the
nthologist
Editor in Chief: Neha Peri Senior Editor: Charlie Pecorella Associate Editors: Lauren Best, Miriam Kim Treasurer: Sreeja Pavuluri Social Media: Mikayla Luchin Marketing: Nicole Adamousky Copyeditors: Alisha Lekh, Emily Borowski, Jason Levin
Note from the Editor Quarantines, lockdowns, social distancing, and the coronavirus. Those words have defined the past year and a half of our lives, as they have, quite literally, flipped our worlds upside down. Classes, meetings, and interviews have left us stressed and Zoom fatigued, and many of us, myself included, have turned to art to find some peace. Over the past year, we learned how quickly life can change, and how unpredictable those changes can be. Months of political upheaval and confrontations with privilege have unveiled a new world that is no longer comfortable. These works capture loss, longing, and the overwhelming hours of reflection we have all grown accustomed to, through this pandemic. I see them as a chance to dig deeper and explore old and dormant feelings, and an opportunity to learn more about ourselves than we ever imagined possible. This collection chronicles the past year of our lives, through the roller coaster of ups and downs that our quarantine thoughts have brought us. Falling in love, falling out of love, dealing with heightened mental health issues, going on this journey of knowing and unknowing as we all were forced to adjust to our “new normal”. I invite you to sit with these pieces for a while. Soak them in. Let them be a reminder of the power of art to facilitate connection even in times of isolation. Enjoy, Neha Peri (Editor-in-Chief)
drowning mermaid Allison Gellerstein
when i found that first coral reef i tried to tell you but all that came out was garbled and waterlogged you looked utterly confused and with endless things catching my eye i continued drifting across the sea floor storing up stories to share with you when i finally came up for air. i started sinking more than i thought more than you're comfortable with maybe more than is "right" maybe more than is healthy and even though it’s too intense sometimes there’s no way to come up for air. sometimes it's dark down here without the light of your laugh escaping from the restraints of polite conversation and it's hard to admit that i still want to lose myself in your sarcastic sparkling grin when i know buried under the sands of denial that while you’ve been on fast forward time slowed down here in the deep and our reference points won't match if i come up to breathe your air. occasionally every now and then there’s a spot where the sun breaks through and i can make out your eyes by blearily squinting mine
and you pierce my leaking lungs with your worried creases and anxious lines because i don't think you understand that i need to see in these colors and coming up for air isn't an option. i can only swim down further and hope there's a bright portal that will take me back to your waiting arms as you join me down here in the dim brilliance of the deep where everything refracts light and rainbows just enough to keep me from coming up for air. it scares me that i'm scaring you submerging in tangled, twisting doubt the unquestionable goodness of us miring our easy back and forth banter in the stilted formalities of distance please never doubt in your fragile heart that i want to return to you it's just that after so long i don't know how to come up for air anymore.
white chucks Jason Levin
as a kid, my kicks were cornflower blue and iris, even bought a pair of blood red just-do-it’s to impress the jock-straps – went and painted a pair of chucks prince purple and seafoam blue one day (that impressed ‘em) arbor winters were grey and timbs were worn to survive so that’s what I donned those years
white sneakers never crossed my mind until one of those overpriced shops sold me a pair fled country & girl with nothing on but white kicks and an unhealthy sense of naivety sat at the western wall drawing in moleskin navy notebook – ate crepes in paris and read about surrealism at streetside cafe – spent a few nights in the netherlands: all I remember is bad sex & good art – a week in italy running through the ruins and eating mozzarella and masquerading love – lost a lot of money those years – lost more brain cells – forgot the white kicks too on the beach in a city – well, I forgot the name of that but it was the one where angels chain-smoke cigarettes – it’s been 4 years & I’ve got brown and suntan shoes on now, got the money back & more, a few of the brain cells but in the back of my closet, got a pair of white do-it’s in case the day comes
Empty Railway Station Alexander Barrett
Sticky gum left under the seat, high pitched screams as the wheels grind to a stop. Brown paper bags and flickering fluorescent lights. Knees pressed against faceless men, women with no stomachs, Black holes peering into their newspapers and babies. Wipe the sweat, foggy windows and sagging coats. Indistinct chattering over the intercom. Doors slide open. More faceless men and naked children—too many—the cool air will help. Empty railway station, wrappers and cigarette butts, crisp air. Rows of yellow lights, trees and their veins. Solemn fields, hidden figures. Old boots on the tracks, beetles scuttling over—too cold.
Faceless men passing in the windows. You’ve been here before, this empty railway station, Not knowing when or exactly where it is. Rat tails and public waste. Lurid stains in the cement, the itching feeling it may have been you. Deli signs flickering light blue, lottery, cabs, sunflower seeds. Stinging wrought iron benches, chipped paint. Missing fingers, cracks under creviced shoes. Familiar rooftops, stumps where there used to be trees. Trains passing in silence, pulling in, whirling trash. Faceless men clacking their shoes against the concrete, Bustling about the empty railway station, Heading home to naked children, to no children, To women without stomachs. Handful of tickets, round trip, no times, no dates.
Straight Red Lines Alexander Barrett
This terrible little hole. Not big enough to fit a pin into. Hands ripping at the sides. Pools of water. Thick water. Down a great big hole. Screams to look both ways. Someone’s arms around you. Chapstick and caskets. Dirty dishes, dogs who sift through garbage. Telephone calls, deep silence. Delayed trains. Someone’s arms around you. If it ever gets that bad— It’s never that bad. Somebody’s little blue blanket.
Kitchens. Screaming, instruments in your ear. Screaming, someone’s arms around you. Telephone calls—deep silence. Little houses on the shore. Cigarettes. It all hurts at once. Kitchens. Garages. An empty bedroom. So much worry. One after another, after another. Balls of worry. Little blue blankets. White sheets.
Knocking on your hymen Sky Graham
Lil Yachty is the only artist I would let impregnate me. My reason is that I think you would find the transexual boywife Who carries his child Leaving this world Relatively unscathed and incredibly over-ripe. You and me are so in love I would let you put anything inside of me That list excludes DVDs, your penis, and shame. When i was 14 and
you put the revolution inside of me I understood why people touch themselves. So as i rock back and forth on my axis, Which some people call a G spot which Some people call the ceiling of a room At the end Of a hallway, I beg: Its you that i want, Heaven on Earth, I want you so fucking bad right now
The book of Matt, a family dinner Sam Sobel
Can’t help but wonder why my mother loves family dinners. Maybe it’s a Catholic thing. The image of sitting parallel, elbows and knees in communion, waiting for someone to betray us by dying too soon; refusing a resurrection. I told my mom this, and she burst out laughing, her face turning purple and red and white as if miracles were an act of the body. My sister coughed towards an empty placemat.
My dad breathed silently. I farted. We laughed like children and for a moment became them. I grabbed my father’s hand, who grabbed my mother’s hand, and so on and so forth-we scribbled prayers into each other’s palms.
In The Black Back Back Charlie Pecorella
I had to hold my stomach in. Squat clouds of soil rained on my boots Bent leather made bridges over ant hills And small pools to be brimmed with water and mosquito eggs. I was covered in chigger bites, chicken pox for the naturalist Restless red scratching, squirming scars set to germinate Beneath your first defense, these eager scabs Nurtured by moist salinity rolling like a soft stomach. I wanted my hair to sound off rustling leaves When I swung my skull like headlights rounding the curb too quickly. I knew of their bleach-white hiding spaces, an ugly thumb thrust through a paper sky. With a blind-sided eye dead-set on feverish gentleness, The greenery closed in like a curtain Midway through an opera.
I stumbled through the aisles wordlessly blocking view I bled onto the seats, I bled into the earth that cracked under my weightlessness I grew white and animated, I was a train station in a silent film, I was real life New York City I wasn’t rushed over like a rat under squealing tracks I was gentle, They had to hold my stomach Taut back home I could have spilled out On the back of their beetle backs On the back of their black beetle cars.
Plastic Bendy Straws Charlie Pecorella
I’m chewing on plastic bendy straws top to bottom with a solid stripe That used to lay along the white dress shirts fresh pressed for you Which have either been donated or handed down, and I can’t lie, I have thought about tying them into a nice neat knot, or a few knots I want to plug the iron back in to smell your mornings I’m chewing on plastic bendy straws until they have a foamy, sweet taste Like formaldehyde and cigarette ash stuck to the toilet bowl, like your Shiny black shoes with the creases that she’d given away, too, like the Talcum powder you rubbed on your neck, the Noxema you washed your face with The leftover rice -- a balancing act on your stomach I’m chewing on plastic bendy straws A solid clot you can’t break up With the stroke of a hand That won’t degrade and fade into nothing My dreaded body, a dead weight
Your footsteps are hard and sound Still along the hallway when I wake And there’s a dimple in the seat of an old train car Where you frowned soundlessly. In the Middlesex County Landfill, Saliva might still be layered thin On cheap rosary beads, And plastic bendy straws Bent by your teeth.
romanticism Erin Chang
an intense melody contains flexibility within the line drive forward with momentum their dramas of passion reminiscence motives associations that reappear to tell a story idee fixe competing priorities of sectional construction versus musical continuity deep down we are not rational connections to literary figures and depictions of contrasting social classes art resembles life life is an intimate art captured by our desire
for dissonance to resolve into perfect consonance sensorial engagement that transcends beyond our senses only music can go to the core of the soul
the stranger you know Erin Chang
A teddy bear tattered and torn Laying on the side of the road Next to the train tracks Left there by the local ice cream man Used; abused; it lays there, still A permanent smile sewed onto its face Its fur matted and smudged Stuffing dangling out of the legs Its bow crooked and torn Out of place on the head Its heart containing sadness In places where sadness shouldn’t live Invisible tears roll down its face They go silent and unnoticed It lays there thinking of the ice cream man How someone so sweet could have a frozen heart Days, weeks, months, years go by She lays there Scared, broken, and scarred No one comes by and no one sees A child’s innocence stolen By a man who promised her treats
To Inge Kiyon Cho
To Inge Inge, we cannot erase history. Memories full of Unwanted lingering hands Touching forbidden skin under skirt hems Without consent. Inge, we cannot erase pain. We cannot get rid of years Full of suffering And battles with mental demons That just won’t go away. Inge, we cannot erase time. No matter how many tear-filled nights We spend crying On someone else’s couch Just wanting to fade away. Inge, we cannot erase fear. No matter how many days are spent Avoiding and lurking in the shadows Trying to prevent the same thing From happening twice. Inge, we cannot change ourselves. No matter how much we wish we could. Our experiences Our horror stories Mold us into the person we become.
Inge, we cannot change ourselves. Inge, we shouldn’t have to.
all my tomorrows are yesterdays Alisha Lekh
All my tomorrows are yesterdays And I feel like a person inside of a person.
I’m spinning like ducks skimming a pond Even though the house is old And it cries when you dance. I am you, and you are you And you are watching me watch you. My hands are big but my fists are small Tomorrow is today, and today is yesterday On and on we’ll go like this. Coins polished to a mirror Flashing its teeth between your knuckles We’ll go see the ballerinas until we’re dizzy Do we pay for two tickets or one? I like the way that strawberries make us feel Strawberries and sugar We’ll eat until the meter runs out Little toothpicks we can take from the counter Shhh, put them in our pocket. Don’t smile You might get scared And I don’t want to be scared. We’re back to back, like books on a bookcase Play it safe Buy another mirror.
Don't worry Alisha Lekh
I always have to cry before class starts. And I keep thinking that you’re behind me That you have to do the same. “What class do you have next?”
Sometimes I even turn around And I can’t shake that I’m bleeding your hazelnut coffee Stains rung round and round and round my mugs. There’s no one to talk to anymore but the Mona Lisa above my head. She lets me talk all I want Hanging in the space between my bed and the ceiling fan She’s just the same as you and me. And she’s laughing now At the way she hears me ask what’s for dinner. Should I drop flowers at your door? The movies told me that I should I thought caskets are supposed to be black but your walls are blue I want to make sure I’ve gotten it all right Don’t worry. If I go to Shop-Rite I know I’ll see you turning the aisles I even take a cart and everything Push it around to hear the wheels tell me to stop Until the metal turns wet and hot under my palms “Sorry.” “Excuse me.” I’ve got the time now to camp in the freezer section As longs it takes, binoculars at the ready I’m no hunter, I don’t have a gun But I know I’ll see you And then I begin to think that maybe I need to go “It’s ok. I got back in time, it’s ok.” Mona sighs She’s proud of me and I hope you are too I hope you got your ice cream I hope it’s vanilla The rain at my window sounds like you tapping on your keyboard
And my tea is more tears than anything “Do you have a lot of work to do?” I hope you think about me, like I think about you.
the spaces of solitude Neha Peri
i have learnt the language of doors the embalming of symbolic locks, a piece of wood that does not quite fit into frame i have accustomed to the customs of silence the stillness that seeps into every spell sacrificing sociality for solitude distinctions between degrees of separation deciphering signs in the spaces stumbling on new ways to associate i am plagued by the simplicity of these moments bittersweet in their siphoning of safety this is not society as it should be the world is sidelined, shut behind screens dystopian fantasies are somber realities silhouettes of a played out symphony
tonight, i am Neha Peri tonight, my skin is not my death sentence. my existence is no longer resistant against the overproduction of melanin, no longer consumed with brightening creams and lightening agents, no longer prolonging the obstruction of justice for the skin i am in.
tonight i am drunk off the feeling of existing without explanation, no longer defining myself by calculation, unweighted, unbothered, unapologetic for the depravation of something i do not even owe the world. i am no longer bound by its cables and tied to the terms of my outward appearance, no longer a prisoner of pedantics, leave that to googlei am no longer a history textbook, a human calculator, the 2021 embodiment of ernest hemingway i am not your answer key or your saving grace or any other iteration of modernized cheatingtonight, i am more. more than the grease and tangled sheets of a bed i was meant to make months ago, more than the leech that breeds and multiplies for as long as it makes home in my chest, more than the insistence and consistence of past memories that won’t stay put to resttonight i am more than the elements that have turned my body to dread, more than the days i’ve spent wishing i was dead, more, than the avenues of anguish that can’t stay blocked off inside my head, tonighttonight, it is not 3am. i am not staring into a blurry mirror with liquid barely lingering on my lashes. my chest is not tight and my arms do not burn and prospect of tomorrow, at last, is undaunting. the world is not too heavy, and i, for once, am far from full. tonight, i am dancing in the rays of light that cascade down my back and frolicking in the freedom, because i am no longer under attack. my body, is no longer under attack.
tonight, i am being forgiven for the afflictions i have put myself through, acquitted for the agony that has resided in my bones for far too long, alive with the invitation of a new tomorrow absorbing its way into my skin like sunlight. tonight, i remember the nights i no longer wished to be and i appreciate them, for they have made me into the person i am today and i would not be here without those forays. i would not be here without those hours of contemplation, and, as for when contemplation blurred into introspection, i am unsure, but i am grateful. tonight, i bleed forgiveness out for every last bit of richness and drench myself in its rain. tonight, my flame has been reignited and i am dancing in the light of the past i have exorcised. and the sunshine feels warm on my shoulders and the luster of the moon is high. tonight, i am free.
Blue Waves Swept Me Away Emily Borowski I am trying hard not to love you because I shouldn’t. You told me not to. But I can’t help but think of all the places I want to show you still. I want you and I to see the waves in California, near San Francisco Bay. The waves are rustic blue, like the ink you would find in your pen, With white foaming at the top, drawing you in. I need to push you out. But still I want you and I to visit the beaches that line the New Jersey coast
So we can compare them with the waves we saw in California, how they’re alike and How they’re different. I don’t know which shoreline you’ll like better, Probably whichever one is the farthest away from where I settle and plant my roots, tying me down to grass I never stopped standing on. I think there will come a day where we have seen each other for the last time. When that day comes, I will know it. And I fear that I will think about the last time we stood on the same ground Forever replaying in my mind when I meet new faces. Drawing me back in over and over again. Never to hear your thoughts on anything again.
Photography Erin Chang