sweet honey Holds symbols— Hardened amber Imbued with images Kept for open minds.
10
Spring 2014
Love Letters And Articulations Rashmee Kumar Your words are spectral lines wiped away from a dusty blackboard with the back of my hand. The elongated vowels and staccato consonants— our love letters and articulations— have faded from my vernacular. And yet on lonely nights when I am shrouded in haze, I recall the hours I used to sit beside you attempting to decipher the pidgin language we once used to translate each other’s screams and sighs. The phonetics of fucking always climaxed to the high art of miscommunication and left us irreconcilable, bathing in the semantics of shoulder shrugs and glazed glares until scathing decibels would puncture the bitter languor between us. -Now I realize that what we both desired back then was a deus ex machina to mend our severed sentences with soft wool and steep our speech in chamomile and honey. But what we got instead was an ellipsis— a reluctant dénouement— in the possibility that one day we may become thoughtful and eloquent enough to resume our dialogue.
11
the Anthologist
Selfhood Lauren Mateo I am who I am. I AM A recovering Catholic A multicultural maverick A snorer in my sleep I am a woman And I prefer to be on top I am a faithful friend Unless I’m caught I am a woman of color But I “talk white” I am a hip hop lover I am erudite I am a compilation of maddening love and bitter oppression I am incessant existential crisis Crushed into a glass case Crack. I am a free flowing flag Fastened to the cold ground I am a purple and lime kaleidoscope of the soul and mind pieces I’ve collected I’m the pieces of advice you kindly rejected I’m the juxtaposing identities we didn’t realize intersected I’m strangers kindness carried out and the deep thought well reflected I am what I learned from your side conversation And the madness you drove into my REM imagination. 12
Spring 2014
I am a mix of your passing words of hate with my memories of love Herds and herds of people I will never discover the intricacies of. I am remembering what it’s like to be human To the girl in the bathroom stall who wrote, “Fuck ALL Y’ALL” - We are so alike. To the white haired man in the thrift store who compared Puerto Ricans of South Bronx to cockroaches - No, I will not give you my number. Yes, I am Puerto Rican. To the man driving the LX, turning too damn slow while dissecting my detailed question with utter profoundness - I’ll miss you. To the young athlete, college drop out who ran to the girl in the library having a seizure - We are so alike. To the drunken bastard who met me at the end of the stair proclaiming “You are not American”- For a second, I believed you. To the beauty marked catracho of foreign tongue that I wrapped mine in and around - I will never be the same. Some things that you make of me, I internalize and take with me I am the rainbow that you painted me But see, the ocean is blue Do not tell me not to swaddle my baby girl in it’s color The perfect man in my head Does not exist The certain man in my bed 13
the Anthologist
Is a little sexist And I am all of it. Half delusion half matter of fact In the wake of enslaved history I am a happy village artifact Serenity from one. From another, torment I am mixed like sedimentary rock Mix me like wet cement. Mixed like the Puerto Rican, Honduran, El Salvadoran Day dreamer, Struggling Rutgers junior, Activist, cynic, constructive critic, feminist shaver of the legs, spiritual traveler, Buddhist drinker of the kegs, Quiet friend I am culminating beauty A Crescendo of noise and peace And most times you can’t predict it I am your energy when I approach you And sometimes I have no control.
14
Spring 2014
Untitled Martin King This
peice is sponsored by student
Jasmeet Bawa
f o r i n cl u s i o n i n t h i s p u bl i c a t i o n
15
the Anthologist
In Memoriam Eric Sinacori
Deutung Trevor Ciccarino The black crow nestles upon a faded tree With button corneas reflecting the lucidity Of his hopeless plight. It gnaws and gnashes despairingly at the foliage Long since abandoned by the dark season; The defeaning breadth of winter’s decay rusts over. There was a time, I say, When this dormant tree bore fruit, Breathed life from its magnificent limbs, Beckoned young ones to call to their whims (With their tiny pants tearing unnoticed at the rims) To chance a fall For the glorious spectacle of that spring mausoleum Which so hopefully signified the shaded leaves of grass Furrowing calmly into the earth below. There was a time, I say, Behind the crow, behind the cold, Behind the window pane he feigns indifference To a life one lead, now read in papers, Formed of words that, like wet concrete patiently waiting, Creepingly solidify the history of this boy’s being, A young boy. Through the schools, family affairs, extracurriculars, These words cast a storm of furious showers wherein Each bead of rain seeks to strike that last dying ember And seal his pride, his “I,” in ash, Extinguishing the meaning with pattering repitition, Behind the smoke and the needle and the damage done, Behind the words, those cool, calculated words, Whose righteous hand seeks to grapple the neck Above his tan smooth breastplate and gold-tinted crucifix 16
Spring 2014
And banish his existence into inked serenity, Lies the boy, A presence reverberating the animation of life And youth, whose cunning disguise and weary ambition Masked their childhood in a tempest of wonder As forbidden flasks emptied trivial worries Into mouths which tore these great fears asunder. This world exists. I know Though teachings of rules that are meant to be broken May splinter, languish, and fray on the dime. One mends behind words with the meaning unspoken As in the way of the world through time.
17
the Anthologist
L o v e - g l o v e s (78T h D r e a m S o n g ) André Retrot Cardiff, ain’t no welsh, man, no Cardiff, only a terrestrial is—nothing ex-terra nothing less-era, just is, is he. Only, the big C ain’t no He, for there ain’t no You to call him He / slash It / slash Me—or, at least there won’t be. Besides, gosta earn them pronouns. Cardiff ain’t never done much to earn much, mostly just mungs on foods, and such —hides, unbiddens, at the windsows— mostly just quaffs and coughs, makes the glory of love in the throat, stares blanks at the back of his own brown head. But Cardiff wants out, and to be let sin. Wants to wear you like woolsen pajamas, slash, wear you thin at the crotch and knees, and patch you back up with his inflamous, sartorial love… We needs new love-gloves, love.
18
Spring 2014
Back
to
El Polvazo
~ Sulécia M. Urena
She escapes where she’s going, both in mind and body, hoping to find what she thinks she needs somewhere in the middle of where she’s coming from. Where she’s coming from is a place of pacific existence, at least she likes to think so. Her wanderlust has no premise, for she’s in denial of her reality, in denial of the deceitful similarities between where she’s coming from and where she’s heading, neglectful of who she has and what’s waiting for her. All she cares about is finding peace within her, a peace she thinks doesn’t exist anywhere but where she’s coming from, unaware that where she’s going has an abundance of what she seeks. At the moment, all she sees is a navy blue, orange and blue sky, which she considers native to where she’s coming from, finding solace in the idea that it accompanies her to what she considers to be a tempestuous place. As she descends, she reflects, ultimately landing in undesired territories. ________________________________________________________________ “It no work” Mami says, almost as if she’s ready to give up. She’s been struggling to put her seatbelt on for the past three minutes, but this is nothing new. If I keep doing it for her, she’s never going to learn. Last time, we were at a WalMart parking lot and she was clinking the seatbelt, yelling out of frustration “ETA BAINA NO SIRBE” until I could no longer stand to watch and did it for her. Finally, I hear a click, so I start the car and begin reversing out of the driveway. “Cuidao!” she yells out; I slam the brakes. I wish her voice wasn’t so loud. “Coño Mami, I know what I’m doing! Relax!” I proceed with caution, nothing over 15 MPH. I know the cars behind me are wishing women weren’t allowed to drive, but they’ll be alright. I imagine this must be illegal – driving under the speed limit must be dangerous. But I have to wing it so Mami can keep her paranoia to herself. What I never understood is how a woman who used to ride in the back of a pick-up truck could possibly be scared of a car with functional seatbelts. She would ride in the back of that truck for hours to get from La Capital to El Polvazo. How she never fell out while the driver took those wide turns at the edge of the mountains is beyond me. The only road that was paved around the mountain was narrow and only consisted of one lane, so when there were two cars heading 19
the Anthologist
towards each other, an accident was definitely going to happen. There was nothing to stop the cars from falling off the road either. There were no fences, no railings, so if your car tipped over, you, your car, and anyone in the car would fall into the canyon, never to be seen or heard of again. It was rumored that Pipe, who had arrived from the States unannounced hoping to surprise his abandoned wife and kids, was pushed off the road by a driver who was getting fellatio from a girl who sucked the sense of “proceed with caution” out of him. Poor Pipe and his rented Acura SUV fell into the canyon, leaving behind a family who hadn’t heard from him since he left El Polvazo to go to Nueva Yol. “Tranquila Mami, there aren’t any canyons over here.” I start speeding up and I can feel her reaching for the handle. Hoping to get her mind off of my driving, I turn on the radio. An old bachata is on, the Dominican blues. The way Mami is in sync with every note, the words couched in the soothing sound of her voice, teleports me to another place. Suddenly I’m driving towards the cerulean horizon, past the fields of uncultivated rice, past the burned down tobacco fields, right into Mami’s Polvazo. The car in front of me abruptly stops and my foot slams into the brakes. Mami and I jerk forward but the seatbelt restrains us back into place. Before she gets the chance to say anything I tell her, “Safety measures.” She starts going through her purse, but I doubt she’ll find her vile of holy water with that cluster fuck she has going on in there. When I hear stories about Mami when she was younger, I am told tales of a brave, headstrong woman who fell in love with a field worker. She wasn’t scared to fall in love with the man who would run out on her once he found out she was pregnant; she wasn’t reaching for the holy water then. I guess that’s why she turned to God. After Papi ran out on her, she needed another man to occupy her time with. Her sisters had husbands, but Mami had God. God would never leave her. He was there for her when she would curse Papi’s name and cry into her pillow so I wouldn’t hear her. God was there with her when she would stand in line to receive the two pounds of rice the government was giving away to the poor and pitiful. And when the tin roof collapsed after a night of heavy raining, God was there to be thanked for saving us from death. Such a shame that one loses their sense of self once a man comes along, People say Mami hasn’t been the same since Papi had his way with her. I believe them. There’s 20
Spring 2014
no way a woman could possibly be as silent as she is. Sometimes, if you pay very close attention and focus real hard, you can hear her moving about in the house. She doesn’t speak unless she feels the need to say something, and usually when she feels such need it is when she feels that I’m about to put her in a dangerous situation, so her voice sounds like roaring lions compared to her usual tone of silence. As I approach the travel agency, Mami, who’s looking out the window to make sure no one hits our car, says, “I think ju should come.” A little taken aback by her suggestion, I fix my eyes on the road. “For what? I don’t know anyone over there.” “But ju have family. Maybe ju like it if ju try.” “I don’t see the point in me going.” “Ju father wants to see ju.” I put my right signal on and turn into the parking lot. I inch past every car, hoping to find a close spot. I find parking all the way at the end of the lot by the green trash bins. She has no trouble taking off her seat belt now, but I bet when she comes back she’ll be struggling with it all over again. “Mami, don’t forget, you want the round-trip to Santiago.” “Why ju no come in with me?” “You don’t need me. I’ll just wait for you in the car.” She opens the door, gets out, and maneuvers herself through the cars to get to the building. I change the radio station hoping to find something upbeat. All of the stations are on commercials, so I leave the radio on 103.5 FM and just let it rock. A commercial with an animated man comes on saying, “What are you getting your father this Father’s Day? Come down to Sal’s Auto Parts and...” “Father’s Day” I think to myself, “what has a father ever done for me?” I start to think about Mami’s comment. There’s no way Papi wants to see me. If he wanted to see me he would’ve been there when I was born, when the only one that was there other than my mom to hold me was my grandma because my grandpa was too ashamed of his daughter. I don’t even know what he looks like; Mami never showed me a picture and I stopped asking about him when I was seven and realized she wasn’t going to tell me anything about him. When I was 12 she slipped, she told me his 21
the Anthologist
name: Ernesto. I asked her, “Who’s Ernesto?” and she said, “Tu Papi.” In my mind, my father was God; that’s who Mami said helped to raise me and took care of me so that nothing bad would happen. But apparently, I actually had a real father that everyone but me has seen. I begin to toy with the thought of meeting him. Maybe he’s sorry and wants to apologize for all of the years lost. Maybe he’s ready to love me and wants a second chance. Or maybe he just wants to see me so he can tell my mom that I can’t possibly be his daughter because I look nothing like him. Maybe I should take up Mami’s offer. Maybe I should go. I turn off my car, take my seat-belt off and open my door. As I begin to step out, I begin to feel absurd. So I get right back in the car and continue to wait for Mami to come out.
22
Spring 2014
Untitled Jessica Bagtas
When the Indian landmass folded into the Eurasian, earth rose. One of the grandest mountain ranges formed. The world was never the same. When two people’s hands fold together, I think of the Himalayas.
23
the Anthologist
Ol Doinyo Lengai Martin King This 24
piece is sponsored by student
Jasmeet Bawa
f o r i n cl u s i o n i n t h i s p u bl i c a t i o n
Spring 2014
Hunch
on the
Back
of an Intuition.
Emily McMaster I want something more substantial than stale menthols taking up the space between my lips usually reserved for scathing remarks about the way you say my name so often it’s morse code It becomes a genie borne from smoke into the dungeon that is our two bedroom apartment just north of Flushing. ready to grant the three wishes we’ve been promised by Hollywood logic. I wish for a love I can’t possess from boys across the Subway; they like to look too pretty. A romance that lasts three or four stops it isn’t enough. I want to grow old with you, green eyed, brown haired dream in a blue oxford shirt. I wish for glory without celebrity. Sitting at home, in the socks Mom always disapproved of They don’t match, they don’t fit. I want people to worship me Like Saint Stylites Sitting prettily in his six story walk-up. Away from everyone I wish for nothing I can get by There are wars, plagues, sacrificial marriages. And if there is one thing I know I have it’s the choice to leave you and your glow-in-the-dark skeleton briefs. I am not Jesus And I will not sacrifice myself for your sins, my dear, my darling, Goodbye. 25
the Anthologist
Inside Outside Matt Naples Fourteen people follow person inside. Hollow outside, narrow creak swims Touching moss on blouse, we drift Like mice-gnomes nibbling weekends. Fourteen people swallow person in time. Hollow inside, arrow street sign Destructs our faces, we mix Like tiger-lion fornications. Dabble Dabble / Scribble Dibble: do. I am fur branch on concrete––nice To meet you too. Do you like moves? For I am more than capable Of opening revolving doors.
26
Spring 2014
untitled
Tiffany Lu 27
the Anthologist
Tin Foil Alexander Grillo I only wish there were more to say. I travel miles for you; With ritualistic devotion, I seek fulfillment. You never fail me. I remember my first time; I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I went overboard; You taught me balance. I learned how to make it perfect. I learned how to take my time and make it last. Each time you presented yourself to me, I would rip off your cold veil; In an animalistic fervor, I would devour until I could no more. I have tried facsimiles, and none could compete with you. Damn my ventripotence; I lack proper self-control. The crux of my day; The thought of indulging in you pulls me though the anguish of labor. I’ve tried to enhance the experience of you: I had learned that there is no way to perfect perfection. That is why I adore you: You are simple; my enjoyment remains unabated by any circumstance. You will not belie my trust; Your composition, far from contrived. But all good things must come to an end, for too much of anything can yield no good. I have dipped in the lakes of the Garden of Eden for too long. For you see, I have become internally dormant. My health has taken its toll: I can no longer expunge what I have consumed. You have constricted my internal flow. The last thing I want is an infringement of what we shared, But it is best for me; no, us. I am young, I have the rest of my life to destroy my body, To dismantle my God-given composition. 28
Spring 2014
I cannot put all my eggs in one basket, Pardon the cliché, for I know you are more deserving. I promise we will meet again; I just cannot continue this every other day. I will always remember waiting for the others to disperse; I would instinctively recite my most prized poetry. I always made one bigger than they could roll I watched anxiously as they suffocated you; Don’t worry my dear, I’ll free you soon! They would wrap you up, in that harsh tin foil, And brand it with the “C” inside the circle. I will never forget your delectability. Maybe this is my fault: I overindulged on the wrong ingredients. Maybe one day I’ll be in better health. When my organs regain strength, I will be back for you, my dearest Chipotle.
29
the Anthologist
Echoes Lucas Rheed Over the line at 3am, you said,
I’m here.
You can’t turn back time, but you know we’ll keep trying. Anything you need from me.
30
Spring 2014
“There’s this sinking feeling in the pit of my chest. I’m choking on sand and sort of anchored by fear. I am the edge of the earth that is sinking beneath me. I want to explain how it feels, but it doesn’t get better.”
“I want to be run through muddy grass, to be bled through someone’s veins and turn red at my first taste of oxygen. I want to be that comfort that is familiar and shocking each and every time. Every time like a new feeling. Every time unlike the first.”
“You know, it’s this time of night that always gets to me. This time that’s a longing for someone— or something. It’s these stars that are burning my fingertips. I want to be hung up on a wall and shown off to all your friends. Look at me in the darkness and tell me I’m beautiful at four a.m. Carry me in your wallet, like I always do for you. Tell me you miss me sometimes when I feel myself disappearing.”
31
the Anthologist
You get quiet. What is it?
I’m sorry to say that I don’t feel a thing.
Strange how thin we can be around this time of night. Is this really happening?
Will you still be here?
Always, I say, barely believing it myself.
32
Spring 2014
I want to be the reason the Earth shakes I want to feel your voice before I hear it to echo to be the sky.”
“I swear, somewhere, a plane has crashed into the side of an icy mountain. I want to be there. I want to cascade down arteries. Did you feel that, too?”
“That’s a shame. I am your avalanche of catastrophic portions. I am the unstoppable force crashing into the immovable stone.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.
We’ll see in the morning.”
“Will you?”
33
the Anthologist
fragments.
Shayla Lawz Everyone seems afraid of never finding the one. Slipping rings on broken fingers, rose petals on a filthy mattress: fantasies overgrown. I am terrified of finding that other halves won’t make us whole.
34
Spring 2014
Child Tiffany Lu 35
the Anthologist
The Neighborhood Shuffle Matt Naples My clown face paint today ran out of clown face paint. So I resorted to howling at my neighbors. They heard me and called their friends, parents, and other close relatives, after calling the police. I didn’t mind. It was a lot of fun. Plus their dog was licking my left leg. I orgasmed. Or, at least I think I did. Oh well. There’s always tomorrow.
36
Spring 2014
Mr. Alarmey Rides
his
White Horse
Radcliffe Bent Prefatory Letter to Sir Brooks: Good sir, what you are about to read is written in the “dark conceit,” known as allegory. As I am almost certain that someone lesser than yourself will misread it, allow me to explain its meaning. The main character, the sloth, is inspired by my rival, and does not represent patience, or the, “slow and steady” approach to learning, and, reasoning. The sloth’s name is Devin, and the narrator calls it, “it,” for no reason, other than he (the narrator) feels like it. Whenever you read the word, “It,” (usually capitalized, though not always), Devin is being referred to. The overall theme of the story is a dream, as the kids say. The beeps that come along, are an alarm clock, hence, “Mr. Alarmey, riding his white horse.” By no means, is this a biblical allusion. My writing contains no allusions—no, not one. There are no attempts at humor in this work. The name “Devin,” does not mean “divine,” and the words of the sloth and the narrator should not be taken as odes to the sublime. And this tale is not dedicated to ambiguity, and it is not open to interpretation. The spiders, alligators, and snakes do not represent states of the human condition. I did not have sexual relations with that woman. ________________________________________________________________
“Fix up, now, slothy-boy, there’s work to be done” “Coward! I’ve told you, I am woman” “Whatever you say—boy. There is work to be done.” The alligator spins round; pauses; and peers back at the villain, “The river calls your name, sloth” “Damn the river!” it replied, appallingly. “But I love the jungle,” it thought, “Yet still, I hate it.” As he sat on his scorched, ancient loft, he looked and despaired. The ground was barren, the sun was cold, the blood reeked. He opened his mouth, “Regardless, Nathaniel, a sloth must sleep. And, 37
the Anthologist
narrator, it’s “she,” not he!” It is testy: let us see it die. The alligator moved a few paces, “Devin, Devin, the damned sloth,” he started, “and it’s “Natey-boi,” to you; only my friends call me Nathaniel.” He started to cry, “The mere sight of you upsets my stomach. I’m going to go murder, and you just sit there, sleeping.” “I lie, not sit,” it said, indignant “Even your grammar is poor, my word. Take a look over yonder.” It looked and saw the barren wilderness, the red river, pallid and perverse. Across the water, were three: a baby duck, a squid, and a pervert. “That’s my dinner,” said Natey-boy, with a wry smile. He has such a lovely smile, you know? With that, he turned and sped towards the innocents. Their cries were piteous. “They had it coming, anyways,” said It, “Mortimer! My handkerchief.” “Yes, master,” said the blind assi—no, that’s not right. There is no Mortimer, only the Devi… it. Its mind ran in circles, in waves, and pools of blood, and torture. “Why don’t they want to die? That’s the question. And they will not answer it. Only I, the sloth, hold the answers. The grave is warm, the bed is warm. The sun is hot, but what of it? I’ll eat it. I longue, and I longue, but I’m esteemed as naught. But why? What do they do? Nothing. Of course, it was nothing. Why didn’t I see it before? Will they last? Of course, not. Is not the grave warm? Is not my bed, warm? Aren’t the coals hot? What know they of sleep—of incubation? You see, Nonsense, there’s only you and I…” It glanced at a clock that wasn’t there: “I almost forgot, I’m dying! Good! I might as well commit it!” “They don’t know what is my tree, my oak” The axe was drawn. It bled, it fell. God is dead? The sloth is dead? That’s what they’re saying then, is 38
Spring 2014
it? He is an awesome sloth, she is a slothsome sloth—pardon me, I’ve got a lisp. There were thirteen snakes at the wake. They were invited. They had blood on their hands, but they were mere men, what do you expect? The spiders came, the brood, led by the master. Its eyes were black, its blood was blue. The game was begun, it was cannibalism. I ate them all. But if I didn’t, the grave would have. It has hunger, you know. It will be fed. When it was cut down, there was a clang; there was a clamor; there was a crowd. The vultures arrived, they liked their blood well-done. Nathaniel cried. He was the only one. The ground was scorched. But the dead lived, and the live died. “But none of this really happened,” cried Charlie, “the sloth died. The sloth did nothing. D’d-devin was a fraud,” They spit on him. “Do you really believe this, Jeremy?” it asked. “Do I?” Jeremy, replied. “I don’t know: we lie, we do not know.” Jeremy was a spotted, Cocker Spaniel. He, of course, was a bastard. But a good one. He only wanted to die, and he only wanted to live. He did both, forever. But it did nothing. “Why do worms eat the books, Jeremy?” it asked. “They don’t, clown; they eat the children” That got it ticked off, so, it slept. “Incubation, they call it lazy. What merit do they possess? What know they of science, of art, of proportion? Nothing! But I, I know, I’ve studied, I’ve studied it all! All of it. I’ve tread the wilderness. The graves and the cities. I’ve dined with pariahs, and poodles. I’ve listened to the manic, the meek; the witty, the weak. They’re all too quiet. It’s all very tragic, you see. The hammer thinks himself pure, as pure the anvil. Both are black. Both is white.” What was that beeping, I heard it thrice. 39
the Anthologist
“They want clarification, but they don’t listen, they have cancer of the brain. Mine is of action. Mine shall regress: theirs, perpetuate. The first to the grave does not go.” From the perch, the villain could see everything. It could see the sun rise and fall. The earth turn, and burn. The dead leave and return—the brain hurt, it swelled, it grew, it waxed. The bark reached high, but most misread the darkness. They thought it irreligious, ungodly, egregious. They thought it, themselves. “Yet, the tower must be built, and then destroyed. There is only one height.” And Natey-boy responded, “My appetite grows, sloth. You look tasty.” His nothingness of a neck peered upward. Beep thrice. I never wanted it to end this way. But what control had I, over it? One does not rush the artist. Then why does the clock tick? The cesium atoms, my dear boy, they oscillate. Poor reader, tell me. Can it rise? The sun? No, the daughter. The what? It. What of it, man? What do I care for sloths, and lackwits, and traitors? There is work to be done on the earth! Don’t you see I’m weeping? Don’t you see the blood on our hands? Can’t you see it! You lie there, and spew your poison, with your hideous, bloodfountain pen—I work. Do you understand what that means? Of course, you don’t, you’re nonsense! You are illegitimate! You are nothing. Don’t you see the tower of stone? Don’t you see the millions? Don’t you think we want rest? The desert is not loving, oh, no. Yet still, we tread it, with almighty courage. With due diligence, we are the— Quiet. There it is now. 40
Spring 2014
What is? Devin? The sloth? But that doesn’t make sense— Beep thrice. Nathaniel, the bomb. But I haven’t even brushed my teeth—
41
the Anthologist
42
00 Spring 2014
trigger warning* Trigger Warnings began as an internet phenomena and has since became popularized across social justice and feminist communities. When art and literature depict scenes of violence, whether physical, emotional or sexual, that can stimulate a “triggering” response, a “Trigger Warning” or “TW” should be used. “Triggering” refers to a person’s negative experience reminiscent of their personal trauma. Trigger Warnings offer people, in every point of their healing, access to public space by giving them tools to navigate explicit content. Tatiana Ades Women’s Center Coalition President
For The Anthologist, these Trigger Warnings help cultivate a safe reading experiences that separates artistic content that may possess triggering content. Our editorial staff uses these warnings in order to help guide our readers, and to foster a system that allows readers full control over their own reading experience. Philip Wythe Senior Editor
23
43
the Anthologist
[TW: I m a g e s
Child Nestor Collazo i held the dark in the black of my eyes all the dead skin, like feathers, surrounded me it was so quiet a spark, a flash of red a child died in the blade light he was crying i was crying
44
of
Child Death]
Spring 2014
[TW: R a p e C u l t u r e ]
Exploited S.S. I. How could it have happened? How could you let it happen? My friend Leslie asks me this. Her elbows are on her knees and her shoulders are hunched, almost as if she’s apologizing. Her nose is bumpy from sports and her fingers are jammed from handling so many softballs and volleyballs. In the last thirty years at our high school, she’s the only girl who has ever (successfully) tried out for varsity football. Her father’s a police officer and her two older brothers are Marines. You could say that she comes by her toughness naturally, but I know that she secretly longs for a boyfriend who won’t be scared off by her male relatives. She reads Vogue religiously, earmarking all the fashion pages, and hides all the issues under her bed. But when she’s in public? Different story. “I would have fought him off,” she says bluntly. “He didn’t have a knife or a gun, right? So you could have just clocked him a good one. Slash at his eyes with your nails. Get him in the balls and while he’s gasping, you run like hell.” She snorts and shakes her head. “You have to want to survive, you know?” Now she looks at me expectantly. She’s leaning forward in her seat, her eyebrows winging slightly at the end. She keeps doing this every two minutes or so. I think she wants me to talk, but I don’t know what she wants me to say. I don’t know what she wants me to do. “Well,” she says after another moment has passed. I’m still sitting there in my pajamas and she’s dressed in her gym workout clothes. Anytime now, her left knee is going to bounce up and down in a furious rhythm. “You should take some self-defense classes. It’ll get you out of the house, anyway. Give you something to do.” My lips turn up in the barest of smiles. The gesture feels so crooked, so foreign that I know it’s not coming out right. Despite having taken AP and Honors classes in our high school, she’s not bright enough to see 45
the Anthologist
through it. “So I’m gonna go to the gym,” she says. “I’ll check in with you tomorrow, okay? You be sure to take your vitamins and eat to keep up your energy level. All right?” She doesn’t wait for a response, but gets up from her chair with a poorly concealed sense of vindication. She has done her friendship duty, and now that she’s assuaged her conscience, she can run her lungs out on the treadmill all to her heart’s content. It never seems to have occurred to her that a hug would have been more effective. Before she leaves, she turns back to me. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I forgot. I can’t be here tomorrow because I have to take my car to the shop. But I’ll call you.” Sure you will, I think.
II. Can you tell me everything down to the littlest detail? This is so interesting! The daffodils Erin brings are so yellow that I can’t stop staring at them. She’s thoughtfully arranged them on my night table, even using her own vase and filling it with water, so I don’t have to get up from bed. She has a tin filled with her justly famous peanut butter bars and chocolate chip cookies. They’re my favorites, and she knows it. “A little something,” she says with a sympathetic smile. “Just in case you ever get hungry. No offense, but your mother’s cooking sucks.” She bends down and hugs me as if she’ll never let me go, and despite myself, my eyes start to burn. What Leslie didn’t do for me, Erin now does. She shows no hesitation as she kicks off her shoes and hops onto the bed. Everyone else avoids me as if I have a contagious disease, but Erin puts her arm around my shoulders and squeezes for a second or two before retreating. 46
Spring 2014
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks. My lips part in surprise. Talk about it? My parents can barely look at me without crying themselves. Late at night I think I hear something that sounds like a wounded animal, and I suspect it’s my mother. And yet I can’t bring myself to go downstairs to comfort her. “I...don’t know,” I say finally, my voice hoarse. “You don’t have to,” Erin says. “I’m just throwing it out there as an option.” She touches my knee lightly to show that she’s not mad at me for not jumping at her offer, and then she reaches for the TV remote. She’s rented the latest romantic comedy, so I can just sit there and she won’t be offended. Against my will, my eyes stray to the daffodils. I can’t remember the last time Doug bought me flowers. I haven’t seen him. “It was dark,” I blurt out. Erin fumbles with her remote. “Oh honey,” she says. “I... Yeah, you go on.” She mutes the sound and looks at me eagerly. That’s what stops me cold in my tracks. She is smiling and nodding, but in the back of her eyes I see that ghoulish curiosity. How hard did I fight back? What exactly did he do to me? How did it feel? Those are questions she won’t ask, but all the same, they’re there in the avaricious shine of her eyes, the curve of her slightly parted lips. I am her newest rented movie, and she has put me on play.
III. You need to forgive him. Not forgiving a person is a sin in the eyes of God. Sharon holds my hands tight in her grip. The wedding ring she wears cuts into my flesh, and perhaps I wince, but I revel in that sensation. At least the pain shows that I’m not dead. I can still feel something even if it’s only fleeting. I can’t seem to feel anything lately, not even anger or 47
the Anthologist
boredom. I am a reservoir of emotion that has been drained. “Dear our heavenly Father,” she says, her eyes sliding shut in a reverence. Her eyelashes tremble against her skin, so light are they that I think she looks like a colorless rabbit. Back then, I used to close my eyes when I prayed, but now I don’t like the images imprinted on the inside of my eyelids. “We ask You to fill us with the Holy Spirit as we seek Your will in this matter. Let us find wisdom in Your words. Guide us to the right answer. We pray in Jesus’ name. Amen.” “Amen,” I mutter. I wrestle my hands out of Sharon’s grasp. I didn’t ask to be here, but my parents took her aside and whispered into her ear because she’s the pastor’s wife. She discussed it with her husband and they all agreed it would be for the best if she counseled me alone. Because she didn’t have a dick to hurt me with. Obviously. Her leather-clad Bible sits on her lap. When she opens to the Psalms, I can see various highlighted verses. She’s got bookmarks everywhere, and if I look more closely I can read the scribbled notes in the margins. Sharon takes the Bible seriously, and I decide I’ll ask her something that’s been bothering me for a while. “Do I have to forgive him?” I ask. Her face is grave as she nods. “Yes. It’s our Christian duty to forgive those who trespass against us. You remember the Lord’s Prayer? Even when he was dying on the cross, Jesus forgave the thief on the other cross, you remember? That’s one of the hardest things about our spiritual walk with God - we must forgive those even if they don’t deserve it. Seventy-seven times.” She doesn’t say all of it at once, but I know the answer already. I knew it even before I asked. When I was ten years old, I won an award from the church for reading the Bible whole. When I was fifteen, I won another one for memorizing so many verses. I know where to find the accounts she’s cited. Believe me, I know. 48
Spring 2014
“Do I really have to?” I ask. Even now, I’m still hoping for a biblical loophole somewhere, one that’ll prove I’m not a bad Christian girl. One that will cleanse the filth from me. “I’ve always obeyed God about other stuff...” “It doesn’t matter,” she says. “We’re all the same in God’s eyes.”
IV. I think we need to see other people. It’s not you, it’s me. I need to feel human again, so I agree readily when my boyfriend Doug says he’ll take me out to our favorite restaurant near the shopping center. It’s a place that looks pretty cheap from the outside and when you walk into the place it doesn’t look any better, what with the cracked vinyl seats and the dingy tables and the outdated music, but their cooking is out of the world. No Atkins diet, no South Beach diet, no conscious new-fad diet allowed here. Just some mind-blowing cooking. Doug’s laughter seems forced, but he didn’t recoil when he handed me into the car, so that’s a good sign. He makes bad jokes about the food. Normally I’d sass him right back, but tonight I’m just grateful I’m dressed in clean clothes. I’ve showered and I’ve put on some lip gloss, so I don’t appear like Death warmed over. It’s almost our two-year anniversary, so I know I’ll need to do better then, but right now I’m good. “You want anything?” he says as he scans the menu for dessert. “Apple pie a la mode? Cheesecake or... hmm...” I shake my head. Usually I go for a hamburger or something filling, but I got a salad instead. And miracle of miracles, I actually finished it! But I know if I eat a dessert, I run the risk of throwing it up, and I don’t want to ruin the night for Doug. He’s stood by me all this while, so I need to make the night nice for him. “Let’s just get out of here,” I say. “Let’s go to the lake.” We’re on the sandy beach under the cover of the full moon and 49
the Anthologist
stars. There’s even a gentle breeze that offsets the summer heat. I kick off my shoes and reach for Doug with a mindless desperation. I just don’t want to think about it anymore. I just want to feel something. And God help me, I’ve seen how other girls look at him. He kisses me gently at first, and then with increasing urgency as I weave my fingers through his hair. This is nice. This is tolerable. This is okay. All muscles in my body freeze when he tries to lower me to the ground. I flip up on my heels and shove him off. It’s so quick that I don’t even know what I just did until I see him crouching a few inches away. He’s looking at me with such resignation in his expression. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood. Just like that night, I remember. “This isn’t going to work anymore,” he says softly. “I’ve tried and I’ve tried... and I just can’t do it. I guess I’m not strong enough.”
V. It never happened, do you hear me? You’re fine now. It is the one-year “anniversary” - if you can even call it that. It’s one that I’ve never wanted to celebrate and I never will, but today is when I lose all traces of my identity because I’m just one of the soul-numbing statistics. I debate with myself what to do, but in the end I decide to go to classes because I’ll scream if I have to wallow in my memories. So I’m there listening to the lectures and listening to my classmates. One is talking about hooking up with her old crush from high school and another one is babbling about his football team. No one knows about what happened to me, so I don’t have to put up with awkward sympathy. It’s exactly what I wanted, but at the same time I keep an eye on my cell phone and on my email account. I wonder if any of my friends will even remember. I don’t want them to hug me or make a big deal out of it, but I 50
Spring 2014
just want... something. When my phone rings, I find out it’s my mother on the other end. She says she’s at my dorm and she’s brought food from home. My favorite dishes, she says. Her voice is warm as always, and I almost cry because it’s my mother. Of course she’d remember. We hug when we see each other. She looks good, I think. The short haircut takes a few years off her actual age, and the bright blouse flatters her. And if I’m honest, I probably look good too. I’ve lost some weight, but it was all in the right places. Maybe my eyes don’t sparkle and maybe my demeanor isn’t as friendly, but I do a decent job of pretending I’m human. “Mom,” I say as I hug her. “Mommy.” Now that I’ve seen her, I abruptly deflate like a balloon. I need to talk about it with her because no one else is talking about it. No one will say it out loud. “Mom,” I say again. “I want to-” Just like that, she knows. Her face tightens until the bone structure is prominent under the skin. “It’s all in the past,” she spits out. “You’re fine now, Daddy and I are fine now, what need is there to talk about it? Let’s just leave it at that. You’re fine, aren’t you?” For a moment I can’t breathe. My heart is hurting so bad that I want to rub the ache out, but I know it wouldn’t do a damned thing. If I could go back in time... if I could shake my mother back and forth until I get the truth out of her... if I could... Even if I make her talk, she’ll never say what I want her to say. “Yes,” I say. “Yes, I’m fine.”
51
the Anthologist
[TW: D r u g U s a g e , D r u g A b u s e ]
My
journey through the smoke
Sonya Schement Led me to the other side of the mirror. Instead of looking in I was looking out At all the distorted shapes Of my mind. Willingly I walked into the fog That rose like ghosts from the fire. The clouds spun me Until I was lost in the disease. Puffs of pleasure were past Engulfing the ever wanting. I drown in an ocean of haze Stuck in the daze. Never wanting to be found. Gone from the world Of reality Brought to the world Of enlightenment Deeper and deeper The fog lured me in. I wanted to know more. Mislead to a garden built Of smoke and mirrors. The forbidden fruit tastes As sweet as they say. Until it rots. A walkway of pure powder Drew a line To the house of mirrors. Purity never smelled so sweet. 52
Spring 2014
So forgotten in the fog I emerged in an ash like snow. Trying to escape the haunting images in the mirrors. One illusion lead to yet another. Dead end into the mirror again, again, again. My journey through the smoke Led me to the other side of the mirror. Running from my distorted mind I found the backdoor To my escape.
53
the Anthologist
The
An Overview of Anthologist Literary Process
Like writing, there is no one “correct” way to critique literature. Across literary publications, editorial work comes in various styles. Some approaches value communication and literary discourse; others value revision and feedback. At The Anthologist, our editorial meetings value feedback as an organic, and natural, process. Throughout our literary magazine, our editorial staff meetings are based around one key concept: the necessity of literary discourse within our editorial critiques. Throughout both the Fall and Spring semesters, The Anthologist editorial staff meets once per week, usually on Tuesday nights. Our editorial staff usually begins each meeting without discussing any of our magazine’s submissions at all. Instead, our editor-in-chief opens our meetings with a literary discussion including a variety of topics and literary genres. For instance, during one meeting last Fall, we deconstructed Florence + the Machine’s “Bird Song,” from the band’s 2009 album “Lungs.” We analyzed the song as a musical work of poetry, and discussed Florence Welch’s use of rhythm and imagery in order to convey her speaker’s gothic experiences. Likewise, we also often ask lighthearted questions, in order to break the ice and share a few literary interests among our editors. During one meeting this semester, we opened by asking each of our editor’s, “What famous artist would you bring to a dinner?” We laughed and joked about each other’s responses, as “Hemingway,” “Dali,” and other names floated throughout the room. One of the most important aspects of these literary discussions is their simplicity. Discussing literature is, after all, a deep passion for many of our editors. However, during our college careers, other concerns often distract our ability to focus on literary critique. By discussing and engaging with literary topics before our submissions, these sorts of conversations help prepare our critical thinking skills–and ready ourselves for the night’s submissions.
54
Spring 2014
After we finish our opening discussion, our Editor-in-Chief ushers us onto the main function of our meetings: reviewing literary submissions. However, as an editorial body, our editors do not simply examine each submission and make an immediate decision. Rather, we engage ourselves with each work. As we approach each piece, we often begin with simple or minor observations that we notice. Sometimes, these can be as straightforward as the use of punctuation and capitalization within a submission. However, with each observation, our editor-in-chief probes further into these conclusions. If one editor finds a specific word to be jarring, for instance, our editor-in-chief might redirect this observation back to the editorial staff as a discussion question. From there, each editor can add their own perspective and critiques–in turn, formulating a general consensus about a given piece’s successes and shortcomings. Our approach to literary critique essentially molds a dialogue between editors. When one editor makes an observation, another editor responds with their own perspective. As these observations build on each other, these conclusions create a discourse which allows The Anthologist’s editorial officers to conceptualize each submission’s core themes. This creates an editorial climate where small observations snowball into deep literary critiques: ones which deconstruct and analyze each piece’s narrative structure, thematic content, and literary characteristics. And, in certain ways, these discussions represent a democratic approach to literary publishing–one which creates a forum that equally values the voices of all its members, from every field of study. Philip Wythe Senior Editor
55
the Anthologist
56
Spring 2014
theantho.com theanthologist.tumblr.com @theanthologist1 facebook.com/rutgers.anthologist 57