THE PAPER MIXTAPE Issue 7 by The Paper Mixtape

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The Paper Mixtape

Issue 7 Spring 2018

ISSUE 007

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The Paper Mixtape

Issue 7 Spring 2018

ISSUE 007

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The Paper Mixtape is about locality. Since its premier in 2015, UCLA students have set themselves to the task of exploring Los Angeles culture and their position within it. This magazine—as reporters, fictionists, photographers, designers, artists—does not deny its predispositions or biases, but seeks to test them and grow. Our environment is not made for consumption. We hope that you can learn with us as we make contact with our place. For Advertising please contact thepapermixtape@gmail.com Subscription Information Individual issue – $15.00 1 year subscription – $28.00 Contact Information Email – thepapermixtape@gmail.com Website – tpmmag.com Instagram – @ThePaperMixtape Printing American Foothill Publishing 10009 Commerce Ave, Tujunga, California 91042 ISSN: 2378-086X Paid for in part by:

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Issue 7 Spring 2018

Editor in Chief Aaron Peretz Creative Director Sophia Arriola-Gibson

Sponsorship Héloïse Hakimi Le Grand Ingrid Sorensen Rebecca Wu Marketing Alia AlHaj Emma Moriconi Marísa Pearce Ruth Perez Alara Saygi

Section Editors Conor Cusack Shamik Maganlal Shayan Saalabi Patty Viramontes Photo Editor Samuel Han Contributors Adam Araiza Garrett Gregory Annika Karody Krystal Lau Anna Lee Kalena Tamura Beliz Urkmez Cam Vernali Héloïse Hakimi Le Grand Photo & Video Joyce Ding Claire Moon Katerina Papanikolopoulos Emily Perkins Rock Michelle Stensby Illustration Marion Moseley Jordi Ng Peter Yang Leslie Young Design Stefanie Tam Michelle Wu

Events Emanuela Boisbouvier Vivian Chen Petek Kuscu Rachel Autumn Lee Celeste Martinez Seline Naqi Amanda Tovar Joey Wong Yvette Yang Online Editor Laney Chiu Blog Brendan Benjamin Cierra Djokovich Kendra Djokovich Jackson Hau Lexi Julien Connie Lu Ciara Mandich Miranda Montenegro Sara Rashidi Hannah Rexinger Dustin Rios Michelle Stevens Zoe Yang

Finance Managers Selina Che Leslie Young Finance Brian Chuc Rebecca Wu

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I Moved Here Yesterday (P. 6) Joyce Ding

Close But Not Quite Shayan Saalabi

(P. 12) Dance in L.A. Héloïse Hakimi Le Grand

A Tale of Two Cities Jordi Ng

(P. 18)

Being a Girl Alone Cam Vernali

(P. 24)

Stars Fall in Tokyo Krystal Lau

(P. 28)

The Cartoon Cult Kalena Tamura

(P. 36)

Evocations Anna Lee

(P. 40)

10 11 12

Things We Lost in the Atlantic Annika Karody Seviye Beliz Urkmez Of The Mundane Stefanie Tam

(P. 44)

(P. 52) (P. 56) (P. 60)

Collaboration Through Laceration Garrett Gregory

The Groomed (P. 68) Aristocrat Katerina Papanikolopoulos

Santa Monica: There’s Something About the Pier Samuel Han

(P. 10)

Let’s Meet Again Adam Araiza

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(P. 64)

(P. 74)

Issue 7 Spring 2018

Many emails were sent to produce this magazine. There’s an uncanny phenomenon of the corporate world I’ve observed centered around the exchange of emails. I’m not entirely sure how to describe it, or whether it can be described at all. Most of the time it feels like emails are sent past their recipient. The majority in any inbox don’t enjoy an effect on the final product. Indeed, the gears of industry turn independently of one another as though the emails were in toto inconsequential. Who or what turns these wheels? Culture, too, is produced in a similar way, I think. The values of any culture, for example, are reified through stories of the tradition. There is no action besides speech behind culture. Granted, music is composed and tools are made; but these follow the rules set by the language of their day while the language of their future challenge how these acts could have meaning. The emails for some corporate entity stand in as a mythos to be reified. The constant sending and receiving likens itself to the storytelling and interpreting of the past, with its own goals and projections waiting to be made real. I don’t mean to demean or diminish the capacities of either culture or the corporate. I suspect however there’s at least one difference between the two in which culture finds an added dimension, though the gap between the two becomes increasingly narrow. At some point culture was for someone. It recollects and it instructs. The corporate, on the other hand, is ahistorical and asocial. While our form of communicating invariably runs along the same lines as the corporate, I see no necessity to preclude those most human qualities of culture. In fact, as an arts and culture magazine I take it as a responsibility to approach culture with culture. In this sixth issue of The Paper Mixtape, our staff returned to questions of culture, without eschewing the other force seemingly accountable for its unraveling. This was our approach to understand the status of the dwindling gap between both worlds and its consequences. And I think this approach paid dividends. In this issue, dear reader, you’ll find investigations of personal genealogies like “Seviye” and “Let’s Meet Again.” These family histories see through the lenses of the matriarch while trying to reconstruct voices suppressed in their own time and searching for their advice now. “Collaboration Through Laceration” questions the authenticity of performance art when weighed against the artist’s relationship to their audience. The unsettling “Being A Girl Alone,” finds a narrator who shows us how the joyful is a privilege not equally possessed. In addition to essays and stories, this issue again features photo essays like “I Moved Here Yesterday,” and illustrative narrations to boot. I speak on behalf of our magazine in extending our warmest thanks for reading and supporting artistic exploration. I hope we can learn about our worlds together. Aaron Peretz Editor in Chief

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MĂşsica para los ojos Music for the eye: A Conversation with Mint Field

WORDS & PHOTOS

Marinthia Gutierrez Velasco

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Issue 7 Spring 2018

Amor Amezcua and Estrella Sanchez are Mint Field. Originally from Tijuana, Mexico, this nostalgic shoegaze duo takes us through bittersweet memories- both past and more recent ones- by transporting us to blissful visual landscapes with their debut album “Pasar de las Luces” (“Passing of the Lights”). Reflecting over the spaces of three different cities which have had a significant influence on their artistic identity, Mint Field talks about their emerging sound, the international differences of the alternative rock scene, and how every recollection of their lives influences their creativity.

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TIJUANA - Beginnings Although you’ve been friends for a long time, you just started making music together a couple of years ago. When and how did you decide to make Mint Field as a musical project? ESTRELLA: We really met each other to make music. AMOR: Our friendship actually grew playing. E: The second time we hung out we knew we were going to be friends but at the same time I had already told Amor that I wanted to play music and she told me that she wanted to play as well a few weeks earlier. It was all really quick -- like in the span of a month or so. So how did you two actually meet or how did you both realize that you wanted to play music? A: We knew each other from before. We didn’t talk to each other but we knew about each others’ existences. I switched schools to where Estrella was and then we started talking on Facebook about, “Oh, let’s go see this band” or to go to FYF or something like that -- and it didn’t happen -- but yes, it was because of school. Your album has a lot references to the past, the seasons, and visuals that are almost static for a spectator, all while having a nostalgic point of view. Can you talk about what nostalgia means for you? Does it come from the past? A: For me nostalgia is very important in my daily life. Everytime that I see something it reminds me of something else [from my experiences] and it might cause sadness, or happiness or whatever but I think that it reflects a lot in how we express ourselves musically. We talk about experiences and memories regardless of whether it makes us feel happiness or sadness and that causes a lot of nostalgia when we write because we talk or we play and it reminds us a lot about the thing we are speaking about, you know? And so for me it is very important. It’s also not like I think about it as: “I have to be thinking about this certain thing,” but it’s something that informs what I think and what I do. E: For me I feel like it’s just of a reminder [of the past]. Because there are a lot of songs on the album that are very old, and I feel that I wrote as I felt sad. I think it’s the same [as Amor’s thought]; there are songs that are from a younger person than who I am right now. And so in that time in the past as I felt it, I wrote it. If something had happened in a car -- like for example, in “Ojos En el Carro” -- I wrote it like it was, and that was a reminder for me. Nostalgia is something that is always there. I don’t know if I feel very nostalgic at this point in my life but I used to be like that about a year ago, and it hurt me a lot, like it made me hold

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onto things a lot. But now I see it in a very different way, I remember it in a different way, in a very sweet way. There are things that remind me of other things. Nostalgia can be such a complex concept because it can be about a lot of different things, from something terrible to something pretty, or something that you learned but for me it is a reminder of the things that fill me -- make me who I am -- because of what has happened. And do you get nostalgia from a specific event, or is it like a state from the past that you’re remembering? Do you get it from home, childhood or adolescence? E: From everything. I have always been a very sentimental person. I feel a lot, sometimes more than I should, and that’s why an event can mark me a lot: because I feel that it does. I am a very passionate person, I think … very passionate. I remember, from my childhood, feeling like this for very silly reasons. From things you think about when you’re a kid -- like, it gives me nostalgia when I remember how I began to sing -- and I was very little, I was like 6 years old. A: I think that really it’s everything. It’s not solely childhood, or a person… it really can be something like a scent of something… it’s anything. Any little thing could remind you of someone, something, an experience or a moment really, even a city -E: -- whatever -- It really can be anything. It can be a texture, a flower… There are many artists --whether they are photographers, musicians or even painters -- creators in general that are from Tijuana and use the city as a reference or inspiration in their work. Because your album talks about nostalgia, do you refer to Tijuana as a source of this feeling since you grew up here? Have you used the city as a musical inspiration? A: Really everything that surrounds us informs us. And obviously the city that we live in is something very important for the people that we are. It’s everything. For example in Playas de Tijuana, which is a very calm area where time passes very slowly, there are the sunsets; everything is so little. But there is also the transition from when we moved to Mexico City, and the new songs came out. Those songs are much more fast paced or have layered features. The city that you are in -- or the one you are talking about -- everything that surrounds you (it doesn’t even have to be the city) will be reflected in the music because it is what [you] live.

MEXICO CITY This question is regarding the track “El Parque Parecía Issue 7 Spring 2018

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No Tener Fin”. This song and “Cambios del Pasar” are the only songs in which you utilize spoken word instead of song to express the lyrics. How did you come about this creative choice? E: “El Parque Parecía No Tener Fin” was a text before it was a song. It was more like a poem. That song really doesn’t talk about much; it is more contemplative. It emulates walking and the rhythm of people, how the environment feels, the rain. I feel that, because it was a written word poem, when we did the music for it, [the song] came out as a march, and then I imagined that there would be a melody of a voice. It ended [up] having some song to it, but it is more of a background melody and not the focal point of the song. It made more sense if it was spoken. It’s the same with “Cambios del Pasar” because it is a tough one -like: “this is who we are!” -- that [kind of] song. We wanted it to feel that way because there are some songs that are... too [melodic] to the point that [they] are almost dramatic, but other tracks shouldn’t feel like that. Referring back to “El Parque Parecía No Tener Fin” once more, there is a phrase that I love that says: “Corre, no tiene fin” (“Run, there is no ending”) and how I imagined it is like if you were on a loop experiencing the same thing over and over again, as if you are walking in the park and there was no escape. Do you mean the song as a way to express a feeling of being stuck somewhere, or does it induce a state of bliss being indulged by the same memory repeatedly? Were you referencing a specific park? E: Yes, it was a park. It’s a trail in Mexico City. There is a street called Amsterdam, and the first times I traveled to that city I didn’t have many friends there so I would go on walks. On Amsterdam there is a circuit, but I didn’t know that, I thought it was a one-way thing. So later I realized that I was walking in circles. So the song is describing the actual place with its text. I don’t think the song has to do with being stuck; it is more like experiencing the moment. It was a strange situation- something funny that could also be reflected to something like understanding how to be alone- because I was alone listening to music with headphones on. You are very visual musicians. Your lyrics and songs have a lot of pictorial references, like purple eyelids in “Parpados Morados”, and the colors of Autumn in “Quiero Otoño De Nuevo”- they signal a lot of color and imagery. The music really helps the listener transcend from a purely auditory world to a more visual on. How do images inform your songwriting?

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E: Referring to those two songs, the names are used more like metaphors but “Parpados Morados” is about the process [of color change that your eyes undergo] when you are about to cry and how your eyes get a little red; eyes really change when you cry. It’s a good question because I had never thought of myself in that way [as a visual artist], but now that you’ve mentioned it it makes sense. “Quiero Otoño De Nuevo” was made because I really love Autumn -- and really that song doesn’t say anything -- but it does make you think about the landscape in the fall. I’ve always been very visual and I am always noticing everything, mostly in things involving nature and the human body and stuff like that.

MEXICO CITY When you are writing are you actively thinking the song should sound like the image you are seeing? E: A little bit, but not 100%. Sometimes I will think about it, but it ends up being something completely different. A: That’s true, because we are really writing about something you saw, so unconsciously you do it. Speaking of Mexico City, and of Mexico in general, you have been playing shows in various parts of the country, but more recently in the United States and Europe. What are the changes that you perceive in the alternative rock scene in Mexico and these other places? A: In all of these places there are people that are interested [in our music], but the main difference that I perceive is the support of the music. E: Like the attention that the audience gives at a show. A: In Europe, it is like, 100%. From the venue, the public, everyone. E: Everyone respects what you’re doing a lot and for example, here there will be places that will give us that attention but there will be other places where people just get drunk and whatnot: they just party. In Mexico, I feel that our shows there are always filled with people that are interested in our music. Speaking for different bands, the scene in general is hard and there are very different contexts because in Mexico there isn’t a shoegaze scene or there are not too many bands. It’s very little still, and there is also a very small audience for that type of music. Overall, I think that all of the people that come to our shows are the same. They either scream a lot or keep quiet all the time: very drastic. Like yesterday, in San Francisco everyone was like: “Wooo!”, and in Portland, everyone was just nodding their heads but paying attention. A: Everyone is interested but they react differently.

Issue 7 Spring 2018

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LOS ANGELES Did the size of the musical scene of Mexico influence your choice in wanting to be supported to a record label in the U.S? A: Actually the musical scene in Mexico isn’t small, it’s very, very big. There are a lot of people and a lot of artists but there is no support for the bands. E: Like there wouldn’t be a record label that would sign you and support you with tours and all of that. At least with a band like ours. There was no option; we tried in Mexico but it was very hard. A: We just sent out a lot of emails and we found a person that helped us send even more emails, and it happened. They were the [only] people that answered us and believed in our project, which is the coolest part. It happened without us thinking that we “wanted” to be with a U.S record label. E: We looked literally everywhere, anything that you would dream of crazy we did it. We sent out so many emails and only one [label] answered. Now that you are signed to Innovative Leisure, how do you feel that you’ve evolved as artists and musicians since the first album you recorded with them? E: It’s like taking everything a little bit more seriously. Our music itself wasn’t affected as much by the change. It was more about the seriousness of the project because there are now people surrounding us that are supporting this. A: There are more people involved. E: Before, we could be off the hook if we didn’t do something and be like, “well, nothing’s really going to happen,” but now we have to do it. It’s super good for us because it was what we wanted in the end. We really want to live off of this. A: Yes, and it also brings us so much more tranquility because in the past we would do everything ourselves. We would have to make our CDs, t-shirts; send emails and respond to them; making everything 100%. Now [our work load] is lighter. Even though we are always working, we don’t have to do everything on our own, and now we get to focus solely on the music, which is the best part. What have been the most valuable experiences from this tour? What have you enjoyed the most about traveling? E: The most valuable experience for me is to go out and see other horizons because I was very trapped in the idea of being in Mexico and the U.S. They were the only places that I had known and played in, and to later find out that there are other parts of the world that really support that music

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and be like, “there is really a place where they appreciate this,” made me think that this is how I would like things to be. It does happen. Sometimes you feel so trapped but you don’t know how to [achieve what you want]. Like it happened with us finding a record label, us being Mexican and making music in the U.S they categorize us although we don’t want to be “Latin” artists, and in Europe [there] is such an open mindset. It’s something that I carry with me, because I would love to be like that with everyone, to be able to respect everyone and pay attention to musicians as opposed to listening half-heartedly. I also learned that going on tour is hard and you have to rest a lot, to sleep well and not drink too much. You have to take care of yourself. Touring really opened my mind because instead of traveling from city to city, as you do here we will travel from country to country in Europe, so we had the chance to meet a lot of people from so many places. I feel like hearing other languages and hearing people speak, or how they act, or how they treat us made me learn a lot in the two weeks we were there. A: All of that, totally. We had very cool experiences. We saw King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard, a lot of landscape, the roads, and met a lot of people. You realize that although we are all really far apart from each other, there are people interested in the same stuff that you are into -E: -- Like people that like the same music you do but live on the other side of the world. A: Yeah, that’s the best part. We also realized that it’s impossible to tour three months and play each day. E: Like I said: “I’m going to be able to sing every day” and I lost my voice for a week when we were still on tour. A: We discovered our capabilities and met a lot of people. We are very happy because it was our first tour. Can you speak in more detail about how you’ve dealt with the miscategorization in latin rock instead of what you are, which is shoegaze? A: Really it’s a problem that people instantly categorize us. Like if it was a necessity to label everything. And in our case, it’s not something that we think and it isn’t something that we always have present when we are composing; but it’s something that we wish to avoid when speaking about categorization. Because people are limiting us to explore our sound. E: Specifically talking about the categorization of “Latin artist”- there is “rock”, but people refer to us as “latin rock”, and really there is not much difference. It’s exactly the same but in Spanish. Nothing changes. It’s not like we are saying that we aren’t Latin American -- of course we are -- but it doesn’t have to do anything with the music. It’s music that comes from Latin artists but it isn’t Latin music; those two are very different. And the problem with that, especially in the United States or in Europe is that they Issue 7 Spring 2018

already have an idea of what “Latin” music is. I remember one time we were in an Uber in Los Angeles and the driver noticed we were carrying our instruments and he told us that he listened to a band- Maná- because he already has that idea of what latin rock is. When you already have an idea about what something is, you think you already know it and that’s not the case. It’s narrowing the the possibilities of the subject matter just because you want to put it in a box. And have you had problems because of this issue when it comes to booking shows because of miscategorization? E: Personally, not much. We’ve been lucky with that but with other artists I know that may sometimes go to showcases in the U.S like SXSW that are like “Latin-artist-Idon’t-know-what” shows, and they go to Chicago to play Ruido Fest, which is for Latinxs. We have played showcases for Latin artists but that happens because we are paying attention to what they offer us. It’s not something that we deny, but [those showcases] aren’t something that we wish they happen a lot. We want our possibilities to be infinite. Amor and Estrella have worked their way from the ground up, starting in Tijuana by shaping their sound to touring in Europe and the US; always fighting against the industry’s preconceived notions of what they are, and what they are supposed to be. Their life experiences and surrounding environments are creative sources to make music for the eye, taking their sound to a cinematic-like space that vibrantly encapsulates the feeling of a certain emotion or event. This truly demonstrates that there are no frontiers that confine the sound of Mint Field.

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WORDS & PHOTOS Ciara Mandich

FEMININITY

V UL N E

BILITY ARE

JASON UMANA 18

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JOSIE HERNANDEZ

NATURAL P

O 19

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KENNEDY BAGNOL

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Issue 7 Spring 2018

YUANDA WEN 21

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O NE

THERE IS NO

HANAD MUSA 22

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Issue 7 Spring 2018

G I R

DAKOTA FRIEL

GHT

WAY TO BE A MAN 23

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Sidewalk on a Fall afternoon during third grade

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ILLUSTRATIONS Marion Moseley

All at once, I grow conscious of my state of in-betweenness, this disorienting suspension between the clouds. The conveyor belt beneath me now moves so fast it’s become a blur, and my legs burn bad but I’m pressed to reach home and bury these hot tears in stuffed animals. I wake up exhausted from that unexpected encounter with reflection, illusion, and reality. To my relief the sky has waxed into a spotless violet tone. But the persistent uneasiness lingers. I know the clouds will come back tomorrow, and with their return, the obligation to find my place between them.

WORDS Lisa Aubry

PUDDLE OF WISDOM

My velcro sneakers glitter when they touch the pavement. I look down so that I can see them flicker. Sunlight stings the nape of my neck. An earthy smudge on my left shoe comes to my attention and now I’m struggling to forgive the duck-voiced upperclassman who scuffed it at recess. Eyes glazed, I tread on a sidewalk that moves with the monotony of a conveyor belt. But then I see the clouds on the concrete -- cease my brooding to watch them float inside a glassy pool of leftover rain. Sunlight floods my pupils as I direct my gaze towards the sky where the same clouds glide overhead.

This is my earliest encounter with the discomfort of acquiring knowledge. With shock and horror I realized both the cryptic vastness of the world, as well as my own liminal place within it. I have no choice but to subsist in the awkward crevice between the endlessness of knowledge and my own limited capacity for it. To receive something without asking—something like knowledge—teeters precariously between a status of burden and gift.

Issue 7 Spring 2018

Hsi Lai Temple for the 2018 Chinese New Year

Crystal Cove beach in the early 2000s

I can cast a desire. All it takes is a coin tied to red wishing paper and tossed into a wishing tree. My friends choose their desires from a laminated list of wish options: Elimination of Difficulties, Good Health For the Family, or Good Luck All Around. I scan, scroll, select No. 22: Ocean of Wisdom.

There are no crystals and there is no cove but there is the beach. I sit on the shore, facing the sea. The water stumbles over itself before unraveling in a shallow foam spread at my feet. The salt makes a fizzing soda sound and toes curl in visceral pleasure. Beside me sits the sandcastle Papa helped me build, a plastic hand rake, and the big blue bucket my sister and I use to catch sand crabs, assign them names, families, and backstories. In the tidepools there are anemones. I stopped poking them after Maman said it might hurt them.

Icy sheets of rain sweep over the courtyard crowded with stuffed coats. Marbled clouds hover in dark blue while my breaths reel in and out mistily, like a tide. I bunch the paper in tight folds around the coin â&#x20AC;&#x201D; so as to approximate the thing as aerodynamic. I wind back my arm to send my hope for an Ocean of Wisdom sailing into the branches. Midthrow, some twisted pang of conflict seizes my chest cavity, crunching my lungs. A familiar queasy gush floods my throbbing temples as I process the absurdity of this scenario. I wish for an ocean of wisdom in a world where less than 5% of the ocean has been explored to date. Yet still I toil in the >5% as I cling to my raft of intellect before waves so titanic that the whole ordeal seems comically pitiful: a semiempowered, yet mostly intimidated, ragdoll at the mercy of epistemological riptides. The ocean may be colossal or familiar and dangerous or nurturing, but it is remains always ungraspable by nature.

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My hand flexes into a fistful of sand with the coming wave. No trace of sandcrabs, I fixate my gaze on the sand that dribbles from my caged fist. I tighten my clutch around the sand. I cannot contain it. A dense stream hisses as it escapes. In desperate force, I clench my hand tighter. My fist shrinks and shrinks until the sand seeps away altogether and my curled knuckles press the palm of my hand. Petty pride and brute willpower were weak fuel for my frantic race to retain all knowledge. Like sand, the tighter the grip, the harder it is to grasp. It makes for a profoundly perplexing experience to exist in a body that does not fully understand what a body is, with a mind that cannot comprehend itself. The brain itself is always suspended, sloshing around in head juice (cerebrospinal fluid). Nonetheless, the bits of knowledge I do feed this obscure organ inform how I digest the world. How I digest the world affects how I subsist and act within it. So what I know or donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know, then, it is an extension of who I am. My very being interconnects with my spectrum of knowledge. Without infinite knowledge, am I perpetually incomplete?

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Springtime in Brookside Park

Southern Californian Summertime

My little sister and I tire of the monkey bars. We rest our arms limply as we lie on the overgrown grass. I bend my elbows and cup my hands behind my head like I see people do in movies. Sophie lets her feet flop to either side, palms up, blissfully unaware of her appearance. I recognize the fragile parts of her—still untainted by expectations. I have to look away from her and toward those clouds again.

I swim alone on a hot day. School playgrounds sit empty and blacktops smoke in the searing heat. I ease into the water, weightless, watching the plastic umbilical cord of the pool vacuum sputter beneath me. I drift down and look out of the transparent, mobile veil of water between the world and me. I watch the clouds again. This time they warp with watery viscosity.

I squint at the sky and ascribe each cloud to a sea creature: seahorse, whale, turtle, no..not turtle… more like stingray. Definitely stingray. I might be a marine biologist when I grow up. Sophie squints at the sky too. They look like a whole bunch of spider webs all tangled up, she says. She’s been learning about arachnids with Mrs. Kelly. But spider webs? I frown at her, then the clouds. I picture extremely dense clusters of millions of thin silky threads. Alright, I guess I see it.

My world here is noiseless and warm—maybe I can stay a little longer. I think of the day my shoes got scuffed. I think about how this time, I’m inside the puddle. I’ve slipped under the clouds—the entities and the reflections. I have at last found a place in the world I am not confined, where I can move freely between all substances. It may not braving an Ocean of Wisdom, but I am content in this pool. My breath interrupts my thoughts and demands air. I shatter the surface with a gasp, my cheeks flush with quiet awe. With each passing breath, I slowly succumb to a humble peace of unknowing and claim completeness nonetheless.

Whereas it had always been obvious to me that experience affects my thought, cloud watching revealed the inverse: what I think about affects my interpretation of the world around me. In this way, access to different knowledge grants access to realities apart from my own. I had mistakenly taken the pursuit of knowledge to be a solitary endeavor, an articulation of self-containment and cultivation. All along, I had overlooked the beauty in exchange. Quiet observation and genuine conversation help me peer into another reality, so to speak—this is the optimal proximate to living it. This is the closest I can get to realities other than my own, to partake in and perhaps alter it with what I bring from my own reality, and maybe let my reality be altered in return.

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Issue 7 Spring 2018

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ISTANBUL

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Issue 7 Spring 2018

I don’t remember how many times it has been. Oscillating between two cities has become a pattern in my life. During one of my flights back to Istanbul, I remember glancing out the window. It was dark, pitch dark. But the city glowed, piercing the darkness with tiny lights. I am pretty sure I even saw the sea in that darkness; little glimpses of waves dancing between flickers of city lights. Looking down from above felt… It felt so oceanic, a moment Freud describes as “a sensation of eternity, a feeling as of something limitless, unbounded.” The grandeur of Istanbul captivated me. Images of the narrow streets, the hidden corners ornate with unwanted buildings and the small markets scattered around every block flashed through my memory. It was all there, sucked and stuck inside the black hole that is Istanbul. It’s tiny and astronomical at the same time and that is exactly how I feel when I’m in my hometown. WORDS

Beliz Urkmez

PHOTOS Lou Baya Oul Rouis

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I always wanted to escape that same gravity pulling me. Looking down at those last thirty minutes of my plane ride though, I think I never will. I have to admit, my comforting Los Angeles life heartens me. The abundance of sun with the laid back attitude everyone seems to internalize makes me want to stay here forever. Istanbul, on the contrary, breeds stress and anxiety from the never-ending traffic, the crowdedness and the metropolitan fast life. Every sidewalk is an absurd portrait of life. Outside an affluent neighbourhood cafe, an old man sells toilet cleaners. Another man walks alone on the freeway. It is frustrating, all of these lives meshed together in this small space, all of them passing by on their own without any interaction. No order. No time to think about how you feel. Time just passes by and every little facet of Istanbul, including its people, passes through with it. Yet, I will never escape the nebulous charm or the poetic chaos of Istanbul that I still crave here. It is an attachment, a familiarity of some sort, that binds me to it. My memory tricks me into fantasizing about the city as if I am in control, as if I know every little detail and every road that surrounds it. Even if I leave for a very long time, when I return, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll still know this place like the back of my hand. The excitement, the thrill, the strange, the absurd, all find a home there and stay, forever orbiting. I am conquered by this intense desire to be acknowledged and valued by this city at the same time that I detest it to the point where I want to leave and move on. Whatever my mind instills in me, I realize that I have no control over Istanbul, it has a trajectory of its own. I seem to never find the right words to describe it, even now, when I am writing this. Probably never will. Not that good at describing feelings that fill my heart with nostalgia, wonder and melancholy. The dilemma that I exist in two places at once excites and overwhelms me both at the same time. I lead two different lives in two different cities with conflicting natures, and I feel like two different persons. My emotions and thoughts are in constant flux because so am I, perhaps because I do not know which one I belong to. I feel the same sense of comfort and strangeness in both places and I end up a stranger to myself. The idea of starting new lives in new cities thrills me, but in the end, I think I will never get Istanbul out of my system. Not because itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s my home but because itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll always be a part of my memory, history and character. I would like to be okay with that someday. I will let you know when I do.

The Paper Mixtape

Issue 7 Spring 2018

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The Paper Mixtape

Issue 7 Spring 2018

ANXIETY AND ISOLATION

IN LOS ANGELES

My hope with this piece is to create a series of disjointed vignettes using fragments of real journal entries that detail the very real, but often ignored, anxiety and isolation Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve experienced since moving to Los Angeles. My goal is to write with complete sincerity in order to face these emotions head on. This piece is both self-serving and communal; I hope that my attempt at facing these dark, murky emotions can provide some sort of internal coping while simultaneously acting as a relatable, shared experience.

WORDS Max Huang PHOTOS Joyce Ding

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ONE: 7/27/17 Every morning I wake up sweating through my bedsheets in the claustrophobic LA heat listening to the sound of my roommate ritualistically torching his dab rig in the living room. I can’t help picturing myself in a Los Angeles dystopia, an Orwellian nightmare that’s clawing its gnarled hands out of the recesses of my imagination. As I brush my teeth, I envision jagged skyscrapers piercing the smogfilled sky in all their drab neon majesty, royal kings and princely knights of a hellish landscape. Sheltered below these towering monoliths, seedy back-alleys squeeze together grimy, sweating bodies worming their way to the next source of entertainment, like laboratory rats scurrying through a maze, addicted to the short-lived euphoric thrill of the drugs that lay in wait at the end. There’s something so mesmerizingly attractive about misery. Nothing can compare to those cathartic rushes of depressing thoughts and heartaches listening as the silence in the dark, musty room comes alive, breathing, buzzing, and whispering the dejected murmurs of the loners of the world. It’s why I take great solace in conjuring up these fantastical nightmares of mine. They present me with a convenient little pill of misery every morning, which I greedily take

with shaking hands. For some unknown, horribly naïve reason, I’ve always carried a heartfelt longing for a profound sadness, wishing for a tragic origin story. My daydreams as a child consisted of phantasmal visions of my parents dying in an inexplicable accident or visions that I’ve contracted a deadly disease with no more than six months to live. My fantasies today are much more elaborate and indulgent. I lay out all the details of my funeral, from the quirky exequies to the flowers to the music accompanying the funeral procession. I cherish every trip to these imaginary lives of mine, sinking into the bliss of self-pity and the euphoric release of control. What I secretly crave for in these fantasies is an excuse to stop trying, to relinquish all responsibility, to be able to waste away. Somehow I find a tragic origin story more comforting than knowing the chemicals in my brain are all screwed up and my serotonin synapses are snapping and splintering into a desiccated pile of sensory ooze. At least then I can justify these black thoughts swimming in my head like a fish helplessly circling around in its shit-filled bowl, praying for death.

“There’s something so mesmerizingly attractive about misery.” 34

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TWO: 1/7/18 I’m sitting cross-legged on the hardwood boards at the Hammer Museum, pensively glancing at the whirlwind of event preparations swirling around me. I think what drives most people to LA is the endless virility of the city, but for me, LA has become a torrential onslaught of lifeless events, a flickering of forgettable places and fading faces, a whirlwind of ephemeral ecstasy. I’ve become disillusioned with this false image of the LA lifestyle. It seems as if the value of one’s life here is solely determined by the sheer quantity of events you go to rather than the actual experiences themselves. It’s all a flashy display of peacock feathers–each person eager to prove that they are having more fun than the rest. On too many occasions I’ve fallen under that same trap, rushing out of my apartment with the hope that the events will somehow manifest themselves into a better, more complete version of myself, but I end up just equally as empty and shallow at a concert as I do when I stay home dissolving my brain with YouTube clips of hippos fighting crocodiles. A few feet past the event preparations, shrieks of delight ring out from the kids twisting and swirling away on the spinning circular chairs that dot the Hammer Museum pavilion. Everyone loves these chairs for their novelty, but I loathe them. They sit there crooked and mischievous, beckoning the rider to take a short and pleasant spin. But all they remind me of is the tumultuous, nauseating ride through the turbid, river-rapids of depression where the insidious knots in my stomach constrict the very life out of me until I can do nothing but try not to puke. I hate those chairs because they offer a false hope of an escape. “All you have to do is stand up and everything will be fine” they maliciously snicker. I’ve heard that mantra before: “Just snap out of it, Max. You’re being too sensitive.” I wish it was that simple. But every morning I have to wake up to the reverberating roar of that despicable river and take a deep breath before

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plunging into the emotionally draining whirlpool, like a ragdoll without a safety line. It’s oppressively hot in LA like it is every single day. I can feel myself sweating through my black Levis, the sweat like hot liquid ooze dripping onto the black tar pavement. It’s all too much. The black tar, the black stench, the black coffee, the black bowl of the bong, the black outfits. My mom insists that I should be proud of my jet-black hair, but it just reminds me of the black thoughts crowding my head. My black hair is growing proportional to how shitty I feel in this city, like I’m living in a pitiful Pinocchio comedy where the more I feel the gut-gnawing anxiety the longer my hair grows. The funny thing is that I’ve been carefully cultivating my hair just like I’ve carefully cultivated this bleak outlook on life. It seems as if I’ve somehow romanticized depression and sadness to a point where I’ve actually tricked myself into feeling this way, like a Pavlovian dog attuned to the resonating bell toll of death, salivating at the thought of impending pity and sadness. There’s nothing romantic at all about the depression and anxiety, but my longing for tragedy rears its ugly head and demands to be satiated. The truth is that I miss the cold, brisk air back home. I miss those early mornings tinged with frost where every breath is a cloud of fog, a constant, visible reminder that you are still alive. I miss absolutely everything about the cold: the frigid water that punches my gut and sheds the last remnants of sleep away, the crisp air that burns my nostrils and eases the flame of anxiety, the stupidly hilarious conversations in the cold where there’s nothing to do but shuffle your feet and come up with the next witty joke. Every night I sit on my bed in my A/C less apartment, staring up at the crumbling, sweating ceiling praying for the blissful cold.

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THREE: 1/14/18 It’s the golden hour of the day. The sun streams through the wispy clouds and the sea salt spray swirls in the breeze, emanating the perfume of life. My friends and I are sitting cross-legged on a blue, tattered Islamic prayer mat with a forest-studded hill on the left and the blinking pier to the right. In front of us is the gargantuan ocean, undulating like murky lava languidly meandering across the landscape. It’s all so perfect. We’re sitting in the same spot on Redondo Beach that I used to sit with my parents twelve years ago. The waves of nostalgia mirror the waves of the ocean as I contemplate how each moment of the past twelve years has led up to who I am now. Huddled on the beach staring into the distance, I begin dreaming of my childhood, as if the mist from the sea had created a translucent veil into the past. I’m imagining myself running in and out of the warm, foamy water with the sun directly beating down on my sunburnt neck while my parents softly converse in Mandarin underneath a rainbow umbrella. My sister marshalls my brother and I into a scavenging unit intent on finding the perfect seashell to decorate our already crumbling sandcastle. Those days were filled with red, cheesy Dorito fingers and imploding watermelon cubes that dribbled sticky juice down our chins. I always look back on these childhood memories with fondness. They were times when I hadn’t yet discovered this insipid plague inside me; when I could be a regular kid squinting in the sun and digging my feet into the cold, wet sand. We leave the beach as the sun sets, exploding the sky in oranges and purples, as if Zeus had thrust gasoline from a canister and Apollo had lit the flames with his chariot. All the while, I feel the heaviness that comes with the finality of youthful innocence and enthusiasm–a funeral march for the

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oblivious little child I once was. After the sunset, we drive down to Newport Beach, envisioning perfectly lit mansions and quaint restaurants serving sophisticated dinners at three times the price they should be. We’re slugging Mango Ciroc in the back of the car, trying to create the perfect concoction of chemical toxins that usually signal the start of a great night. But I’m drinking for a completely different reason tonight. As I feel the alcohol slide down my throat, I’m hoping that it rids myself of the gloomy streak etched in my soul that I think everyone’s noticed but doesn’t have the courage to bring to light. Instead of this imaginary dreamscape of Newport Beach, we approach downtown and see hordes of people streaming in and out of bars and late night taco shops like a giant carnivorous slug worming its way along the coast, consuming everything in its way. Suddenly, I’m transported back into that dystopian vision of LA, oppressively hot LA, where individuality dies in the crowd of bodies, leaving a hot, sweaty human mess. Fearing that terrible memory, I convince my friends to skip the crowd and head to the pier, which had peeked its face out of the fog-enshrouded beach. On the pier, the fog is so dense and ubiquitous that we can barely see ten feet in front of us. People walk towards us appear as ghostly apparitions, increasing in detail as they approach. I preferred them as ghostly apparitions rather than the redfaced, bumbling drunks they turned out to be. Looking out from the creaking boardwalk into the vast, empty ocean I immediately imagine myself entering an enormously large picture palace with a blank, ominous screen filling up my entire field of vision. The fog is so heavy that we can’t accurately place a horizontal line in our field of vision to establish where the sea meets the sky, so it looks as if we’ve

Issue 7 Spring 2018

stumbled in front of a blank screen that extends as far as the eye can see. It’s hauntingly beautiful and reminds me of that Buddhist truth that everything is nothing and the mind creates the false reality we see, like an empty movie screen being illuminated by our imagination. It’s as if I’m being held by the umbilical of the universe, staring down into a blank void that traverses the entire surface of the Earth.

from our psychedelic excursion into the pier and hop back into the car. The cocktail of drugs is wearing off and now my body and mind are protesting the toxic abuse. That’s what life is anyways: just a chemical onslaught perfectly coordinated by the body and evolution. As I sink into the unconscious void, I imagine myself as a sloshing vessel of chemicals punished with consciousness, a primordial being that was never supposed to become sentient.

Repulsed by the wave of drunk people, we decide to return

“everything is nothing and the mind creates the false reality we see, like an empty movie screen being illuminated by our imagination.” 37

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GREY AREAS

WORDS Iris Feldman ILLUSTRATION Peter Yang

AND

SILVER SCREENS 38

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Issue 7 Spring 2018

When the professor of my French cinema class asked us for an example of an American auteur, I raised my hand and said Woody Allen. I heard a snicker from behind me in the back of the classroom. At first I felt a little defensive and insecure, but then something settled in me and I realized I’d been preparing for this reaction for awhile. Paying attention to the news of the #metoo and #timesup movements at the end of 2017 was like a case of emotional whiplash. There was such a quick back and forth between genuine satisfaction that women finally had the voice and platform they’d always deserved and a little fear that some of the men I admired would be the next to fall—taken down by personal choices and actions I previously assumed they wouldn’t make or do. After Al Franken and Louis CK fell from grace I realized I would eventually have to answer to someone about how I could be in love with the movies of Woody Allen while still calling myself a feminist and a supporter of these new movements. This sharp snicker from four seats behind me was merely a reminder of the debate I’d already begun having in my own head. I’ve always liked to play top fives with my family and they all love to complain that it’s “just too hard.” Every time I’d ask my dad for his top five favorite movies they would change a bit. He would play around with four of them but Woody Allen’s Annie Hall would always top the list. Sometimes when I was really young I’d ask him and then I’d answer “Well, Annie Hall, of course,” before he could even respond. “Of course,” he’d smile and nod back at me. The movie was something sacred to me, like I could better understand who he was by seeing his definition of art. It was so special that I didn’t even want to watch it until I thought I was ready. I thought if I was too young and I didn’t get it that I might ruin it. So I waited till the right time and then on one day in 10th grade when I was home sick, I ordered matzo ball soup from the deli across the street and popped in the DVD. Finally watching it was like opening a door I’d been slowly pacing in front of for years. I loved it, perhaps because I wanted to so much, but watching it felt like spending an afternoon with a friend. I’d never seen something so honest in its humor and its pain. From that point on I’d find myself looking for ways to bring it up in conversation so I could figure out what it really meant to my dad. My father is a third generation New York Jew. Woody Allen was one of the only people who was telling his experience to a wider audience. His father died when I was only a year old, his mother when I was eleven, and I could never get him to tell me the stories I wanted to hear about his parents’ childhood and his grandparents’ experience as Jewish immigrants. Over bagels and lox with his cousins, I’d heard snippets of dialogue through thick Brooklyn accents that I’d like to imagine Woody Allen could have

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penned himself, but I wanted more. The first time he was able to pull something out of the recesses of his mind was during one of many conversations about Annie Hall. “That scene where Alvy visits his memories of his childhood home? That’s kind of what it was like to spend time with my dad’s family.” From there he began recalling memories and stories I’d never heard before about his aunts and uncles and grandparents. He told jokes about how the Easter dinner scene in which Alvy meets Annie’s waspy parents reminded him of the mild discomfort he felt the first time he spent Easter with my mom’s family in Connecticut. Annie Hall became a special window for both of us—through it he could access his past and I could see his world. It was through this experience that I first thought about the power of film and the various mediums of art. I’d always said art was important to me but I’d never really thought about why until I started watching and discussing Woody Allen films. It was through his work that I saw the power within the medium: that it’s a shared cultural language that cuts across boundaries, that there is beauty in pain and the mundane. If you asked me to identify the art that has most influenced the person I am today I’d name his films, but now it feels like this is something I have to apologize for. Granted, no one ever stood in front of me and verbally demanded an apology, but I started feeling guilty, or like I was a hypocrite, as I cheered at the demise of Harvey Weinstein but quietly hoped that people would let me enjoy Woody Allen’s work without asking me to talk about it. This approach seemed unsustainable, so I sought out more information to parse out what I believe and how to move forward. The strange thing about the case of Woody Allen is that since the #metoo movement started, no new allegations have been made against him. We have all the same information that we’ve had for decades, so if he himself hasn’t changed, what has is the context of the issue. Twitter users, the New York Times, and The Hollywood Reporter didn’t ask Penelope Cruz and Cate Blanchett how they could work with him when they took home Oscars for roles in his films within the past 10 years. It’s only now that major publications and thousands of social media users are demanding answers from stars like Greta Gerwig and Timothèe Chalamet about how they could have worked with him. In trying to navigate my conflicting feelings I sought out other opinions. I saw a newsfeed with long Facebook posts by friends condemning any person who could support Woody Allen or Roman Polanski, and posts criticizing anyone who conflated the personal life of the artist with the art itself. When I started reading opinion pieces from respected film critics and authors, I was only left with more questions, as there was a pattern to the way this was being discussed. Most of the pieces I read told a narrative of the

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writer going through the same thing I was going through. They were lovers of film who felt conflicted about whether they could love Woody Allen’s movies anymore. In a piece in the Times Style section entitled, “How Do You Solve A Problem Like Manhattan?”, the writer, Steven Kurwitz, questions whether Woody Allen and his films, specifically Manhattan, are too problematic to watch or respect 40 years later. He quotes the blog of a woman who bonded with her husband over Woody Allen movies when they first met who said, “I’m rethinking my decisions about which artists to support and whether watching Allen’s films is something we want to do anymore.” What struck me was the ambiguity in the simple statement. When she talks of supporting artists what is she talking about? Financially, by paying to see his movies? Is she talking about supporting an artist’s personal character? Defending them in the court of public opinion? What ‘we’ is she talking about when she wonders if we should watch Allen’s films anymore? Is she talking about her and her husband or a collective we? Does revoking her support of Woody Allen deny his talent as a filmmaker? In another lengthy piece in The Paris Review entitled “What Do We Do With The Art of Monstrous Men?” the writer, Claire Dederer, explores the same issues. She says that Annie Hall is the greatest work of comedy of the 20th century and she doesn’t want to give it up, but she talks about ordering it on-demand and watching it in 2017 as an “act of transgression”. It brings some levity to the piece, but based on the outrage I see on Twitter, I’m sure there are people who wouldn’t see the irony. Dederer’s piece succeeds in exploring just how layered and complex this issue is, if you love the art of “monstrous men” but still care about progress. The problem is that even with essays like this that explore this murky in-between area, there are still many others who are writing like they have to come to a decision between two choices. It seems as though everyone is looking for something finite, an authoritative answer, “this is the only way to move forward.” They have to decide to live with the guilt of watching Woody Allen movies while taking his personal life out of the equation or they have to just stop watching them. They may feel the same conflicts I feel, torn between two ideologies, but it feels like everyone is trying to work their way to one side and no one is trying to build a bridge between the two. I think that’s the problem with an era where political movements all come with a hashtag; a middle ground becomes untenable. Language is more complex than a hashtag. We’ve tried to distill one of our society’s biggest problems into a phrase, into something Emma Watson can tattoo on her arm. You share something with #timesup and all of a sudden you’ve placed yourself in the same virtual filing cabinet with anyone who’s ever done the same. Hashtag politics are nice. The sayings are catchy, and posting them is an easy way to tell your world that you are

Issue 7 Spring 2018

“woke”, paying attention, or on the right side of history; but when we let these slogans guide the movements, we tend to filter out the shades of grey. Some really do think the problem is economic, that we speak and vote with our wallets and they can’t justify spending money on the consumption of products from producers they can’t respect. They don’t want to play into a system that says if anyone is smart enough or talented enough, they get a pass. I understand this completely. I don’t want to put any more money into Woody Allen’s bank account and contribute to a system that rewards misogyny and alleged abuse, but what if I already have all the DVDs at home? Financial reward can’t be the only motivation. To move past centuries of abuse and toxic patriarchal systems is to deal with a collective trauma; it’s something we have to heal from but we can’t heal by enforcing a binary, or by making people feel guilty for loving the art they love, because the art we love becomes part of who we are. The choice is yours if you can’t watch, or read, or look at the work of so-called “monstrous men”, but when it comes to art, how can we fault anyone who chooses differently? There just has to be a way to appreciate the art without granting a blank check to artists in their treatment of other people. Woody Allen’s work has had an immense impact on my life, but if Dylan Farrow’s accusations of sexual abuse are true then he isn’t someone I can respect. To acknowledge one fact is not to deny the truth of the other and to speak of one is not to ignore the other. The solution isn’t, as some film critics and writers have suggested, eventually making a decision between cutting art out of your life or accepting it without reservations, it’s neither. It’s irresponsible to think about this art without thinking of the misconduct of the artists, but for many people it can be impossible to separate themselves from the art that has touched their lives. I assess the complexities of Manhattan by acknowledging that there is a problem; by talking about how the first five minutes of the opening sequence are my favorite in all of cinema and then noting the issues within the central relationship between Isaac and Tracey; Isaac’s speech about the art that makes life worth living forever changed the way I think, but I’ll never be okay with the way he allegedly treated Mariel Hemingway on set.

I’m biased, but I don’t think this bias disqualifies me from speaking on any of it. It’s the fact that it’s personal that kept me thinking about these issues for months, that drove me to write this at all. Were these artists unimportant in our cultural history, there would be nothing to talk about. It’s this conflict that facilitates a conversation, and through discourse we find answers and we heal. This kind of healing is impossible when our choices are limited, when there is a right and wrong way to be politically engaged, when the term feminist is defined so rigidly. The medium of art has for centuries taught us that life is not black and white, and the more people think it is, the less we can accomplish.

If it sounds like I’m biased about Woody Allen’s work due to its sentimental value, it’s because I am. His films essentially created the standard by which I assess art’s role in life, so it’s obvious that I think they hold under said standard. I never claimed objectivity because I don’t think it exists within art; its power is in its ability to move people. For me it’s about Woody Allen, for someone else it’s about Roman Polanksi or Louis CK or James Franco. So yes,

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Issue 7 Spring 2018

Sinking Suns WORDS

Kalena Tamura

ILLUSTRATION Leslie Young

I’m drunk when my mother tells me. Reclined in a lawn chair on the front balcony of some stranger’s apartment, the sounds of trashy EDM music and hammered college kids float out through the open doors and over the balmy evening air. It’s Superbowl Sunday but I’ve already forgotten the names of the two teams playing. The bulging sun hangs low in the sky, bleeding streaks of gold that shimmer on the glass windows of the UCLA medical center facing me directly across the street. Below the cars wizz past, zooming and pausing in time with the flickering green and red lights. I feel my mimosa high from the morning fade as I sink deeper into the chair with jello limbs and a sleepy gaze that settles on the sun rays dancing atop the reflective tower. My buzzing pocket reawakens me to the world. I dig out my phone and read the caller ID before letting it go to voicemail. After two missed calls, and a “Please call me back when you get this” text, I sigh before dialing her number.

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“Hey mom,” I say in an upbeat tone, trying to mask any drunken slur with cheer. “Hi Mia, sweetie, is there any way you might be able to make it home this next weekend? I know we already talked about it, but it’s your grandfather’s 80th birthday.” “Yeah, I know. I just have that midterm next week. I thought you said it’s fine if I skipped.” “I know. It’s just, he’s not doing too well. I think you should really try to make it, if you can. I was able to convince the doctor’s to give him permission to leave the night of his birthday dinner. I thought it’d be nice seeing as, well, he’s in the late stages and I’m not sure how much longer . . .” her voice peters out, swallowed by the hum of silence. I sit, dazed, my brain processing her words in slow motion. “What do you mean? Is everything okay?” I ask, concern dissolving my drunken dim and pulling the world back into a sharpened focus. The noise on the other end of the line heightens, a scratchy gargle of uninterpretable sounds. “Mom?” “Sorry honey I have to go. I’ll call you later tonight.” The line cuts off as I hear her voice being carried in the opposite direction. “Shit.” I make no effort to move from the chair, watching the sky’s deep burnt orange hue fade to darkness as the reflection of the sun sinks on the hospital’s window wall of glass. The first thing I’m reminded of as we enter Sunrise Villa is the pervasive smell of cat litter, which I find odd, seeing as there are no cats. My parents made the decision to move Grandpa to an assisted living center nine months after he was first diagnosed. Grandpa was appalled at the idea. He was still in the early stages, and found himself hardly needing to be taken care of. He was 71, living alone, and to my mother’s dismay, as irreparably stubborn as ever. When I was a freshman in Highschool and still living at home, I happened to walk in on her arguing about the matter with him over the phone one evening. I halted, hearing the strain in her voice, and stood paused in the doorway. “I’m sorry, but I really think this is the best decision. After all, with mom not there to look after you, it’s got to be lonesome living all on your own.” My mom waited, biting her thumb nail. I pictured my grandfather’s rigid resolve gliding across the telephone line all the way from his home in San Diego three hours away. “Dad,” my mom said in a pleading voice, “This isn’t some-

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thing you can just ignore. It’s Alzheimer’s. It’s serious, and it’s not going away.” I watched through the crack in the doorway as she finished the conversation, then sat on her bed. She rung her head in her hands and quietly began to cry. It’s been two years since I last visited grandpa at Sunrise Villa. When I left home for college, my new life consumed me, vigorously and unconditionally. Despite being only twenty minutes away, I rarely make it home except for holidays, and even then I still somehow manage to spend a good portion of my vacations and breaks away on trips. As I wait in the lobby with my father, I realize that there’s never been anything significant stopping me from visiting grandpa. I just hadn’t ever made the time. As grandpa emerges shuffling towards us, the entirety of his weight dispersed between my mother’s arm and his wooden cane, I’m overcome with shock at how different he looks. His body is shriveled and frail, swallowed by the clothes that hang limply from his thin limbs. I stare at his gaunt face and frame, and think only of bones. “Hi grandpa,” I say, giving him an enthusiastic but gentle hug. He smiles at me and nods. I can tell he is happy, but there is a mist behind his eyes that I do not recognize. He kisses my forehead and says “beautiful.” It is the only word he says until we sit down for dinner. We arrive at the restaurant on the water. It’s a stunning Italian restaurant in the Marina with towering glass windows that look out onto the ocean. When I was little, we used to come every year for Easter dinner. My grandma always reserved the table a month in advance for a “front row seat to the sunset.” I always sat next to grandpa so that we could watch for dolphins together. I never saw a single one, but every few minutes I would shout and point at a shadow glimmering on the water and pretend I had just seen a dolphin pop its head up. He always played along, acting as though he had seen it too. His responses were so enthusiastic sometimes I began wondering if a dolphin actually had appeared, and maybe I was just the one who couldn’t see it. We stopped coming after grandma passed away. No one ever had the intuition or energy to make the reservation far enough in advance, and after all, that other restaurant in Redondo was cheaper. I wonder if this will be my grandfather’s last time at this restaurant. I wonder it and then immediately wish I could take it back, but it’s too late. Thoughts don’t work like that. Outside the waves smack hard against the shore as I stare out the car window, feeling small. The spaghetti slaps the checkered tile floor, a wet smack followed by the ricochet of white ceramic shards. The room freezes. The only movement is that of a single meatball sent Issue 7 Spring 2018

flying across the floor by the impact of the crash. It rolls forward and comes to a stop, nudging against the toe of the waiter’s black loafer. Heads turn as the room hushes. We are all swallowed by the stillness. Across the table my grandfather is standing with red sauce oozing down the front of his white button down, blooming across his chest like a gun wound. His chair is toppled over behind him and his expression is perplexed. “Where is Kathryn?” he repeats for what feels like the hundredth time, though this time his voice is soft. The frustration and anger have melted, overshadowed now by blended tones of confusion and worry. My mother leans over to the waiter and immediately begins whispering a slur of mumbled apologies. “He has Alzheimer’s,” she explains. “He doesn’t remember.” “Where is Kathryn?” he repeats once more. It’s no longer a question. The words leave his lips automatically, emotionless, as the mist behind his eyes dissolves. “She’s gone, dad. Mom’s gone.” My mother reaches out to put a hand on my grandfather’s shoulder. Around us, the gazes of other families beat down on us like burning heat rays. I stare at my plate of carbonara, pretending not to notice the air being sucked out of the room. I feel the strings in my chest being pulled tight. I focus on breathing and pray they don’t snap. Grandpa excuses himself to the restroom. “Check on him Irving,” my mother fires to my father in a voice that is her whisper-scream. “I’ll get the check.” I do not wait for the workers to come mop up the mess, do not wait for them to pick up the shattered pieces of our broken family. I don’t hear my grandfather come up behind me as I sit on one of the benches outside the restaurant. He takes a seat beside me, slowly lowering himself and resting his cane along the side of the wooden bench. I take his hand in mine and together we sit, engulfed by the humming noise of the ocean’s pulse, as wave after wave beats softly upon the shore. There is yelling. The people stare. There is shouting. I am shouting. “Dad please, sit.” I don’t sit. “Sir,” the waiter pleads. I don’t sit. “Where is Kathryn? I need to find Kathryn!” I hear my voice, but do not feel the words escape my lips, do not feel them dissolve into the air. Where is Kathryn? Where has she gone this time? There is whispering. They are whispering and staring, my daughter and the waiter. Secrets drip from her lips, spilling into his ears. They won’t tell me where my Kathryn is. No one will tell me where my

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Kathryn is. The waiter nods. His lips purse. He stares into me. His face is saturated in pity. It bleeds in the wrinkled creases near his narrowed eyes, lining his furrowed brow. Recognition clicks. A wave of familiarity knocks the wind from my lungs. It is a look I have seen countless times, an expression inked onto countless faceless strangers. And then I remember. Her tone is hushed, her expression pained. “He has Alzheimer’s. He doesn’t remember.” Her words swim, slipping through the gaps in her teeth like smoke. He doesn’t remember. I blink. The simplicity of my daughter’s words smack me in the face. I don’t remember. My head spins slowly on its axis. I look. The floor is littered, spilled spaghetti, a broken plate, piercing shards of white ceramic painting the checkered tiles. “Where is Kathryn?” A hundred faceless figures, I do not recognize. Two faceless children I sense that I should recognize, I know that I should recognize, but who are just as faceless as the rest. “She’s gone,” a voice murmurs. I lift my gaze to face my daughter. “Mom’s gone.” A waiter, my daughter, her children, an encroaching circle of empty eyes. Artificiality presses down on us. The cardboard figures stare. The synthetic air is stale on my tongue. He doesn’t remember. I excuse myself. I walk to the bathroom. The water is rain, sliding down my cheeks. I rub my palms against closed eyes, digging the heels deep into the papery skin, erasure. I turn the sink off, grip the counter. I lift my gaze. I stare into the face of a man, a father, a grandfather. Interlocking eyes, a hazel ring hugs an ebony iris. My chest sinks. I wait for the day that I will lift my gaze and look into my reflection, the day I will meet the faceless figure of a man, a father, a grandfather that I do not remember, faded, dissolving among the rest. I take a breath. Today is not that day. My daughter’s husband walks me outside, holding my arm like a small child. I do not fuss, letting myself be held. “I’m gonna pull the car around. Will you be alright with Mia?” he asks. I nod in assurance, lowering myself down onto the wooden bench next to my granddaughter. She turns and smiles at me, taking my hand in hers. My daughter comes up behind me and once more places her hand on my shoulder. In the golden light reflecting off the water, she looks so much like her mother. I feel the worry and paranoia ebb from my bones. I allow all the lost memories to be taken from me, pulled out to sea with the parting waves. I sit with my beautiful family, listening to the lull of the ocean crash, shattering upon the shore. Part of me wishes to speak, only to realize there is nothing that needs to be said. The sun sinks below the horizon. The world dims to dusk. I forget all that I do not remember. This moment is enough.

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LIGHT

PEAKS

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 46

“Encapsulate” “Circumstances” “Despite” “Removal” “Flourish” The Paper Mixtape

THROUGH Issue 7 Spring 2018

You can help them grow, but despite you, they must also feel the sun on their backs. Beings take in another oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s growth but fail to realize they must strive for the sun on their own.

WORDS & ILLUSTRATIONS Jade McKenzie

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WORDS & PHOTOS

Rio Hayashi

SENSORY PROCESSING DISORDER

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Issue 7 Spring 2018

God, when I was in the womb, you had given me everything. A pair of eyes, although with astigmatism, chocolate brown and pretty, A pair of ears for dangly earrings and the sound of wind, Ten fingers to feel my heartbeat and yours, A nose to smell my mother’s food and hair, And a mouth to kiss my child goodnight. But God, you forgot to give me a blanket, a shield, a layer, a coat of immunity. These eyes are pained by the rays of sunlight and colors of the rainbow. These ears can’t distinguish from voices to music to trees rustling. They all sound like a marching band. Tambourines smashing in my ear. These fingers are restless. Stimulate me! Stimulate me! Why can’t you smell that? Why can’t you understand me? I can’t eat this. This texture. Please do not call me spoiled or undisciplined. Trucks are too loud, The sky is too bright, People are too unpredictable, Animals move too quickly. God, the world never works how I need it to. And everyone tells me I never work how the world needs to.

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The Paper Mixtape

Issue 7 Spring 2018

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Look At My Hands

WORDS & ILLUSTRATIONS

Hannah Rexinger

I don’t know when it began exactly, but whenever I try to concentrate on a careful task, my hands will tremble. It’s only slightly, but enough to throw a wrench into the idea of eating cereal or becoming an artist. All the things I wanted to accomplish necessitated a steady hand—painting, drawing, or even photography. Defeated, I settled upon writing for a while, thinking that that was the only thing my hands were capable of. I couldn’t create good art; I couldn’t be good art.

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Christine

20th St and Colorado

Christine invited me to her art studio one morning to paint with her. It wasn’t until I sat there, paintbrush pushed aside in frustration, that I hesitantly came to terms with my own hands. Christine—an incredibly accomplished artist, as well as my best friend’s mother—stood at my shoulder and challenged me. She said, “look at my hands;” they weren’t perfect either. I looked up to see the unsteady lines of her flowers and lettering that hung on the walls of her studio. At the tip of these faltering fingers lied endless possibility for beauty. Thousands of people love and buy her work; her difference does not stop her.

Last Saturday, I sat in a coffee shop on the corner of Colorado and 20th, watching and listening to the people that passed by. Each and every one of them had tremors of their own—these almost indistinguishable differences, the wavy notches of a chin or the small inlets of a nose. These tremors were not mistakes, they were pieces. Pieces of a person that no one else had—pieces that made up the whole, pieces that made them whole.

Though eating cereal can still be a challenge, taking control of the uncontrollable has allowed me to hold my precious differences dear. And just as Christine did, my differences allow me to recognize the beauty in the differences of others.

Sunday, April 1st, and still my hands shake. But everyone else’s do too—in their own way. I’ve learned through this struggle of mine how important it is to recognize the beauty in other people’s tremors, too, to see their differences as admirable and to encourage them to use those differences to create and do beautiful, wonderful things.

Hollywood Blvd and N Vermont Ave

A tremor does not make a person an error; their difference is not a fault they have to fix, their difference is them, and their difference is lovely. Look at my hands. They are like yours, but different.

San Vicente Blvd Somewhere on San Vicente, I drew the faces of these strangers without picking up my pen, letting the ink run together. My trembling hands were no different than another’s curving ear lobes—our differences were the same, our ink bleeding on the same page.

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Issue 7 Spring 2018

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PHOTOS Viviana Lira

The Paper Mixtape

Issue 7 Spring 2018

The Beverly Hills Hotel “So I called up the Captain, ‘Please bring me my wine’ He said, ‘We haven’t had that spirit here since nineteen sixty-nine” - THE EAGLES, “HOTEL CALIFORNIA”

WORDS Katherine Price

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The menu of the Fountain Coffee Room at the Beverly Hills Hotel seems dated at first glance. Cottage cheese; egg salad sandwich; steak on toast; prune juice; orange freeze...but there it is, near the bottom of the right hand corner: “Almond Milk $8.” The diner is covered with a banana-leaf-print wallpaper, the same wallpaper that covers the sideboards by the pool cabanas, the entryways of the bathrooms, the nooks in the lobby, the length of the hallways where it power-clashes with the diamond patterned carpets. The banana leaf is a recurring motif throughout the hotel, both in its live and illustrated incarnations. Its dominance is only challenged by the pink that gives the place its real name, “The Pink Palace.” The Beverly Hills Hotel existed before the city itself. Just as the film industry was taking off, an oil tycoon teamed up with a socialite and joined directors, producers, actors and actresses in turning the hills into real estate. Because of this history, the hotel has always been in tune with Hollywood; they have always existed in parallel. The stories are countless and date back to the 1930s when

white sand was imported to turn the pool into a beach where the likes of Fred Astaire and Carole Lombard sunned themselves. Mia Farrow was banned from wearing pants at the Polo Lounge, where the Rat Pack used to go on benders and politicos made key Watergate calls. The hotel’s bungalows have provided both temporary and long-term homes for generations of stars, housing Howard Hughes and hisbizarre room service requests, Elizabeth Taylor through two marriages, a custom-made bed for Marlene Dietrich, Marilyn Monroe in hiding, and enough affairs for seven of the bungalows to be known as “Bachelor’s Row.” Katharine Hepburn used to play tennis on the hotel courts and jump into the pool, still in her tennis clothes, as soon as she finished a game. But there are no more tennis games, and no more diving from high or low. The entire hotel was renovated when it changed ownership in the 1990s. The courts were paved over and replaced with new “Presidential Bungalows” in 2011. The diving boards were taken away. The hotel and its owner--the Sultan of Brunei--have been boycotted by activists and prominent public figures due to the Sultan’s stance on gay rights. The past is being entombed and replaced. Los Angeles is no longer defined by Hollywood, and neither is the hotel. Those with influence have decided that what used to be a haven, a keeper of secrets, a mystery is now just a business. The building is still pink--not aggressively pink, but rather a passive blush. Amongst the assertive buildings of Sunset Boulevard it is relatively subdued, although it sits elevated above the main road like a monument. Its most prominent feature is the foliage that surrounds it. The walls of greenery and the precariously tall palm trees have grown over time to become a fortress that shrouds the hotel from the outside world. The green and white stripes that cover the awning are framed by bright pink flowers, and gardens of hibiscus and banana plants continue the botanical scene. Wrought-iron balconies placed next to a massive green panel call out their own age with their intricate art deco style . “The Beverly Hills,” the panelsays, with no “hotel.” The Polo Lounge has dark green booths, each with its own plug-in phone. It has the feel of a smoky, dark, men’s club: the aura of West Coast dealmakers miming East Coast mad men. In sharp discord with the mood are the flowers and lamps at each booth. It is obvious that they, along with the lack of hostility towards women, are a recent addition. No one picked up a phone. Everyone has their own now. The former residents are remembered almost as though they are star athletes at a high school. Photographs of fan favorites decorate the walls. Cary Grant’s headshot is hung next to an outfit that he forgot in his bungalow closet. Grace Kelly and her royal family smile through

The Paper Mixtape

Issue 7 Spring 2018

their sunglasses. The walls are scattered with portraits of Marilyn Monroe in a variety of candid moments as banal as her drinking a glass of milk. The Beverly Hills Hotel is said to be haunted by the spirits of guests past. It seems as though the ghosts of stars live on more so on film; like photographs, their work endures because it is material and unchanging. It is ironic that the capture and conservation of the ephemeral formed the foundation for a place so untamed. Hollywood was the last frontier. There the sun shone on the American Dream and gave it a final chance to flourish. Storytellers gave the open land definition with their words and their pictures and their performances. These pioneers constructed a narrative based on the absurd: to found a city built of fairy tales. Hollywood became not only a place and an industry, but also a religion. Its deities had a special intangible quality that allowed them to captivate audiences on screen. Hollywood became the place to go to find out if you could be a god. The Beverly Hills Hotel, like Hollywood itself, was a child’s dream. Never in New York or Chicago would a massive pink beacon serve as a monument. For many years it was a mirror of Hollywood itself: full of contradictions: at once outrageously popular, insulated from the outside world, and a stage for the performance of lives. Those who were canonized in its hallowed halls were frozen in a character constructed by others for them; their public images were another script, more work, with no opportunity to take a rest. The stars were bound not only by the interactions amongst themselves but by their places in an entity bound by vision and creativity--Hollywood. They were differentiated from society at large not only by their lifestyle and the nature of their work but by the isolation that is an inherent part of the role that designation requires them to play. The hotel served as an escape from the perpetual narratives of their lives: a trapdoor to a place of total novelty and freedom. The bungalows of the stars were like a colony for the independent: people being alone together. It was an opportunity for a royal to shrug off his or her robe and be the little person that was inside. The age of Hollywood as a state of mind is over. No longer do we idolize celebrities. We elevate them and revere them, but we want them to be “just like us.” The public has no desire for mystery or imagination. We demand the unvarnished truth about our celebrities’ lives. We want to see unlimited banality. Marilyn Monroe drinking milk is not enough. How can films remain a tonic for the imagination, an escape from reality, an opportunity to be lifted out of our ordinary lives into something greater if we are watching our best friends on screen?

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The Beverly Hills Hotel is no longer a castle. Its royalty have been dethroned, its kingdom devalued. It is still for the rich and famous but now in a soulless way. The walls have grown heavy with the idea and reality of the sparseness of drama, the trappings of real estate development and its sprawl, the pretense and takeover by those trying to prove their wealth, and the sell-out that is the luxury hotel operator. However powerful these forces may be be, they cannot completely eclipse a place loaded with emotions and brimming with memories. The joy, sadness, arguments and laughter of those that came before all settle into the bones of the place. The Beverly Hills Hotel still holds a glimmer of something magical. The hotel, as with all of Los Angeles, still holds in the air the hope for a last shot at the American Dream. That magical feeling doesn’t have a name. That’s the point. It cannot be conveyed through words. It can only be conveyed through film. On a post out front -- overshadowed by the red carpet that serves as an entryway, blocked by one of the ubiquitous banana plants, hidden behind gold bellman’s carts -is an inscription that reads, “Vayan Con Dios.” “Go With God.” Article Contributor

The Paper Mixtape

Issue 7 Spring 2018

WORDS Richard Page

ILLUSTRATION Peter Yang

The heart of gay West Hollywood, colloquially termed “Boystown” since the 1970s, is a fairly nondescript stretch of Santa Monica Boulevard, a chic but unassuming collection of fitness supply stores, clubs, and clothing shops. Rainbow lights drape the trees, and there’s an unusual number of underwear boutiques, but in most respects it’s a normal, even mundane urban neighborhood. In the imaginations of gay men across America, however, WeHo takes on a new form: a freewheeling neon paradise, free of the hate, the self-loathing, and the banality of many gay men’s reality. West Hollywood began its life as an unincorporated area on the western fringe of Los Angeles, which had a reputation as early as the 1920s as being a booze-friendly, government-wary sanctuary for eccentrics. Casinos and speakeasies sprouted along the Sunset Strip, outside of Los Angeles city limits and therefore immune to the attentions of the LAPD. For the same reason,

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The Paper Mixtape

Issue 7 Spring 2018

gay bars and clubs thrived in the area: the LA County Sheriff’s Department, unlike the LAPD, put little effort towards policing homosexuality. As the gay liberation movement took root post-Stonewall, West Hollywood became a magnet for gay people not only in the Los Angeles area, but from across the country. In the era of “gay ghettos” like San Francisco’s Castro and New York City’s West Village, West Hollywood’s growing gay scene fit right in with a national trend. Gay clubs proliferated along Santa Monica Boulevard in an old industrial district ripe for reimagining, and sex gear and fetish wear stores filled in previously vacant storefronts. West Hollywood was evolving into itself, and becoming more legitimate in the process. When residents of the of the region voted in 1984 to incorporate as the City of West Hollywood, the first city council was threefifths gay. West Hollywood’s reputation as a “Gay Camelot,” an untraceable yet widely used phrase for the city, has only grown over the years. WeHo contains only 3% of the estimated 590,000 LGBTQ people in the LA metropolitan area, yet WeHo remains a singular presence in the gay imagination. In a series of interviews, West Hollywood residents and visitors reveal their personal feelings about the city, describing its allure and its disappointments, the ways it has succeeded and failed to live up to its premier placement upon the cultural firmament. To Brent, a 31-year-old Los Angeles resident, West Hollywood represents liberation. He moved to California from Indiana nearly a decade ago, drawn by the promise of freedom and acceptance, and by the seductive allure of Hollywood’s entertainment industry. When he arrived in West Hollywood, everything was new for him, a far cry from the gay bars he was used to in Indiana. “Seeing go-go dancers, I was kind of shocked, maybe not shocked, but it was just interesting to see something so free,” Brent remembers with a laugh. “[In Indiana], everybody’s still so conservative… and like, if you’re outside, you’re not holding hands, you’re not embracing each other.” West Hollywood, then, meant a new kind of release, a place where, for the first time, Brent saw gay people who could “be comfortable with who [they] are, in a public setting… where people don’t really care what’s going on, they’re just ready to live life.” Arnie, a 46-year-old graphic designer from Missouri, has been in Los Angeles for 18 years. When asked to describe his feelings about West Hollywood, about its reputation and what it means to him, he has a quizzical glint in his eye. He describes the weather, the prime location (“30 minutes away from the beach, or an hour away from the mountains”), the practical considerations of a highly concentrated city center. Yet his tone softens as he begins to describe his experiences with the community: “You can go [to West Hollywood] and you already have one thing in common with everyone else… It’s nice. It kinda takes that question out of the whole conversation.” Everybody on Santa Monica Blvd at 1:30 in the morning shares desires, experiences, traumas, and connections—an instant, potent bond between strangers. WeHo’s appeal for Arnie is fundamentally practical, but an air of fanciful camaraderie inflects his tone: “This is a nice place that’s easy for everyone to get to. And then we all walk down the street, together. It’s awesome.” The bond between strangers that Arnie mentioned, forged by shared experience and shared oppression, became especially dynamic for Eric, a 28-year-old filmmaker who grew up in Los Angeles. Sitting in a coffee shop on Santa Monica Boulevard, Eric struck a connection through the furtive glances so common to gay life. Glances turned into conversation, and the two shared a vital moment on the cusp of death: the man had Stage 4 cancer, and his prognosis was grim. They shared a joint and passed stories from hand to hand. Searching gazes, the kind too vulnerable for the rest of the world, triggering life-affirming conversations: “Only in WeHo.” Michael, a 20-year-old student from Ventura County, is more conflicted about West Hollywood. “Even though WeHo has been around for a while… it feels more just like a Boystown. Very little depth.” Michael’s meaning is clear: despite its age and reputation, West Hollywood has little interest in history, in community, in radical social change. The images he associates with WeHo are ambivalent, too. Rainbows, colorful drinks. Flashing lights, bleach white teeth, go-go dancers. Lust. Excitement. Superficiality. Acceptance, perhaps: “In a certain way. I mean, there’s this openness there.” Michael’s disillusionment is palpable. “WeHo is much grander in gay people’s imaginations,” he says with a wry smile. Then again. With a thoughtful, faraway look in his eye: “I think a place is what you make of it.”

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The Paper Mixtape

Issue 7 Spring 2018

WORDS

Annika Karody

YOU MOVE TOO FAST ILLUSTRATIONS Jade McKenzie

This log of vignettes began as a meditation on numbness. When I began paying attention to feeling and lack thereof in my own life, I saw physical and mental processes as sources of sensory and emotional awareness. Compare, for example, the process of cooking a balanced, flavorful meal for dinner to the “process” of ripping open a package of frozen food and popping it into the microwave. In that comparison, there is an exchange–trading the sensory experience of cooking a meal for the convenience of eating quickly–presumably to make time for another, more pressing engagement. I thought that numbness sprung from evading these processes in exchange for more time (or productivity or relevance). In some instances this rang true, and in others I found that exchange turned on its head. These vignettes play with process and feeling (or lack thereof ) and the various ways that they intertwine, overwhelm one another, or work harmoniously.

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brain less than ten hours before. Only when you get up to turn in your quiz do you notice that your jeans (and skin) ripped at the knee when you fell fifteen minutes ago.

Mornings. News It is difficult to fully wake up as soon as your alarm goes off, but browsing Twitter while brushing your teeth usually does the trick. It’s only six a.m., but the carefully-selected cohort you follow are reliable and sharp, ready with your breakfast of hot takes and op-eds. As their 280-character zingers and 1200-word think pieces coax you awake, you are vaguely aware that you are cheating yourself of understanding; surely there are more dimensions to whatever it is you are reading about. Then again, who has the time or energy to untangle the details themselves? You roll out of bed energized by their efforts.

Take note of the stinging pain. Walk gingerly down the hall. Attempt to speed up only to be punished by a sharp twinge: “slow down, or else!” Slow. Down. Wash your knee off thoroughly and dab it up and begin to walk deliberately back to class. Lean heavily on your left foot. Step carefully with your right. Left, lean; Right, switch. Left, lean; right, switch. Step leeeeaan, step, step leeeeaaan, step, step leeeaaan. There it is: rhythm.

Efforts of your Own. 7 a.m. Today’s the day you finally take time to come to your own conclusions. Open Twitter by force of habit, scroll aimlessly until you remember that you are supposed to be making some sort of conscious shift towards mindfulness. Navigate to Reuters, where unprocessed news waits to be molded by your own anemic critical thinking capabilities. Here goes. “Building fire kills three.” Sad, sure, but nobody’s paying you to research building codes and take a strong stance on the issue by 9 a.m. Next. “Facebook critics want regulation, investigation after data misuse.” Sounds like it could possibly concern you. Godspeed to those critics. “U.S. hints at shift on Russia with sanctions and condemnation.” Condemnation: that’s kind of a strong word! What a rush. You leave your apartment feeling neutral, if not slightly overwhelmed. If there is something new to have feelings about today, nobody has shown you how to do it.

Oversleeping. 8:30: “‘Nika...” 8:33: ‘Nika...” 8:35: “Annika. Your alarm.” Jump out of bed. Curse under your breath. Your roommate’s up now, too. Bolt to the bathroom before she gets there. Pee, change, swirl some toothpaste around your mouth, yank a hair tie off your wrist, arrange the rat’s nest atop your head, grab a handful of m&ms off the coffee table and shove them in your face, all in seven minutes. Out the door, down the stairs, trip and fall, curse some more, up again, open the gate, RUN. Get to class on time, sit down at the lab bench, regurgitate some information about endocrine systems that you crammed into your

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Productivity. Writing. Digest, understand, regroup, take a stance. If there is anything that discourages skimping on process, it is this. Writing often gives way to excess processing. Overwhelming self-doubt, anxiety, and fear all bubble to the surface as a byproduct of too much thinking. The time and energy spent managing these emotions could easily be put towards other pursuits (actually finishing your work or getting out into the sunshine for ten minutes).

Managing Time. One morning you skip breakfast on the way to class. In a few daysâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; time, that snowballs into forgetting what it feels like to want food. No time to eat or drink or sleep, only time to work. Down to one meal a day that you eat because you know you should. Feeling hasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t left you, it has just been displaced. Your head pounds and your arms feel a little weak and your lower lip cracks if you smile too widely. Get through your to-do list and ease your body back into routine with a piece of toast and some water. Feed yourself more and more at regular intervals. Wake up a few days later to a faint gnawing in your stomach; hunger is back.

Taking care. Hair Day. Seal coconut oil and hibiscus petals in an old glass jar and leave them in the window for an afternoon to diffuse in the sunlight. There is no rushing here; a stove or microwave would dry out the petals and sap the concoction of its essence. Start with a one-inch section of your hair and work your way around. Carefully, methodically massage the same amount of oil into your scalp and down the length of your hair until it is coated in a thin layer and the air around your head is lightly fragrant. It took mom ten minutes to do it when you were young. The time has doubled since then and the routine is even more hypnotic for it: a twenty-minute portal to the heightened sensory perception of childhood. Let sit for two hours and go about your life. Then rinse.

Quick Shower. Among school week chaos, here is compressed ritual. One

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AN ACT OF GRACE VIDEO

AUDIO

FADE IN: INT. BOAT - DAY SEAN, early 20s, squints and wakes up in bed. His long and lanky stature is cramped on the small mattress. SEAN angles his body to get out of bed and winces in the cold. He puts on socks as he shivers and looks around the small quarters.

SEAN (V.O.) It’s moving, it’s moving, there’s too much movement. Why the fuck? Oh god, I’m on a boat… right… fuck this. Can’t it just stay still for a moment, one goddamn moment? It’s cold as fuck on this boat too, jeez. Couldn’t Zack have gotten a boat with some heating? Huh? These socks aren’t helping either, thanks so much, Target, you goddamn liar. “Rough hiking conditions,” my ass.

SEAN gets out of bed and leaves the cramped room, holding onto the walls for support.

Okay, c’mon, stop dwelling on how much you hate this poor excuse for a boat, just man up ‘cause we aren’t going anywhere soon. At least there’s real fucking air up above, and… Zack’s awake already?

SEAN’s view of the upstairs room in the boat shifts to ZACK, a bulky guy in his late 20s. He’s on the deck and swinging a bat, with his back to Sean.

The water and the sky, it’s all over and just blurs together into one being… I wish I could do that. Get lost in something, no overthinking, it’s exhausting. But it’s worth it, I guess, at least I’m alert and aware of it all. Aware of each wave, of each danger. What the hell is dangerous out here? Me? Zack?

SEAN bundles himself in an excessive amount of blankets, sits on the edge of the boat and looks lazily at the water.

ZACK, leaning carelessly on the bat, throws a ball up and down before he stares at SEAN while walking over to him.

ZACK Getting physical over there, Sean? SEAN You’re really gonna talk to me about being active? On a boat? ZACK You know what I mean, I’m just saying… being lethargic doesn’t make you a very good partner in crime.

SEAN looks away from the sea and up towards ZACK, frustrated.

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SEAN Hey! I’m a great partner in crime when I’m on the clock. This is a boat, Zack, a boat with no clock.

Issue 7 Spring 2018

WORDS Cam Vernali

VIDEO

AUDIO

If you say so, man. ZACK, losing interest in fighting with SEAN, looks offscreen on the right and hits the ball, resulting in a metal noise. SEAN looks over to see the source of the noise -- a slew of Natty Lite cans across the boat. ZACK walks over to the rubble, grabs one of the rolling beer cans and checks if there’s any left. Nothing, of course, but he tries to drink from it anyway.

ZACK leans against the edge of the boat, holding the bat tightly for support against the rocking waves.

SEAN shifts away from the waves and angles his body towards ZACK.

ZACK

SEAN (V.O.) Fuck, Zack sure has a stronger swing than I remember… SEAN I thought Natty Lite baseball was more of a nighttime activity for you. ZACK It is, but we’re on a boat, y’know, we just committed a felony so why the fuck not? SEAN So that’s your big post-heist dream? An endless stream of water beer and baseballs? ZACK Kinda, but not exactly. The big dream -well, it would be coming from a real actual heist. But what we got, the laughable amount we ended up getting… this ain’t no real deal heist. SEAN (V.O.) Zack really is holding that bat hard. Could he just like… not? SEAN What’d you mean? What’s your ideal heist then?

ZACK grips the bat harder. SEAN changes his gaze from ZACK’s face to ZACK’s hands.

ZACK shrugs, which turns into a shiver when a cold burst of wind hits the boat. He walks back inside the boat.

ZACK Well, for starters it would be by myself so that I wouldn’t have to share nothing with nobody… SEAN (V.O.) That’s great to hear coming from a guy holding a bat. Could he hold the bat any fucking harder at this point? ZACK …and probably just end up gold plating everything I own ‘cause why not? Fuck,

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VIDEO

AUDIO it’s cold. SEAN (V.O.) I know I’ve only been awake for a minute or two but this some weird shit Zack’s pulling… Why’s he saying all that to me? All that alone stuff, to my face? I wouldn’t say that to him… is something up? Where could he take this?

INT. BOAT - NIGHT ZACK and SEAN are watching TV, with a rerun of “POINT BREAK” on. The boat rocks quietly, with ZACK and SEAN on opposite ends of the couch.

The scene of Keanu Reeves shooting his gun into the air fills the small boat with gunshots.

SEAN (V.O.) This is the most pointless scene in this whole pointless movie. Why wouldn’t he just save his bullets?

SEAN stares out of the corner of his eye at ZACK.

ZACK That was the most pointless scene in this whole pointless movie. Why wouldn’t he just shoot his friend?

ZACK gets up and heads towards the kitchen, focused on opening some drawers. SEAN, on the other hand, darts his eyes between the TV and ZACK.

ZACK pulls out an absurdly large fried fish from the fridge.

ZACK looks over at SEAN and stops a laugh before he realizes that SEAN isn’t sarcastic.

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SEAN Why shoot Keanu? ZACK I dunno, I just wouldn’t let a friend stand in the way of me and the prize. SEAN (V.O.) Zack’s a jerk sometimes, that’s for damn sure, but he wouldn’t… he’s just caught up in the movie. It’s just a movie we saw… just a thing on television, a small box… SEAN Woah, dude what the hell? ZACK What are you talking about? I caught this myself earlier. SEAN

Issue 7 Spring 2018

VIDEO

AUDIO What? When?

ZACK grabs a nearby knife and plays with it offhandedly, making direct eye contact with SEAN. He shrugs, faux-casually.

ZACK sharpens a knife repeatedly while looking offscreen, much to SEAN’s unease. His movements get sharper and quicker the more he focuses on the knife and loses interest in SEAN.

ZACK Earlier today, you didn’t notice because you were… well,you were probably asleep or watching TV or spacing out like you always do. Not a big surprise… SEAN (V.O.) He has a tone… this doesn’t look good. I should not escalate this. SEAN What’s with the fucking tone? ZACK Nothing, man, if you’re uneasy that I do stuff you don’t know about cause you’re distracted, that’s on you. I’m just going to keep doing what I’m doing, thanks. I do stuff for myself. SEAN (V.O.) That’s, okay, that’s gotta allude to something, it must be, you don’t just say that to someone casually. I mean, I wouldn’t do that, and I’m a normal fucking guy…

ZACK puts the fish on plates and doesn’t look at SEAN while doing so. SEAN gets up cautiously.

ZACK Want any? Or we could eat whatever food you brought… SEAN So, uh, how’d you get the fish Mr. Moby?

ZACK waves his cutting knife in the air for a moment before going back to cutting his food. The two eat in silence, with the sound of forks and knives overtaking the TV.

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ZACK With this old thing. SEAN (V.O.) This has to be -- this must be the next step, naturally, for Zack now. First the comments, then the force, and… and the weapons, now all at the same time? Fuck Sean, you gotta face the facts now, it’s staring right in front of your goddamn

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VIDEO

ZACK drops his knife and fork loudly onto the plate, snapping SEAN out of his thinking. He gets up and goes downstairs. EXT. BOAT - NIGHT SEAN sits on the edge of the boat, this time looking not at the dark water but at the small strip of land far in the distance. He is shivering hard, sitting with his knees folded to his chest. ZACK walks up slowly from behind, approaching SEAN with a careful speed. When he’s a couple feet away, ZACK begins to raise his baseball bat slowly but determinedly. Halfway through, SEAN turns around quickly and points a gun he was hiding at ZACK.

ZACK gestures with his arms wildly before pointing at SEAN’s gun.

AUDIO face. He must be… he’s gotta have realized that it’s better to get me now, you know, it’s easy to kill a guy out here in the middle of nowhere. It’s killed or be killed, Sean, you didn’t -- I don’t want this at all, not at all, but I have no choice. He’s made it clear as day, I can’t avoid this. I have to act soon… now… quickly, while I still can. How, though? Think, Sean, think now… SEAN (V.O.) Okay, all I have to do is get him out here, just me and him… and then I’ll… I don’t know if I can do this. Can I do this? Should I? I don’t want to. But he’s leaving me no choice here -- it all adds up to something. I haven’t done anything and he’s giving me this vibe… these actions… it’s me or him at this point. I have to deal with it now. I don’t know how I can, though, it’s been me and Zack through it all… I just… just only act if he shoots first, if he moves first, then I have to, then you have no choice… I fucking knew it!

ZACK

SEAN Me? Look at you, with the bat, trying to kill me! ZACK Cause I knew your planning-ass would sit out here to lure me and kill me first! Kill or get killed, bitch! SEAN Wait… how’d you know I was trying to kill you? ZACK You’ve been acting off and weird all day, you know, I figured you had something out for me. And I was right!

The Paper Mixtape

Issue 7 Spring 2018

VIDEO

ZACK, realizing what SEAN has been doing, relaxes his grip on the bat and has a softer look in his eye.

SEAN, guilt-ridden, looks out into the sea and avoids ZACK’s gaze.

At a loss for words, both focus on the rhythm of the waves against the boat for a bit. ZACK impulsively walks over to SEAN while he zones out and hits SEAN on the shoulder to break the tension. He grabs SEAN’s gun and twirls it like a toy. SEAN smiles before getting up. They both walk into… INT. BOAT - CONTINUOUS ZACK gravitates towards the fridge for beer while SEAN lays onto the couch, staring at ZACK through half-closed eyelids.

AUDIO SEAN I’m only out here because you had it out for me, trying to keep the money for yourself! What did you, what did ya expect me to do? ZACK Who did, when did I… fuck Sean, you gotta… fuck, dude, not this again. Like, I’m, you know me, I’m here for you and all and the heist was a sudden deal and it was stressful for you and we’re on a boat, I get it. But you gotta, you can’t let this take over man, not to the point where you almost kill me, Jesus. No no no no no.

SEAN (V.O.)

SEAN Fuck, dude I’m… I’m.... SEAN (V.O.) How did I go wrong? Where did I go wrong? I can’t… how did I even get there? Where was I? ZACK Don’t worry dude, if I ever do wanna kill you for money, I’ll do it in your sleep so you won’t be thinking about it beforehand. Deal? SEAN Yea, yea, sounds like a deal. SEAN (V.O.) Fuck, that was a close call there. I guess I wasn’t right then, or… maybe I was, but still wrong… but kind ofright… I’m not sure what to believe anymore…

Once SEAN is asleep, ZACK carefully pulls a knife out of a drawer and turns to look at SEAN. FADE OUT.

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THE WEIGHT

Letting go runs in the family. At the dawn of the 20th century, my great-grandfather, Han Chu Jing, was the wealthiest man in Feng Xian County, owning the miles of farmland surrounding the village. The rice grains, the cotton seeds, the canola flowers: they all belonged to him. All he had to do was come from the right bloodline. Like most of the young and rich, he had a lot of time on his hands. And like all of the young and foolish, he tried his hand at opium. Soon, the sickly-sweet aroma pervaded his zhongshan tunics, his rooms, even his blankets at night. The realization would come to him slowly: his life was ending before it had begun. He had slept for many years, and now he faced an inevitable crossroads. Dream on, sleep, or open your eyes. Chu Jing chose to wake up. Step one involved buying a western journal of medicine. This opium stuff, he decided, it was bad. He needed to find a way to wean himself off, slowly but surely. He would do this through a careful combination ofâ&#x20AC;Ś everything. After all, it pays to be rich. From the shaman down the road, he purchased eastern herbs. From an English mail order catalogue, he ordered western medicine. From his prayers at night, he asked a higher Lord to forgive his sins and heal his soul.

The Paper Mixtape

Issue 7 Spring 2018

WORDS

Krystal Lau

ILLUSTRATIONS Jordi Ng

OF MEMORY 75

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Maybe it was his determination, or divine intervention, or maybe mere money, plain and simple, but something worked in the end. His friends began to catch on. Soon, they were all subscribing to his medical and physical regimen, even his spiritual one, and soon, they were all a sober bunch. Look at the men of Feng Xian County, all the grannies would coo. Such a young, handsome crowd. All able to stand on their own two feet. For rich young men, the standards were always shit. It wasn’t long before the government took notice. A district official approached Chu Jing one day, saving him from an afternoon watching the plants grow and the children play in the backyard. Open a clinic, the man said. Opium has struck the countryside. We need people like you to fight the disease. We need people like you. Chu Jing had never been needed for much of anything. He liked the sound of that. He said yes. And thus, my great grandfather, who had never worked a day in his life, who had never attended public school, became the head of the county clinic. Opium is bad stuff, he would say. His students all nodded sagely. Looking back, I wonder if my great grandfather was the right man for the job. He was a good talker, all big words and sweeping gestures, and he craved learning, perhaps because he only ever saw it as entertainment. He never needed to work, to go to school. It was just another way to spend the days. And why would he worry, when his mother oversaw every aspect of his life? Perhaps, on reflection, this story begins with Tsai Xun, my great-great grandmother, the matriarch of the household. Tsai Xun was the fighter, the survivor, the one who ran the farm and managed the estate. Her husband passed away at a young age, when her son was only a little boy, and so she resolved to be parent enough for both of them. Her son Chu Jing would lack for nothing, she promised. When Tsai Xun made a promise, she meant it. She was afraid of very little, including the tall, pale foreigners from the West, the ones who called themselves “missionaries” and decided it was their mission to stomp about with their big-boat feet. When they passed through humble Feng Xian county, of course Xun insisted the guests stay with them. She didn’t care much for their laws of Yesu Jesus, but she did care for the laws of hospitality. Her estate was the biggest in the village. It would be criminal to stay elsewhere. Her son was excited at the chance to learn English. The vowels were a delight to play with, slippery and soft on his tongue. His mother was more apprehensive. Tell me again how this Yesu saves the day, she would ask, raising a skeptical brow. Men say one thing, she knew, mean another. She’d thought her rich husband would save her. She’d thought his bountiful fields would do the work. But in the end, it was Xun carrying out the funeral prayers, Xun overseeing the tenant farmers. Hey! Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I’m blind. You’re taking twice your rice share! Her only child, of course, was a boy, and a handsome one at that. His hands were soft and his eyes softer still. His brain was full of nice cushy things like math and science. Xun didn’t have time for math or science. She’d lived in this world long enough, and she knew the way it worked. She made her own laws, gravity be damned. But Yesu is no man, the missionary said. He is God, and he says one thing and means it.

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Issue 7 Spring 2018

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In that case, my great-great grandmother decided, with the simple confidence that governed all her decisions, I will follow this Yesu too. The missionary rejoiced. Now that the head of the household believes, he thought to himself, she will influence the others. The missionary imagined a slow, subtle persuasion–a pious prayer before dinner, a merciful hand governing the farm. Gradually, an inspired family. But the next morning, Xun rose bright and early. The entire household, she declared, mincing no words, will be Christian. Every child from here on out will believe in Yesu. Sure, her son said, his mouth full of green onion pancakes. Whatever you say, the maid said, used to whatever the wind blew in each morning. Yes, Dear Mother, her daughter-in-law said, her head demurely bowed. Cao Jing De had been a good fit for her son. A nice girl from a nice family down in Zhang Hang village. Xun had handpicked the girl herself, traveling down to the neighboring town to see if the girl’s renowned beauty and virtue could indeed be substantiated. Of course, nothing ever looks as good up close. There were a few snags, but they weren’t deal breakers. Jing De’s mother had been indecisive–binding her daughter’s feet every morning, letting them out every night. As a result, Jing De’s feet were not the delicate golden lilies of her mother-in-law, but in time, this would prove to be her greatest blessing. In time, other girls would stumble, but Jing De would run sure-footed and steady. From then on, Jing De would read her Bible every morning with a devotion only matched by her love for her children. Though she too had not picked up the math or science scrolls, she knew with certainty that things were not as they seemed. And so, she hoped that her family would find comfort in a higher being who would not change his mind like the Japanese or the Nationalists or the Communists. For there would come a time when their fortune ran dry, and their luck ran out. First, the Japanese came. Their timing was unpredictable, their bloodshed incomprehensible. One servant boy ran half a step faster to the haystack behind the house, the other lagged because of a sore toe. One boy made it. The other died with a spear in his back, baby teeth still in his mouth. In those days, my great grandfather Chu Jing favored a traditional duan haircut, modeled after the first president Sun Zhongshan. Ever vain, he only trusted Barber Aidu with his cut, and he wasn’t the only one with this sentiment. Aidu was a popular barber–for aristocrat and guerrilla warrior alike. Even the Chinese revolutionaries favored Aidu’s. After a particularly vicious terrorist attack, they’d stopped by the barbershop, bragging of their victories. But war is a fickle beast, and who can predict the flow of the tides? The next week, the Japanese retaliated, butchering all in the barbershop. They weren’t ones to discriminate. Amidst all the bloodshed, my great grandmother and her children hid at home, panicking because Baba hadn’t yet returned, and the messengers had sent up the cry of the massacre at Barber Aidu’s.

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Issue 7 Spring 2018

Then the door opened. Baba Chu Jing crossed the threshold with a shiny new cut and a smile. Why the long faces? he asked. Sorry I’m late. I decided to try out Barber Shu’s today. Bit of a walk, but he did a nice job, don’t you think? He hadn’t heard the news. True to his promises, Yesu blessed my great grandmother’s devotion. And yet, his blessings were hard to fathom, and few and far between, like drops of rain amidst sweltering drought. For only seconds after the Japanese departed, the Communists arrived. Mao Zedong offered vows of liberation and glory. This man is no good, Jing De mused. For though Mother Xun had passed away, Jing De still remembered her words. Man says one thing, means another. Mao said liberation, meant death. Lots of it. Forty-five million dead by his Great Leap Forward, and three million more in his Cultural Revolution. His Revolution targets? The bourgeois. The educated, the rich, the ones with the big estates and bigger farms. By this time, Jing De had given birth to three children. A darling eldest son, who would grow to be the spitting image of his handsome father, a middle daughter, who would choose to shed her aristocrat roots like a dirty cloth, and a soft-spoken youngest daughter, who would learn from her mother a relentless faith in Yesu. In hard times, she would be the one to provide for her brother, to reach out to her sister, to take care of her family and hold them tight against the crashing waves. And in the end, when it was over, she would be the one to let go. This youngest daughter, Ming Zhang, had bright doll eyes and plump moon cheeks. Her marriage was a match made in heaven: an ambitious young businessman, a true Shanghainese scholar of the arts. Her elder brother couldn’t have made a more different choice. He found a salt of the earth, proletarian teacher, a wife who as good as came with a stamp of Communist approval. So when the Red Guards arrived, eldest brother Zheng, for all his charisma, for all his striking good looks, had nothing to offer his parents. My great grandparents were bourgeois of course, the worst of the black elements. Your time is past, he told them, tears in his eyes. I cannot take you in. Chu Jing and Jing De were in their sixties now, with the wrinkles to show for it. With understanding, they turned to their second daughter, but she was far away in Fujian, and a Communist official now, deep in the thick of it. Daughter Ming Zhang tried next, but she would fall asleep at her desk one day, botching a Communist notice. As punishment, she would go north to a labor camp, leaving her family behind. So my great grandparents were shuttled back to the outskirts of Feng Xian county. Here, they lived in a squat straw hut, sandwiched between a pig’s pen and a county convenience shop. One cold night, just when the turmoil seemed to be dying down, a rogue fire caught on the low-hanging eaves, and soon the whole block was up in flames. It was close to midnight, and the elders were fast asleep. A few li away, the nearest neighbors heard the news and rushed to investigate, mourning the poor grandparents who had died alone. Yet their prayers died on their lips as they beheld the sight before them. Ash and soot everywhere, an entire block burned down, and yet, one straw hut remained, singed but still standing.

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Issue 7 Spring 2018

My great grandparents woke the next morning, bleary eyed yet unscathed. Yesu is not man, Jing De whispered solemnly. Chu Jing only nodded, taking a mere moment to collect himself before helping with the cleanup. It had been many years since his soft-handed childhood days, and now his gnarled yet sure hands had written enough suffering to rival his collection of western plays. Ripeness, he thought to himself, is all. To live is to let go. Eventually my great grandfather closed his eyes, falling asleep in the comforts of his Shanghai apartment, belly full and bed surrounded by children. His mother too had passed in a similar manner, only a year before the Cultural Revolution struck. She would miss the dictatorship of Mao, but she had seen enough in the Japanese invasion and the Kuomintang’s war. Their time would come one by one. Some would move on, others would stay behind. Is it random chance, is it fate? For how do we hold onto these memories, without lines to divide the good from evil? How do we make sense of it all? There are so many of us who did not make it. There is Jing De’s younger sister, the ambitious one, engaged to a Qing Dynasty scholar attending Cornell University. She craved learning like no other, fighting to become a teacher and the most educated woman in her family. And yet, when the Japanese invaded, she would not stand the agony of hiding each day, living in constant fear and anxiety. She would commit suicide at nineteen. At twenty, I have seen more than she ever would. There were so many chances we would not make it. At the start of the Revolution, my mother was a newborn baby, only a few months old. Her mother was sent to a northern labor camp, her father to the interrogation cells. Even her older brother, at sixteen, would leave for the youth reeducation programs, a glorified name for child labor. As she cried in the empty flat, her neighbor came to investigate, a proletarian woman with Communist standing. She fed my mother, rocked her to sleep at night. Had she been left alone in that cold apartment, my mother would have died before reaching one. There were so many moments we did not realize what we had. My grandmother, walking in a daze towards the railroad tracks, wondering if this was the time to end it all. Staring at the incoming train, wondering, wondering. She cried out to Yesu. She asked him: is this all there is? There are so many moments still to come. As I sit in church service, thousands of li across the ocean, many, many years later, I get the dreaded call during worship and hear my grandmother in the hospital. I don’t make it back in time. For the funeral, we buy lilies. We return to Shanghai and my mother takes me to the old home in the French Concession, the one with the rose bushes and lattice windows. The house is gone now, demolished. A row of shiny glass boutique stores line the street in its place. Shanghai is a city in metamorphosis, always changing. As are we. In the end, making sense of the missing pieces is trying to count the stars in the sky. In the end, we will never understand. We will never be able to say, with all the confidence of a magician, let me tell you–this is what happened. All we can do is pick up the broken words, forge them together with the cracks still exposed, hope and pray that something makes sense. Generations continue. Generations let go. The only way forward is on. remember. This moment is enough.

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WORDS & PHOTO Katerina Papanikolopoulos

The Paper Mixtape

Issue 7 Spring 2018

The Ambiguous Dreamer, I Kid You Not

Dana Boulos

Dana Boulos’ creative endeavors remind me of a 1920’s film reel that keeps exploring a juxtaposed, slightly blurry and relentless image but a fascinating one at that. She is an inherent pursuer, creating what she envisions with heat and grit. From her photography to her personality, Boulos is a gold filigree. Having created artistic material for Mercedes Benz, Everybody. world, and Cypress the Label, Boulos is also an eminent figure in the film world. With her experience directing eclectic short films such as “Crimson Rose,” “Cam Girl” and a collective of music videos for Courtship, Boulos transformed into a woman with expansive sails. I met Boulos at her studio in Chinatown, amidst the rain and grey warehouses, as the click of her blue boots foretold her descent from the stairs. This was the version of Boulos I had dreamed up—the immaculate personality, who I first encountered online as a high-school senior, then haphazardly at The Standard Hotel in Los Angeles, and now in the comfort of her newly renovated studio. Boulos engineered her career by enlisting her entrepreneurial spirit to define her trajectory as a multi-faceted artist. From her creative process to her inherent whimsical advice on how to discern love from lust, Boulos is an essential dreamer.

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What would you like your photography to project? Are there any recurring symbols or thematic agents at work?

around the essence of complete artistic freedom. The boundaries of one occupation (such as filmmaker or photographer) have no sharp edges in Boulos’ approach.

When I was a kid I always wanted [the photographs] to seem like a painting or make it seem like an art piece that you would hang. Nowadays, it’s kind of changed, where I still want [them] to be ambiguous and get this “dreamy” look, which I love, yet I do want it to feel imaginative and different.

You seem to balance several roles. How has your modeling background informed your work behind the camera?

It has a sense of the word “ambiguous” Yeah! Very ambiguous, that was my favorite word as a kid. But now, I feel like it is still imaginative, and I try to push the box and make something different. In the realms of fashion and art, it is hard to create something different. For now, I am really exploring realness. I do not edit anything in my photographs, if anything enhance the light, or if someone is freaking out over a pimple, sure, I’ll do it. I don’t do any retouching— I just want it to be real and reflective of the culture of America.. On Style... fashion and furniture is a sculptural aspect of your creative work. Define your favorite articles. As for furniture, I love space age—the 1960’s space age type of look. It is so futuristic, almost feels like it should be in a Star Trek set. As for articles of clothing, I love shoes. My favorite shoes are Mary Janes. I’ve always had them. I always like to get a shoe shot, no matter what project. I think you can tell a lot from someone’s shoes—the type of personality they are, it is so strange but it is very much so. It is also the first shot in some movies when you establish an important character, get their shoe, and then you see who they are. Hardest rejection? The hardest thing is not when you work on your own and create your own specific vision, but when you are hired for a brand. Some people say, “Hey, we want to hire you, we love your aesthetic we are such huge fans, can you shoot this campaign or lookbook?” and then show you examples of other people’s work...and they ask you to imitate it exactly. That is sometimes a struggle, and you have to be kind of assertive that the desired project is not my kind of style. If you want that type of photographer or director go ahead and hire them because I won’t replicate someone else’s work. I just think that when it comes to corporate worlds they do want it to have a specific vibe. A woman of many concentrations, Boulos asserts her style in a multitude of mediums. It is this diversity that makes her a symbol of the multi-talented creative conductor. She has constructed her life

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First of all, I make every single model stretch before we start. The only reason why is because I always tend to get them in the weirdest angles that they’re like “oh, this looks cool but my neck is going to explode!” So I make them stretch and we go through poses together. I do like to give someone a direction so I can get the desired visual from their face. So if I’m like, “you are going to be a sad alien today that just landed on earth, go!” and then they are like, “oh, ok...” and suddenly, a tear just appears! I think you just have to be comfortable to be weird. Because I have done a lot of modeling and have always tried different types of angles and postures that aren’t the standard, photographers have usually liked it...I know how the camera will capture angles because I am behind and infront of it. It is better to have more direction than less direction is all I have to say. How do you go about the creation of music videos and short films, as they are very different and yet you have the same directorial role. Enlighten us on your process... For music videos, I personally like to listen to the song like a million times, I kid you not. I’ll probably just have a vision, just right then and there with little elements. If it is water, or scribbles, or whatever it could be and then I begin to develop a plan on what the video is about. With an artist, I just send it to them. When it gets to companies and different references I send them a whole deck of what I am thinking to do: the coloring, the type of cameras we are using, DP (Director of Photography) choices, and everything we can think of is planned out ahead of time. Music videos versus movies both have the same aesthetic in the sense that everything is planned and thought out, even light. In music videos, I like to do something dark. In film, I do have something dark as well, but you have to do something in order to tell a story in a limited period of time. You have to be quick with music videos. Again, it brings back the decision making, if there’s an issue you have to solve it between one to two minutes. There is no time because everything is planned out and money is involved. What you learned on your own... A lot, it is ridiculous. I think believing in yourself, that is number one. Just to keep pushing. I am the type of person that just does not give up. Even if a video or photo is Issue 7 Spring 2018

not getting released by the other party I will find ways to persuade them to get it released and I know it will look amazing and people aren’t always as open to things. I learned not to give up. I work really hard to the point that I am usually in my studio from 7am to 10pm and I learned to not schedule all things during the same day. I’ve learned to take days off, or try to. What others taught you... Others have taught me that your opinion really matters. I am assertive, but I’ve learned to be more assertive. To make sure no one is really stepping on you. I learned a lot of entrepreneurial terms. I have learned to never just say, “yes, I will do everything for free.” No, everything has a price to it. Clients think they can get a lot out of you for being so young and for being a female. What you may teach others...

I was an audit for stores and I would say, “Dana do not worry about retail, that is not you, you are not going to be stuck there.” I learned how to manage people, I know in five minutes as a hiring manager if someone was of quality or if they were a bullshitter- never bullshit a bullshiter, number one rule. I would tell myself don’t worry, focus on directing. You should have been focusing on film and not wasting your time at fashion school. You learn more when you are working than when you are in school. Because I juggle so many roles, primarily, what I want to focus on is directing. Again, I go back to that line, “good things come to those who hustle” so if I hustle a bit more, I can make directing full time so I don’t have to juggle different jobs at the same time. Boulos taught me to pursue, relentlessly, that which the mind creates. A sacred interior space, it is the visions of the mind that become materialized, and in Boulos’ case, the primary template to assert creative control. Boulos’ collective work can be viewed at Danaboulos.com

Never, ever give up. I think that not alot of people are ambitious in life and you just have to make it happen and no one is going to do that for you. That is something that is very important - and I always try to teach my interns that no one is going to feed you. One will have to learn and struggle on their own. The most important thing is just to jump into it, get an internship, or contact your mentors, and be like, “How did you do it? What do I have to do?” Just make it happen. I’ve been drinking some mocha drinks, and when I untwist the cap, a fortune appears. This one had a specific slogan: “good things happen to those who hustle”and that is something I bring up to clients and everyone... you have to hustle to get what you want in life. Transitioning from more of the process to the personal, Dana illustrates below matters more close to the heart. How to know if it is not a fling or not... I can tell if someone is serious or just a casual thing. Usually, I was really casual just because I don’t have time to deal with the bullshit, I have goals, and I am a dreamer. In a partner, even if it is casual, usually if it is someone I am really interested in, they have to be a dreamer. They have to be thinking of what they are doing, if they are a writer or a producer, they really have to have a dream, a vision of exactly what they want to get in life. They have to be a dreamer. What would you tell your nineteen year old self? “Don’t worry, don’t stress. You will be doing exactly what you want to do in life. At nineteen, I wanted to do photography but I was going up the corporate ladder in retail and

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The Paper Mixtape

Issue 7 Spring 2018

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Annika Karody, Beliz Urkmez, Cam Vernali, Ciara Mandich, Hannah Rexinger, Iris Feldman, Jade McKenzie, Jordi Ng, Joyce Ding, Kalena Tamura, Katerina Papanikolopoulos, Katherine Price, Krystal Lau, Leslie Young, Lisa Aubry, Lou Baya Oul Rouis, Marinthia Gutierrez Velasco, Marion Moseley, Max Huang, Peter Yang, Richard Page, Rio Hayashi, Viviana Lira SIDE B