THE PAPER MIXTAPE Issue 10 by The Paper Mixtape

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THE PAPER MIXTAPE ISSUE 010

INFORMATION

THE PAPER MIXTAPE is a biannual Publication, issued Spring and Fall, Produced by UCLA students chronicling LA arts and culture. FOR ADVERTISING please contact: thepapermixtape@gmail.com SUBSCRIPTION INFORMATION Individual issue - $20.00 1 Year Subscription - $35.00

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EDITOR’S NOTES

With the start of any new team comes the need to connect, to find solid ground that keeps all standing. Common ground that is too narrow, however, can limit possibilities for new ideas to grow. With the theme of “Finders, Keepers,” I hoped that contributors would push themselves to see how themes of loss and discovery is present in almost anything if you look at it a certain way. To my great excitement, the pieces in this magazine went above and beyond, setting aside the usual associations of loss and gain to bring fresh perspectives on every page. Pieces like “One World’s Trash, An Artist’s Trashformations” and “Command+V” explore how loss and discovery can be approached through nature, wondering what can be reclaimed and what can never be. Some of the pieces juxtapose playful forms with complex questions of ownership, as seen in “unCaged” and “Empire Takes to the Sky;” the self-reflective pieces “By Mica” and “The Billion-Blooded Sea” make the personal feel universal. The time, effort and care that come from magazine contributors is mirrored in all members of the Paper Mixtape as they push this organization towards future iterations of itself. The common ground of creative acceptance and pushing towards constant growth is something that I’m happy The Paper Mixtape has found and kept.

Cameron Vernali Editor in Chief

EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR’S NOTE

As I sit here, struggling to condense into just a few sentences what TPM is, and what it means to me, all I can think to say is: I love The Paper Mixtape. Stepping into the role of Executive Director has been an incredibly rewarding experience. I am constantly in awe of the talent and creativity of our staffers. In these past three years, I have watched the organization continuously grow and evolve, as we aim to create a community in which all of our members feel comfortable to express themselves. For our Issue 10, we chose the theme “Finders Keepers,” a catchy phrase that our contributors took in a variety of different directions. I wonder: What does it mean to be lost? Is there such a thing? The act of being lost is so beautiful because it alludes to endless possibilities. Being lost is like trying to write on a blank page (as I am currently doing—quite poorly I may add). The page seems ominous at first, the white so bright and so empty. But in the process of writing, something happens. Maybe it is finding out something about yourself, or finding something at least. I think that life is a constant cycle of feeling lost. Yet sometimes, in those rare moments of realization, you find a piece of yourself, a piece that you are allowed to keep. Anyway, that was my existential spiel, and without further ado, I present: The Paper Mixtape Issue 10. Enjoy the read :)

Annette Sorensen Executive Director

Founder Morgan Cadigan Editor in Chief Cameron Vernali Executive Director Annette Sorensen

TEAM

Creative Director Jimmy Zhi Section Editors Genevieve Pfluger Nikita Sridhar Nina Young Contributors Alaina Dexter Ariana Fadel Nicole Smith M.H. Olivia Lindgren Phoebe Green Sydney Deardorff Blog Head Judy Vallette

Blog Team Akemi Lucas Alina Giapis Anna Verghese Ariana Fadel Ayush Varadhan Brianna Spiker Daisy Yan Gianna Provenzano Lakshita Vij Lily Frankel Jackie Vanzura Jane Shin Jenna Welsh Maxine Zhao Mehr Juneja Melissa Diaz Nikita Sridhar Sophia Li Yiren Xu Zine Heads Sydney Deardorff Sidra Rashid Zine Section Editors Alex Treisman Alina Giapis

Illustration Head Juliette Le Saint Nina Young Illustrators David Lee Erin Earp Emily Burns Marion Moseley Josie Blumencwejg

Melissa Arismendy

Videography Head Megan Mai Videographers Alice Zheng Alondra Orn Maria Petrescu Nancy Khuc Podcast Head Ariyana Chowdhury

Photographers Alaina Dexter Alex Treisman Ariana Fadel Jaden Power Joanna Zhang Lizzy Tommey Maya Gee-Lim Maxwell Brody Melissa Arismendy

General Events Head Melissa Diaz

Design Head Jimmy Zhi

Off-Campus Events Head Yuval Schnitkes

Designers Amy Fang

Off-Camous Events Team Ayush Varadhan

On-Campus Events Head Mehr Juneja On-Campus Events Team Akemi Lucas Alondra Orn Lakshita Vij

Photography Head Joyce Ding

Catherine Wang Joanna Zhang Maria Petrescu Sarah Heisler

In-House Events Head Kamea Taylor In-House Events Team Anna Verghese Lexi Garfinkel

TEAM

Events Music Manager Amy Liu Marketing Head Defne Keskin Marketing General Team Audrey Freeman Anna Verghese Katrina An Kristen Fu Phoebe Green Yiren Xu Marketing Social Media Team Alyssa Peckham

Amy Liu Gianna Provenzano Jason Chua

Finance Head Sarineh Khachikian General Fundrasing Team Katrina An Lexi Garfinkel Yuval Schnitkes UCLA-based Funding Team Alyssa Peckham Lakshita Vij Michelle Lam Nancy Khuc Grants Team Catherine Wang Michelle Lam Yiren Xu

E U Q DE

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I W F AF T S 10

WHAT IS SOMETHING YOUâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;VE FOUND IN LOS ANGELES?

QUESTION

Nina Young a scientology pamphlet

Phoebe Green a creek

Nikita Sridhar eboys, tiktok stars, peo ple who think they’re more important than you

Judy Vallette nostalgia

Jaime Hattori my love Gia Provenzano amazing friends

Anna Verghese I have found picturesque beaches and as cliche as it sounds, a “home” because of all my amaz ing friends.

Genevieve Flueger good people

Sophia Li cats

Maxine Zhao The ability to believe in and trust myself :) Alice Zheng (also a sweet sweet proof that my life can pan da and giraffe print still get better in a place bolero top for $1 at jet that is not home rag, but i’ve gotten much more use out of Megan Mai the first thing i men A broken suorin, soli tioned) tude Jackie Vanzura Boxed Water

Melissa Arismendy my favorite veggie

dumplings @ Northern Cafe (:

Alaina Dexter a tiny plastic male dachshund (not neu tered!) David Lee Bad Traffic Yiren Xu Delicious dessert places

Jimmy Zhi myself

Anonymous a deeper appreciation for my home

TBALE OF CONTENTS

The Letter Cameron Vernali (W)

Growing Jaden Power (W+P)

By Mica M.H. (W)

Uncaged Nina Young (W) Juliette Le Saint (I)

Moderna Nikki Smith (W) Alaina Dexter (I)

To Be Broken, is Neither Lost nor Found Marion Moseley (I)

The Billion-Blood Sea Olivia Lindgren (W) Joyce Ding (P)

Empire Takes to the Sky Sydney Deardorff (W) Nina Young (I)

An interview piece on junk art with Rodrigo “Rodney” Rodriguez: One World’s Trash, An Arist’s Trashformations Judith Vallette (W) Melissa Arismendy (P)

Command + V Jaime Hattori (W+P+I)

With Love, Phoebe Green (W) Lizzy Tommey (P)

Lost and Found Instagram Poll (W) Alaina Dexter (P)

You Know You Don’t Know Joyce Ding (W+P)

Subversion, Spectacularized: On the Aesthetic Appeal of Thrift Shopping Sydney Deardorff (W+P)

Through Acquired Objects Maya Gee-Lim (P)

TBALE OF CONTENTS

In Search of David Lee (I)

Your Lesabendio Cameron Vernali (W) Nina Young (I)

(Untitled) Joanna Zhang (P)

THE WORDS: CAMERON VERNALI

LE T T : D R WA

E R O F

The letter that follows is not one that I had any hand in creating or understanding; if that was the case, it would be shared among friends and colleagues and nobody else. Instead it sits before you. I was given an old sailboat model to look after, for a friend who was moving her motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s estate across towns; things get damaged in the process, she reasoned, and I would take good care of anything that came her way. I admired the sailboat greatly as it sat in my living room for months and was sad to see it go, but thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the way of things. I was not a day without the model sailboat when I noticed a paper left behind in its place. I tried to understand it, but it was freshly damp and the

ink smudged in the process. After staring at the illegible shapes for days, I narrowed down the possible suspects and distilled it into the word bank below. What bothers me now is what the letter means, what it truly means. This list of words could fit the soul of the letter, but even so, I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t grasp their order. It eludes me. What is the truth in this letter, and could I even keep the meaning once I discover it? I ceded my efforts long ago into the thrill of the chase, the feeling of almost finding but never keeping. Perhaps you feel the same.

D R O W

DETERMINATION • TIME • ENERGY • LOVE • EASY • PAINFUL • WEAKNESS • FEAR • HONEST • EVASIVE

I don’t have very much aaaaaaa left. I’m writing now because the aaaaaaa I have for you is fading, and I need it for my thoughts. We lived our lives in the same exact way for so long, it feels like another life before we got closer. I was an aaaaaaa person before you. But that wasn’t stable and neither is your company. What was between us was aaaaaa before it became dynamic, an unknown entity. But now, as

: K N BA

you have so much aaaaaa towards me, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve crumbled. I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stand to be around you any longer. All of this aaaaaa on my side is too much, too overwhelming. Looking at you in my memories is too aaaaaa for me. I was never good at harboring aaaaaa before we met. We twisted, we turned. I thought maybe I finally grew into a version of myself that is the most aaaaaa thanks to you. I think that no longer. This letter is my aaaaaa speaking. I hope it finds you well.

GROWING WORDS : JADEN POWER PHOTOS : JADEN POWER

way that the two correlated. That I could never be the person my inner voice wanted me to be because that person was so different. Altering myself, looking around at the others around me, slowly embodying what I believed to be “cool,” trying to shut out my inner voice telling me ‘no, no this is not you.’ I never thought I was beautiful, I was too odd-looking. I stood out when all I wanted to do was to blend in. In my mind blending in equaled finding love. I was obsessed with the idea of love. Every one of my problems could be fixed if only I could fall in love. I attracted the wrong set of energies, falling down into a deeper and deeper hole of identity crisis where I truly thought that everything was okay when it truly wasn’t. I loved the attention I got, but when I was alone I would sit with myself and feel wrong all over. Sometimes bad things need to happen in order to kick you back into reality. When you feel like your soul has been physically taken from you like you are no longer considered a human being because everything has been stripped away because no one absolutely no one listened or saw you as a person capable of an opinion is when you know you need a change. For me it was that moment that I was screamed at across the room being called names that were filled with hate, every single word hit like a knife. That moment the hills slide down and I looked around and saw that you weren’t sitting in your desk anymore, that you never would again. That moment of coercion, repeated and repeated over and over again, where they would ask and never hear no, where they would take and never hear no, where they would touch and never hear no. Fuck that, fuck all of it. The ability to look at yourself in the mirror and be proud of the person you are expressing to the world-- with all of your individuality out on the table is an amazing feeling. Tired of dressing for other people, doing the things I was “supposed to do” in order to be deemed attractive. I wanted to feel liberated from the expectations placed upon me so I let my body hair grow and with that came negative comments and looks, but I had never felt more powerful and beautiful in my femininity. I go through periods where I feel the need to shave and then also the need not to. It is always for me.

I remember feeling self-conscious, too aware of the eyes that looked upon me. Always with judgment-- or so I thought.

For me, embracing femininity is about choice and how those choices make you feel. It is okay to change my image as my experience continues to change.

My body never felt like mine. I would look in the mirror convinced that my inner voice was the opposite of my outer image, that there was no

Everything is my choice. As my physical appearance became more authentic, my mind still lapsed behind. It can be so scary to be different

and with every step my mind faced reluctance. Are you sure you want to do this? Once I broke past that barrier of fear, I relished in the independence of being my own person, my own body. My own voice followed once I found my outer form. I remember sitting with a group of people being surrounded by opinions that made me uncomfortable. The way that some people talked about individuals different from them upset me but I would never say anything because I thought people would think of me as a “bitch” or “prude”. Becoming “that bitch” that actually spoke up when something was being said that I did not think was okay, some changed their opinions about me, saying that “they couldn’t be themselves around me because I was so sensitive.” My opinions do matter and if someone does not respect that then they don’t deserve a place in my life. If they choose to think of me as the problem for not taking their racist, sexist, and derogatory jokes then their bigotry is

not a problem correlating with me but with themselves. Taking care of myself, my mind, the words that I choose to surround myself with. When my individuality had taken form I fell deeply in love. Proving that love is impossible if you are putting a front to the world because love is deeper than a material attraction. All those things that I used to do to change myself were just leading me on a path farther from finding it. Writing at that time that â&#x20AC;&#x153;it was crazy that I could fall in love with a man and trust in him so deeply after everything I had gone through.â&#x20AC;? This boy reinstated my hope in society and became the keeper of all my secrets. He was okay with the fact I was questioning my identity. He accepted me for everything I was and for a brief period we lived in a dream. When we had to break I felt like I had lost so much of myself because during that time I had built myself up on the person I was in that relationship, thinking that he was going to be a stable part of my life.

As time passed and I healed I became thankful for that experience of love, knowing what it felt like, and eventually for being let go. Our time had reached the expiration date and he released me into a period of self-discovery where I began to fall in love with who I am. Singularity has been the most fulfilling time of my life. I have seen myself blossom from codependent women into an independent woman. That co-dependency was my own fault because I truly thought I could not survive without another, someone to help me feel confident and tell me that I was okay. It is ok to be alone. I still do not fully know who I am, but for now, I have a pretty good idea. I know that I will follow my own path and when I make mistakes and let others negative opinions invade my actions that it is not an end road but an opportunity for personal growth. I am proud of the woman I am today and the one that I am continuing to grow into. I am my own person and no one can change that.

BY MICA

I. When I first saw a Hollywood movie, I wanted to touch a man, have a man touch me, and see the city lights. Now that it’s done, I want to go home. Since I was born, I wanted long hair. Now that that’s done, I still don’t feel comfortable in my body. I’m living the wishes I made when I looked forward to freedom for better times. I’m living my truth now, but now I don’t feel the bliss that proves this true.

I thought of this when I reached adulthood and wanted to spend my eighteenth birthday beautifully with my family over dinner, together, overlooking a city’s skyline. This dream came too late, at a time when I couldn’t get up out of bed, and I couldn’t listen to the entirety of a song, and food never tasted so bland.

Coming at times when they weren’t wishes that I wanted to actualize anymore, these dreams became burdens I had to fulfill as I had already expressed my expired desire to live them out.

This reminded me of the times when I was a child and I got what I wanted, only to find this chasing, cyclical sense of disappointment and indifference following everything, concluding sentences like periods. That or the dreams always came too late.

II. Thinking over the theme of this issue, I felt that there were so many sensations that couldn’t keep up with the aging of my human body. I imagined my life, and how it would be like when I was free when I was finally alone (because I found that dancing feels more cathartic and enjoyable when no one is watching). I’m alone now, and I wonder why I don’t feel satisfied. Why does this progressively become more and

more of an issue the older I grow, the more I live through experiences? And why canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t I keep emotions forever...

Actor and icon Nicolas Cage once purchased a piece of history, paying nearly $300k for a tyrannosaurus bataar skull at a Beverly Hills auction in 2007. But the bond between man and beast did not last forever. Mongolia demanded the return of the stolen artifact 7 years later and Cage complied. Bataar had grown up within the sleazy fossil black market, never knowing where it belonged. What was its home? Cage and the creature parted ways amicably. At least, we think.

WORDS : NINA YOUNG ILLUSTRATION : JULIETTE LE SAINT

UNCAGED:

To my Nic: Now — legally UNbounded Perhaps you’ll Find me again? I am not my own. Sold off, thousands per bone A wild affinity Between us: And it’s been a pleasure. You too are an InterNational Treasure. My glass IKEA case empty What will you display On the mantle when I’m away? I left a tooth for you to excavate In the carpet shag Of the philosophy foyer Keep it, investigate and commemorate Our memories staged. I was branded, named, Caged. Like your hairline, I failed you. The cobras — Gone too, now at A petting zoo, so Our whole family is disbanded. Reject me back into Mongolian archaeology.

The homeland calls and no recourse. None to stop the separation Of you and me.

I’ve been sacrificed, my personal Wicker Man. I never should have belonged To anyone But I’m glad it was you.

In pieces, at peace Bataar

Take this pain as inspiration for Ghost Rider 3. Possession is sacred and raw. Maybe I was the real Holy Grail You never found. A skull to hold the blood Of forgotten ancestors, colonizers Dead men. We’re both monsters Of a forgotten era. Each other’s biggest fan.

WORDS : NIKKI SMITH PHOTOS : ALAINA DEXTER

There are characters, that much is clear, if only from the fact that they wear the same clothes every time they cross the great shell of the stage. In the brief islands of light and sound beyond the trill of the engine, the walls of the station stop are tiled white like a bathroom and echo with the grind of wheels on tracks. The name of the street reads in tiny tan and blue squares like a Spanish mosaic. Occasionally another car

Beneath the streets everything is steel. Steel rails and steel walls cut here and there by narrow passageways just wide enough for a person to slip through. Between the tracks lie discarded bottles and crushed cardboard boxes. Most of the metal is a reddish color in the scarce snatches of light, streaked by lines of moisture and veins of lime and smeared with graffiti. The ceiling is cement painted a wet black, and shines like tinfoil. Everything is awash in blue.

passes, a flimsy and scarred tin tube across a platform and a gap. Always the steel supports between, the tunnel’s ribs, the rush of a subway car coming like a breath between them, in, and out. In the darkness, a man sits casually in a fold-out chair and reads the newspaper as he is set on fire, and a girl in pink sits prettily as a spring butterfly, except she is balanced on her head on a trapeze bar that is rising fifty feet above the water. You’ll get off at Prince. It’s hard to look at for so long, the grey-blue steely spread of the ocean, mottled by the different textures of the wind over its surface. There really isn’t any horizon here, just the lines where the ragged-backed islands lie and above that a sky the same color as the sea, except that it is a weaker blue, just slightly more dilute, and monochrome save the one place in which

it is slashed by the diffusing white of condensed gas trailing behind an invisible jet. Take a boy with baggy orange clothes carrying a red ribbon, an old miser with crooked shoulders and a limping stride in an ill-fitting suit. Take two clowns who live atop a floating house, a woman in gossamer whites, two strange ephemeral creatures whose bodies are accented by dizzying black and white whorls. Taken altogether it makes no sense at all. But there are characters, even nameless—individuals that you are meant to recognize. That much is clear. In the distance, a tractor drags the beach and someone has balanced a bike on its handlebars atop a low-lying bar of cement. Only when you get close enough can you see the narrow rocky white strip

of the island beaches, the darker green band just above that is the face of the island treeline, and the rest of the forest, climbing up to the peaks and the falls of the island’s mass. Otherwise, all you can see of the land is a layering of blue shadows, like a collage of tissue papers, hardly seeming to be anchored to the earth at all. Nearby there is a man wearing an old suit and a blue dolphin towel wrapped around his waist, hands fluttering like birds as he talks to someone you can’t see. Every so often he rakes back lank curls to visit a mottled metal drinking fountain beside which sits a girl in black Converse and a green tank top, notebook propped up on her knee and pen held lightly in her hand. Take the divers languishing in the shallows, clapping their flippers and barking like seals, the pink and green and blue gymnasts dancing atop an iceberg, the women bending them-

selves into cubes and then stacking three high. In the space between the horizon and the city’s front, you’ll find a tan beach bisected by a bike path. On one side it is framed by the colorful jumble of the pier, still lifeless because it is early morning. On the other, a silhouette of Palos Verdes made blue by the distance curves gently away across the ocean. A brown haze of urban pollution lies heavily over the water. In the veined blue waters below, whales move like ghosts through the sea, barely breaking the frosted glass surface with their slick black backs just slightly hooked at one end. They are completely silent, or at least their sound is lost in the marbling of the seawater around the hull, until they come close enough that you can hear the forced release of their breath, see the spout of steam that trails away into the ocean-cold air.

Then out of the sand rise several dozen skeletal steel structures, collections of straight bars and swings, hanging ropes and suspended rings. You’ll see that this is where the people gather, an odd assortment of them belonging to this little piece of in-between. A tiny girl in a floral shirt clinging to the end of a rope, an old man who swings jerkily between rings, the sleepers half-buried in the sand or stretched out on the old steps amongst dry and crooked palms. It is a fitting representation of life. At the end, the curtain will rise and they will all bow, all these characters—although so many fewer people than you might expect, because they have changed skins so many times before your eyes and you haven’t even noticed. And you’ll stand with everyone else, with a great sense of appreciation and only the vaguest sense that it might have been a love story.

TO BE BROKEN ILLUSTRATION : MARION MOSELEY

IS NEITHER LOST NOR FOUND

THE BILLIONBLOODED SEA WORDS : OLIVIA LINDGREN PHOTOS : JOYCE DING

We sit in silence in the waiting room, staring ahead at the dimly lit fish tank installed in the wood paneling. My grandfather prays, his mouth moving silently with the shape of the old words, the ones he’s known since childhood. He turns his handkerchief over in his hands like a makeshift rosary. Dear Father. The room now empty of the hum of machines. You lie on the table, held together by transparent tape. The bloated belly, the antiseptic reek of death. The stinking rotting realness of flesh. The Bukowski lines float into my head. As our grief falls flat and hollow upon the billion-blooded sea. My mother stands in the doorway, her voice faltering behind the door. She will not see him. We are alone now, you and I, and I fumble with urgency over my apologies. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. My words repeated, my own rosary of grief. He’s not here anymore, my mother says. It’s just a body.

Since you left us, I sleep in your space by the window. Next to my mother. She is much smaller now, and in the warm blue bed my arms can wrap all the way around her.

In Norse mythology the world is called midgard: middle earth. Earth as in the middle of the universe, trapped between heaven and hell. Change, the Nordic people believed, was the epitome of earthly suffering, for this state of constant flux renders us helpless to the needs of the flesh. Growing old into brittle bones, trapped in a cycle of hunger and waste. When you left us we found solace in your newfound freedom from the needs of your body, your journey into memory. Since you left us, I sleep in your space by the window. Next to my mother. She is much smaller now, and in the warm blue bed my arms can wrap all the way around her. Her shoulders tiny, like the wings of a bird. She closes her eyes, her broken voice like a stone inside me. He is gone, she says, and I hold her hand tightly. The words speak it to truth. My mother, who sings me folk songs, low and

clear and heartbreaking, lays beside me. My mother, who goes to bed early and cries in her sleep. I hold and hold and hold her. I do not believe in dreams, because in dreams you only come to me in horror. You are drowning in the sea beside me, though I am helpless and dragged down by an invisible tug on my ankle. Water rises between us until you plunge irreversibly below the surface, mouth half open. Sometimes you don’t know you are dying and I beg you to see. To say goodbye to me. My aunts and uncles tell me they’ve seen you in dreams, headed towards a white light, and I smile and hold their hands while I remember the last time I saw you, deep in the thickness of sleep, while the tape around your insides burst and I tried to hold you together. I moved back to Norway a month after you died. Back into winter, into icy

lakes and an abundance of blankness. One night, I am restless and full of blunted anger, listening to the rise and fall of my roommate’s slow and even breathing. I slip on my grey coat and move wordlessly through the door and out into the night. The world outside is full of eerie silence, captured in a single lifeless moment of blanketed snow. I feel that I am the only person in this world. I walk through the big field, illuminated by a yellow January moon, and into the deep black forest. I lay down, sofly on the snow, and feel an overwhelming calm come over me. The frigid night envelops me, and my eyes drift closed. Half an hour passes by. Something kicks in me and I am gasping. My feet are raw and painful, and I hobble back through the field, staring above at the vast unfeelingness of the trees and the snow and the sky. I scream, as hard as I can. Where are you?

I walk the thoughts away step by step, mile by mile. The trail you’d walked before. Do you remember West Virginia? Do you remember the fire tower, the one so red against the summer sky, it nearly touched the swollen moon above it? I saw you there, in an old photograph you’d shown me. Twenty six years old, tall and lean and caked in dirt. You’d hiked a thousand and twenty five miles by then, and there you stood, flush with life. Are you here with me? I woke up from restless sleep beneath the red fire tower, where I’d decided to set up camp, just as you had twenty seven years ago, on the hilltop between the pines and the moon. I stood in your place and something broke inside of me. Something I had locked away until now, standing here, knowing you. How you had made me and how your love for me ran through me like the drum of my heartbeat.

That it had always been this way, that it always would be. That what I’d done, after hiking four hundred miles in your footsteps, was true. That my life had led up to this moment and it would be with me forever. Do you feel me with you? Are you a part of me? We let you go even after you were no longer a body. We carried you on our backs for four hundred and fifty miles until we reached the rushing stream, on the last day, where you had also crossed over, stepping carefully over mossy rocks. The day was misty, on the verge of slanted rain, and smoke ringed the mountains above us. Deep in the valley, standing beside the river, we let you go. The stream flashed grey for a moment, filled with the memory of you, and then disappeared, the water clear as glass.

EMPIRE WORDS : SYDNEY DEARDORFF ILLUSTRATION : NINA YOUNG

TAKES TO THE SKY

In a story set in motion 4.53 billion years ago Floating in the neighboring cosmos, The lunar surface, a theater awaiting new guests

2019. “My administration has recognized space as a war-fighting domain”

Fueled by ideology and dead dinosaurs We take supervised leaps Into romanticized emptiness First as scientists In the name of discovery, Dripping, drenched in pomp and circumstance

2012. “I think we’re really at the dawn of a new era for space exploration”

Fill your little lungs with that missing ozone. Progress is what we strive for? Permanence is what we strive for. So walk heavy to leave eternal footprints Those patterns are valuable, Supposedly they won us a cold war

1967. “The Moon and other celestial bodies shall be used exclusively for peaceful pur poses” Golden chariots can be financed

Paradise is promised in the stars -In tales of infinite sovereignty, Of destinies yet to be manifest

But only to export the reified doctrine (and plenty of apple pie) Insights from technocrats are wrapped in Red, White, and Blue And now we know that speculation and history Are locked together in that luminous mirror Because land is the material with which empires are built

1961. “This nation should commit itself to achieving the goal of landing a man on the Moon” As tourists we travel a worn path So what little treasures can be extracted now? Let’s mine the sky and settle the frontier! Apparently this is a benevolent process, So don’t forget to take as much as you leave I hear those minerals are quite profitable this time of year.

1910. “Our goals were striven for in order that the world may have a little more knowl edge” At last we strive to be landlords Seeking comfort in science and language Moving both backward and forward in time With the momentum of history, no permission is needed This is the destiny of the selenites, A precedent written in tears and dust

1894. “Future interests of the United States demand that it shall become an American possession”

Like that fractured surface, Our discoveries accumulate their own battle scars And like that flag planted at tranquility base -The spoils of war turn to ash in my mouth. (oh how this earthy soil still clings to me, no matter how far I flee!) Still we cannot transcend this logic In which we have ensnared ourselves Are you stuck looking for Monroe in the stars? I’m afraid you won’t find what you’re looking for up there.

1823. “Discovery gave an exclusive right either by purchase or by conquest”

Those cracks and craters already colonized Ever since we first looked up into the night, Bellies empty, with a lustful hunger If not in practice, in our collective imagination: The Moon is just another star On the flag of this post-terra empire.

THROUGH PHOTOS : MAYA GEE-LIM

ACQUIRED OBJECTS

AN INTERVIEW P ON JUNK ART W RODRIGO “ROD RODRIGUEZ

ONE WORLD’S TRASH, AN ARI TRASHFORMA TIONS:

W PIECE WITH DNEY” 57

S RIST’S AWORDS : JUDITH VALLETTE PHOTOS : MELISSA ARISMENDY

: N O I T C U D O R INT Trash is not only another man’s treasure -- it’s another man’s art. Through junk art, artists utilize other people’s mindless discards and transform them into meaningful works of art with heavily saturated messages. I wanted to interview such an artist and learn more about their creative process, inspirations, lifestyle and the messages they push.(”)So through Instagram and I found Rodrigo “Rodney” Rodriguez,” a local artist of the community of Encinitas by San Diego California. One early morning, fellow TPM photographer Melissa and I took the drive down to meet and talk with Rodney. Driving down his street, his house was noticeably set apart from surrounding structures by pieces of his artwork in his front lawn. He invited us in and gave us a tour of his studio where his pieces were on display. He showed us his backyard/workspace where he goes to create early in the morning. It was truly a collector’s wonderland with nooks and crannies, cubbies and drawers filled with organized scrap materials. Some of my favorites were the

scattered mannequins, multiple old landline phones dangling from curly wires, rusted California license plates from the early 1900s . Inside his house, he showed us his recently renovated bathroom made entirely from recycled material, cactus wood from the desert, and left over tiles During our time there, he revealed to us his current project which he was working on when we arrived: A commissioned piece for the Surfrider foundation in time for the holiday season to be displayed to the public. He was making a marine-themed “Christmas” tree that would have fish decorated with colorful discarded plastic straws and bottle caps, jellyfish shiny from mylar balloons, to dangle as Christmas ornaments. The message is clear in the artwork: this is what we are doing to the ocean, this is our trash, and it is overbearing on marine ecosystems.

: W E I V R TE

How did you become (acquainted) to the junk/ recycled art and why did you continue to pursue this medium? I’ve been a creative pretty much my entire life since I was a child. I’ve always been making things... I started with clay in high school, and then I did that pretty much for 10 years professionally… I came back to this idea of making things from trash because I took some time off to live on a desolate coast down in Baja for 10 years. Everyone there throws their trash in little holes and then cover it up as these small villages don’t have a landfill since they are in the middle of nowhere. I started going wow, I could make something, so I started making these little altars or crosses that I knew they might like. Then I started considering what people would buyand i think people like fish! (chuckles) I’m from California so I started making all this fish and stuff. It’s always been important to take care of this big onion we spin around on we call Earth. But the reality is the amount of trash is mind boggling so I stuck with trash because it’s not only ever-changing, it’s ever-present. How do you find which discarded materials to include in your pieces? How is that process of picking and making it your own? Well a lot of times it finds me! If people know who I am and what I do, they’ll bring me good stuff. My friends were that demolition guys... would bring me the best architectural pieces. Paint comes like that from painters... It truly finds me. I know what I need for the base of my work so when I see a new house coming up, I establish a connection and say “Hey look, when you get to the plywood phase... I’ll take it.” It saves them money and effort (in terms of transportation). Yee-

hee I just load it up and drive away it’s pretty fun like that, that’s how it shows up, it’s everywhere! What would you say is the most interesting/exciting recycled material you have used in your art? Golly, you know right now it’s plastics, the true honest, horrendous beach trash: the stuff that surfers hate, that ocean lovers hate. And I’m trying to take all this negativity and turn it into this incredible positive tree/statement so I don’t know, I’m just stoked to get it however it comes. It just shows up and refreshes itself, like I remember one month I got all this wire and I was like, “Ok I got all this wire, can you use it 10 different ways? Yeah sure.” And that really helps your creative self go to another layer/level. You don’t just look at it linearly but as a multi-textured possibility. What is the main purpose/message of your work? Is there a specific action you are trying to provoke? Fun is usually the number one thing. That’s the way I try to celebrate my work. And that’s the first word that comes out: “Man your work is so fun!” I go yeah, if it wasn’t I wouldn’t be doing it. That’s my standard answer but the statement is obvious. It’s like wow, we have got so much of this, if I can take just a fraction and reinvent it and take that negative part of it and make it positive then in a small increment, but important to me, that’s something positive and that’s it, that’s truly why I continue. I love making those little statements: I don’t stand on the front line but I’m always in the background. What are your thoughts on our current throw-away culture and consumerism? Boy it’s real simple: ENOUGH IS ENOUGH and TOO MUCH is WAY TOO MUCH. It’s time! And you know

that, we all do, we all struggle, it’s time to start thinking about how you consume and why you consume and get it together. It’s not BS, it’s scientific fact. I really like when science and someone with a heart blends together because people are affected emotionally by things but scientific facts tell people the truth: this is not made up we are dealing with a problem here. And so in a small way, I keep chugging along doing something positive. Boy it’s a trap though, there’s so much trash! I notice that you have common figures of fishes, altars, hearts, crosses: what inspired you to create those, is it because of want or because of personal life? I think it is on some part personal, if I could just do sacred art that’s all I’d do. I’d make altars so everyone could share in comunal grieving but, for me the fish are fun. I guess I know them so well, I don’t look at books I mostly just want the rhythm and texture of trash to stand out and for people to know that its a fish or a bird. What would you say your favorite Baja California dumpsite is? (Laughs) Oh there’s so many of them. I take 5 extra days in the wild when I go on a surfing trip because I am more intrigued with what nature is. That’s where my inspiration comes from, that’s where this vital plug-in that I need to do therapy work with people... I just try to get out of the way and plug in to that. When I get down to the coast and if no one’s around, fish camps are just horrible, these guys come, they’re not from the area they just literally trash it and it’s right next to the ocean and this entire marine ecosystem that will be affected… To be conscious and conscience of your actions and your reactions, I think that’s the key right now. Society has to start drinking from that cup again where people cared and reminded others like “hey that isn’t cool.”

Have you been able to meet junk/recycled artists? What would you have to say about that community? I think that’s what social media is about. On the Facebook I’m environmental folk artist and oh my god I’ve met people in Scotland, Ireland, Spain, Italy. They are inspired by my work and I’m inspired by what they are doing. I believe you can start a dialogue, I know it’s awkward to say but you can create a friendship and a relationship through the art from this community...The people that you meet that are really like minded. Some are doing jewelry stuff and, oh my god I’m intrigued with all this trash jewelry! I’ve followed people that make dresses and all this stuff, it’s all available for viewing and I think wow I’d like to do a gown one time, cause you know it would be insane to do and show up at a gig and have it done completely different than the guys that have been doing it for a long time...

I’d say the ones that always make me feel good and connected are my altars: when someone has lost their wife of fifty years or their dog of seventeen years...and you’ll do these pieces and you’ll see people standing around them crying and stuff and I’m going yes that’s it, that’s exactly what I wanted to invoke. I wanted to celebrate whatever individual, critter or human and have a place where you can go say goodbye or hi everyday, change the flowers, light a candle. So I think that kind of art to me is just a blast. Although when I see my art in a collection, on a wall, taking over a backyard (whistles) woah that’s cool, I like that! I’m in a library here in town... Encinitas library, just up the hill. I got commissioned a long time ago by ETCO...I did the ABC’s in fish bubbles. My vision was rainbow so I did all the

How do your open studio days go? Is the community receptive? Every year I open up around the holidays, around Christmas, and I do an at home open studio thing, let the public here. I put out a spread of food because I want to say thank you, thanks for actually believing in me, supporting me and whether or not you just come and have a meal and a conversation, that’s still supporting what I believe in and that’s a community of human beings interacting. I have to figure out the date for this year. So that’s what that’s about. I’ve also done a fish for thought project with the community: 400 fish on a coastline, it was close to 600 kids involved. The exhibit was called fish sticks. And it was so beautiful, you could see big kids walking their little siblings saying “this is what I did” and explaining. I just watched it happen, it was pretty amazing. That’s cause some of the most incredible parents joined in and said, “Hey man, we want to do this, we’ll pay you, we’ll take care of this.” It turned out to be phenomenal.

material...that’s a blast, watching that stuff happening. I would love to see people thinking about an alternative than just going to buy something, it’s so stupid and it breaks and they throw it away. Just take a moment, at least take an old TV or something to the proper place and let someone make money off the true recycling of that thing instead of

How is the custom work you make for people? What has been your favorite commission piece so far?

colors ... and then I put the bubbles ABC and I did the last fish completely in rainbow and that’s there permanently in that library.

What are your plans and visions for the future in terms of your life, as well as recycled art? I want to continue having fun, I want to spend more time in the wild and nature. I think it might be time to go out into a bigger part of the world and inspire others to think about it, to at least give them an opportunity where they can use different materials to create their art. A lot of my guys that are painters, I got them off canvas. Now, they paint on really nice plywoods cause it’s thrown away all the time, and there is no reason, it’s just another surface to paint on. Some are even doing cardboard and trying to reinvent it and the reality is, without knowing, they are getting educated on the layers and textures of new

FOR MORE INFORMATION: RODRIGO’S SITE: HTTPS://WWW.RODRIGOSRECYCLEDART. COM/ INSTAGRAM: HTTPS://WWW.INSTAGRAM. COM/RODRIGOSRECYCLEDART/ FACEBOOK: HTTPS://WWW.FACEBOOK. COM/RODRIGOSRECYCLEDART/

WORDS : JAIME HATTORI PHOTOS / ILLUSTRATIONS : JAIME HATTORI

COMMAND + V

Reminiscent of many of the places I have found that I want to cut and paste into my daily life. All of these locations have held memories that I think about almost every, and I like being able to visualize them as fragmented spots, with defining features that I can put against any backdrop and still find recognizable. All images are glued paper cut-outs and watercolor over film photos of a different place - usually one that I am more familiar with.

Malibu: Where I have watched the sun set multiple times, where it is less crowded and more pristine, and idyllic lifeguard houses and colorful umbrellas rest. Where I told Abbey how much she meant to me. Over: Northern California coast, a little south of Half Moon Bay.

Pigeon Point: A hostel at the base of a lighthouse is the only piece of infrastructure for miles. The hostel owner is working on making this piece of land a night sky reserve. There is so little light pollution that the stars sparkle and stretch for miles. Over: The Sacramento River

Point Reyes: The hills of this area are just a little bit north of San Francisco but infinitely quieter. You can watch the sun rise over them silently and then turn to watch the sun set over the crash of the violent waves. The sky is pale pastel chalk in the morning and vibrant acrylic paints in the evening. Over: Limantour Beach

Miyajima: To this day, I have never felt so inexplicably content as when I was on this island. We walked up to this gate, then came back later to the tide completely drowning the sand where we previously stood. We ate shaved ice and listened to the deer stroll around the streets as we sat on the beach to stare at this view. Over: The American River

Joshua Tree: Amy and I found Jumbo Rocks in Joshua Tree and I felt so tiny and lost. We were less than a mile away from all of our friends, but the rocks can make ten yards feel like an hour to travel, and for a short period of time, we were alone on Earth. Over: A hill near Joshua Tree National Park

Sacramento River: Despite e-coli outbreaks and the downfall of the beloved rope swing, my friends and I still find ourselves migrating to the river on any day we can. To sit in the littered sand, be unheard, splash the tiny fish, and see how calm the trees across the current look from a distance. Over: The Sacramento River

WI TH

LO VE

N EE GR MEY BE M OE TO H Y : P IZZ DS : L R S O W OTO H P

Addiction, saturation, sensuality. An ode to Los Angeles. Focus, sincerity, patience. An ode to my grandpa.

With film photography, although surely also noticeable with any general link to past techniques/processes, I am prompted to reevaluate how I do things and examine what could be done differently. I care more about the moment itself. There’s no pressure to get the perfect shot that comes with using my phone. With film, capturing an image is more about preserving a memory for myself rather than to share. An intimate experience reminiscent of faded memories and innocence. The entire process is more conducive to care and patience as opposed to instant gratification. Waiting to get your roll developed is exciting, always somewhat surprising. A small way to observe the simplicity of the world. A break from the glittering metropolis. Alone for a brief moment, amidst the noise of an oversaturated city. A special amount of

The city is strange. Nothing here is grounded. Lofty ideals and dreams of grandeur carry you into a cyclical routine. Necessity and desire jockey for position, while you are left stagnant. Overconsumption runs rampant through each vein of the city, and in my minor battle against the fast-paced world, I count every victory. I find it easy to be swept up by the sheer speed of a city adorned with neon lights and exhaust pipes. However, I find solace in my roots. The past can be disorienting. It can be familiar. Sinking into old habits is comfortable. Nostalgia is warm. These feelings allow me space to breathe between sips of branded coffee. The other thing I inherited from my grandpa is a face. A face with a specific reaction to intense focus, sticking out my tongue when I concentrate. Whether it be channeled towards pen and ink drawings, The Economist articles, or trimming trees, quiet focus is an essential facet of my grandpa’s personality. I have always admired his careful, concentrated demeanor, and that trait manifests in myself through something we share. With film, I am able to view skyscrapers, billboards, people, even trash, quite literally through a different lens. This hobby, given to me from a previous era, affords me a new perspective. The inevitability of rebirth unsurprisingly endures.

It was in high school that I was given my first film camera, a Pentax K1000 with an original receipt from the 90s. The deteriorating canvas bag smelled vaguely of mothballs. Something about it was captivating. I have shared many things with my grandpa: eating oysters out of a plastic bag on the deck, learning about birds and investing, going to art museums. But entrusted with a small part of my grandpa’s interests, I feel fuzzy. A sense of responsibility comes with newly bestowed ownership. To what extent is this really mine? Before me, I envision the camera’s past life and uses. I want to do it justice. It feels as though I am holding onto something immensely important; it’s not so much the camera itself, but the way in which film mirrors underlying aspects of my own life.

care manifests when I shoot; I am both removed from the present while wholly immersed in the current moment. A small rebellion against the hyperactive, single-use lifestyle of Los Angeles.

LOST AND FOUND

WORDS : INSTAGRAM POLL (ALAINA DEXTER) PHOTOS : ALAINA DEXTER

MY VIRGINITY MY SENSE OF SELF TO PEOPLE’S EXPECTATIONS MATERIAL: A VAPE PEN NON-MATERIAL: A FRIEND OR TWO MY SOCIAL SECURITY CARD LOL COUNTLESS REUSABLE STRAWS LIKE EVERY SINGLE ONE I’VE EVER HAD SMALL PLASTIC BABY THAT I FOUND ON THE GROUND MY DIGNITY

PAIR OF BOOTS THAT WERE SITTING IN MY CLOSET FOR OVER A YEAR CARING ABOUT OTHERâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S OPINIONS MORE THAN MY OWN LITTLE PINK STUFFED BEAR AT IKEA LITERALLY EVERYTHING I DID IN MIDDLE SCHOOL FEELINGS HOPE IN A GOOD GPA MY KEYS 73

MMMMM MY SANITY WHITE ALBUM BY JOAN DIDION HUGE STICK BUG A FUCK MY WALLET

YOU KNOW YOU DONâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;T KNOW

WORDS : JOYCE DING PHOTOS : JOYCE DING

I floated and looked down at myself in the perfect circle where antonyms no longer exist.

SUBVERSION, SPECTAULARIZED

WORDS : SYDNEY DEARDORFF PHOTOGRAPHY : SYDNEY DEARDORFF

ON THE AESTHETIC APPEAL OF THRIFT SHOPPING

“The ruling ideology sees to it that subversive discoveries are trivialized and sterilized, after which they can be safely spectacularized” -Guy Debord

I was 14 years old the first time I went thrift shopping. It was 2012, and like every other high school freshman at the time, I was inundated by the sounds of Macklemore’s infamous Thrift Shop all summer long. So when my friends first invited me to spend an afternoon digging through racks at the local Goodwill, I couldn’t resist. I was hooked from the first outing. Yet every time I told my mom I was going thrifting, I remember her looking back at me with some skepticism. “We can afford to buy you new clothes,” she would say, “why do you want to go to Goodwill?” I suppose that for my mother, thrifting carried with it a negative connotation. Perhaps many members of her generation still share this sentiment. Previously, thrift shopping was a mode of consumption that was done primarily at out of economic necessity, not as a hobby, and certainly not because the clothes at thrift shops were cooler than anything sold at the mall. Yet despite my family’s skepticism, I continued to frequent secondhand stores and swap meets for all my fashion needs. While I couldn’t articulate it at the time, some deeper feeling drew me to thrift shopping. Not only is it fun looking through endless clothing

racks, searching, like an archeologist, for some diamond in the rough, but there’s a special kind of satisfaction you get when you score that perfect thrifted item. It’s the satisfaction in knowing that your garment is unique, it has a history, and when you take possession of that object, you too, are now a part of its history. You won’t pass by anyone on the street wearing the same thing as you, and even if it is the same garment, it can never have that same unique story. It’s not just me that’s a bit enamored with thrift shopping. Consumer trend studies reveal that thrifting is more popular than ever, especially among younger consumers. As the secondhand garment industry grows at a rate exponentially faster than traditional clothing retailers, it appears that thrifting could usurp fast fashion. Especially in LA, you don’t need consumer statistics to recognize that we are in the thralls of a developing thrifting culture. Weekly swap meets all around town are buzzing, entire conventions dedicated to secondhand clothing are cropping up, and curated consignment stores from Santa Monica to Silverlake are thriving. For millennials and zoomers in particular, thrifting is officially in vogue. What negative stigma might

have been attached to thrifting in the past has since been transformed into a full loving embrace and celebration of this approach to fashion. There’s more to thrifting than just the thrill of excavating vintage bell-bottoms and polyester tops - many of us thrift with environmental ethics and economic benefits at the forefront of our minds. After all, buying secondhand is often much easier on the wallet, even when compared to buying new clothes from relatively inexpensive brands. And of course, on the precipice of environmental collapse, buying secondhand is a rare act of consumerism that is ecologically conscious. Thrift shopping can also be an empowering expression of consumer agency - a mode of consumption that stands in opposition to mainstream capitalism. Instead of selecting from a brand’s focus-group-tested selection of products, when thrifting, shoppers must curate their own wardrobe and make independent decisions regarding the selection of their clothes. In many ways thrifting is an act of rage against the mass production machine, as it allows consumers to opt out of participating in cycles of endless consumption and waste.

It could be, however, that our attraction to thrifting is also the result of a generational longing for authenticity and individuality in the mass artifice of late capitalism. The subconscious lust for distinctive identity and our desire to display our consumer virtue informs our outward appearances, in this case, our gravitation towards clothing that is (or at least appears to be) thrifted. When we wear garments like chunky, used cross-trainers, sweatshirts with quirky graphics from the ‘90s, and vintage denim jackets, we are signaling to others that we, too, are in on this thrifting trend, and all the cultural implications that accompany it. For now, mom jeans serve as a codified sign, a subliminal notification of anti-mainstream subversion and ethical consumption. A wrench has since been thrown into the symbolic interaction and unspoken language of authenticity we’ve developed: trendy pieces that have their roots in thrifting culture are now incorporated into the mainstream. Infamous brands like Brandy Mellville make millions selling the same ‘vintage’ t-shirt that’s been mass-produced in a sweatshop. That faux-vintage item may visually hint at your consumer virtue through the implication of an environmentally and

economically conscious purchase, but nothing could be further from the truth. Other retailers appropriate these signifiers of subversion in more ingenious ways. Take, for example, Urban Outfitter’s “Urban Renewal” line which allows consumers to participate in the thrifting trend with none of the guesswork. This particular line of clothing functions almost like a simulation of thrift shopping facilitated by a corporate mediator. Urban Renewal garments are ‘authentic’ and ‘unique’ used garments that have been picked up at thrift shops or flea markets, altered to Urban Outfitter’s specifications, and subsequently thrown onto shelves with a huge markup. Some of us are paying small fortunes to get that fresh-fromthe-swapmeet look. These clothes are certainly not cheap, not individual, and not exactly susaintable either. When secondhand garments are tailored to meet the systematic standards of Urban Outfitters, they lose their history. And while the individual pieces might be secondhand in origin, the profits made off these items still serve to sustain the fast fashion titan. Urban Renewal pieces are a carefully constructed corporate illusion, one that enables brands to capitalize on the aesthetics of subversion while actually reinforcing

dominant capitalist ideology.

Anti-Fashion is constantly being defined and redefined alongside its

How did these styles get incorporated into the mainstream? While fashion labels will always be quick to co-op any visual signifiers that may be profitable, the rise in popularity of that thrifted look is intertwined with appropriation of a â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;styleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; known as anti-fashion. This inherently ephemeral aesthetic trend is defined in large part by opposition to conventional consumer fashion trends. Through the anti-fashion/fashion dialectic what is uncool can become cool. Although the history and definition of antifashion is contested, it origins are influenced, in some part, by the counterculture of the 90s, in which thrifted clothing and its aesthetics of subversion played a large part (think oversized flannels and grunge culture). Follow this anti-fashion sentiment through the normcore trends of the mid 2010s and we arrive at our current moment in fashion history. Today the incorporation of vintage, hand-me-down aesthetics is pervasive in mainstream fashion, and can be found everywhere from upscale brands like Vetements to shopping mall staples like Forever 21.

mainstream counterpart. So, while the influence of the secondhand aesthetic on popular fashion may be fleeting, should we continue thrifting regardless? Absolutely. Thrifting can still be an antidote to the waste that plagues much of the fashion industry. Just keep in mind - when we value the aesthetics of thrifting over the practice of thrifting, we abandon any of the subversive benefits of thrifting. Instead, we are embracing mere spectacle.

IN SEARCH OF

ILLUSTRATION : DAVID LEE

r u Yo Le sab

WORDS : CAMERON VERNALI ILLUSTRATION : NINA YOUNG

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I had prepared myself to be angry with the view as the elevator droned up, very angry. Knowing that you are about to be angry before it hits is a delicious feeling. A simple pleasure for a simple man. I have no misgivings about the kind of person I am. Not to you or to me. However, I had misgivings about the view. It was very harmonious. I loved it. My friend Diane had this apartment smack in the middle of downtown. Downtown wasn’t a bad place, per say, but it wasn’t New York and every downtown in the world is modeled after New York’s downtown. This is just common fact. Every moment I went downtown I was aware of how it was a model of an idea, a model of a kind of place that existed and went away long ago. Her apartment was nice though, big shiny new stone. Fast elevator to the 29th floor, her place, and the view of downtown that comes with it. I’ll explain this now because it needs an explanation, and it needs to be understood. I look awfully crazed

ndio

without briefly elaborating on what I’m talking about. There is a lot under construction downtown that takes up approximately ⅔ of the block; it appears from the balcony of my friend’s apartment at around 8 blocks away, clear as day. Should be on the intersection of Clay and Miller. But down on the ground is a different story. Down on the ground, that lot ceases to exist. So seeing it shine in the sun was an awful thing. The light was winding into pink hour when I got to the window. The view revealed the same thing as it did every time: Market stretching down at a right angle on one side, the gridded streets until they run up against Twin Peaks, the waterfront on the left. And there it was in the middle of it all. The lot. It had three triangles of dirt on the Clay-adjacent side before the rest of the lot sloped into a soft crater. A handful of concrete poles stood up around the lot, nothing intimidating. In the pink light, the lot was beautiful. This made me so sad. It bothered me

so much that I will admit I lost some of my graces in that moment. I ran out on Diane without saying a word . Being on the street was a nightmare because now the search was on, a search both abstract and physical at once. It’s like that for me; the pre-journey is relaxed, the most abstractly exciting because everything is uphill from there. After all, it’s the journey and not the destination that counts. But not so much for me anymore. I find myself constantly starting journeys and desperately wanting them to be over. The best part of the journey is the destination because that’s how you know it was a journey all along. A journey that doesn’t end is no journey. Endings are the best part. Or they would be, for me, if I ever found this lot. After turning on Buchannon, you make a left on Lark and keep going for four blocks. I was controlled but frantic. I knew the path to the lot and I knew what had greet-

ed me there in the past -- this ugly monolithic building for a private company that nobody cared about but everybody knew. I was really hoping my knowledge was wrong. When you hit the Lark-Montgomery intersection, it’s a left onto Montgomery and then three blocks down. But it wasn’t. Seeing my reflection in shiny stone of that shiny building filled me with rage, the kind of anger that comes out in all sorts of other ways. It wasn’t pretty. I started doing loops around this block like a loon, which I know I am by now, but I couldn’t help it. I just kept running and trying to find an alleyway that I hadn’t seen before… an open door… a construction worker putting up new street signs, telling me to head 3 blocks south… I was thinking this way as I bumped into some woman on the street. I would give more of a description

of her, but I can’t. Not even for my sake. As I recall her face, I know what her eyes look like on their own (brown) and her hair (short) and her nose (long), but when I try to picture them together, she falls apart. I fell apart then, too, as I apologized for running into her. She asked me with clear eyes, “Are you looking for the bus?” and I said no, thank you though. She said “No, really, are you looking for the bus stop? It’s right here.” And it was where her finger pointed. I wasn’t looking for the bus, but sitting sounded great at that moment. I sat on a too-small plastic seat and looked out towards the street. The whole event had made me exhausted, I wanted to take off my sweatshirt. And then all I wanted to do was take off my sweatshirt. Why had I put it on in the first place? I can’t even remember. I don’t think I had a reason.

The sweatshirt started getting caught around my neck as it was almost off. That tripped me up terribly. Suddenly, it felt like everything was so much effort. I got so tired. It took so much effort in that moment to get my sweatshirt off. I was focusing on just getting my sweatshirt off for a while, not losing my energy… eventually I got it. As soon as I got it off, dust got in my eye and I had to squint for a bit. Everything was darker than before. Overcast, I thought. A big cloud. I moved my feet and dirt kicked up. I followed the dirt with my eyes and it went up… outward… in front of me. I was in a dirt crater. I was in the lot. It was the lot, my lot. The three pyramids of dirt looked even more beautiful up close. The unevenness of the dirt made them imperfect, asymmetrical. Shadows from the concrete poles were like purposeful paintings. In wonder, I wandered the perimeter

The best part of the journey is the destination because that’s how you know it was a journey all along. A journey that doesn’t end is no journey. Endings are the best part.

to see every detail. Plastic tarp covering the equipment was stretched out at points, showing its vulnerable white underbelly to me. A lone hardhat thrown in a corner and unrelenting against dust. It was wonderful. During the loop, I noticed that there were no exits. Every door and exit was checked in a methodical, rhythmic round. I kept going and checking, up three steps and turn the doorknob, turning and checking. I knew after the first round that I was stuck in there but I kept going. Around the third lap I started laughing and grinning like a kid who runs down to the living room tree for Christmas at 5am, long before anyone else wakes up. It was freeing. I was free. I knew my ending, the part I’d been waiting for.

PHOTOS : JOANNA ZHANG

101

FINDERS, KEEPERS

SIDE B