Issue 16, Winter 2019 by HarrisonPyros

Co ntem po r ary Liter ary Arts Magazi n e

Issue 16 // Winter 2019

THE TEAM MANAGING EDITORS

WRITERS

ARTISTS

Jasmine Benafghoul Olivia Berriz

Peija Anderson Myriam Arias Olivia Berriz Stoddy Carey Jazzy Colbert Maya T. Garabedian Jannely Garcia Emily Grace Hall Katee Gustavson Iraa Guleria Alicia Hernandez Christine Ho Elizabeth Jahn Erica Kaplan Maya Keshav Nidhi Khanolkar Kunal Lakhanpal Catherine Lawrence Andy Le Verena Leong Aakash Mehta Skyler Melnick Mei-Mei Mijares Andrew Nguyen John Perkins Harrison Pyros Jacquelynn Tesch Ignacio Vargas Ruiz Jr. Spencer Williams

Marina Alvarez Ricky Barajas Jasmine Benafghoul Olivia Berriz Maison Bray Jackie Caldwell dean crimmel Griffin Danninger David Gao Drea Godsey Bryant Hernandez Steven Howard Heidi Judge Jackie Kajisa Tanya Kerr Nidhi Khanolkar Mikayla Knight Colette Lee Alicia Leung Dev Macleod Nick Malone Madison Mead Maya Onuma Emma Peterson Harrison Pyros Kirsten Schierholt Sabrina Saidpour Peyton Stotelmyre Genesis Taber Lauren Wicks

LITERATURE EDITOR Nidhi Khanolkar

ART EDITOR Christine Ho

FACULTY ADVISORS Brian Donnelly Tyler Shoemaker

COVER ART // IAN DOCKTOR

Editor’s note Dear Reader(s), To start, I want to say how thrilled I am that the sixteenth edition of this wonderful (I know, I’m biased, but whatever) publication has made its way to you. Yes, you! Many people say art is a form of escapism, whether it be books or films, paintings or comics—whatever suits your fancy. We turn to art to forget trivial matters that are inevitably thrown our way. And yes, I do think this holds some truth. God knows I’ve re-watched Disney movies far too many times for the sake of forgetting the difficulties in life, even if it’s just for a sliver of a moment. However, since I joined The Catalyst however many quarters ago, I’ve begun to rethink what art means to me and its prevalence in my life. Without sounding too pretentious, art transcends beyond escapism. If anything, it doesn’t make me forget about reality—it makes me confront it. I turn to art for answers, to understand the daily complexities of my life. I turn to art to allow myself to feel, to come face-to-face with my emotions. Maybe that is why I cry watching almost everything ever, but oh well. Even when I think I’m simply watching just to watch, art always brings me back to my life. Helps me breathe a little better, think a little clearer. You ever read something and feel an overwhelming lump in your chest? I may be being overdramatic (I’m quite guilty of it), but there are certain art pieces, literary or visual, that stick with you immensely. There’s a reason for that. Emotions are universal. Hell, what you are feeling now is probably the same feeling someone had centuries ago. That’s not to say your emotions are invalid, it’s simply to remind you of how you are never alone. We resonate with books and films because they speak volumes to our own lives. So, I may have rambled. Tl;dr: art is a weapon, a tool. For you. To reduce it to merely a distraction is to undermine the impact art can have: to help us feel, analyze, and understand elements of our own lives. This is all to say, I hope something in this issue sparks a revelation in you. Sure, you may pick this up simply to distract yourself from an upcoming exam, a paper you should be writing, or anything of that sort. But, my team and I have worked heavily on this magazine and whew is it a work of art (again, I’m biased, but whatever). May The Catalyst be a weapon for you to confront life, as it has been for me. Much love,

Jasmine Benafghoul PS: A quick shoutout to one of our long-time contibutors Andy Le for winning final qualifier for the College Unions Poetry Slam Invitational, a national poetry slam for colleges! We wish you the best of luck.

Content Warning: Please be advised that some material in the magazine may be disturbing, even traumatizing, to some readers. We would like to provide our readers with on campus resources for support: Campus Advocacy Resources and Education (CARE): 805.893.4613 Counselling and Psychologcal Services: 805.893.4411

TABLE OF CONTENTS CREATIVE PROSE 07 SHADOW

Skyler Melnick 09 Hey

Verena Leong

15 forever’‘s treasure

Aakash Mehta

22 Greedy

Christine Ho

17 A pointless

23 sleepless in isla

vvconversation

AAvista

AANidhi Khanolkar

Peija Anderson

12 the cats of 1050 vvGilman avenue

John Perkins 13 LIke Clockwork

Emily Grace Hall

19 Seasons

Erica Kaplan 21 Ficus carica UUfallacy

Olivia Berriz

25 sunday

Maya T. Garabedian 27 NOtes on Hollywood

Harrison Pyros

POETRY 31 Winter flame

Kunal Lakhanpal 33 A walk awake

Spencer Williams 35 her

Elizabeth Jahn 36 What I need

Mei-Mei Mijares 37 Wild And precious

Ignacio Vargas Ruiz Jr. 38 Spanish Love UUletters

Myriam Arias 39 silence

Jannely Garcia

40 Lost in UUtranslation

Andy Le

48 3945 Ave. Laval

Maya Keshav 49 you were a

41 Sweet little sally UUseedling

Skyler Melnick 42 oxytocin

Stoddy Carey 43 Duality of Reality

Catherine Lawrence 46 glass

Jazzy Colbert 46 Monster

Jazzy Colbert 47 pieces

Alicia Hernandez

Maya T. Garabedian

51 WHEN I TURNED IN A UUPROJECT LATE

Andrew Nguyen 53 Middle Ground

Jacquelynn Tesch 55 surf’‘s up

Katee Gustavson 56 In a day, the sea

Iraa Guleria

ART 06 Untitled

Griffin Danninger 07 Untitled

Maya Onuma 09 Untitled

Griffin Danninger

27 Untitled

Genesis Taber 29 SNUGGLE

dean crimmel 31 Untitled

Jackie Kajisa

11 Leo the bitter Lion 33 Untitled

Jackie Caldwell

13 Untitled

Steven Howard 15 Untitled

Mikayla Knight 17 Fucker Doodles

Nidhi Khanolkar 19 Untitled

Drea Godsey 21 Cactus

Sabrina Saidpour 22 Fading Away

Sabrina Saidpour 23 Untitled

Bryant Hernandez 25 Untitled

David Gao

Colette Lee 35 Untitled

Dev MacLeod 36 37 West Fullerton UUParkway, September UU2016

Nick Malone 37 r.y.r.b

Ricky Barajas 38 Untitled

Lauren Wicks 39 Untitled

Tanya Kerr 40 Balancing Act

Olivia Berriz 41 Devil

Peyton Stotelmyre 42 Pizza Face II

Maison Bray CAT-ALUM 58 madison mead

43 Untitled

Kirsten Schierholt 45 hustle

dean crimmel 47 Untitled

Heidi Judge 48 Sunday Portal 35 mm

Emma Peterson 48 Cats!

Jasmine Benafghoul 50 Untitled

Harrison Pyros 51 Untitled

Marina Alvarez 53 Untitled

Alicia Leung 55 Foreplay

dean crimmel 56 Passion

dean crimmel 57 Untitled

Madison Mead 59 No. 83

Jackie Caldwell

PHOTO // GRIFFIN DANNINGER

PART I

CREATIVE PROSE SHADOW HEY The Cats of 1050 Gilman Avenue Like Clockwork Forever'â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s Treasure A pointless Conversation Seasons Ficus Carica Fallacy Greedy Sleepless in Isla Vista Sunday Notes on Hollywood

S h ad

Sometimes I think someone is following me. But usually it’s my shadow. Or a person who happens to be walking behind me. Foolish of me, to assume I am important enough to be followed. I am not. I am just a lady who lives on the eighth floor of the Raybridge apartments. Instead, I follow people. I am small and dainty. My black ballet flats hardly make a sound against the pavement. I am the perfect, inconspicuous candidate to be a stalker. The word stalker has a negative connotation, but I am not dangerous, I promise! I don’t do bad things or hurt people. I simply follow them, sometimes peek into their homes and sniff around, but never anything bad. Sometimes I steal a few mementos. I did once steal a cat, but that was the worst I have done. The cat was nuzzling against my leg, and she didn’t seem bothered when I took her. She really didn’t. Now her name is Maple, and she sleeps in my twin bed beside me. And while Maple sleeps, I follow. I prefer the term follow because stalking has such a bad connotation, and I am not a bad person. I’m just one of those rare people who truly knows herself and can accept this knowledge. It happened like this: on a cold and rainy day in December, my soul left my body and scoured the earth for our purpose. Instead, we got lost following the woman with the pearl necklace and silk scarf. But underneath the silky pearly red herring, we—my soul and I—found our truth. After a long, arduous twenty two years of questioning my purpose, my purpose finally appeared. It was the woman with the pearl necklace and silk scarf; it was the tall, willowy man who lives on the sixth floor; it was the rebellious purple-haired teenager who sneaks away from home each night; it was the teeny, tiny pomeranian in the dog park who wiggles away from her owner in search of secrets and dog biscuits. Now of course, I do not follow full-time—

ART // MAYA ONUMA

although I am tremendously good at it. It is a hobby, and I do not get paid. It’s pro bono work. My career is technically as a hostess. I work at a swanky restaurant in Los Angeles, and I wear nice clothes and smile at people and say charming things. My hostess job allows me to earn money so I can continue living in my apartment, feeding myself and my cat. But it’s not my passion. My passion is studying the subtle, intricate details of one’s life as I follow the subject dutifully and relentlessly. I am very successful at following, because of my tininess, but also because of the immense skill that I have cultivated over the last few years. I call it The Art of Blending into the Crowd. That’s going to be the title of the memoir I’m writing. I wanted to call it a “how-to” book, but I am being subtle. Subtlety is the art of following, and I am an artist. And this is my craft. My work consists of art that is avant-garde, art that is at a level above what the mere regular people of society can possibly comprehend. And I don’t mean to sound pretentious, it’s just that I feel that I am above most people. But not in every aspect. I am well below people on the physical level. Some might call me a short, sheepish stalker. Others, perhaps at a later date, for true genius is never appreciated in its time, will revere me as a tiny, talented young shadow. Although I speak of the infamy I long for and well deserve, I must confess something. Something truly appalling. I will begin this confession by noting that, with my finely tuned senses, I can acutely feel presences. I so often employ my watchful eye upon my subjects that I can undoubtedly discern a watchful eye upon myself. Thus, the subsequent admissions are the unequivocal truth. Here it comes. Alright. I have never—not ONCE—had a follower of my own. Not once have I turned around to see a discreet face studying my footsteps, not once have I felt the thrill of an inescapable shadow. I am alone. Except for my friends and family and cat, I am utterly alone. Unfollowed. And it deeply pains me to admit this. I am a grave disappointment to my own kind. A followless follower seeking to be followed. Absurd isn’t it? I should just accept that I will not be followed. I follow, and that should be enough for me. Although maybe one day, one day in the distant future, a follower will emerge. He will be wearing a top hat to shade his face, dark clothes to blend, and light shoes to reduce sound. He will follow me, and sometimes we will follow each other. Because that is what followers do. But, I am young. I have time. And I have Maple. And I have my subjects. Life is good. Following fills my heart with purpose. And I will NEVER give it up. p

ick

er M e l yl n

PHOTO // GRIFFIN DANNINGER

Hey By Verena Leong W

algreens, between aisles two and three. The store lights are unflatteringly yellow and bright, and the rows of cotton squares looming over my mom put her into a fright as she frantically searches for the perfect cotton rounds. Disinterested, I turn around and nearly walk into him. Stanley. He just came in. He is with his own mother, who is also absorbed in her own quest—for some other very particular cotton product, I assume. Having just nearly collided, we’re standing so close it seems like everyone is a background extra in a reunion scene featuring the both of us, if it can even be considered as such. I do not know where to look or what to say. In this one moment, the green Clorox containers and bright orange tubs of detergent sitting on the rack at my right side seem suddenly fascinating. “Hey.” Over time I have come to realize the power of words. The sound of one word can be enough to make your heart start pounding. One word can startle an otherwise peaceful mind and send your head into a whirlwind of confusion. The voice that says that one word holds more power than the word itself; the sound of it can take you back in time to bittersweet memories and old feelings and forgotten pain. The person behind the voice that says that one word can hold even more authority over you. Because when that person matters to you, that one word is cherished no matter how meaningless it might sound on its own—you hold onto it, you think about it, and you remember it. When a friend walks past me in a school hallway and passes a careless “hey” I nod and return the nonchalance because it’s nothing special: I see them everyday already, and I don’t need to say anything else to them because I’m going to be sitting next to them under the sun, complaining about the heat and growing sunburns on my arms while eating lunch with them an hour later. It is an empty greeting, easily forgotten. But Stanley’s “hey” is never hollow. There’s a warmth and affection in it that is out of his usual detached character, and hearing it now triggers my memories of our old friendship, which is now long gone. During moments like these I blame him for our growing apart. His last “hey” serves only as a reminder of what we lost. “Hey.”

The gentle tone of voice that I expected to hear has been replaced by a deeper sound. He hasn’t changed much since the last time I saw him, when he was sitting a chair away from me in my living room with a blanket covering his face to discourage my attempts at taking his picture. He stands with a more confident air of boyishness, and for the first time I find him looking down at me. Six feet tall: a late bloomer. In our ten years of friendship I was always teasing him for being shorter than me, despite having massive feet accentuated by bulky soccer shoes. His hair is spiked up in its usual manner, pleasantly ruffled in a way that makes you want to comb it into a single direction, but not messy enough to convince you to actually do it—believe me, I’ve tried. He is in his typical hoody and training pants, the athlete as he is, his lanyard is poking out of his left pocket while his hand unsuccessfully tries to push it back in. A hesitant smile starts to appear on his face. His last words to me before today were “happy birthday.” I had just turned sixteen. Sitting in the dining room with my parents, preparing to dig into the mint chip ice cream cake that I had every year, my phone’s screen had suddenly lit up with those two words. My eyes flitted over before refocusing on the cake in front of me, but the disinterest I tried to show on my face didn’t keep my mom from noticing the message. “Who is it?” “Just Stanley,” I said. Then I picked up my phone and typed a hasty “thanks” before I could stop myself. He was never just Stanley, though. He was one of my closest, most reliable friends. We knew each other since age five and were always in the same classes at school. When he moved nearby my house the summer after we finished middle school he would bike over, carelessly swinging a bag of donut holes and marshmallows in one hand—because that was his idea of a nutritious snack—with a backpack cradling his beloved Wii games (which have been lying neglected on top of my fireplace since he last came over two years ago). Our other close friends would come too, but every time he was the first to arrive and the last to leave. I never thought that there would be a time where we would grow apart. The past decade was already feeling like forever. When I switched out to a different high school, he was the one who made all the efforts to keep in touch. It felt trivial at first to check my phone at the end of each day and find a new text from him, but soon I was staying up past midnight almost everyday just to talk to him about needless things like how cold and gloomy the weather was or an annoying classmate who wouldn’t bother to walk two steps to get his own geometry textbook. Then after sophomore year winter break it suddenly all stopped. My phone notifications decreased little by little until I stopped getting them all together. At my attempts to reach him, all I would get in return would be an absent “Sorry, I’m busy.” In the store, I look up at him. His eyes are dark and ordinary, but they shine with a mysterious depth that makes you wonder what he’s thinking as he’s staring back at you. I want to ask him how he’s been, if he’s doing well, if he’s still playing soccer or learning guitar or singing in the band at school. And I want to know why he stopped responding in our usual long text conversations that I used to stay up for. In this one second encounter I have so many questions. “Hey,” I say with a faint smile. I can’t string the right words together to say anything else but I stay standing there. I am silently stalling, eyes wide open, anxious for his next response. A bell rings, announcing the entrance of a new customer. Distracted, he turns away so that I can see the whites of his soccer shirt inching out from under the back edge of his jacket. When he looks back at me, his face is inscrutable. He doesn’t say anything. I feel my mom moving behind me, getting ready to move to the cashier after successfully finding her cotton rounds. She still hasn’t noticed him. As I keep waiting, I notice that the lightness of his initial expression has vanished. His right eyebrow is slightly furrowed as he moves past me to stand next to his mother. My own forehead starts to crease and my hands curl inside my coat pockets. One word was all he wanted to say; one word was all I could say—that is all that is going through my mind as I watch his back slowly disappear around the corner. I realize now that there isn’t anything else I need to hear from him, nothing I can do to recover our friendship. I walk away in the opposite direction. I don’t look back, and this time I don’t need to remind myself to stay focused on what’s in front of me, on what I already have. A few minutes later, a bell rings again. The door swings open. My mom takes a step outside, and I am closely following her. I keep moving forward. p

One word can startle an otherwise peaceful mind and send your head into a whirlwind of confusion. The voice that says that one word holds more power than the word itself; the sound of it can take you back in time to bittersweet memories and old feelings and forgotten pain.

ART // JACKIE CALDWELL

The Cats of 1050 Gilman Ave. By John Perkins

The garden of 1050 Gilman Avenue was one with no consistency in its maintenance or layout. On the left side of the garden a tall lemon tree towered over patches of dirt full of old gardening tools and chunks of wood. On the other side of the garden was a conglomeration of bushes, small trees, and man-made fences that combined gave the illusion of a secret hideaway. In front of the window there was a small table that was rarely used, except to occasionally house old gardening tools. Despite the hectic nature of the garden, it was perfection to the brothers that lived in the house that overlooked it. “Luke!” Logan yelled. “Luke, it’s the Tabby. He’s...he’s just staring at us.” The tabby, a.k.a, the Big Grey Blob, was a neighborhood stray of substantial girth. Not a “fat” cat, but “thick,” and every night the tabby and the brothers found some way to interact. Luke rushed to the window and said, “Wow, he is mildly disturbing.” Perhaps sensing Luke’s insult, the tabby jumped onto the table outside the window and got nose to nose with Luke. Between the two was a solid inch of glass, but staring into the tabby’s deep green eyes made the barrier feel flimsy. It was dark outside, but the porchlight left the garden and the surrounding area partially illuminated. An eerie backlighting heightened the tabby’s menacing aura. “Woah, what’s he doing?” Logan asked, amazed, while watching the staring contest between his brother and the tabby. “I don’t know,” replied Luke, not breaking eye contact despite every hair on his being telling him to look away, “but he is an absolute unit.” “Absolutely absolute,” Logan whispered under his breath. “Hey, remember that time we saw that giant raccoon? That boy had muscles for days.” “I was shook,” Luke replied. “What if they met?” Logan responded. “A battle of absolute units would be awesome.” While the “Raccoon vs Tabby” debate raged on, the two boys’ dad prepared the two bowls of food and two bowls of water placed in the garden, as was his nightly tradition. The intended target of the food was usually the tabby, but sometimes he was not the only creature of the garden to benefit from the food and water. Nimble-fingered raccoons often committed drive-by thefts, and stole bowls of food from the tabby. Sometimes a skunk stopped by to raid the

leftovers. On occasions, the skunk would take the offensive and bomb the other animals with noxious gas from a distance, swooping in once the coast was clear. An opossum showed up once and played dead for ten minutes while the tabby ate all the food. The tabby tried to nudge it awake, but the opossum would not budge. Every night the animals found some new way to fight over the food, and tonight Luke and Logan were going to see something completely new. While Luke and Logan were still dealing with the tabby’s terrifying gaze, the food and water was placed outside. The tiny black bowls grabbed the tabby’s attention. He jumped off the table and headed towards his dinner. The tabby had a moment to the food by himself before the oddly fit raccoon crawled out of the man-made forest to the far right and made his way towards the unattended second bowl of food. “They are face to face!” Logan exclaimed. As the raccoon and the tabby both kept one eye on their food and one eye on the other, a skunk began to waddle his way towards the duo. The skunk kept its distance, but from the window the brothers could see the beginnings of a standoff forming around the food and water. An excited Logan yelled “Luke, the skunk is here!” while pacing back and forth at the window. “This evening is about to...” Luke trailed off before continuing, “Wait, Logan, look behind the lemon tree!” It was an opossum that looked like it did not mean to be there. Sure, an opossum’s natural look is that of a perpetually terrified creature, but this one knew it walked into something intense. In almost perfect synchronicity, tabby, raccoon, skunk, and opossum began to circle the food. Instantly, the opossum played dead. It was a bold but surprisingly successful move, as it caused the other three animals to focus on each other. The skunk quickly backed out of the mammalian standoff and fired off a couple of warning shots. Despite the billowing cloud of spray that filled up the area, the tabby and the raccoon refused to break eye contact. They dove at each other and rolled around on the concrete floor. The skunk attempted to sneak by the scuffle, but the raccoon grabbed the skunk with one of its nimble hands and pulled it back into the battle. While the cat, the raccoon, and the skunk traded blows, the opossum opened its eyes and crawled towards the food. The battle raged on as the opossum reached the food and began eating. Luke and Logan stared at each other in disbelief, as their nails firmly grasped the wooden frame of the window. Noticeable grooves were etched into the old wood. The opossum was an unwilling participant in the night’s festivities but the clear winner regardless. It stood up on its hind legs, waved at Luke and Logan, and slowly walked back towards the lemon tree. The other three participants stopped long enough to notice that the food,and the opossum, were gone. They sat there and wondered where it all went wrong. “I think they are done,” Luke said to Logan. “You think dad finally has the string ready?” Their dad indeed had the string ready, and Luke and Logan spent the rest of the night blissfully chasing it back and forth. p

<title> â&#x20AC;?Like Clockworkâ&#x20AC;? </title> <author> Emily Grace Hall </author>

ART // STEVEN HOWARD

I passed along the uncrowded road as they stand talking. The talk of old friends, interesting enough only for maintenance. What I learned of them came not from their words, but the pauses in between: Relaxed breaths that said the silenceâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;necessary, even. They were growing old, maybe it was time to slow down. They didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have to ask about their kids or wives, poor health, existential worry, exchanges about good weather and bad backs. The clear sky which the moon pierced so completely. The game the night before, the cheering echoes of the crowd which were remembered by the crashing waves behind them. So consistent between friends, though their jokes would fall flat with any other. Amist all of it they calculated, sweet and secretive: the force behind a chuckle; the acceleration and velocity of laughter; the rate at which is declines; the angle of brows and tilt of lip corners; the curve of gaze as their eyes traveled. They listened, evaluated the intimacy of a placid conversation that contrasted with the steady clamor of the world around them. It was these calculations encoded and deposited into their memories that would remain with themâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;trust and comfort being the ultimate sum. And though I have forgotten their faces and their words, I, too, keep their closeness in my mind, a relational schema I will doubtless parallel, following the same, uncrowded road, with which I will never intersect. p

Forever’s Treasure

By Aakash Mehta

Let me tell you a tale, a tale of a man Who jumped and walked and swam and ran All across the world in search of a treasure, In search of a pleasure he thought had no measure. He’d heard many stories about what it held, Some gold, some silver, some bracelets, and bells.

If he could just find it, he thought, he’d be set for a while. He didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, didn’t laugh, didn’t smile. He just looked and kept looking, and thought of no end, Lost touch with his mother, his father, his friends. But it’s okay, he thought, I’ll be happy with gold, With riches and silver and money to fold. Five years later, he came back to his town, Entered his house, found a couch, and sat down. His parents, they asked him, what of the chest? He paused for a bit before he confessed, “I found it, I did, a year or so back, In a small village with small huts and shacks. I talked to an elder, who said it was true, The chest was real, the treasures were too. I walked through the village, and noticed how all Wore nothing but rugs and sandals and shawls.

The elder, he led me, to a hut in the center And pulled out of his pocket a key to my treasure. He said that the chest was inside the hut. I could take it and go and spend all of it—but, Think of the months and the years that I’d wasted In search of a box with treasures so basic. He told me to look at the people around, How they smiled while I stood with my treasure and frowned. ‘They don’t need this,’ he said, ‘they don’t care that it’s here.’ ‘In fact,’ he said, ‘no one’s opened it in years.’ So I stood and I looked at all them for a while, And noticed he was right about all their smiles.

ART // MIKAYLA KNIGHT

But I wouldn’t listen, I still thought I was right, So he gave me the key without a word or a fight, And I took all the money and silver and gold, And bought most of the things that could ever be sold. I ate fresh food and drank old wine And grew the collection of things that were mine. This I did for years and years, Until I knew the end was near. For despite all the things I’d bought, I’d lost the joy that I’d once sought. I sat in a home with no one at all, No sounds in the rooms or art on the walls. So there came a night, cold and lonely, Which made me think, oh damn, if only I hadn’t chased all the silver and gold, That maybe I would’ve had someone to hold. And just then an image jumped into my mind, About all the people that I had left behind. I wondered, I pondered about all those I loved, The friends, the family, the chaps at the pub. And it was then that I knew I’d wasted my time, Cuz in searching for treasure, I’d left one behind. And the one that I’d left was far more important, To lose it, oh no, I couldn’t afford it.

She was quite shy, so she said a quiet “Hi,” And the mother said, “Son, I think I might cry.” And it was then that the father, hugged his son, And said, “Dear son, you’ve found the one.” But the man, oh he had yet to find The rest of the treasure he’d left behind. So they all left the home, and went to the town, And the man, he gathered his old friends around. “My lads, I’ve gathered you here today, To admit I’ve made a grave mistake. I hope you will laugh, I hope you’ll forgive, And help me remember what it feels like to live.” And cuz they were his lads, they laughed and all said, “My boy, get ready, it’s a long night ahead!”

So I packed up my things and picked up the chest, Took it back to the place where it should’ve been left. I asked for the elder, who came out of his shack, And said to me, ‘Boy, I knew you’d be back.’ And at once I looked,at the people around, And smiled a big smile cuz I’d figured it out. I looked back at the elder, shook his hand, then said, ‘There’s a treasure elsewhere I’ll go after instead.’ He looked back at me and smiled and finally said, ‘Get going, then, boy there’s good times ahead.’ So then I jumped and I walked and I swam and I ran, And I found a nice girl and I asked for her hand, Then we traveled, we did, to places abroad. Man, the food that we ate, the things that we saw!”

So they all dressed up and went out on the town, And the man looked around at the treasures he’d found. They ate cheap food and drank the nastiest wine, But they all smiled smiles with the brightest of shines. So the man stuck with his wife, his family and friends, And they drank and laughed and sang till the end. p

And then the man’s mom, she stopped him and asked, “Where is this girl that you have found at last?” Her son paused for a second, then shouted, he did, “Honey, you out there? It’s time to come in!” Then the door opened, and in walked the girl, With whom the young man had traveled the world.

A Pointless Conversation By Nidhi Khanolkar FADE IN:

EXT. AN EMPTY LOT OUTSIDE A COSTCO - ALMOST MIDNIGHT - CIRCA 2006 [Two friends in their early twenties smoke pot while listening to a CD of the Shrek soundtrack.] INT. SECOND-HAND HONDA ACCORD

DISSOLVE TO:

[N, pretentious but laid back, plays with her orange flip phone while attempting (and failing miserably) to blow rings of smoke. She is a girl with short, straight black hair, a recently pierced nose, and a hatred for socks worn with flipflops.] N: Yo, why doesn’t smoke go downwards cuz of gravity? [S, stares (almost annoyed) as N experiments. A deadpan humour type of girl with wild frizzy hair—tamed only by the tiny Matrix-style sunglasses on her head. She uses sarcasm to avoid any display of genuine emotion.]

S: [resisting the urge to laugh at N’s weak attempts to blow rings] Bitch, pass the joint

[S takes out the spearmint gum she is chewing before she takes a drag.] N: Nah dude, just think about it though. S: [waving her hands to make the obvious point] Cuz it’s a goddamn gas, one puff and your imagination is acting out already. N: Nah nah, but think about it: isn’t everything just imagination because we only witness everything from one point of view so you can never truly know the whole story. Just through the context of your other life experiences. Like, all memories are technically just imagination rooted in reality. Everything is fabricated, bro. S: Yeah, I mean I guess you’re right “perception is reality,” or whatever. But isn’t believing in something just the act of making it real. Even if it is just to you. Like God, or confidence, or love. [“You Belong To Me” by Jason Wade swells in the background.] N: [rolling her eyes] Ugh, love. S: [imitating some teenage hopeless romantic in a mocking way] Looooovveee. N: If you think about it, it’s really the most selfless thing you can do. Love’s as close to pure altruism that humans will ever get. S: That’s really saying something, considering humans are the cruelest animal on the goddamn planet. Cuz like, if you think about it, when other animals hurt each other it’s just, like, instinctual. But humans are always acting all uppity cuz we have free will and shit and a moral code and principles and values and whatever the hell else but we still out here hurting each other everyday. N: Hmm...y’know now that I really think about it, maybe love isn’t selfless at all. Maybe it’s the most selfish act. Cuz like, why do we love in the first fuckin place? Cuz we love the way someone else makes us feel y’know. Like why do people cry at funerals? Cuz they’ll never see that person again. Every fuckin’ thing we do is with ourselves at the center of the universe.

S: I mean maybe that’s just our instinct? Like maybe you just gotta accept that every person only really cares about themselves and that’s why you just gotta forgive and forget cuz nothing is ever really personal. Like, nobody’s gotta personal vendetta against you or whatever. N: No shit you gotta forgive and forget, like what else are you gonna do? Life is too short and too beautiful to view it through the lens of the bad shit that’s happened to you. S: “Lens”... Bruh if you think about it, that’s really what everything that means anything depends on. D’you’know what I mean? N: Nah but explain anyways; pass the lighter— [N sits up intrigued by S’s statement and curious for more. S motions towards N’s lap which has the lighter and a bag of Sour Patch Kids. “My Beloved Monster” begins playing, N turns down the music a little, thinking it will help her think.]

S: OK, so I was watching some Animal Planet shit the other day, and the anchor dude was being dumb annoying talking about all this like philosophical shit, but he said something like if lions could talk— N: [midway through lighting the joint] Like English? S: [annoyed at the interruptions since the high is making her forget her train of thought] Yeah like normal-ass everyday English. Anyways, if they did, we still wouldn’t be able to understand them. N: Cuz of the roar? S: No bitch, they’re speaking straight english, like, no roar. Basically, the dude was like we would just be so far removed from all of his references that even if he spoke it just wouldn’t make any sense to us. So that got me thinking, like, maybe all the ignorant shit people say it prolly makes sense. In some, like, fucked up way, and maybe if they just knew my lens or I knew theirs, we would understand each other. N: Like even the craziest shit ever would make sense if you could see through their lens? S: Yeah I mean, makes sense like I would understand where the bitch’s coming from y’know, like I’m not saying I’d agree with it but like yeah— N: So like if you think about it, basically, like according to this shit your saying now, like going off it, like— S: [overly urgent since she knows N’s tendency to waste time thinking out loud] Ohmyfuckinggodwhat justsayitjustsayit— N: [furiously chewing the Sour Patch Kids and gulping them down] Okokokok, so BASICALLY every single person who ever was or ever will be, in a weird way, speaks their own unique-ass language. Like, based on their own lens. Like they see the whole world in one particular way. And since no two people have the same lives like no one will ever truly understand you completely. S: [stares out the window for a minute in deep thought] Dude. [smiling to herself at the epiphany] That’s fucking insane, bro. Think about how many languages that is. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck, that’s wild. [S, completely zoned out, reaches for some Sour Patch Kids N has instinctually held out to her.] S: Like obviously no two people can speak the same one but what if you can just understand someone else’s perfectly. N: Maybe that’s what love is or some shit. [Both look straight ahead and sit in silence for a minute, reflecting. “Hallelujah” comes to an end and the only other sounds are of S’s gum popping and the crinkling of the thick Sour Patch Kids’ packaging.] S: Yo, d’you think if the lion talked he’d have an accent? N: Hmm, well I don’t know about that but I think frogs most definitely would have a southern drawl. S: Yeah I bet they would huh? Them hoes would sound like Joaquin Phoenix playing Johnny Cash or some shit. N: Fuckin’ exactly, bro. FADE OUT: EXT. HONDA ACCORD BASS INCREASES AS BAD REPUTATION PLAYS AND TWO SILHOUETTES CAN BE SEEN HEADBANGING p

ART // NIDHI KHANOLKAR

Seasons By Erica Kaplan summer, i saw you sitting there, eyes wide, the sticky air clinging to your skin. you thought the yellow of the sunflowers would dance with the rays and cause happiness to well in your chest. a sickly sweet sensation to twirl with bouquets that flutter from within. innocence holds brevity with the fevered hues of green promising empathy in a warm embrace of the day. you know in your heart and mink smile of sun kissed noses that these are the golden days. fall has arrived like the goosebumps that texture your arms and legs. i think youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve come a long way. time is of the essence, and itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s only a matter of time before leaves clutter the ground. but leave it to you to search the red and orange mess with determination to find a gold one with veins that follow like the palms of your own. change is all around and hard to grasp, but the leaf in your hand holds heavy on your heart even as it blows away in the wind. the warming of your lungs is true to the touch of a whistling wind of energy flowing through your own frame.

ART // DREA GODSEY 19

winter, just like the seasons and the weather that goes rogue, so too does your glow from reflecting ice, like delicate mirrors for delicate frosted fingers plunging into the white powder dusting the grass. but you know, with your flushed pink cheeks, that underneath lies the soil of the earth radiating warmth in september but lying firm and stable in december. i see you keep digging, scattering in a patch of hibernating weeds resilient to the temperature but fading fast with the daylight, until you find the four leaf clover you knew was there all along. though brown and wilted from the weather, you still look up to the stillness of your cold breath and hope for a bit of luck from the life buried beneath your feet. spring welcomes flowers, budding to the nostalgia of a stroke of a piano key that your mother used to play. i see you blowing dandelions with renewed rendition that beats to the aura of speckled fields of awakening sleeps. tingling elixirs of soft rain cries with tears in the virtue of puddling promises and wistful dreams. i never believed in wishes until i saw your dewey smile holding not a care in the world among the subtleness of refreshing blues and patterned pinks. splashing and making a home in you, in me. mother nature paints to the fragility of the hazy days, and the fleeting consciousness of existence that slips into blurred lines of these days. p

A mother wasp is stripped of her wings as she burrows into the hard walls of an unripe Ficus carica—otherwise known as a fig—where she lays her eggs, then dies. The male larvae awaken first, fertilize the unhatched females, then excavate towards daylight. This journey creates a passage out of the fig for the females, but costs the males their lives. When the female wasps finally come alive within the dark safety of the inward-blooming flower, they crawl outwards and fly away from this ripening nursery, bringing pollen and their offspring into the next figs. The cycle turns again, again, again. Neither fig nor wasp can exist without the other. But occasionally, a female won’t survive her journey, and the fig, in turn, becomes her tomb.

When the sun rises I—against my mother’s wishes and warnings—step outside with my bare feet and ascend the wooden steps leading to the orchard, where the figs ripen beneath the heavy August sun. Before I reach the third terrace beads of sweat crown my head. Muddy clay, red as rust, adorns my feet. I ignore the remnant prickling atop my tongue. I reach into the broad-fingered leaves and wrap my own fingers around a plump fig, purple and swollen like eyelids sore from crying, full and glistening like falling tears. With a gentle but firm tug, it snaps from the branch and fits into my calloused hand.

sharp like sword from sheath, I’m stung. I toss the remaining fruit to the damp dirt, reach between my parted lips and remove a stinger from my throbbing tongue, pained and disappointed but not entirely surprised. With a lingering taste on my swollen tongue, I trudge down the hill, wondering if tomorrow’s harvest will hurt less. p

by Olivia Berriz

2121

ART // SABRINA SAIDPOUR

Wary, I turn the fig over and over in my palm. The memory of yesterday morning’s fruit inflicts a wince as the tingling in my mouth intensifies. But against my body’s instinctual alarm, I raise the fig to my lips and sink my teeth into its wine-colored flesh. With eyes closed, and head tilted back, I let the sweet juice drip down my chin, my neck, my chest. Chewing slowly, I savor every mouthful, intoxicated by the heat of the sun and the taste under my tongue until,

Fallacy

Greedy by C hristine Ho

Last quarter I learned that everyone is greedy. My professor stood at the front of the classroom and told us we were all greedy people, our hands always grasping for more, like a baby grabbing her favorite toy, fingertips outstretched, waggling towards something out of our reach. I didn’t believe him until that night I saw a photo of you with your friends, at our spot. Ours.

In that moment all I wanted to know was if you thought of me when you were there. I hoped that as you stood there, watching the night, your mind was flooded with memories of me. The way the city lights glimmered in my dark brown eyes. The way our hands, clammy from the summer air and our own nerves, locked together, our legs crossed, cheeks flushed, letting our shoulders touch just a little because we’re not quite “there” yet. I hoped the image of us sitting on our bench sent shivers down your spine, that it became a thought you couldn’t shake, the way a cheesy pop song refuses to stop playing in your brain. Maybe my professor was right: we are all greedy, greedy for love (his words, not mine), greedy for companionship, greedy for validation. I’m greedy too. For your memories. I want to stay there just a little longer. p

13 22 22

ART // SABRINA SAIDPOUR

YOU MATCHED WITH SEBASTIAN ON 10/21/16 “Hey What’s up? Any Party Plans for tonight?” “Nothing yet, you?” “You wanna come over and watch some porn on my flat screen mirror?” ...Big pass on Sebass.

YOU MATCHED WITH JAKE ON 12/7/16 “So how do you spell your name?” ...Is this dude illiterate?

YOU MATCHED WITH SHOMARI ON 1/27/17 “That water is beautiful. Where was that photo taken?” ...Yep, just checked. None of my pictures have water in them. YOU MATCHED WITH NATE ON 2/3/17 “You never match with Asians.” ...And I always match with assholes. YOU MATCHED WITH BRAD ON 4/19/17 “What’s your number Pei” “Let’s text” “Text me” “???” “Peiii” “Dtf?” ...Why, yes, Bradley you’ve swept me off my feet. I am certainly DTF. YOU MATCHED WITH SEAN ON 6/2/17 “Wanna stomp on my balls and make soup out of them?” YOU MATCHED WITH MICHAEL ON 6/25/17 “How fast can you shotgun tho”

YOU MATCHED WITH AUSTIN ON 8/19/17 “Cool if I licks you where the good lord splits you?” ...Rhyme appreciated. Explicit detail not so much.

YOU MATCHED WITH JOSH ON 9/2/17 “You tryna get ate like a pink starburst?” ...Everyone knows red starbursts are superior. What are you trying to say about me, Josh?

YOU MATCHED WITH TOPHER ON 9/21/17 “What’re the odds you come and tuck me in tonight?”

YOU MATCHED WITH QUENTIN ON 2/25/18 “i’ll bring the drugs wya goddess” YOU MATCHED WITH PETE ON 6/3/18 “Sit on my face” ...If it makes you never speak to a woman again gladly.

YOU MATCHED WITH TYLER ON 2/25/19 “I’m only on this app because I’m too scared to approach girls outside” ...And I’m only on this app because it’s four in the morning and this is how I’m supposed to meet guys now. p

Sleepless in ISLA VISTA BY PEIJA ANDERSON

ART // BRYANT HERNANDEZ

SUN

I squint at the green numbers on my oven clock. 11:20 am. Slivers of light spill through the cracks in the blinds. I hear her voice in my head, “It’s so nice out, you should get up and start your day.” Just a few more minutes, I reassure us both. The oven clock reads 1:43. “Get up, you’re wasting the day away,” her voice says. Guilt rushes over me. She’s right, I am. “I’m not leaving until I see both your feet on the floor.” That’s always been one of my favorites. I move to the side of the bed and make my way to the blinds, opening them like she used to, flinching as the light pours over my face. Specks of dust dance lightly on the laminated wood, the room illuminated by the window. It’s Sunday, and Sundays are for cleaning.

Her voice directs me. “Vacuum the carpet and the rugs. Vacuum and wash the laminated wood, in that order. Vacuum the couch and the chairs; smack any cushions or pillows first and get the dust out; get in the seams and cracks and pull out the seat cushions—it seems like a lot of work, but if you eat at the table like you’re supposed to there won’t be any crumbs here anyway. Change your sheets—bleach is bad but wash the sheets with bleach so they look nice. Change your sheets after you vacuum because when you vacuum dust comes into the air and you don’t want it to settle on your new, clean sheets. Nothing should fall on the floor when you strip your sheets because no one should eat in bed—that’s how you get ants. Wipe down every surface you can with a disinfectant, unless it’s near food, then just use soap and water; think of everything your hands touch: sinks, countertops, light switches—not the lampshade, use a duster on anything delicate— handles, door knobs, and remotes during cold and flu season.” I can’t remember what season is cold and flu, so I wipe everything down just in case.

By Maya T. Garabedian ART // DAVID GAO

“Make sure you get all your hair, it’s everywhere, especially the bathroom floor. You don’t want people coming over and seeing that it’s gross, especially in the kitchen. No one likes seeing hair near food. You don’t wear shoes in the house, do you? I told you not to, but I keep seeing scuff marks on the kitchen floor—never mind it’s me, sorry…” I finish and allow myself to relax. I take a mandarin from its spot atop the fridge, disposing its skin in a produce bag in the freezer. I crack two eggs in a pan, rinse their shells, place one half inside the other, and return them to their space in the carton. “There should be no food in the garbage,” her voice says. “Small food scraps go down the disposal. Egg shells are rinsed before being thrown or put away. Anything smelly like banana peels go in a bag in the freezer. Leave expired things where they are—unless it’s liquid, then dump it out, rinse the container, and recycle it. Leave everything else where it is and I’ll sort through it the night before trash day. Remember, recycling is only every other Thursday…”

"I crack two eggs in a pan, rinse their shells, place one half inside the other, and return them to their space in the carton."

My eggs are hissing at me, their edges brown. I flip them over, turn the heat down, and pop little mandarin pieces into my mouth one by one. I know I should sit when I eat—“if you stand, the body doesn’t register you’re eating”—but I need to watch my eggs. My plate waits patiently beside the stove. I like to eat eggs while they’re hot. I know “there’s nothing worse than cold eggs.” I sit down and start eating, quickly but with precision, cutting the eggs with the side of my fork. “Get a knife,” her voice says. I don’t need one, see? I make sure not to push food onto my fork with my finger. She thinks that’s disgusting, so I do, too. I gently stab my piece of egg, puncturing at an angle to avoid the sound of prongs against my plate. “I don’t care if you need one, you should use one because you have good manners.” We’re at a standoff, her voice and me. I think about getting a knife but I don’t. There’s a crispy edge left over and I can’t get it on my fork. Just grab it, I tell myself. Who cares? You live alone. Mom isn’t watching anymore. I go to the sink, turn on the faucet, and send the scrap into the disposal. p

ART // GENESIS TABER

Notes on Hollywood BY HARRISON PYROS

I should never have gotten to know the person I’m sleeping

he’s ever seen a Rembrandt. He keeps name-dropping all these artists and styles and technical themes—talking about Dutch lighting and French Impressionism and John Singleton Copley for some reason—definitely trying to sound smart and professional in hopes that I don’t know what he means. And it’s all very condescending because I’m sure he has no idea that I read art history and take those classes since it’s my minor, even though I’m an economics major. That’s how I know all the stuff he’s saying is utter bullshit. But I just cross my arms, trying to look engaged, mumbling a “Sure, sure” whenever he stops his monologue to take a breath. The painting is of a female figure, and she’s either lounging or floating. I can’t tell just yet since it must only be half-finished. It looks like a sketch got blown up to the canvas because it’s streaky and the only colors are black, gray, and maybe a little blue too, but that might just be the 27 lighting. There’s not a lot of detail, there’s absolutely no

with because now the sex is thrown off. Though I think it’s only me. I was seeing this guy—or am seeing this guy—that lives above Sunset just a bit towards Silverlake, and I know he’s a painter, but like a “painter.” You know, the kind that waits tables and the apartment he lives in is actually his aunt’s but for some reason she doesn’t use it, so he lives there rent-free? Anyway, I digress. I got to know him because my friend, who is also sleeping with him, told me he’s pretty interesting. She said that he was an alright painter and that he was working on a portrait of her but she hadn’t seen his progress because it’s a surprise, and I mainly assume she thinks he’s interesting because she likes being the subject of a painting. Well, I’m looking at the portrait right now, standing in my underwear in his studio, and I can’t help but laugh. It’s all blacks and grays and comedic swirls, and he’s talking about how Rembrandt inspired him, but I’m not sure

background, so kiss dimension goodbye. It doesn’t look like about to call 911 because he’s killing me. my friend at all. Actually, it doesn’t look like anyone. I can Now listen, I’m not super pretentious—or maybe I am only tell it’s a woman who’s either surprised or orgasming. and I’m lying to myself—but you have to understand this “So what’s the plan for the rest of it?” I ask. guy. He looks like an Instagram influencer that pays for “Well it’s basically done,” he says, and that makes me things using the money he gets from sponsored content want to jump out the window. “I’ll just add some eyebrows, and almost sounds like the epitome of a surfer. He’s got maybe a smatter to the background, and a bit of detail to a swimmer’s body and a tattoo on his ankle and ribs that the dress.” I’ve seen on two different celebrities, and I know he lives This is the first time I realize the woman is wearing a and dies by Rainbow-brand flip-flops. And don’t get me dress. wrong, he is incredibly hot, but I just wish I had held onto “And you used Miranda as the subject, right?” I say, only my distanced illusion of him, because every time he talks slightly picking a fight. about how Van Gogh was so misunderstood and “ate “Yeah, but more of her energy, you know? I tried to yellow paint to put happy sunshine in him,” I want to blow mimic it onto the canvas,” he says. my fucking brains out. “Oh that’s good because this looks nothing like her,” I You see, the first time I met this dude we were doing sigh, since it seems like we’re finally on the same page. cocaine at a friend-of-a-friend’s party somewhere on the “Really?” he says cocking his head at the figure. “I think west side, and the group was talking about mojitos, all it looks a lot like her. Maybe it’s because you haven’t seen sniffing and ecstatic and idiotic. And we spent maybe ten her naked.” minutes looking for mint until this guy insists that basil I have, in fact, seen Miranda naked, but I say, “Yeah, leaves are just as good. Well, the drinks were rancid, but maybe.” I’m already imagining the conversation I’m going we were all too drunk to care, and that night I ended up to have with her. Just to stir the pot, I ask, “What are you hooking up with him in the bathroom for a quick second. going to call it?” At the party everyone drank too much and did too many He smirks and says, “I’m thinking A Dalliance with drugs, so we all acted dumb, so I chalked our behavior up Zephyr.” to inebriation. And I hadn’t really had a conversation with And if I hadn’t already flat-lined, I sure do now. I’m this guy outside of a party or club or while we were having internally screaming because that is the most ridiculous sex, so now I realize maybe it wasn’t the liquor that made thing I’ve heard this boy say, and that includes all the him ridiculous but that he’s really just like that. Long story wild stuff we’ve said in the bedroom. I’m picturing him short, it’s hard to take this guy seriously, and I’m not sure searching through an online thesaurus for this title, and what that says about me. who thinks he’s good and really deep because he referenced “Regardless,” I say, “you should come to the show on Greek mythology, and I’m so overcome with my own Saturday. It should be fun.” reaction that I almost don’t hear him say, “What do you “I think I will,” he nods. “You guys doing anything think?” after?” “Well, it’s original,” I respond, which is also probably “Maybe an afterparty at David’s,” I say. “Can usually a lie. “Are you gonna be in that art show on Vermont? Or count on that.” near Vermont or something. I was talking to David about “Is he seeing anyone?” he says about David. it.” We have both slept with David. “Not that I recall.” “No,” he shrugs. “I don’t like to put my stuff in art “Huh,” he says and looks at the painting. shows.” Which means he’s never been invited to one. “Think you’ll have the painting done by then?” I ask. “How do you sell your pieces then?” “Yeah, maybe. But art takes time, ya know?” he laughs. “I don’t like to sell my pieces,” he says. Which means Before I can decide to light myself on fire, he says, “Want to he’s never sold one. Which means he’s never been shower? I’m a little cold,” since we’re both still half-naked. commissioned, either. So I say sure, and we shower, and it only takes me about “Okay,” I say, long and drawn-out, because I’m not sure three minutes into the shower to decide that, yeah, I’ll have how else to respond. sex with him again. And we do—which confirms that I’m He’s walking to the kitchen and pulls his Brita from the the only one who thinks the sex is thrown off, but I know fridge for some water. “I’m not about selling my artwork I’ll keep sleeping with him because he’s still pretty good. and making it a business,” he says while pouring. “It’s more Afterwards, he’s refilling his Brita, talking about than that—but you’re an economics guy so I don’t expect Saturday, talking about the painting, talking about how you to understand.” he does things because he’s a Libra. But I’m no longer At this point I seriously have to stop myself from listening. I’m still thinking about the sex. I’m thinking looking for a TV crew to burst in to tell me I’ve been about how Van Gogh never ate yellow paint. I’m thinking pranked or punk’d or whatever, because this is ridiculous. about why I keep doing this and why I refuse to stop. When no one shows so I say, “But don’t you want to be a And I’m thinking about how this is just what Hollywood painter?” is. p He comes back to the studio and says, “I’m already a painter,” gesturing to the “portrait” of Miranda, and I’m 28

ART // dean crimmel

PART II

POETRY winter flame

Duality of Reality

A walk Awake

Glass

Her

Monster

WHat I need

Pieces

Wild and Precious

3945 Ave. Laval

Spanish Love Letters

You were a Seedling

SIlence

WHen I turned in a project late

Lost in Translation

â&#x20AC;&#x2DC; Middle Ground

Sweet little Sally

Surfs up

Oxytocin

In a day, the sea

w he

n t he w a r m th i

s he re . S e a

s on

s c h a n g i n g , s we e t

s le

for n

ow, spr i ng i

s ne

a r. W a

By Kunal Lakhanpal

Winter Flame

e em

, ep

h e c h i l l i n g br e e z e p u t s T s

s le

Ma y, I

ART // JACKIE KAJISA

I n t h e m i d s t of

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, bl i nded by her lust. So wa k

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Sorrow’s greed.

By Spencer Williams

ART // COLETTE LEE

The afterlife starts like a morning walk. Just an hour ago you were wholly submerged in the most surreal, magnificent world, with all your deepest hopes and fears made a reality, and while you were there it was all real, it must have been real… But now you’re awake for good. And no matter how much that world affected you, you’re in the real “real” now. You can’t quite remember it, either…you might like to go back and see what else it had in store, if you could only return to the comfort of your pillow… but you’ve rested as much as time will allow, and now you have somewhere to be. It’s a familiar sidewalk, but the mist and the dew dulls every color to a crisp, cool, invitingly impartial white. If there are any other footsteps to be heard, the air must be too thin for them to reach you. You don’t need to rush, but still, there’s no sense idling. You’re perfectly on time. Though you aren’t dwelling on time anymore. You’re not dwelling on much of anything; each thought is as muted as the morning air. You’re just walking, and you know you’ll get where you need to go exactly when you need to be there. You’re rested and refreshed. Keep going.

Remember,

it’s only dawn.

PHOTO // DEV MACLEOD

Her

By Elizabeth Jahn

This is the story of a girl Whose being is burned with fire. A yearning, an urge, a pull too strong: Consumed her with desire. To catch a glimpse, to get a taste,

She ran with wings unfurled. She fell in love with her one dream And thus she lost the world. An ache, a break, she cracked her skull, And from it, life emerged.

She painted colors ’til she bled: The Visions her soul purged. When tears escaped her dazed green eyes, No river would they form. They dripped onto her canvas slate, The image of a storm.

This inner fire, it surged and glowed With lava through its core. She arched her back, and let it scream Of ways it wanted more. And then she stirred among the trees. On blades of grass she laid. She opened up her eyes to see The song her soul had played. To quench her thirst, she was consumed Into the tide she’s drawn. The waters peak, her gaze is weak,

And winter, she storms on. Engulfed by thoughts tainted with tar, Her mind was slick with oil. She shook and took her deepest breath Into her gun’s recoil.

PH OT O

NI CK

AL ON E

what i need

I will pick out my third outfit while you flip through Vonnegut I do not tiptoe You do not fly South when I turn Winter I do not grab your oxygen mask before mine Three unsaid words age like wine It’s okay if we never open the bottle We’re drunk enough anyway

WHAT I

NEED By Mei-Mei Mijares

Wild and Precious

To assume my life is wild and precious is to shake off dust from mi piel de vidrio, to press palms against chest, curl fingers, duro, y sentir, the dun-dun dun-dun dun-dun. Tired nails graze my heart, tissue caliente como blue flames, salt carving trails down cheeks, pero grito, “¡Ai! ¡Cabron¡” Why is it so hard to be weak?

by Ignacio Vargas Ruiz Jr. So now, Quiero vivir con manos de cuero, thick enough to turn a steering wheel left and right precisely at the edges of mountain roads, Gentle enough to draw out groans from the men I love, Firm enough to hold mis amigos, hermanas, y papas when they have taken on too much.

I write, en mi telefono, my journal, in margins of books, on firm leaves falling from trees, on my dirty palms, and on the back of postcards where words flow if I am lucky, stutter if I flutter.

Quiero vivir con una lengua azul y rojo. Azul for English—colorful ocean sweeping into my mind, tugging Spanish down into cold waves. Rojo for Spanish— vibrant land glowing from Mama, Papa, y hermanas love, for what life would I have sin ellos?

Pero si hablo español, if I speak Spanish my words are less sure, less stable than they are in English. How did I get to be this way? I think of la poesía como un arte grande, palabras que tengo que elevar but no matter how many poems I utter I will never be high art.

Quiero vivir con ojos de lodo; deep enough for lovers to wade into but never swim; to gaze at trees, mountains, dunes, even under the moon; to promise to never whisper “my land” when I live in a house for the land will never be “mine.”

Como puedo hacer eso cuando tengo three voices inside of me, Fighting each other to be heard: One is a man unsure of the world, Two is a sexually confused Chicano, And the third, A goldenrod poet with a sea-salt voice.

Finally, quiero vivir con una nariz de madera, collecting rosas blancas, sea salt, and jugo de granadas into my bark, aching to have their smell burst from my veins, hoy hasta mañana, hasta mañana, mañana.

See, I fear the day I lay dying on my death bed, wondering if I lived enough, wondering if felt enough adrenaline and dopamine in my veins.

ART // RICKY BARAJAS

Spanish Love Letters By Myriam Arias

ART // LAUREN WICKS

I never understood why they call Spanish a romance language I’ve spoken this language of Rolled RRRs and thick accents For longer than my memory can reach. But never have I felt that flutter, That fuzzy, gooey, gross feely feeling that people talk about But of course that was before you. You made me realize that somewhere along the lines My heart learned to love in Spanish Because you bring out something ancient in me, Something Spanish in me. Mi corazón late en una lengua antigua. Each heartbeat murmurs in a language of passion and fire. It sings, “Hoy desperté con ganas de besarte Tengo una sed de acariciarte.” You bring out some Mexican shit in me That I didn’t even know was there. See I grew up practically guerra, Went to white girl school, Learned to stomp down the Chicana in me So that I’d be taken seriously Pero, with you, that doesn’t matter. You take me seriously. It’s like I’m hearing this language for the first time And coming home to it all at once. I’m not trying to speak properly. Our story is played in between the strings of Carlos Santana’s guitar, Something old, and beautiful, and dangerous A little fucked up, even. Something like the smell of tequila seeping through the walls of the cantina Or the chip in that hand-painted jarrito your abuelita has on her kitchen table. Because even though the cantina is Jose Cuervo scented and abuelita’s vase has a chip in it It’s still beautiful. It still holds love, A love that I never quite understood Because people like us love like roses: All passion and beauty, Forget about the thorns until they prick you. You won’t notice anyway. The drops of blood will find a home in your red petals. The love language isn’t well acquainted with happy endings. But passion? Oh, we are linguistic experts in passion. A culture of people whose hearts beat in corridos, and bailes, and red rosas, and red dresses, and red embers, and red and red and beauty. I’m still learning to understand this language, But when you asked me to teach you Spanish, I couldn’t help but smile. 38

at I sig ned a death

nely G

Silence hid the truth. Silence hid his acts. Silence hid the idea: Th

unsteady.

cont ract.

Silence is not golde n. Silence is not cons ent. Silence is my enem y As it causes me to reg ret.

And repent And lament And resent And feel discontent.

By Jan

Silence is golden. Silence is deadly. Silence is what caused Two girls to be

arcia

Silen ce

S i l e n c ee

ART // TANYA KERR

When you ask me How I’m doing I won’t tell you the truth. Instead, My words, Acrobatic, All trapeze and circus backflips, But really I’m walking on tight wire— I’m the victim of gravity. I’ve built my house of cards too high, and it Collapses whenever my truth falls straight Through the floor While my tongue, An anchor, Drops to the bottom of the sea.

s o L

But can’t you see I can’t tell you In a three second interaction That I haven’t been okay For so long, That finding comfort Is more of a prison Strapped in my bed, when there are places I need to go.

n a r T n tI

Which is to say, That I have depression, That I have anxiety, That I’ve been drowning in a room Filled with nothing but myself, As I breathe, I slowly feel the oxygen depleting And my lungs collapse Under the rock in my chest, Next to my storm cloud heart, And this body jolts lightning To revive what already feels so dead, That there are times When I want to live In a world with the lights turned off, I feel most comfortable blanketed In the darkness as I hide from street lamps. But I Have never felt so Alone. We are all just amorphous voices Morphing into a sea of silhouettes Singing swan songs As we sink under ART // OLIVIA BERRIZ Our own endeavors. 40

n o i t a l s

for help. So I won’t ask you I won’t tel l you That poetr y ass I fol low Is the broken comp bli nd ly, And I don’t know find W hether you ca n em po t My las page Bleedi ng from the ed Or tuck my or iga m i sk in. Under the folds of In my pitch black sk y There are no shoo ting sta rs To wish my pa in aw ay W hen cit ies Have already drag ged down The sta rs to die am ong us.

But let th is poem r, Be your north sta Ever y word aster isk . Ribboned with an I u W hen I tel l yo wn Am the dusk or da ikes red W hi le the su n str In my horizon, time A rem inder that my e tw ilight. lik gin be or Will end So it becomes appa rent that Transparent thou ghts Become convoluted W hen lost in tra ns lat ion Because I wa nt to tel l you I am the wh isper of the ghost That haunts empt y ha llways W hich is to say : I’m fine I’m just tired .

Sweet Little

Sweet little Sally, She prances and skips, Bubblegum lacquer spread across her lips. Atop her blond ringlets, a pink bow lies, Yet she is the girl whom they should all despise. Sweet little Sally, Each day she spends hours Scouring the town, picking the flowers. She offers each neighbor an elegant rose, Their eyes light up—Oooh! What are those? They gratefully clutch the beautiful blooms. Little Sally smiles and scurries back to her room, As each neighbor’s hand begins to bleed. They whimper and curse—the wretched weeds! The roses beauty hid their thorns, Just as little Sally’s pink bow hides her horns.

Sally

By Skyler Melnick

The devil lurks and preys, Disguising himself in many ways. Little Sally is his newest shape, An evil so pure one cannot escape. Sweet little Sally, They watch her skip, they watch her prance, Who knew the devil loved to dance?

ART // PEYTON STOTELMYRE

Oxytocin As a child, candy was forbidden. My formative years: void of sweetness, A decade long desert devoid of corn syrup. Years spent eyeing all the others. So how can I be blamed for Getting my head stuck in the cookie jar? I want to try everything, Feel the rush, Forget my long fast, Smooth over past deprecations. But we can only have one galleta, And I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t choose. Caught, Five in hand. Unable to commit. They all crumble in my hands.

ART // MAISON BRAY

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve wanted so desperately To escape into my mind, Retreating from realityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s harsh fluctuations, To travel the endless miles Of thought and existence, To float through the void Of times past and Experiences learned, But all I find are

Unanswered questions and Demons lurking behind Every solid star, Whispering to me as I tumble On and on and on, revealing Thoughts that keep my

duality

of reality

by Catherine Lawrence

Lungs fighting to inhale and My heart beating so hard

As if it desires to break Out of the cage itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s in,

Fleeing from the mastermind that Controls it upstairs until I, too, follow.

Racing from the ripples of false notes

To return to sunnier highs outside,

But I find myself lost in the

Deep infinite abyss.

ART // KIRSTEN SCHIERHOLT

ART // dean crimmel

By Jazzy Colbert The breaking of my mind is unsettling, but satisfying when watched in reverse, like a glass, shattering then reassembling.

By Jazzy Colbert

All the pressure it’s been put through, to be blown into this work of art is all released in an instant as the vessel reaches its breaking point. Tragic, even from a distance, but to a viewer it doesn’t hurt. Time to try the experiment again, even though you know the sound. The spectacle will continue until a shard pierces your eye, then you will understand how it feels to hurt.

I’m sorry if I seem detached Or hard to reach as of late. Come on in, meet my monster, It tells me what to do and say. I clench my jaw, shackle my hands, To try to keep its voice at bay. Can’t quite split its thoughts from mine, without sawing my DNA. Please wash your hands Next time, I implore. Don’t, with those dirty hands, Touch the handle on my door. Anyway, the creature crawls into my brain Crazy as it may seem, And whispers that it’ll hurt me If I don’t clean and clean and clean. It tells me not to play outside Or else I’ll fall on the asphalt. It tells me not to sing a song Or missing notes would be my fault.

It tells me not to wander nights Or I’ll fall victim to assault. Its rules protect me day and night, so now it acts as my default. Devouring adventures caught Plays dead when smallest trouble’s wrought. I miss holding hands and hugs but I stay clean as Monster’s taught. Human attraction to recklessness carries danger, as it ought, But I cannot relate to those who have never with their monsters fought. I live fearing mortality, uncertainty, reality, Guarding my vitality leaves less than perfect casualty. Logic is illogical to Monster’s illogical logic. How can I be surprised by life if, over my shoulder, I watch it?

s i

P Bye Alicia Hernandez i P e e P e e c c e s e s c

c e

reflection

The reflection in the mirror beneath her Shines with a solemn disposition. Standing under a cloud of rain, A drop falls from her wet black hair And hits the pool, Creating a ripple. She who was once so whole Has become broken, fractured. Pieces here.

Pieces there. Her arms, once so strong, Are now in need of a prayer. Her eyes, so golden, Are like honeycombs shattered. Her veins, full of life, Are pulsing only with a trickle. Her walls begin to collapse. She wants to be rid of this despair. She turns from the image: Finally a choice of

her own volition.

ART // HEIDI JUDGE

by Maya Keshav

l a v a L . e v A 3945

See how our cat has expanded! Once a bounding kitten kernel, now she pins down a fleeting sunbeam with her unfolded white. All these months have wrapped around her belly, I say. How blink-brief mornings, & slivered afternoons have vanished, only to gather, I cannot tell you.

PHOTO // EMMA PETERSON ART // JASMINE BENAFGHOUL

you were a seedling brought into being you were a seedling with no choice in who would care for— you bloomed until branded by things beyond your control but that defined— you learned to hate your color, texture, inability to stand unwavering against beating heat, forgotten feedings, no one to water—

you

wilted at the mercy of neglected care, recurrent promises of a gardener who kept but did not nurture— you were a seedling brought into being

By Maya T. Garabedian

ART // HARRISON PYROS

This is the time I got graded eight out of ten: I had to turn in a project with my partner, my classmate out of ten, But when I turned it in, it was late out of ten And it was so thorough, I thought it was great out of ten,

But my teacher said, “No way out of ten,” So I told her a bunch of excuses, how it was fate out of ten, But she showed me no love, just hate out of ten,

Then I started thinking more about fate out of ten, Things seeming inescapable, things we can’t shake out of ten, How we’re a bunch of fish, and life is just bait out of ten, And how people talk about love and soulmates out of ten, How people slave away for the heavenly gates out of ten, Like there’s an afterlife, something you can negotiate out of ten, “Hurry, repent your sins,” they propagate out of ten.

But what if it’s just something to say, to eradicate out of ten, All the crimes and selfishness in humans, to regulate out of ten, What if we’re just being lied to, to keep us in place out of ten,

And there’s no one upstairs, and no judgement date out of ten,

Does this mean we can just have our way out of ten?

WHEN I TURNED IN A PROJECT by Andrew Nguyen

LATE LATE LATE LATE LATE LATE LATE LATE LATE LATE

But that’d be way too cake out of ten To do anything, and incriminate out of ten Because life’s not that simple, to just manipulate out of ten Because there’s still tomorrow and the next day out of ten With our neighbors and friends to say “Hey” out of ten And yeah, there’d still be people fake out of ten Who will cheat you and call you mate out of ten But that feeling of being wronged gives us a taste out of ten What it’s like to be lied to and kicked in the face out of ten And that’s called sympathy, which stimulates out of ten Our instinct to be decent and participate out of ten Into the community, everyday out of ten A society and group, to assimilate out of ten Colleagues and partners, to associate out of ten To work together, like my classmate out of ten Who knows me not but hate out of ten

Ever since I turned in that project late out of ten And we both got graded eight out of ten.

LATE

ART// MARINA ALVAREZ

Destroy and Create A world split

As if thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s no

Love and Hate, entirely in half

It is either

Middle Ground.

this or that.

Blacks and Whites, Grey Gradients, A binary pattern A mix like

Cages us. You and Me,

A defiant like

You and Me,

A person like Belong in places like

You and Me,

MIDDLE GROUND

the Middle Ground.

By Jaquelynn Tesch

We are trapped A world without Wars fought over

inside this battleground, harmony or peace.

discrimination and fear, Encroaching on other lives, like ours. Tearing apart between Us and Them. A captivating, capricious, creative, chaotic composure from comprehensive, cryptic, chthonic, combustible casualties.

Decisions, decisions, just pick one already. Decisions, decisions, which one is right?

ART // ALICIA LEUNG

60’s

h ot

ea ew

ga co

st u

it h w

ses iri

G e te a K y B 55

ft ro t te

f ro

ld or

t he

n ki

l lo

ds en ds

e nb

s. pi l

s. to e

na i

en t le eg th

y em

ter

m es

loop.

pi t

r fi

su u’r e yo

e hn

d re

e d on

ay nd

p l ay ms

a br

e av

Surf’s Up

n o vs a t us

In a Day, the Sea Rested eyes squint open with another sun born, stretching his limbs across the reaches of a home still covered in blankets of damp white, soon to be sparkling with prisms of scattered brilliance. Hues of moonlit violet and obsidian glimmer, then melt under warm optimism and clarity, giving rise to new splashes of teal, emerald, and sapphire blue, mirroring the vast calm that strecthes above: a painted canvas.

By Iraa Guleria

Yelling tongues and youthful hearts drowned out by sounds of frothing foam that swallow barefoot copper, peach, ebony, and olive, licking like an eager hound, even the salted smiles of weathered stories.

Illuminated reflections of a tangerine and apricot sky, fall sweet on the eyes of lovers dragging heavy toes, lightening the burden that long hours carry. Sloppy wet kisses of silver-glinted sunset shimmer in memory of the relentless effort to never stop kissing the shore, no matter how many times theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re sent away. Rushing black slopes of pride and freedom tumble and crash into collective cascades, forming navy valleys of excitement and energy, each peak rising to match its midnight maker before dissipating into the gentle murmur and applause that lets yet another mountain build itself tall, striving always to last and meet tomorrow. In a day, the sea.

ART // dean crimmel

56 56

CAT-ALUM: MADISON MEAD The Catalyst is thrilled to welcome former contributor Madison Mead in this quarter’s “Cat-Alum” segment!

Then I blink and now, just about eight months later, I am starting a full time job as a copywriter for Everlane, an environmentally and ethically conscious clothing brand, where I will be writing catchy product descriptions, learning about fabrics, working with the photographers and creative team, and most likely spending too much of my paycheck on irresistibly gorgeous clothes. So here I am to present you with a handful of unwanted, generic clichés about life after graduation: Life rarely goes as planned (especially when you do not have a plan, then it literally cannot go according to a nonexistent plan); Nobody really has it figured out (and that is ok); Everybody has their own path. Follow your passion, now is the time to take risks; Don’t blink because you’ll miss it, not because there are a load of weeping angel statues that will attack you and transport you back in time when you’re not looking (I may or may not have hid out at home for two months taking care of my mom after surgery re-watching movies and all the David Tenant seasons of Doctor Who); Twenty-three is the year of waking up with back pain and feeling much older than twenty-two. I might be getting off track with the widely known clichés... In the past eight months I have travelled around California, job searched, hung out with my mom, and cut my hair off (think aspiring Audrey Hepburn or Julie Andrews). I certainly didn’t plan on everything, or anything, going exactly the way that it did, but it happened. And I realize that is not at all vague. It took me a little longer than expected, but I feel like I am heading in a good direction. If there is one thing that I am thankful for about my time at UCSB, it is how it challenged me to know myself. This is a going to be a life long journey, I will always keep changing, and I do not know where I am going to end up, a month from now, a year from now, ten years from now, but I look forward to it.

ART // MADISON MEAD

I graduated in Spring 2018 from UCSB with a Psychology major and a double minor in English and Professional Writing, having received highest honors and an exceptional academic performance award in psychology while participating in the College of Liberal Arts and Sciences Honor Program. Frankly, I was exhausted. I am still exhausted now just from that sentence. I found my way home to Fremont, California in the San Francisco Bay Area, and slept for about a week straight. As I emerged from my brief hibernation, it was time to face the fact that I did not have a plan.

Special Thanks ucsb department of english john and Jody arnhold Matt and Ashley Kline David Elliot Cohen and Laureen Seeger department chair enda duffy hfa dean john majewski Chris Thomas kerr hall digital editing lab associated students haagen printing typecraft interdisciplinary humanities center ivcrc

ART // JACKIE CALDWELL

Biko House

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