The Morningside Monocle Issue XII by The Morningside Monocle

issue xii 路 april 2016

the monocle issue 12, spring 2016 The Morningside Monocle seeks to enrich student life at Columbia Law School by sharing poetry, prose, art, and photography. The Monocle is published twice a year. The content and opinions represented in this magazine do not necessarily reflect those of the Law School, administrators, or student body. Questions, concerns and submissions can be directed to lxx2000@columbia.edu. Visit us online at http://morningsidemuckraker.com/category/monocle/the-monocle/

ÂŠ

the monocle issue 12, spring 2016

Foreword

The art of mov1ng Forward april 2016 Moving forward can be difficult. It may be because we are wed to our past in ways that define us today, leaving us afraid of changing anything because we donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know how that will change us; or it may be because we dwell in the past hoping that things will get better without having to put in the effort to move forward. Just as keeping the status quo is comfortable, moving forward can be uncomfortable. But moving forward is sometimes necessary in order to thrive, if not to survive. It is important to understand that moving forward is different from moving away; the Muckraker and the Monocle are moving forward, but not away from its founding membersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; vision. The Monocle will be, as it always has been, a space for Columbia Law School students to express themselves outside of the academic setting. The Monocle will be, as it always has been, the literary and arts magazine published once a semester, and hopefully will be in print one day, just as the founders envisioned. But the Monocle is also moving forward by becoming independent from the Muckraker as a journalistic publication; it will be a standalone literary and arts magazine, separate from the news and journalistic section of the current publication. Through the redesigned and reorganized Monocle, we hope that Columbia Law students will keep in touch with their artistic self. The new Monocle will be an exciting step forward for the magazine, sustaining the artistic space that it has created for the past three years and revamping it to become a more accessible, reputable and integrated part of the Columbia Law School community. i

Our April Issue, the twelfth issue since the founding of the publication in 2013, is an introduction to what the Monocle will be; as you will see, we are moving forward, but not entirely away. We have featured written and visual pieces for you to peruse on this mucking beautiful day; welcome, and enjoy. Sincerely, Yoonji Woo

Outgoing Editor-in-Chief

TABLE of CONTENTS wr1t1ng 03 The Prisoner 08 Like Spring 14 Things I Miss 18 A Likely Story 25 Apathy of Manners 30 Right All Along 41 Spring Book Reviews Photography 02 Lion 04 Solitary 05 Skylight 06 Across the Way 07 Wish 09 Istanbul 10 Cold Orange 11 Clearance 12 Deere in the Headlight 13 Red Sun 16 When in Rome 17 Night in Florence 19 Amsterdam 20 Winter in New York: Photo Set 24 Transient 26 The Path 27 Shadows 28 Pilgrimage 29 Pilgrims 32 Museums and People: Photo Set

Daniel Klein Lisa Xia Mae Ji Daniel Klein Lisa Xia Daniel Klein Nicole Tortoriello

Cindy Li Cindy Li Cindy Li Nolan Thomas Lisa Xia Jin Sol Lee Jae Park Jae Park Jae Park Jae Park Jin Sol Lee Jin Sol Lee Jin Sol Lee Changhee Han Lisa Xia Jae Park Jae Park Jae Park Jae Park Changhee Han

L1on photograph | Cindy Li

02 | photography

the pr1soner by Daniel Klein The innocent prisoner Sits on his bare mattress on its stark metal frame Alone, watching the dust swirl and settle And it reminds him of home. The innocent prisoner Sees a ray of light shining through the window Creating a sliver of light on the cold stone floor Just like on his wooden floor at home. He begs, he pleads, He cries alone in his cell He roars his outrage at the injustice that he has been served To no avail. He melts to the ground, Unable to accept the finality of his fate For fear that the finality will only come about By his acceptance. But in his heart he knows That the matter is not in his hands That home is a thing of the past That heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d best forget about. So he gets up; This is home now.

poetry | 03

sol1tary photograph | Cindy Li

04 | photography

skyl1ght photograph | Cindy Li

photography | 05

Across the way photograph | Nolan Thomas

06 | photography

w1sh photograph | Lisa Xia

photography | 07

l1ke spr1ng by Lisa Xia like spring or like summer you are warm, welcome: Like a breath of fresh air â&#x20AC;&#x201D; or sunshine on skin

08 | poetry

1stanbul photography | Jin Sol Lee

photography | 09

Cold Orange photograph | Jae Park

10 | photography

Clearance photograph | Jae Park

photography | 11

Deere 1n the Headl1ght photograph | Jae Park

12 | photography

Red Sun photograph | Jae Park

photography | 13

Th1ngs 1 m1ss by Mae Ji Unlimited and reliable Internet connection. Good public transportation system. Being able to walk on the streets at night. Ubiquitous convenience stores and equally ubiquitous (or, within walkable distance) cafes serving a cup of decent espresso-based coffee drink. Traveling — the act of traveling itself; the movement, changing scenery, sunset over the horizon. The endless chain of thoughts it provokes. Constantly being thrown into the new, the unknown, the unexplored. That adrenaline rush from arriving at somewhere new. Not being entirely sure where I’ll be next week, or even tomorrow. Having an overwhelming, yet equally addictive number of choices available. The utter freedom. And, oddly enough, the sheer loneliness that follows it. The stress — the tension from not knowing who you are. That pilgrim-like flow of reflections. Not belonging anywhere. Intensity and density of everyday.

14 | prose

Th1ngs 1 m1ss : DEVELOPED WORLD ED1T1ON Fresh produce on sale, virtually everywhere from a street vendor, for a ridiculous price. Like, perfectly ripe avocado for less than a dollar. Even better, hot meals from a street vendor, freshly cooked upon your order. Filling and delicious, still about three dollars. The heat, noise, chaos, unorderliness. As in the street market in SE Asia. Daladala stop in Tanzania. The vibrance. Lives on display. All that energy. At the same time: the serenity. Wide open fields and deserts. Layers of mountains. Deep blue, turquoise, or whatever color of the ocean. A sunset of such vibrant colors as if it’s exploding over the limit of human perception. The sound of the wave. When it’s so quiet you start to doubt if your feet are still firmly placed on the ground. Traveling has ruined me in a way. Perhaps I left behind a little piece of me in every place I visited, and now I’m impossible to please. A reminds me of B, B makes me miss C, and when I’m finally in C, all I want is A. For a short period of time virtually the entire world was in my hands, at my disposal at will. Availability of such vast range of choices is, addicting. Nowhere is perfect. I tell myself I understand that, yet I always dream of something else. Somewhere else. Of being taken away.

prose | 15

When 1n Rome photograph | Jin Sol Lee

16 | photography

n1ght 1n Florence photograph | Jin Sol Lee

photography | 17

a l1kely story by Daniel Klein I once joined the furies In their claw-footed bathtub, blowing Pink, strawberry scented bubbles between Their asparagus-lined teeth. The bottle Said ‘No Tears’, but I cried like an armadillo With a deflated balloon wrapped about its waist. I’ve had a grown waffle Erupt from the drain after its previous owner Flushed it down the toilet the week before – a breakfast ever forgotten, never avenged. Songs flowed like syrup from its checkered boxes And lingered there like the Antarctic sun:

“Pancakes are inferior, Cooked without a grid. A waffle is superior, Just ask any kid...” Like a dog eating math homework, The furies devoured the waffle in the middle Of its second verse, wiping their greasy snake Tongues on a French fried hairnet, Which they then placed atop my head, The hot oil running into my teary eyes Like steaming manticore’s urine. I asked my leave thereafter, and politely Slapped each fury on the foamy snout, As is customary, and I was whisked Away in a cloud of rare orangutan gnats Ooohing and aaahing and waving their six furry appendages. When I removed the hairnet, I noticed a few shreds Of waffle flesh like soggy pencil shavings And I smiled. 18 | poetry

Amsterdam photograph | Jin Sol Lee

photography | 19

W1nter 1n New York photo series | Changhee Han

20 | photography

W1nter 1n New York photo series | Changhee Han

photography | 21

W1nter 1n New York photo series | Changhee Han

22 | photography

W1nter 1n New York photo series | Changhee Han

photography | 23

trans1ent photograph | Lisa Xia

24 | photography

apathy of manners by Lisa Xia I float softly, simply, swiftly, down the stream. why swim like a frog or like a dog? everyone knows itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s better to float on than it is to sink d o w n or dr

o w

poetry | 25

the path photograph | Jae Park

26 | photography

shadows photograph | Jae Park

photography | 27

P1lgr1mage photograph | Jae Park

28 | photography

p1lgr1ms photograph | Jae Park

photography | 29

r1ght all along by Daniel Klein Back when I was seventeen My friend started dating this girl— I tried my best to intervene, But my friend, he gave it a whirl. This girl had quite a reputation For “making the rounds” here and there; It seemed that her foreign relations Were never quite laissez faire. I said to him: “Okay, she’s hot, But dumb enough to eat dung on toast! Of certain things she’s got a lot, But brains, she’s dull as a post.” “Not on toast,” he said with a laugh, “But as you so said with less style, What she lacks in her fore she has in her aft; I think she’ll sail right for a while.” Frantically, as a last resort, I played my best card last: “We both know well she might abort If she can reach some other ship’s mast.” I warned him too late to give him pause, He could no longer be deterred. She snatched him up in her pretty little claws And flew him to first base, second base…third. For the first few months I let it go. He’ll come around, I thought, lie low, Until his logic overrides his testosterone His heart, hopefully, still all his own. After a while, though, I got somewhat comfortable with her around, She was cool, after all and—damn!—a looker; And as soon as I let my guard down, 30 | poetry

She swooped in and clamped her beak down That filthy, rotten hooker. Summer nights, discreet phone calls, always a lame excuse; Another invite, boundaries fall, complete friendship trust abuse; Skip ahead six months and twenty-three days, Our affair is long over, he never found out And she and I had long since parted ways. But apparently, he had his doubts. He was apparently still curious what she had to hide From half a year previously, So she did what does best, and outright lied: “Oh, he was just flirting with me.” When I got wind of this most recent exchange I told him everything, first to last. Then I girded my heart, my brain Expecting a volcanic blast. But no: he started out quiet, The silence was disconcerting. I was crying, but he didn’t cry yet; He just said, “That’s not flirting.” I waited silently on the line. Then he said, “I’m not even mad. All in all, if I had to define My emotions, I’d say sad.” “Why?” I asked, though in a moment’s time, I would desperately regret Dropping that three-letter bomb; I’ll never forget what he said. “Well,” he began, and his voice cracked just a bit, “I’m not gonna say that you did nothing wrong, But before it all happened you predicted it. I guess you were right. You were right all along.” poetry | 31