Uproot I by Din mrini

senior projects give me so much Anxiety... when i think about things that cause me Anxiety, i get even more Anxious. my hands are starting to sweat while iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m writing this, the concept of my sweat short-circuting my laptop is giving me even more Anxiety. i am so Anxiety filled, i am teeming with Anxiety. my Anxiety is through the roof, well, my Anxiety is the roof and the walls and the bed i will be sleeping in tonight. UPROOT stems from this self-crippling Anxiety and the ideology that no matter where i am and will be: orlando will be my home. -din orlando doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t suck

Uproot (V): to make (someone) leave home and move to a much different place

UPROOT

est.spring 2015

dedicated to anyone who bothers to read this

Bush did 911 did 911 Bush 911 Bush did Bush did 911 did 911 Bush 911 Bush did Bush did 911 did 911 Bush 911 Bush did Bush did 911 did 911 Bush 911 Bush did Bush did 911 did 911 Bush 911 Bush did Bush did 911 did 911 Bush 911 Bush did Bush did 911 did 911 Bush 911 Bush did Bush did 911 did 911 Bush 911 Bush did Bush did 911 did 911 Bush 911 Bush did Bush did 911 did 911 Bush 911 Bush did Bush did 911 did 911 Bush Bush did 911 did 911 Bush 911 Bush did Bush did 911 did 911 Bush 911 Bush did Bush did 911 did 911 Bush 911 Bush did Bush did 911 did 911 Bush 911 Bush did

Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911 Bush did 911

GEORGE BUSH AND DICK CHENEY MADE MONEY OFF THE IRAQI WAR

“You sent me a message that said you did not love me anymore. I’m sorry about that. I don’t think I know who you are. And I don’t think we’ve ever spoke. I suppose sometimes the world works in mysterious ways. I’m not very sure how you got my address but I’m very sorry for whatever you think I may have done. Please don’t attempt to contact me again x”

MATTHEW

It’s cool; the Alabama breeze flowing through an open door, slapping against the pale yellow plastic-paneling that makes up the exterior of a trailer home. Propped upon weathered bricks, it stands adjacent to row upon row of other trailers. Their features blend in together and the homes stand in the wind like a congregation of mourning, like unmarked tombstones. The wind flows into the home: passing by the wooden clad kitchen and into the ersatz dining-meets-living room. There is a Tall Boy sitting next to a Gaunt Woman on an inflatable couch, the type of couch small children would buy from Kroger in the early 90’s. There is a Small Boy Who Resembles the Gaunt Woman but Has the Eyes of The Tall Boy sitting cross-legged on an arm chair. Maybe the arm chair reclines but the patchwork duct tape holding the air inside will not stand any test of measure. He’s fidgeting in the way young boys do, anxious about simply existing in any confined space for longer than a minute. Life consists of existing in confined spaces forever. The Small Boy will have to learn. A pink cuckoo clock rings out twice and then jams halfway through the third ‘cuckoo’. The three do not speak to each other, each member’s face glazed over in the direction of a CRT TV. Sony stopped producing cathode ray tubes in 2005 but the memo must not have reached.

APOLLO

Lust poems My throat was dry and My eyes were much too wet When you pushed your fingers inside. Like a jammed service elevator, You kept pushing at the buttons Over and over again until The doors opened And flooded the inside of our honeymoon suite: the one on sunset That my parents met at thirty-two years ago I see my father in your eyes My father always made me cry but I have never felt like this before in my life An orgasm washes over the sheets While the tide rolls in across the street from our honeymoon suite

LOVE POEMS The moment you touched me, I lit up into flame My body Was the lipstick stained filter Of a shared square and Just like those nights we spent chain-smoking Under the Brooklyn lights: I was only wisps of drawn out smoke On your lips I was just the Cancer reaching for your lungs: I was the last drag before You Finally Snuffed Out Your Newport and called it a night, And damn Did you snuff me Out

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lowly y, s a d y d y s bo Ever ; l thi e e f g light I n i y s r o e p v decom feel so hat the t I oom But happy full bl y r e n So v s are i r flowe

YOUR SENSES CONTAIN MEMORY AND MAYBE THAT IS WHY YOUR FINGERS FEEL LIKE HOME

i try to talk to god but the sky is empty and overcast, i have never known what is good for me, the burning in my tummy feels warm and tender like a hug from the inside out, there is no distinction between lonesome and loathsome, i am not just a girl: i am a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, god still hasn’t talked back to me so i’m getting a stick-n-poke tattoo, the tattoo says ‘i am ugly on the skin but pretty within’, the sky is very dark now, it is so hard to sleep when i do not dream, i wonder how people live on the moon when they can not breathe, one day, i want to go to the moon- not because i care about the moon but because the world is not enough for my enigma of an art and the sky is far away, being on the moon is almost like being above god, i hope he and i will be able to talk whenever i make it to the moon, today as the sun sets, it is overcast and the humid florida heat sticks pieces of my hair to the back of my neck, the moon is smiling dimly, god is still not here.

There is a moment when the cogs in our brains turn, when we become physically aware of a phenomenon or a person we were not aware of before. I became aware of Jesus Christ Of Nazareth at the age of five and seven months, almost six but not quite there. The deep umber of my eyes had seen the misplaced 'Tâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s on walls, saw them burnt outside of my uncle and auntie's home,saw the man hang between them with a crown around his head but it was not until the age of five and seven months had i been aware of him. My mother was never a religious person and my father was never a person at all, a concept that even now I have not yet become fully aware of, but my grandma loved the Lord more than her only granddaughter. She took me to the local church on a June afternoon. It was perched upon a lazy Georgia hill and I could see it from grandma's kitchen. Sometimes the light would hit it just right and the sun's pink and purple rays would seem to erupt from behind the building. We sat in the last pew, quietly, for a moment before my grandmother turned her head and told me to close my big ol' doe eyes. And so i closed them. And then opened them, peaking over to grandmother who bowed her head and looked deep in thought.

"Please heavenly father, please forgive my granddaughter for she has sinned, but I swear the child did not mean it." I wondered what I had sinned for, I wondered what sinning entailed. I looked at my grandmother and then to the direction of her prayer. Jesus stares back at me but not with big ol' doe eyes, he stared back with a slanted pained expression. I offered Jesus a small, meek smile but Jesus did not bother to smile back. I wonder if he looked so unhappy because i had sinned but then remembered that the Jesus was only made by human hands, the Jesus had no emotion, I wanted to apologize to grandmother for sinning but felt embarrassed to say a word in front of Jesus. When we were outside, I apologized to grandma. Her forehead creased with the wrinkles of old age and hard labor. She never took me to the church again.

MY GRANDMA DIED WHEN SOMEONE CONFUSED THE CONCEPT OF PROFIT AND PROPHET. Sometimes, I sit in the kitchen of her house and stare at the Church, wondering if i had just apologized to Jesus that day, if I had just smiled a bit wider, would she still be alive.

Youre Not Georgia O'Keeffe Stop Using Flowers As A Metaphor For Female Sexuality

Texts i've sent while masturbating

Unrelated In May, you built her a tomb. Your fair-haired lover had succumbed to a sudden pulmonary hemorrhage. It terrified you to know she was gone, gone at such a young age. When the fictional character of Humbert Humbert lost his first love to typhus, he went mad. You are terrified of going mad. You invited all of her relatives from Eastern Europe to attend the service at your villa on the French coast. There’s a glass of vodka and a bowl of koliva near her casket. You think back to your first kiss, years ago: the deep taste of alcohol on her tongue, the deep accent seeping out her lungs. “Что красивая девушка, такой позор, чтобы увидеть, как она умирает "плохой смерти.” You don’t know what the relative says to you but you thank them regardless. You bum a cigarette off her second uncle, You have never smoked before in Your life. You cough the nicotine and tar out and then inhale again. This time it enters and leaves your mouth without an issue. Maybe tomorrow you will quit smoking.

When you (me) were six, you fell down the stairs and into a glass table. Your tiny brown limbs felt numb and there was a sharp pain searing across the right side of your face. You raise one arm up and feel at the pain, it's wet and stings worse than when the cute girl in your first grade class called you 'weird'. There are tears welling in your eyes and your mouth opens ready to let out a deafening wail but instead it's just an off-key laughter bubbling out of your throat. The doctors had to stitch up pieces of your face and on the way back you tell your mother that you think you know how Jesus must have felt. Your mother hushes you and says that a good Muslim doesn't say that. You apologize to your mother but on the inside imagine your small female form pressed against a cross. When you get home, the boy who lives next door kisses the fresh scar on your eyebrow and your mother pushes you out the door. The neighbor boy puts his hand on your leg a little bit too high and it makes you feel funny on the inside, but not the good kind that you feel when you're near the cute girl in your first grade class. If she gives you butterflies, then he is a hungry animal who wants to eat you alive from the inside out. You don't want him to touch you. You still haven't cried from when you fell and you wonder if this is a pain far worse than what Jesus faced. The neighbor boy asks whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wrong as you bury your head into the tartan picnic blanket and cry for every human being that has ever suffered in the world. A decade and some later, you are sitting outside again on a picnic blanket. There is a faint scar passing through your right eyebrow and a lingering fear of men that youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve never been able to shake off.

IN NEPAL, OVER 1800 PEOPLE HAVE BEEN FOUND DEAD AFTER A DEVASTATING EARTHQUAKE, YOU BURY YOUR FACE IN THE PICNIC BLANKET AND CRY.

Last night i laid wake in bed thinking about the flowers that you sent me and about the last time i saw you and how we were too fucked up to even notice that we weren't even making out with eachothers faces anymore and you held me and i cried and you cried and we both cried in that shitty self-depricating way that all wannabe art majors do and you told me about how your dad hit you and hit you until one day you hit back and that's why you were gone those two months and have that tattoo on your calf

i used to take photos of you in white linens dancing around playgrounds you were the ghost of a childhood i spent mainly in isolation sometimes you said you didn't like your name but it made me want to name our kids after every other season spring summer winter is coming i am coming to a conclusion that maybe you shouldnt take apologies for drunk texting

Sketch b o o k

Self portrait

Azalea Banks is playing through the aux chord, Brit is in the front seat driving towards the milk district. Autumn is sprawled in the backseat; tossing a prescription bottle of Hydrocodone up and down and up and down. I tell her to stop being annoying and she throws the tiny bottle out of the window. Her cousin works at some hospital though and I know next weekend, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be a benzo out the window. Nobody talks for a while and itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s all quiet except for Banks droning out:

I GUESS THAT CUNTS GETTING EATEN

WHAT DO YOU REGRET MOST IN YOUR LIFE? BUZZFEED ASKS ME IN A ‘WHICH MEMBER OF DISNEY CHANNEL’S CORY IN THE HOUSE ARE YOU’ QUIZ.

have this little poetry book,

remember the one you thumbed through the night we spent in that tiny hotel room? you looked at it and said

“Angel, And I

why do you always draw in your own blood?”

shrugged and you held me close and

we kissed under the florecent green lights of the mini-golf’s sixth hole where nothing really mattered but you and me

“Kitten, you know sometimes i think i could just And

eat you up.”

you took photos of my frilly socks

with a disposable kodak camera while a group of tourists from the midwest watched us cheat our way through the course

And

“Princess,close

your eyes.”

you pushed me against the elevator wall:

my back arching into different floors,

my hands pressed high up above my head until a young boy walks in and looks us up and down

“Baby

And

girl, are you okay with the lights off.”

i nodded even though i’m still

afraid of the dark just so you would call me a good girl and kiss my neck and you did and i said

And

“You

know

love you right?”

you said you knew and you loved me too

so we laid in each other’s arms while watching the animal planet and contemplated getting matching game of thrones tattoos

Sooooo... this is the end. not like the real, real end yknow because in the end people die (if thats the ideology you follow) . Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not dying. This isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t the last scene in Harold & Maude, where the car falls over a cliff into the shallow and rocky pit and Harold walks away playing a banjo. There is no symbolic death, these past thirty-some pages have not been a Picnic at Hanging Rock. Uproot, as a creative work, does not exist to validate that once you are taken from your home, things get bad but to instead to put one foot (or root) forward in the notion that, changes are needed to create beautiful things.