Tuesday Magazine Spring 2009 by Tuesday Magazine

genre / tuesday magazine

a brand new slowness RIVA NATHANS

When the second of my grandfathers passed away it was bitter late fall in Cambridge and I was reading Czesław Miłosz’s “Orpheus and Eurydice.” In his last poems, Miłosz talked about his failing eyesight, failing body like a band of ships departing from the continent. He blessed his computer’s glowing screen and its large fonts. And yet, for all that, I could not feel too sorry for him. When I am ninety, please let me still be able to write in large fonts on some luminous future machine. He described to me new cities that had occurred to him with Berkeley going dim beneath his eyelids. Not cities of heft and grid and voluptuous color but of pure space and idea. He took the stairs in his house with a brand new slowness. This gave him time to remember Orpheus’s climb from the story, and he heard through Orpheus the shuﬄing of Hades and Eurydice behind him. Dear ancestors, My apologies. Alone again, I fell to superstitions. I heard the sandals of the god on the stairs and turned. He told me to name my sins. I confessed: That I will not know my grandfather well until it’s too late. No, even then, only through some other writer’s verse. We were silent a while—him tugging at his white beard, and maybe in that space a mouse came by empty-bellied and left, seeking the invisible bread. I can’t say for sure. Memory always grows less and less. Eventually, he said he understood. After all, Hades in the myth of Orpheus was imperfect. Guilty, in this case, of mistaking what was right and what was merely beautiful.

tuesday magazine / poetry

genre / tuesday magazine

table of contents volume 6, issue 2

. RIVA NATHANS . POETRY DARK STUFF . LAUREN WEISS . DRAMA THE SPACE WITHIN . XINRAN YUAN . SCULPTURE I DARE MY FATAL LIFE TO RIPEN . PAT MCKIERNAN . POETRY HANDCOW AND FINGERTOOTH . LILY FANG . PAINTING UNTITLED . JUSTIN WYMER . POETRY LOST LIGHT . COLIN TEO GUO XUAN . PHOTOGRAPHY LOVE AND WILD BOARS . TALIA LAVIN . ESSAY CITIES / RISK / WINTER / PRAYER . ADRIENNE ROSENBERG . PROSE POEM DEFINED WARMTH . XINRAN YUAN . SCULPTURE ELEVATORS . JACK HOLKEBOER . FICTION FULL SERVICE . LILY DURWOOD . FICTION MAN = BIRD / OXEN . JASON VARTIKAR . PAINTING ALLSTON : IMPRESSIONS . JULIA ROONEY . PAINTING RACCOON . KATIE TARONAS . PERFORMANCE ART WALDEN . KILEY MCLAUGHLIN . POETRY COOKING SHOWS . EVAN ROSENMAN . POETRY ETH . NO . METH . OD . OL . O . GY . GRACE RYAN . ESSAY GALILEO ’ S DELIGHT . DREW VAUGHAN . PHOTOGRAPHY THINGS TO BE SAID WHILE FACING NORTH . RIVA NATHANS . POETRY TAP WATER . JUSTINE LESCROART . POETRY YOU ARE VERY BRAVE . KATHLEEN HALE . PAINTING PORTRAITS . JULIA WINN . SHORT UNION SQUARE PARK IN LATE AUGUST . TALIA LAVIN . POETRY A NOTE FROM AMRITSAR . MICHAL LABIK . ESSAY POSSUM . KATIE TARONAS . PHOTOGRAPHY A BRAND NEW SLOWNESS

1 5 9 11 13 15 16 18 19 20 22 23 24 25 28 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 41

www.tuesdaymagazine.org j ul i e w ri ght, presi dent m ay zhang, presi dent b ri ttn ey l i nd, managi ng edi tor e d ito r ia l boar d j a n e s . j i a n g , e d i to r -i n-chi ef e l i z a b eth brook j a c k h ol keboer tal i a l avi n s p e n c e r l enfi el d a n n i e levenson b. r. l i nd k y l e mcaul ey ro bert ni l es b re tt ro senberg a r t boar d i n ti y a i s a z a -fi g u e ro a , di rector j u l i a ro o n e y, di rector j e n n i f er ames a b i gai l l i nd k a te ri n a ma ntzavi nou j o s e p h morcos k a th e ri n e taronas col i n teo j u l i e w ri ght d e s ign boar d me g h a n h o u s e r, di rector d a n i e l l e k i m, di rector c a ro l i n e bl eeke a b i gai l l i nd yi l i u j o s e p h morcos s te p h a ni e w ang m a y zhang

business boar d deni se xu, di rector synne d. chapman, soci al chai r b. r. l i nd dante pearson staff wr iter s kayl a hammond, di rector al exandra mushegi an, di rector ki rsten e. m. sl ungaard, di rector rachael gol dberg scott duke komi ners al i ce l i arj un ramamurti grace ryan ari el shaker j ul i a w i nn j usti n w ymer qi chen zhang staff illustr ator s yi l i u, di rector emma w ang, di rector kayl a escobedo l i l y fang stephani e w ang j ul i e w ri ght webm aster ti ffany cai

Tuesday Magazine is a general interest publication that engages in and furthers Harvard’s intellectual and artistic dialogue by publishing art and writing, with an emphasis on student and non-professional work. Staﬀ applications are accepted at the beginning of each semester, and submissions are accepted on our website throughout the year. Copyright © 2009 by Tuesday Magazine. All rights reserved. Reproduction without permission is prohibited.Tuesday Magazine is a publication of a Harvard College student-run organization. Harvard name and/or VERITAS shield are trademarks of the President and Fellows of Harvard College and are used by permission of Harvard University.

dark stuff LAUREN WEISS

Characters URSULA CAL MARTHA GEORGE CYNTHIA (SISI) GREG BONNIE

A dark-haired, brilliant college student studying dark matter. A high school senior interested in literature; Ursula’s cousin. Ursula’s mother. Ursula’s father. Cal’s mother; Martha’s older sister. Cal’s father. Martha and Cynthia’s mother, who walks with a bit of a waddle.

Set The set is a two-story home with a kitchen/living room/dining room downstairs and a loft upstairs, which represents Ursula’s bedroom. The loft should have a wall-to-wall mirror at the back, as well as a drop-down screen where images will be projected. In the loft, the lighting is overhead spotlights; downstairs, a cheerful seasonal radiance. The loft should be abstract and minimalist; the downstairs should be warm and cozy, with a plush armchair, a rosy hardwood table with some kitchen chairs, a fridge, and a stove. A staircase connects the downstairs to a landing upstairs (the hall), which is connected to Ursula’s bedroom. Entrances/exits to the downstairs set include the stairs, a front door opposite the stairs, and the “rest of the house” beyond the stairs. Scene titles will be projected onto the screen. Music Holiday music accompanies some scenes.

ACT I The Problem: 1 Upstairs. Ursula’s room is dark. CAL is pacing the landing at the top of the stairs nervously, under an intense spotlight. He carries a parcel in one hand. As he goes back and forth, he is rehearsing his entrance. Although this rehearsal is aloud, it is aloud for our beneﬁt only; we are hearing Cal’s thoughts rather than his words. CAL: (Deep voice) Hey Ursula, it’s… no. No. (A little higher, and his voice cracks.) Ursula! I haven’t seen you in—no. (Clears throat.) Merry Christmas, Ursula! Remember your baby cousin? (Laughs.) Oh God, what the hell… I mean, she’s just my cousin. (Stops pacing and paws at his hair, pushing his bangs into what he hopes is a dashing and mature side-sweep.) Oh Calvin, you stud. (Leans toward the door and knocks tentatively.) Ursula? Can I come in?

tuesday magazine / drama

Introduction Downstairs. BONNIE is sitting in the plush armchair, reading a newspaper. MARTHA casually stirs gravy on the stove. “Sleigh Ride” plays under the dialogue. BONNIE: Lord-Jesus-in-heaven-above, politicians these days! MARTHA: Watch what you’re saying, Mom. You made me promise to shoot you if you ever got religious. BONNIE: Or if I get Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, cancer, heart disease, lung disease, cirrhosis, or diabetes. MARTHA: Yes, Mother. BONNIE: Or if I vote Republican! MARTHA: I’ll add it to the list. BONNIE: And scratch the cirrhosis. If I’ve gotta go, I might as well go drunk. Telephone rings. BONNIE: Can you get that, hon? MARTHA: Mom, you’re sitting right next to it! Phone rings again. BONNIE: It’s time you start doing me favors in my old age. Besides, it’s not for me unless the AARP is asking for money, in which case you’ll hang up anyway. MARTHA strides over and yanks the phone off the cradle. MARTHA: Hellooooo? Sisi! No, I told you I’m taking care of everything. Can’t you trust me to make dinner by myself? I promise I won’t burn anything. Yes, of course I like your cooking. You can cook for Easter. Okay, see you soon. (Hangs up.) BONNIE: Huh. MARTHA: I wish it were the AARP. BONNIE: Be nice, Martha. MARTHA: I’ll be nice when I have to be. BONNIE: I smell burning. MARTHA jumps to attend to the gravy. A key jangles in the door, and GEORGE bursts through. He is carrying too many bags of groceries. GEORGE: Phew, is it snowing out there! He puts down bags and begins unloading groceries into the fridge. GEORGE: Where are we putting everyone? BONNIE: Close the door, you numbskull! George closes the door and resumes unloading groceries. MARTHA: Cynthia and Greg have the guest room, Mom has the office— BONNIE: I get the office? What kind of deal is this? MARTHA: You don’t need a queen-sized bed. BONNIE: (To herself.) Of course I do. I’m a queen! GEORGE: What about Cal? MARTHA: Oh, shoot! I usually put him in the office, but… well, I guess he can stay in Ursula’s room. Can you set up the sleeping bag? GEORGE pulls out a garland and a wreath. Leaving the fridge open, he looks at these markers of the holiday excitedly. GEORGE: Where do these go? MARTHA: Garland on the banister, wreath over the fireplace. And close the fridge, for God’s sake! Deck the Halls plays, and GEORGE whistles along. He closes the door, and happily decorates according to his wife’s instructions. He does this whimsically, dancing up the stairs as he wraps the garland, straightening the bow on the wreath as a final touch. As he is decorating, the doorbell rings.

drama / tuesday magazine

GEORGE: They’re here already? BONNIE: If anyone asks, I’m reading my newspaper. (Exits with newspaper.) Doorbell rings again. GEORGE tentatively tiptoes to the front door and opens it. The greetings and embraces that follow are forced and artiﬁcial. GEORGE: Greg! Cynthia! CYNTHIA: Hello dear. Martha, won’t you come say hi to your older sister? MARTHA removes her apron. MARTHA: I didn’t want to get your dress greasy. GEORGE: Where’s Cal? GREG: He’s getting things out of the car. MARTHA: I told you not to bring anything! I’m taking care of dinner myself. CYNTHIA: I made a spare pie, just in case we eat all of yours. You do make a good pie, you know. Almost as good as mine. CAL enters carrying tons of grocery bags and a small wrapped present. CAL: Is this everything? MARTHA: Cal! How nice to see you. MARTHA takes some of the groceries from him and puts them away. CAL: Where’s Ursula? MARTHA: Upstairs, as usual. CAL bounds up the stairs two at a time, still holding the present. MARTHA: She’s got her nose in some book, even on Christmas Eve.

The Problem: 2 Upstairs. Lights are on in Ursula’s room, where URSULA is lying on her stomach, kicking her legs back and forth while reading a book. CAL is pacing the landing at the top of the stairs nervously, but the lighting on him is dim, so we don’t see him clearly. He repeats his actions from the prologue, but silently. URSULA addresses us directly, revealing the secrets of her book—and her heart. URSULA: Dark matter. It sounds like something out of science ﬁction. Dark… matter. We can’t see it because it doesn’t emit light. Absolute silence. (CAL pauses.) We only know it’s there because of gravity. Objects in space feel its pull. (CAL leans toward the door, listening.) Funny thing is, we have no idea what it’s made of. (CAL knocks tentatively.) CAL: Ursula? Can I come in? URSULA: Yeah, Cal? CAL enters. She gets up and gives him a big hug. URSULA: How’s my baby cousin? CAL: Ow, will you please stop calling me that? URSULA: Too bad your brains haven’t shot up like your height these past few months. How’ve ya been? URSULA plops down on the bed. This can be just some cushions on the ﬂoor. CAL: I’ve been better. College applications suck. CAL sits beside her. He places the parcel on the bed; URSULA ignores it for now. URSULA: That’s not what I meant. Any cute girls lately? CAL: None. URSULA: That’s a shame. Whatever happened to that girl— CAL: Denise? URSULA: That one. Name almost as ugly as mine. CAL: She started seeing Dick. URSULA: Ugh, does he really call himself that? CAL: Yeah. It’s his power symbol. Ultimate manhood. What about you? URSULA: Nothing. CAL: The handsome professor?

tuesday magazine / drama

URSULA: Married. CAL: Ouch. You’re sure? URSULA: Saw the ring. And the wife. CAL: I’m… sorry to hear that? Except not! He tickles her furiously, and she writhes and wriggles away, shrieking. URSULA: I never should have taught you that. CAL: Now that that’s out of the way, how have you really been? URSULA: Charmed. (She stands up and meanders seductively upstage. ) Research is charming. CAL: Dark matter, right? URSULA: Yeah. The stuff that you— CAL: Can’t see. URSULA: You remembered. CAL: I remember everything you say. (Awkward pause. Cal stands up and scratches his head.) Are you taking any English classes? URSULA: Are you kidding me? CAL: You took one last year— URSULA: To fulfill graduation requirements. CAL: You used to love English. URSULA: Once, maybe… (Suddenly dramatic) But no more! It was a fickle love, as inconstant as the moon… (Draws a large moon with her arms.) CAL: (Creeping up behind her, playing along.) But the moon has phases, so your love of the written word will return. URSULA: You’re supposed to compliment me for remembering my fucking Romeo and Juliet! CAL: Nice use of the f-word, there. Perhaps you have a drop of the humanities left in you. URSULA: No, Cal. That was a long time ago. (She moves downstage.) CAL lifts the present as if to give it to her. CAL: But remember— URSULA: Yes, Cal. I remember everything. CAL lowers the present back to the bed. MARTHA (offstage): Kids, dinner’s ready! CAL puts the present back on the bed. URSULA and CAL look at each other, then run downstairs.

Hypothesis Downstairs. GREG sets the table with silverware and seasonal dishware; CYNTHIA lights the candles on the table. GEORGE is ogling the ham as it cools on the counter; he is poised with a carving fork and an enormous knife, itching to dive in. MARTHA is washing the pots and pans that she used for cooking. GREG keeps glancing at George and the ham jealously. We hear the theme of “Santa Baby.” URSULA and CAL clatter down the stairs. BONNIE (oﬀstage): Presents! BONNIE enters from rest of house wearing a Santa Claus hat. BONNIE: Presents for all! She spreads her arms, indicating an invisible heap of gifts on the ﬂoor. CAL: Where’s your sack, Santa? BONNIE: I’m too old to carry that junk around. This year all of my presents are digital. She waddles toward a seat at the table. URSULA: You don’t know how to use a computer. BONNIE: I had Martha do my Internet shopping. (She sits.) Now what you could do for me, young man, is pour this old bag o’ bones a drink.

drama / tuesday magazine

t he space wit hin xinr an yuan sculptur e / 3’x2’x4’ w ood, yarn, gl ue

tuesday magazine / sculpture

CAL: (Picking up bottle on the counter.) Champagne. Can I have some, Mom? CYNTHIA purses her lips; this is not good for a growing boy. MARTHA: What the hell, Sisi. It’s Christmas. CYNTHIA: Oh, all right. CAL: Thanks! URSULA pulls two new wine glasses out of the cupboard and hangs them upside-down between her fingers, swinging them a little. Meanwhile, CAL pours his mother some more champagne, then takes the glasses one by one from Ursula and fills them almost to the top. He does this slowly and uncertainly. GEORGE: (Poised over the ham, salivating.) Can I carve it yet? MARTHA: (Smacking his greedy hands away.) Let it cool! GREG: But I always carve the ham! CYNTHIA: You cut yourself last year. We don’t want you to bleed all over the meat again. (Pause.) Cal, that’s way too much! URSULA: Bombs away! She chugs down half the glass. BONNIE: Now that’s the way to start dinner. URSULA smacks her lips. GREG eyes Ursula unhappily. GREG: (To Cal) Take it slow, son. CAL glances around apprehensively and takes a sip of wine. There is a moment of silence. During the next few lines, URSULA pours herself another glass and begins to drink, not as quickly as the last glass, but still too quickly for comfort. GEORGE: /That’s it--I’m going in! (Simultaneously) GREG: /Wait, you’re not holding those right! (Simultaneously) MARTHA: /Let it cool! (Simultaneously) CYNTHIA: /Oh my God! The four parents converge on the ham, and for a while they are tangled up. The knife and carving fork flail around a good deal, and it’s a miracle that no one loses an eye. CAL: What’s the big deal about a ham anyway? BONNIE: It’s tasty. URSULA: Not if you’re vegetarian. The squabble ends with Martha holding the ham, exasperated. Somehow it got itself carved during the fracas. She carries it to the table. MARTHA: Dinner... (plop) is served. Everyone sits. GEORGE and GREG have a contest of who can load more ham onto his plate. MARTHA: So Cal, Sisi tells me you’re interested in English. CAL: That’s right. CYNTHIA: He’s reading Romeo and Juliet. GEORGE: Aha! He spears the air with his fork, which still has a chunk of ham on it. GEORGE: A story of deceit and revenge. Have you got to the good parts yet? CAL: It’s all good parts. But… I’d say it’s more about love than violence. URSULA: Love! I’d say it’s more about the dangers of teenage romance, with all the sneaking around, and how quickly everything happens. Anyway, it can’t be about love because Romeo’s the most miserable whiny fuck I’ve ever seen, on the page or in person. Juliet didn’t love him; she just wanted to get her panties dirty. (She drinks.) MARTHA: Ursula!

drama / tuesday magazine

i dare my fatal life to ripen PAT MCKIERNAN

Darling, this is no listen-or-suffer-without-your-good-soul kind of notice. This is not just a yearning for wispiness, quiet, or wind that you’d like to call Lover, the way that it breathes on your face. I am talking the plainest I can with a set of exhausted and lived-upon words to say that my body and all that it feels is a myth and that all that is now are the legible traces of where and to whom we have fled. And this is just one of the unopened flowers that hang from a panicking vine, lurching out after a rich and a winning god with a power like flying or lust or like squeezing from stale fruit sweet nectar but really I’m spreading out nets over slow, thinning herds.

I call to you. A bird that I’ve never quite heard, here it comes to me, familiar. A heat I’ve never known, and here it is, built in a dream that maintained all this daylight, come finally unto me, familiar. This and the following word, I am living since the first heartbeat finished. Walk to me, legs unbent, mowing down riverbed, weaving, reed into reed, the new bottom, I must attend, growing, every year through the hillside and over the old stony print, another resting day.

CAL: She has a point. Romeo goes after Juliet rather quickly. But I like to give them the benefit of the doubt. Who are we to judge love? MARTHA: How insightful. Have you figured out where you want to go to school? CAL blushes and doesn’t answer. GREG: He’s looking at Yale. BONNIE: Oh, you’ll get in! /Nothing to be shy about. GEORGE: /Congratulations, that’s wonderful. CYNTHIA: Let’s save the congratulations for when he gets his acceptance letter. GEORGE coughs awkwardly. China clinks. BONNIE: I love the mashed potatoes. Martha, these are just as good as your sister’s. CYNTHIA: It’s my recipe! MARTHA: It’s the family recipe! Mom used to make them. Right, Mom? BONNIE: I was never as good as either of you. Although maybe that’s because we had awfully rotten potatoes back then. CYNTHIA: Well maybe you’re just losing your sense of taste. GEORGE: Why you— MARTHA: Really, Sisi, it’s one thing to insult me at the dinner table, but your own mother? CYNTHIA: As if you don’t pick fights with her! BONNIE: Enough! (Silence.) Now let’s all sit down and enjoy our dinner like a nice happy family. Everyone sits. More china clinking. GREG: So Ursula, are you still in physics?

tuesday magazine / poetry

For the rest of the scene, Ursula is isolated in a spotlight during direct address, and the lighting returns to normal when she addresses her family again. URSULA: (Direct address.) I hate this part. I call it the “Oh-my-god-Ursula-is-studying-scary-things-beyond-our-understanding” part. She waves her hands in mock fright. To Greg, with a cheesy smile and nod. URSULA: Yup. CYNTHIA: How nice. Do you have any jobs lined up? URSULA: (Direct address.) I have eight years of graduate school left. (To Cynthia.) Not at the moment. MARTHA: Weren’t you taking an interview with some big engineering company? URSULA: That was only a summer job. CYNTHIA: Well, physics professors make a lot of money. URSULA: (Direct address.) Only one in ten grad students becomes a professor. GREG: What’s it like, being a woman in physics? URSULA: (Sips some wine uncomfortably.) It’s no diﬀerent from being a man in physics. CYNTHIA: But how many women are in your classes? URSULA: There’s a bunch of us. There’s Sarah, and me, and... CYNTHIA: But it isn’t really a feminine thing, physics. URSULA: Nothing is “masculine” or “feminine” anymore. It’s just something to do. Like there must be girls who are car mechanics, and boys who crochet, and… GREG: I believe your father crochets. GEORGE coughs and tries to slouch under the table. MARTHA: Yes, and my husband certainly does a better job of it than you do, Sisi. CYNTHIA: First my cooking, now this! BONNIE: Girls— GEORGE: Anyway, if there aren’t a lot of girls in physics, at least you have a lot of boys to pick from. (Simultaneously) URSULA: /Daaaad! (Simultaneously) CAL: I’m sure Ursula isn’t interested in— URSULA: (Direct address.) They say the odds are good, but the goods are odd. GREG: When I studied engineering at Cornell—(everyone yawns, rolls eyes, or groans)—there weren’t any women! BONNIE: (Under her breath.) Well when I raised my girls there weren’t any men. CYNTHIA: Do you like physics? URSULA: (Direct address.) Really, how thick can they get? (To Cynthia.) You’d think I’d do something else if I didn’t like it. I mean, look at all the knitting clubs and home decorating courses I could be taking instead! MARTHA: Tone it down, Ursula! URSULA: (Aside.) Same for you, Mother. And for the rest of my fucking family. GREG: Are you doing research with a professor? URSULA: Yes. GREG: Good. I’ve heard that research is only good if it’s done under a professor. We wouldn’t want you barking up the wrong tree, now, would we? (Laughs nasally and resumes eating.) CYNTHIA: What are you studying? I hope it doesn’t have too much math or anything. URSULA: Dark matter. GREG: I recently heard a documentary on PBS about that stuﬀ—dark matter. Very interesting subject. CYNTHIA: What on earth is that?

drama / tuesday magazine

handcow and f ingert oot h lily fang painting / 16â&#x20AC;? x24â&#x20AC;? oi l on canvas

tuesday magazine / painting

URSULA: (Direct address.) This is the worst part. I don’t know what dark matter is. Nobody knows what it is. They want their smart baby girl to show off, to tell them something. When I don’t say anything, they think I’m wasting my time, “researching.” CYNTHIA: What is dark matter? URSULA crosses her arms and sits back into her chair defensively. MARTHA: Come on, Ursula. Answer your aunt. URSULA: I don’t know. MARTHA: Don’t be snotty, now. URSULA: Nobody knows. GEORGE: What do you mean? How can you study it if nobody knows? GREG: It’s quite simple, really. Dark matter is— URSULA: It’s not simple at all, Uncle Greg. Whoever figures it out will win a Nobel Prize. MARTHA: Why is that? URSULA: It’s different from everything else in the universe. It must be a new particle, or matter in an extra dimension we can’t see, or— CYNTHIA: Extra dimension? Could it suck us up? Could we all die? URSULA: (Direct address.) Oh—my—God. CAL gets a spotlight too, as if he heard Ursula. CAL: Don’t worry about them. Just talk to me. Family starts bickering during Ursula’s soliloquy, ad lib. Only CAL listens. URSULA: (Takes a breath.) Dark matter was something wrong with the universe, something unexpected. When astronomers looked at different parts of the universe—galaxies, clusters—there was too much mass. And it isn’t just a little bit extra—it’s ninety percent of the matter in the universe! That’s what dark matter is—something massive and unexpected that throws the story of the universe off course. Can you imagine, even with all the light from the stars, it’s like we’re feeling around in the dark. That’s what’s so amazing about it. CAL: What do you mean? URSULA: The most beautiful things in the world are the things you can’t see. Dark matter. The blackness between the stars. CAL: Thunder without lightning. The moment between winter haze and snow. URSULA: You, although you’re too young to know it. For the next set of lines, URSULA and CAL speak without hearing each other. Each is revealing his or her private thoughts. CAL: How far can you see with a telescope? URSULA: I’m transparent to you. CAL: Tell me about stars. Do they have lives? Stories? URSULA: More so than you can imagine. CAL: Tell me everything. URSULA looks at the audience, like a deer caught in headlights. URSULA: Dammit, Cal! Blackout. END OF ACT I

drama / tuesday magazine

IV. Axe your skull and listen: how

untitled JUSTIN WYMER

I. Beneath the instep of my shoe there is a city, burning as many times you pall a chancre or glass of water. Ultramarine, split and wrinkled, its pavements resemble a merman’s sand-grated footskin. Holes like eye-pits scream hymnal steams from underbelly piping, the city’s foundation skeleton--hollow bromine ice, ﬁlled with evaporated song. Religion could take you here, where jellied blueness swaddles lumens drowning nebulas. II. Watch the mind descending letting gravity of knowing and not knowing pull the weight of its many ﬂeshes to the carpet, blue-spectral, crass and polyester as the texture of wintry oceans.

those blue pompanos flitter in the pond! These luminescents have faces you once knew, like incipient tissues, writhing for definition at a pace you never knew, skipping at the quickest dark dart like your apple butter sight has never let you do. V. What every comet wants is the human privilege to die. VI. Listen to the swarming blue thickness ripening in your blood’s attics, the elemental weaving of underskin smoke, but you are the bluer smoke. You are here inside the flicker of release, prone to necessary starburning.

III. I know how fatty thought is, treasured iron sinker ﬁshing for stars know what. We know what cruel, dense comets ignite ponderous behind the eye, hooking there. And how these streetlights populate— a thousand blue, refracting muscles torn between thought and comprehension.

tuesday magazine / poetry

l os t l i g h t c o lin t e o g u o x ua n digital photography

photography / tuesday magazine

“

We often walk past objects not noticing how light falls upon them. We think that the sky is always blue, sunlight invariably white, and grass unchangingly green. The interplay of sunlight at dusk or dawn with artiﬁcial light sometimes creates phantasmagorical eﬀects. These two photographs are part of a series documenting how light changes around a set of trees over the course of months. I visited and revisited this stand of trees to capture something which is often lost to us.” —colin teo guo xuan

tuesday magazine / photography

I read in the newspaper that there are wild boars—a pandemic of boars from the forests of Brandenburg—in the streets of Berlin. They come out at night, snuffling in the green spaces, feeding on compost. They step with ungraceful menace in the paths of cars. Males can weigh up to two hundred pounds. They interrupt the flow of traffic in the guts of nocturnal Berlin. This is the only thing I can think of to compare my passions to—snorting, inconsiderate, with teeth hanging over lips and rank odors, stout ungainly bellies, persistent hooves. How I wish to go about my business, but I am hopelessly interrupted, like those hapless drivers hanging out of their cars at dusk, at midnight, a little haggard and all disbelieving, peering at the carnage in the teeth of the radiator grille, all that unfortunate, costly damage, snuffed life, and tangled metal… I’m exhausted by these constant collisions on dark streets teeming with boars. I want my life to be filled with pat approximations of feeling. I wouldn’t mind aping love, happiness, concern. I’m weary of my body: a peasant body, thick but welcoming. It’s nothing if not self-advertising. “My mouth is a liar,” I want to scream at those approaching me. I know them so well, down to their genitals and back up again. “The mouth will caress you, it will recall your name and every comment. But don’t listen, this big, malleable body isn’t for you. This girl is tired, she’s completely exhausted. She’s too tired for you…” It isn’t the genitals that bother me—harmless as they are. I’m not afraid of them, as I once was; I don’t hesitate before that blind, self-promoting little stub. No, it’s the flat, freckled torsos, their faces—wordless pleas and spoken imprecations, declarations. “I’m falling in love with you.” “I want you.” The brutal miming they require, the mantles I assume— mother, because my breasts are soft and expansive; lover, with humble, pliable flanks. I’m tired of this theater, which is constant, requiring real finesse. I’m ready to give up all finesse. How can I exist this way, prodded like this, turned red, then white, by urgent thumbprints? Let me and my stubborn skin, instead, avoid all sun. Turn translucent, then transparent. I’ll go featureless then, like

prose / tuesday magazine

TALIA LAVIN

love and wild boars

the Communist tenements of Berlin, my eyes slack as their shaded rows of windows. I’ll go square and uninviting, I’ll wreck entire horizons, I’ll go dour, dire, a sign of greater menace. No, I don’t care how I, mouth and mons, inflame any and all. West Berlin was kept free of boars by the razor wire that also kept it free of Communism; once it was slashed loose, the edict shaken off, the boars escaped the forests. Now they paw at the pavement, snuffling at skinheads and old churches, and their purpose is grim. But I won’t make the same mistakes as you, Berlin. I’ll keep the razors up. I’ll build fantastic walls around my person. How many times, after all, can I lie in that coital laxity which breeds the tender fevers of my love? I’m tired of histories and anniversaries! Traveling together, banter, and skin, skin, skin! Too many lovers breeds an incalculable sense of loss. A rendering-familiar of every relation. Hapless, white, and horizontal, I hear: “My mind and heart are still with you in my bed.” “How is it that I could go so long without you before, and now…” “I think the real problem is that you’re oversexed.” “You dive right back into love because it’s the only thing you know about.” Wan, drooping, like an ungainly lily, I’ll bend my head. I’ll stammer. I’ll drop my eyes, lose my gaze in my lap like a loose pair of glasses. But in the night, faced with new prospects, dark shapes will sidle up with familiar proposals… Berlin, finest of my imagined cities, so lately riven in twain, and now recalled to yourself, how will you survive? The boars have their nostrils open wide. They can sense something—what can they sense?—and they are beginning to pick up speed.

city/risk/winter/prayer ADRIENNE ROSENBERG

You hold the door open for the old woman and her walker. I want to stay up all night: shivering hard against my scarf and jacket, knees swinging on hinges, slipping in my shoes off sidewalk curbs, setting my hands on fire, friendship buzzing like a caught wasp between us. I came to the city two days after your goldfish died, you say “he was a good man.” so we laugh and spill paint on the carpet. Let me tell you. 1. I roll up my sleeves each time I see the sun. I keep waiting for someone to grossly overstep my boundary: scoop me up, and stick me on the bookshelf in a warm and well-lit bedroom. 2. The last night we spent together she fell asleep before I even got into bed. Without ever moving from the stairway outside my room, I burnt down every door in the building, took my entire body apart, cell by cell, turned my face inside out, and then went to sleep next to her, exhausted. In the morning she didn’t say a word except for the blankness typewritten across the whites of her eyes. 3. The more I write certain words, the less they sweat from my body. 4. Once in Mexico there were rivers of biting ants on the earth floor. I dangled, dirt-streaked legs and skin imprinted with the weave of the hammock. Curled up like an orange, I hardly slept. I like it when I can wear the bottoms of my feet like shoes. I get just dirty enough, just tired enough, just sick enough, to sink deep into my self while I sleep. 5. We knock against each other on our walk home, chipping our plaster elbows and cheeks. You say maybe we should do some work. I laugh at your suggestion and roll my eyes backward into my head. I like to stand at the edge of something. 6. I wore my best clothes out today and scrubbed my skin raw with a pumice stone until it glowed shiny. I hope I get lost with my feet sunk into rotting California forest floor or somewhere among these concrete elbows. One day my lungs are going to spread like a kite. 7. What if I just say that this place is good enough. what might happen! 8. I woke one morning, paralyzed just below the knee. My fingers felt stiffer than usual, too. I know I’m not good with loss. So I wandered the city and found a woman writing notes to herself and her silhouetted disappointment. The slow chipping away until a face emerges, nose first. You say there was one time you saw the moon from New York City but then lost it again between buildings. Closeness is not as easy as it once seemed, so I write “that’s okay” on sheets of lined paper on the subway. One night I got back to my empty room and held my computer, warm like a baby, against my chest. 9. I like the way people look sad when they don’t mean to. a beginning. Good.

tuesday magazine / prose poem

d e f i n e d w armth x i n r a n y uan sculpture / 3’x3’x8’ f iber glas s in s u l a ti o n , w o o d , f ull body m i rro r w i th p l a s ti c fra me

sculpture / tuesday magazine

“

I am currently a junior in Visual and Environmental Studies with a focus in sculpture. Over the past two years I worked with wood, fabric, found objects, etc., before discovering my favorite material—space. I am interested in the way light rests its weight upon shadow, the way sound waves resonate from one receptor to another, and how these rich elements in space wrap around the human form, highlight our sensory perception and inspire us. If something makes us forget to rationalize and analyze, and instead opens up all our senses and imagination, it must be a fabulous work of art. I can’t stop thinking about the moment in a Finnish sauna when one can no longer bear the steaming heat and runs to throw oneself, naked, into the cold black water between the white ﬂoating ice. This moment, though choreographed for the pursuit of pleasure, is a ritual reenactment of a far more basic, or far baser, drives of survival and equilibrium: to gasp in heat and cold, to heed the evenness of level dynamics, to be soaked in the density of air and light, and to encounter a spatial and psychological resistance. While it is practically an instinctual compulsion, the dive into the water is steeped in a sense of heightened sobriety—it intensiﬁes every tactile sense and directs one’s consciousness towards an awareness of self and being. It is to evoke this level of sensitivity that I consider the ultimate objective of art and architecture. Images that I had in mind while making this piece were those of a chair, quilt, mirror, frame, and body. I thought of things that brought comfort, intimacy, safety, and warmth. This project is an investigation of tacit consents on interpersonal distance, and the uncomfortableness of self-consciousness.” —xinran yuan

tuesday magazine / sculpture

elevators JACK HOLKEBOER

fiction / tuesday magazine

Some people think skyscrapers are giant phalluses with steel urethras called elevators. I think they are the dirt around a tunnel. I make my living inspecting elevators for the Illinois Department of Public Safety. Legalese is the language of elevator inspection and I know it well. An elevator is referred to as a conveyance, a broader category that includes escalators and moving sidewalks. I think conveyance is a better term. It implies no direction, only movement. When there is nowhere to turn, direction is a moot point. It is a well-known irony that the more people residing in a city, the more anonymous each resident feels. We do not talk to each other in elevators, just as we do not talk as we pass each other on a moving sidewalk or an actual sidewalk. We are traveling to the same place on parallel trajectories at different speeds. In the elevator we are stuck at the same speed, but our trajectories are still parallel, never crossing. An inviolable mathematical law draws a plane through which empathy cannot pass. We ride in the elevator like we live in the city: close but never touching. How can we cure a loneliness that stems from an abundance of people? I look for the answer in the elevator. Sometimes I think I’m close, but the bell rings and the door opens. It doesn’t matter which building you enter. The destinations are all the same, but you can only travel to them, not between them. It doesn’t matter which floor you choose. They are subway stations with no stairs to the street. I get claustrophobic in the city, but not in the elevator. On Earth if you keep walking (or swimming) in the same direction, you will end up where you started. The elevator has only one direction, up (or forward?), and no end in sight, no goal except going further. The builders of the city found themselves penned in by the lake and the finitude of the land around them, and realized they had been missing the point all along. When they built the El, they were trying to raise the city to a higher plane above the soggy mud flats. We wanted our train not on a higher plane, but on a different axis. Imagine lying on the ground, the city grid now the massive wall behind you that Lake Michigan once was, the lake now your shimmering blue sky and nowhere to go now but forward (up?), no road to take but the elevator. There are no bends in the road. There is no horizon ahead, only an infinity that changes color with the time of day, that gets closer every year but is never within reach. I work with a mechanic who does the technical inspection of the elevator while I fill out the paperwork. Every night after work we drink at a bar in the basement of our apartment complex. He has a family, and they live on the floor above me. We have been working together for fourteen years. As we walk from Sears to John Hancock to Aon, we talk about the White Sox and the weather and the president. But in the elevator we say nothing. We usually finish work after the towers close for business. When the mechanic is elsewhere, I step in at the ground floor, press the button for the top, lie on the ground and stretch my arms forward away from the city. I ride back down standing up. When I meet the mechanic on the ground floor we share a glance we never share in the elevator. It only lasts a few seconds; it ends when I ask him about the White Sox.

full service LILY DURWOOD

Ours is the only 7-11 in Indiana that opens at seven and closes at eleven. Jerry, our manager, feels very strongly about this. People like things to make sense, Mel. And that’s one thing on which I won’t budge. Oh, Jerry. He’s so damn earnest. Nobody comes to our 7-11 but the thirteen-to-fifteen crowd anyway, and I don’t think they care much about the order in things. Sometimes, when it’s just after eleven, I lay my torso on the counter with my cheek smashed up against it and my arms spread out to the side and just stare at the jerks who want to get in. A lot of people come right at eleven because that’s when most stoned middle and high school students are hungry for junk food. The aggressive ones hop up and down and bang on the windows and rattle the door. The more timid ones pull at their flannel skater shorts and slide their fingers through their faux-hawks and look at me pleadingly. There is nothing I can do for you people; I am under strict instructions. Other times when Jerry is gone and there are no customers in the store I walk up and down the back wall opening and closing the doors to the refrigerators with all the cans of pop, or I walk through the candy aisle and try to put the bars in order of least to greatest number of calories. Who ever said you’ll never use math. The 7-11 is a pretty lonely place.

quality in a woman. It makes me think you were popular in high school, particularly with the gentlemen.” “Is that right.” It wasn’t right. Well, there was Dan, but I won’t get into it. “Oh, it’s right. Winona Ryder, Penélope Cruz. Angelina Jolie deﬁnitely has that going for her. And that’s why I’m around all the time, Mel. To look at your sad eyes and cheer you up. In fact, I brought a joke with me today. I found it online.” I smiled. “Fine.” “K.” He took a receipt out of his wallet and held it in front of his face. He took a deep breath and smiled, licked his lips, and held his breath. “What do women and tornadoes have in common?” He was already pleased with himself. “Tell me.” “They both moan like hell when they come, and take the house when they leave!” He slapped the counter and spun in a circle with his head thrown back, laughing like Dracula. I laughed, though I tried not to. “Oh, she thinks I’m funny!” He looked at one of the magazines on the rack. “Matthew McConaughey, did you hear that? Mel thinks I’m funny.” He leaned in to me, not Matthew, and said, “She always thought I was funny.”

“Hey, girly.” “What do you want, Tyler? I don’t have time for your shit today.” Tyler is one of the other clerks at the 7-11 and the one closest to my age. He’s always hanging around here, except for when he’s scheduled to work, in which case he doesn’t show. “Oh, no, baby. You got me all wrong. You’ll get no shit from me.” He spun the bill of his cap from the front to the back. Tyler’s gestures are sluggish, like he’s underwater. He put his hands on the countertop and leaned forward, locking out his elbows, probably to make his arms ﬂex. “Hey Mel, your hair looks diﬀerent today, what’d you do?” “Are you serious? I dyed it red three weeks ago. It used to be brown.” “Did you really?” “Yes, really.” “Man, that’s weird. Hey, look into my eyes for a second.” He stared into my eyes, and I looked at him for a second but then away. “You know, Mel, there’s a real sadness in your eyes, which is probably why I didn’t notice your hair. It’s a very intriguing

Muncie, Indiana has two main social hubs, and both are strip malls. My 7-11 is in the dumpier of the two, called Tranquil Plains, and it is neither tranquil nor plain. But I guess you can’t really name a mall Kitschy Eyesore. All the buildings were designed in the ’70s, so all the buildings are really dingy and short, and there are lots of geometric shapes everywhere—triangles painted on the side of the Pic ’N Save, plastic squares and circles hanging from wire cables on the ceiling in Red Robin. From about ten to two every day, middle-aged women stroll through the mall, drinking smoothies and gabbing on their cell phones, sometimes stopping in to grab a magazine or a pack of gum. At around 2 all the women leave, and their pre-teen sons come for some afterschool delinquency—smoking cigarettes, stealing candy bars, even saying the word “cunt” once in a while. Sometimes the kids who hang out at the other mall, Sunset Hill, come down to ﬁght, but they mostly just push each other and swear a lot. The two groups are kind of like the Sharks and Jets from West Side Story, if the Sharks and the tuesday magazine / short story

ma n = b i rd / o x e n jason vartikar pa in t in g / 6 â&#x20AC;&#x2122; x 6 â&#x20AC;&#x2122; oi l , a cry lic on c anv as

painting / tuesday magazine

allst on: im p r essio n s j ul i a r ooney painting / 59â&#x20AC;? x 73â&#x20AC;? oil on canvas

tuesday magazine / painting

Jets had mothers to pick them up in minivans in time for dinner. Jerry told me that when “those kids” come in “looking for trouble,” I should calmly point to the sign on the register that says “We Reserve the Right to Refuse Service,” and ask them to please leave. Jerry really is a kick. I mean, he’s a pain, but he’s a kick, too. He uses the word “doohickey,” and is always combing his sideburns like it was 1953 and he was good-looking. Also, I’m pretty sure he wears the 7-11 vest even when he’s not at work. I saw him once at Friendly’s, wearing it or one like it. He had ordered a strawberry icecream cone, and he was just sitting in a booth, alone, staring at the wall and lapping at the pink scoop. It really depressed me, seeing him there, but it made me like Jerry a whole lot more—in a pity kind of way, obviously. Octobers in Indiana are so hot, I don’t know what to do with myself. I looked out the window, and then at the wimpy wire fan. It looked back at me. “You are a piece of shit.” “Oh, so you’re talking to machines now.” Tyler was back, he must have come in the side door. “Oh—I was just—this thing just doesn’t work.” I felt myself blush. I hate being embarrassed. “Don’t you worry, baby, I think it’s cute when you’re all red like that.” He grabbed a bag of Corn Nuts from one of the hooks on the rack in front of him. I watched the muscle in his jaw ﬂex as he bit and then chewed. He looked at me and I looked back at him for a second too long. Cough. “Have you ever been in love, Mel?” “What?” “You’re the kind of girl who falls in love at a young age. Because you’re very mature.” “Uh, alright.” I grabbed at my necklace. “Oh, I’ve been meaning to tell you something.” He put his seasoned hands on my shoulders. “I’m gay.” “Hilarious.” “Wait, you didn’t let me ﬁnish. But damn,” he stagewhispered, “I didn’t think you’d be that upset.” He continued. “Well, now that I’m gay, I was thinking we could have sex. In the back room, it would be no big

“

deal.” He pulled his hands off the counter, showing me his palms. Professing innocence. “I’m telling you, I think you may be the one to turn me straight.” Interrupting us, a couple of the local tween fucks hustled in. Weird because it had been dark for a while already, and they were usually gone before five. I recognized one of them, the redhead, because I’d seen him throwing pennies at the truck of this blonde who works in the Red Robin the week before. His friend was shorter and fatter, and he had the kind of acne that looks painful. “Hey, uh, Mel,” Redhead said, reading my nametag, and letting his eyes linger. He was blinking a lot. “Hey Mel, how many men does it take to open a beer?” I smiled at Tyler. I could handle this. “Okay. I’ll bite. How many?” “I bet you’ll suck, too,” Acne whispered, loud enough that all of us could hear. They laughed, snarkily. “None. The bitch should open it before she brings it to you!” Tyler seemed to find it hilarious. All three cackled. “I bet the two of you have tons of girls bringing you beers.” He ignored me. “Okay I have another one. Why are women like screen doors?” I stared at the Right to Refuse Service sign. “Why.” “Once they get banged a few times—” breath, “they loosen up!” More laughter. I smiled blankly. Tyler had slid over and was standing next to them now, his shoulders shrugging as he giggled. “Shit, these kids are funny! Why don’t they ever come in during my shift?” I looked at the clock, and it was almost eleven, time to close. I heard Jerry come in through the side door, probably picking up money from the safe to bring to the bank. “You guys should just buy what you came for and leave.” “Oh, you’re for sale?” And then they really laughed. For probably thirty seconds straight. I could feel the blood rushing to my face as I looked out the glass wall where the entrance was. “Okay, just one more, just one more.” “Come on, Mel, one more.” Tyler looked like a kid at Christmas. “Whatever.” “What’s the difference between a pregnant girl and a lightbulb?” His voice was high and girly because he had

My 7-11 is in the dumpier of the two, called Tranquil Plains, and it is neither tranquil nor plain. But I guess you can’t really name a mall Kitschy Eyesore.”

short story / tuesday magazine

laughed so hard he was crying. He didn’t wait for me to give him the go-ahead this time. “You can only unscrew one of them!” I braced myself for the outburst that was coming, but the only thing that came was an aborted snort. Jerry was bounding towards us from across the store, striding awkwardly like he hadn’t run once since elementary school. He was holding something in his hand that looked like a menu from a cheap restaurant. “WE RESERVE. THE RIGHT. TO REFUSE. SERVICE.” He held up the thing he had with him with a shaking hand like a police officer showing his badge to an armed robber. It was a newly laminated copy of the paper one taped to the register. Of the five of us—Tyler, me, Redhead, Acne, and Jerry—Jerry was the only one breathing. His chest expanded and contracted violently. “Well, leave! We’re refusing you service!” The three stood frozen in awe for a second, leaning back like they were looking at a tidal wave, then shuffled out like obedient dogs. Jerry turned to me, satisfied, his cheeks a little flushed. I didn’t know what to say—I wasn’t sure if he was a knight in shining armor or an embarrassing uncle. “You don’t deserve that stuff, Melanie.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “It’s Melody, actually.” “What?” “My name. Mel stands for Melody.” “Oh.” He pulled his hand away from my shoulder, like it had been scalded. “Oh, I’m sorry.” “It’s OK.” I reached forward with my hand, in slow motion almost, and grabbed his. “Thanks.” It’s funny how after something dramatic happens with someone, you avoid each other completely. For the next few weeks, Jerry scheduled me for Tuesday and Friday and himself for Thursday and Saturday. And just to make extra sure he wouldn’t need to talk to me for any reason, I did everything perfectly, the model 7-11 clerk. I asked every customer if he wanted a receipt, slid all the sodas forward to the end of their rows so they looked nice in their glass cases, and wiped the countertops perfectly before closing, not cutting corners like I usually do. Tyler was coming in every day that I worked, and he couldn’t figure out why I was being so conscientious. What’s going on here, Mel. This isn’t the girl I know and love. “Mel, let’s play the game where we hit each other’s hands. Do you know what I’m talking about?” “I don’t want to play.” “Oh come on, it’s 10:30 already. We can play for like a half hour and then the shift is over.” “You’re not even working. Why do you care when the shift is over?”

“Because I’m in this for the long haul, Mel. You know this.” “Why do people even like the hand slapping game?” “It is a game of anticipation and a game of skill.” “It’s stupid and it hurts.” “That’s what girls tell me about sex but they eventually change their minds.” He chuckled. He offered me his palms, ready, and after about a minute I relented and placed mine on top. He made some fake jerking movements, and I didn’t budge. He eagerly flipped his hands over and slapped the top of mine. “Oh come on, you didn’t even try.” “Well, you forced me into this, I don’t have to participate.” “Again, that’s what girls tell me about sex but they eventually change their minds.” We actually both laughed at that. “Hey Mel, can you hold on a second, I have to go do something that will immortalize me as a 7-11 employee. I’ll be right back.” “Yeah, go ahead.” Tyler had been telling me that he thought Jerry wanted me to be the next manager of the 7-11 (he’d also said that it was a decade-long process that required a lot of dedication), and I’m embarrassed to admit how flattered I was. At a certain point in life, you’re doing everything right. A year ago, I’d been accepted into the honors program at IU, my teachers thought I was smart, and I was in love with someone who loved me back. People were always telling me I could do anything I wanted to in life. Like that means something. All I know is that for the first time in a year, I was doing something well, and that felt really good. While I waited for Tyler, I got up and paced through the aisles, checking that things were in order. I came back to my red stool behind the counter and picked up a magazine, looking up at the store once in a while. “Do I recognize you from somewhere?” A familiar voice broke my train of thought. “Tyler—” I turned around, “Dan?” He stood in front of me, broad-shouldered and rosy cheeked, like always, even in air conditioning. His curly hair was longer than I had ever seen it, and it brushed by my ear as he leaned over the counter to give me a friendly hug. Painfully friendly. “Mel, it’s been too long. You look great.” “Thanks. What are you doing in Muncie? Don’t you have school?” Shit, why was he at this 7-11? It’s out of his way. Did he want to see me? “Well, I actually got two weeks off for Thanksgiving, it’s called Fall Break, so I’m back for a while.” “That’s great. And you like school so far?” “I do, I love it.” “That’s really great.” I grabbed at the necklace I was wearing, without thinking. “Wow, you still wear that? Man, do I remember that necklace.”

tuesday magazine / short story

po s s u m katie taronas p e r f o r m a n c e a rt

performance genre / tuesday art /magazine tuesday magazine

“

This series of images is part of a larger project in which I photographically document the act of finding dead animals by the side of the road and then performing a funeral for them. I either burned the bodies to ashes or buried the animal, with the different rituals resulting in a different type of emotional closure. I photographed each stage of the process, and the project depends as much on the performance as it does on the power of individual images.” —katie taronas

“Oh, I—yeah, I still wear it. Just occasionally.” I wear it every day. “That seems so long ago now, doesn’t it? I guess it wasn’t even a year ago, huh. Those were some great times, Mel.” I nodded. What if I started crying. I looked at the counter. “So what are you doing working here?” he asked, with genuine innocence. “Oh, you know. Just making some extra money.” “Yeah, I didn’t realize how broke I’d be in college. I should be doing the same.” “Hey Dan—could we maybe hang out sometime this week?” I can’t stop thinking about some things that happened at the end of summer. I fucked up. “Would you want to do that?” “Yeah, um. Well, I’m only in town for a little longer.” “Oh of course—well it wouldn’t have to be like, a whole day.” That didn’t even make sense. I laughed. A small brunette who had just shuffled in walked up to us and stood next to Dan. He looked startled, and sputtered, “Oh, how stupid of me. This is Abby,” he looked at me. Oh, God. “Abby, this is an old friend of mine from high school, Mel.” Hi, I’m Mel. Dan lost his virginity to me. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you.” “Great to meet you too, Mel.” Abby was wearing a Sonic Youth t-shirt. She wasn’t that beautiful or thin, but she is one of those people who you can tell is comfortable in her own skin. She doesn’t look like me at all. “I think we should go soon, or your parents are going to be mad,” Abby said, looking up at Dan, who towered over her. She turned to me. “So do you go to school around here, Mel? Did you go to high school with Dan?” “Yeah, I did. I actually went to IU for a year but I’m taking some time off to make some money.” I got expelled for circulating answers to a French test. “Really cool,” Dan said first. “Yeah, really cool,” she echoed. “Do you go to Wesleyan with Dan?” “Yeah, we actually met the first week.” She looked up at him and smiled. “Was it the first week?” Dan said, scrunching up his face. “Huh, I thought it was later.” Turning to me, “Anyway, can I get a pack of—” “Marlboro Lights. I know.” “Ah, you’re killing yourself.” Abby was wearing artsy earrings that I imagined her mom bought for her. Her mom’s name was probably Patty and she probably thought Dan had good intentions. He probably did. “I know, I know. So how much do I owe you, Mel?” “Oh, um, $4.76.” He took some bills out of his pocket and came up with exact change. The fan whirred in the corner.

“Well, it was really good seeing you. And maybe we’ll get together later this week?” “Yeah, maybe. I was just thinking how much I have to work, but I’ll call you. And yeah, great seeing you too.” The two turned and walked out. Abby actually turned around to mouth bye. I stared at the magazine rack, numb. Jessica Alba looked at me from the cover of Fitness magazine. “Hey, who was that hot chick?” Tyler came crashing in, a grape soda in one hand and a Hustler in another. “Shut up.” “Ah, forget the girl. I have great news!” “Just stop.” “What? I can’t hear you when you whisper!” He chuckled at himself and threw the magazine onto the counter. “I stole this from the Circle K down the block. With you and me together, we can shut the whole franchise down, I’m telling—” “Just shut up. I don’t want to listen to you anymore.” I climbed over the countertop, grabbed his arm, and dragged him to the back of the store, pushing him into the back room. There was an old wood chair in the way when I pushed him, and he fell into it. The sound of the chair’s wooden legs screeching against the concrete hurt my ears. We blinked at each other as I looked down at him under the fluorescent lights. I flicked them off. My eyes pulsed, startled in the darkness. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it—what you’ve wanted this whole time.” “Wow. Okay. I mean, yes.” I wasn’t sure that he knew what I meant, but he would know soon enough. I unbuttoned my red vest and watched it fall to the floor. There was black writing above the tag that I’d never noticed before. In the neatest black letters, MEL had been stitched into the inside of the collar. I remembered telling Jerry that I hated when Sherry mistook my vest for hers and wore it during her shift, leaving the sugary scent of her perfume for me to swim around in the next day. He must have sat at the counter with a needle and thread on his day off, stitching it carefully like I’d seen him do his. Shit. Why does he do things like that. My eyes blurred for a second and then cleared. I peeled off my shirt and unhooked my bra with one hand, shrugging my shoulders so that it slid down my arms. Let’s just get on with it. “Come here.” Tyler hooked his fingers onto the top of my belt-loop, his knuckles grazing my stomach, and pulled me towards him until my legs slid naturally around his body. I had a fleeting memory of a time when Dan told me that I could never understand what I did to him. It was the darkest thing he ever said. Tyler kissed my neck while my eyes fixed on a paint chip on the wall behind him. He moved his hands down my sides, grazing my ribs and my stomach, stopping to press his thumbs into my hipbones.

tuesday magazine / short story

He looked up. “You’re really beautiful, Melody.” Oh, come on. We were pressed against each other, and I was looking down his neck. The sound of his breath was loud now, and I could hear it catching in his throat a few times. I gripped the back of the chair behind where Tyler’s shoulder blades were and closed my eyes. I didn’t care that he was a jackass who never treated me great. He didn’t know anything about me, and that was good enough. As I reached for Tyler’s belt buckle, a ﬂood of yellow light rushed into the room. I hoped against hope that the tongue of the door had just gotten stuck, that it was old and couldn’t hold on. I forced my eyes to

follow the lines of the beam on the ﬂoor, and stopped them ﬁnally at a pair of sturdy Doc Martens. Jerry. He looked at me, at my neck and at my torso—curved like a C and more naked that it has ever been. My lungs heaved dry breath into the space between Tyler’s and my intertwined bodies and Jerry’s Dockers. I looked down at Tyler. He was looking back at me; his eyes were beady and scared. They waited for a reaction, but I didn’t say anything, I didn’t do anything. All I could do was keep breathing, fast and shallow, the way animals breathe.

walden KILEY MCLAUGHLIN

It would have taken more than me to stand in this dark with no rooted pang for each branch that holds to its red and gold just a few nights too long, while soft, like the crease between thigh and calf, the brush in its place waits for sleep. A stream of chrome cars sneaks monotone between the trees and the stone steps are shaped, the likes of which have stretched pink scars to shine. They are not versed in the glistening skin smoothed over the decadent ripple or the drunken deep of the black sunk center, found by a cross between longest lengths. But they curve down like a spine and wait each night to sneak an elbow rub with the lake, or pond, as it soaks up, like a love-struck, the dirt and the pulsing stars.

poetry / tuesday magazine

Porcelain, stick-thin performers And plump, blemishless endomorphs All ooh-ing and ah-ing in turn – There’s something slightly silly about it, Something a little sickly, Some silent hum That seems to whisper falsehoods from a well-fed tongue. But there’s something sort of soothing, too: Some chorus of “Nice,” “tasty,” “ﬂavorful” That sorts the outside world, That pours the outsized universe Into a measuring cup.

cooking shows EVAN ROSENMAN

Because really, there’s something lovely there. That what we consume so hastily, so lazily Three or four or more times a day, In the car, or crossing a turnstile, Or shaking over a textbook Could be so damn joyful. And beside the plural marriage Of peanut butter, chocolate, and jam, Who knew the secret lives of eggs? the unbidden song of ginger? the hidden rapture of walnuts? Who massaged miracles out of hamburger meat? Or learned to possess the personalities of cream? Who split the atom and melted sugar? And who tamed the warring tribes Of cheese? Sorcerers, or perhaps Mere shepherds, whose Descendants transmute ﬂavor Beneath the hot glow of stage lights. They say that anorexics watch Cooking shows for sustenance – And indeed, those vibrant, sweating Multi-hued dishes could nourish, But for the rest of us, The unheeded ﬂavors of food are proof That beneath a world of stillness, There are tangy tides, bustling meringue Waves, salty spheres that hold A single buttery dream – That underneath, there is a grain of wonder delighting in its exile.

tuesday magazine / poetry

eth.no.meth.od.ol.o.gy GRACE RYAN

Post-Travel Stress Disorder. Has a catchy ring to it. Maybe you’ll ask, Hey, How’s Home, and I’ll laugh and tell you about my belly full of parasites, the way Ghana disappeared—poof—the moment I stepped onto the tarmac at Heathrow, how the December cold sucked six months of Africa right off my skin. PTSD, I’ll announce. I’ll feel witty, pleased with myself, finally turning phrases like a native speaker again. But maybe you’ll ask, Hey, How’s Ghana, and then I won’t laugh. Instead I’ll have to start with the village, Dunkura, because that’s all you people ever want anyway. The poverty, the piety. A place where the children wear tattered clothes—the same clothes every day, or every other day. There was the wart woman whose entire body was covered in bumps, her arms like taught brown cucumbers. The chief whose body looked small and bony and insignificant, even when he was draped in regal adinkra cloth. There were little girls standing outside wooden shacks, soap in hand, bathing the littler girls in tin pails. There were no real gutters, but there was electricity sometimes. And every night outside my bedroom door, all the members of the compound and a few others would gather around a radio turned full blast and listen to the shrill, lisping Twi with its ye da Nyame ases and Nyame adoms and Nyame hyira wos. Always Nyame, or Onyankapon, or Yesu, or Dua Ase, always God, somewhere in there, reminding the faithful to keep working, keep praying, keep thanking, as surely as they might tend their cassava or pound their fufuo or sweep their cement floors. If animism really is “the belief that a supernatural force animates and organizes the universe,” then these were animists in Christian clothing, with Jesus quite literally animating conversation, or more poetically, organizing the clouds and the sun and the anteaters into conspiracies— benevolent or otherwise—and parceling time into church, prayers, and the good hard work of pious peasants. Jesus determined cocoa yields and school fees and funerals and pregnancies. I have never respected or resented religion so much as I did those two short weeks I spent in Dunkura. God was everywhere, and yet the Church was nowhere to be found. There was a church, of course—in Ghana there are more churches than banks or post offices or hospitals. This

nonfiction / tuesday magazine

one was Catholic. And so was the elementary school that served several of the villages in the region. But the school itself was underfunded, understaffed. “We were promised a Bible for every child here,” said my friend Mavis, one of Dunkura’s exhausted young teachers. Apparently they’re still waiting, and the school isn’t new. If you can mark years in chipped paint and scuff marks, paneless windows and writing on the walls, you might guess a decade old or more. But then again, Africa doesn’t treat her architecture particularly well. It could have been built a month ago—I can’t tell you for certain. I wasn’t surprised to find a school without Bibles. For most of the world, books, even the Good Book, are a commodity, not a right. But with the boogiemen Rawlings, Mugabe, Idi Amin, all creeping around my bed at night, I was ready for a feel-good story about the Church—capital C—paving the way to salvation with number two pencils and a box of thrift store cast-offs. Mavis told me that it’s actually the government providing most of the funding, including her salary. Kids buy their own books, if they can afford them. If they can’t, they either share or disappear from the classroom altogether to stave off embarrassment. But more so than books or supplies or perhaps even the schools’ mandatory uniforms, which can be handme-downed through a community for years, it’s rice that makes delinquents of rural children. With the switch to a cash crop economy, kids don’t want to take ampesie to class anymore, they want shiny silver mpesewas and crisp sidi bills. The school forbids them from returning home for lunch, so those who can’t afford a 10 cent bag of rice from Wozee the amowura, or even a fistful of kenkey from Adoua, may not show up to school at all. It’s better than hunger, better than humiliation. Better to be working the land, carrying a machete, waiting for that glorious day when the long-promised School Lunch Program makes its way down the unpaved road from Kumasi, carrying food to the needy and financial ruin to the few Dunkura women making a bare-bones living at the margins of the schoolyard. In case one of those blue-windbreakered clipboard people hasn’t stopped you by the coffee shop lately (“Can you spare a few minutes for Africa?”), I should probably mention that very few rural Ghanaian

galileoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s d elig h t dr ew v aughan digital photogr aphy

tuesday magazine / photography

children can expect to make it through secondary school, much less a real university. Instead, they’re given vocational training— sometimes only one vocation for the entire village. It used to be basketry in Dunkura, now it’s catering. Or it was until the teacher stopped going to class, just a few months before I came. I asked to borrow one of the schoolgirls’ textbooks in order to write a report on the local food economy. It was a blue paper pamphlet printed in not-sonearby Bonwire, meticulously cared for, faded, but without a single fold. From it I learned that “the concept of catering is refered to as hospitality industry that provides food, drink, in certain cases accommodation.” I found the “Rational for Studying Catering” a bit uninspired, but convincing, especially when I read, “Catering activities helps in meeting the nutritional needs of many people,” and “Caterer cooks nutritious and balanced meals for family members.” Then I turned the page. It appears that “The Proportions of Nutrient Meant for the Human Body” is 55% carbohydrates, 20% protein, 15% fats & oils, and 10% “vitamins, water, mineral salt” (calculated by weight, by calorie, by volume?). These vitamins “are got from milk, egg, yolk, etc.” That “etc.” should really be printed in bold, since milk is virtually absent from the Ghanaian diet, and “garden eggs” (eggplants) are probably the closest fucking thing to an omelette that you’re going to get on an average day in Dunkura. And be careful, students, about food spoilage. You don’t want “mouldiness,” the “soft greenish plants that grow on foods left in a warmth space,” or bacteria, “very small living things related to plants that live on protein food,” or even yeast, which, in case you didn’t know, “is a single cell plant and look a bit bigger than bacteria.”

I should add that I really hadn’t felt too bad for the kids in Dunkura up until this point. They smiled big, played a lot, relentlessly badgered me for every item of interest that I had on my person. The Twi verb for “I like” is the same as the verb for “I want,” if that tells you anything about our Twenglish interactions. When I was their age I asked for things by pointing and saying, “We can’t really afford that now, can we Mommy?” There was no “White man, I want your biscuit,” or “Give me your bracelet.” We were from “pioneer stock,” as my grandmother used to brag. We pulled ourselves up by our own fucking bootstraps, and we didn’t believe in Handouts. We believed in Hard Work, in Character, in coming to school in too-tight shoes and then going ahead and kicking our own asses with them afterward. But I didn’t understand what it’s like to kick yourself without any shoes at all. I assumed that initiative could always trump circumstance. This fucking pamphlet was the saddest thing I’d ever seen. Because you could be the smartest kid in class, and the hungriest, the archetypal protagonist of a thousand different inspiring third-world stories, walking to school five miles each way, no sandals, wearing a borrowed uniform, sharing books and lunches and ideas, with nothing to your name but a good head on steady shoulders, and you could memorize your textbooks from cover to cover, know the material better than your teachers, better than anyone in your village, and still, yeast is not a plant. So here’s what I’ll lead up to with all of this, the place where books and rice and anger come together. On the back page of that little blue pamphlet in Dunkura, the words were stamped at neat ninety-degree angles: “Knowledge Is Power.”

things to be said while facing north RIVA NATHANS

Let open your window; know that all that divides us Has passed in the lungs of birds.

poetry / tuesday magazine

tap water JUSTINE LESCROART

A pea coat buttoned high against the cold makes me think about infrastructure— frozen pipes, and how I’ve learned that each snowflake, like a choice made, has a unique vector in time and space. Eons, eras, months of toil reduced down to a single, smoky drop of water that melts through one eyelash; The water runs in rivulets through the city streets and in May, seeds of ice open into tulips, daffodils, crocuses. If the city were destroyed then grass would grow in the streets, storm drain goldfish would dart among cattails, and I know that it’s right to breathe deeply after all, mildly high on the surprise of it and appreciating the decades that led to the municipal ordinance that lets me, delighted, drink from the tap.

tuesday magazine / poetry

y o u a re ve ry b rav e kathleen hale p a i n t i n g / 11 â&#x20AC;?x14 â&#x20AC;? ac r y lic , ink o n c a n v a s

painting / tuesday magazine

portraits JULIA WINN

Abigail Kraemer Abigail does not much care for her name, she prefers to go by Abba; yes, Abba like the band, she knows. You really think she hasn’t heard that one before? Once she tried communal living. What could possibly be more of an adventure than living in a self-sustaining community that dares to live out ideals others could only speak of? Growing their own food, making their own clothes and hammocks, this was the real thing. However, life on the commune was not quite as she expected. Early mornings and slaughtering chickens began to be a bit much. There was no time to play the guitar and she was so exhausted at the end of the day that she hardly had any breath left to sing. I ask her if she met anybody interesting while hitchhiking back home. She says no, just one man who said that if he were her father he would want her to have a car. “I’m sure you felt the same way,” I say. She says in a few weeks she will be going to Virginia, where she will see her love for the ﬁrst time in months.

Mauricio Ramirez Mauricio believes in the golden calf, the heretical idol built by Aaron and his followers when the Israelites were lost in the desert. “Aaron had exactly the right idea, I mean, why shouldn’t we all just be allowed to party all the time and just have a good life?” My other co-workers are silent, unsure if he is joking or if he is serious. “Yes,” I chime in, “Moses was probably just bitter

about the fact that he had been missing out on all the fun when he was up getting the Ten Commandments.” “Exactly! See? You get what I’m goin’ at.” One day he will open a church in his backyard and the people will come from far and wide to hear him speak and he will be the next Mel Gibson.

Adrienne Warry “How do you like UT?” my mother asks. “I love it! I love it so much!” Adrienne exclaims. “It is the best thing that has happened to me in my whole life, except for some other things.” Adrienne has yet to discover she is pretty. The kind of pretty where you don’t even have to try. This was primarily my fault. “I had a dream about Daniel the other night,” she announces. “But it is only the second time I have dreamed about him since we started dating.” “What was the ﬁrst dream?” I ask, my mouth full of sushi. “I dreamed he kissed me for the ﬁrst time and he sucked out my soul through my mouth.” “Oh?” “Yes, but that’s not how it happened for real,” she assures me.

Sanjay Suresh Jay was voted one of the ten best looking freshmen at school. He doesn’t sleep at night and he always pays when the two of us go out to IHOP. I asked him

tuesday magazine / prose

TALIA LAVIN

how he got his money and he said he won it on game shows when he was younger. He told me once that he saw a friend of his die, back home, in India. Two bullet wounds, one in the chest, the other in the stomach. He had no last words and didn’t last more than eight minutes. “But he was your friend.” I say. “Yes, it was horrible.” “How do you feel about it now? Does it still bother you?” I ask him. “Nah, he’s doing pretty well wherever he is; probably bangin’ tons of bitches up in heaven for all I know.” “Lucky guy.” “Yeah,” he replies, “it’s all good.”

union square park late in august Even the cool shadows shudder in a furor of doors. Even the stoops are trembling. A red-headed girl leaves a man and he slumps on the bench as if hanged. Ash is molting down the buildings on the breeze. At the market the vendors hawk puckering melons. I lie under the stone legs of the Marquis de Lafayette and his sword’s shadow slices my belly. Out from me curl the tailpipes of the fearsome and particolored city. The man on the bench cups his mouth with both hands to keep himself from rising.

poetry / tuesday magazine

a note from amritsar MICHAL LABIK

I was stuck in a crowd of bearded men and I didn’t like that at all. Well, not only men – there were also women wrapped in saris and a few children, one of whom kept tentatively touching my inner thigh from behind. The human mass had the density and speed of old honey poured out of a jar, all flowing down the bridge towards Harmandir Sahib, the temple of gold. I was holding the offering that I had bought for a few rupees. It was a small plate made of dried leaves, containing a scoop of sweet milky rice mash. I tried to shield the delicate offering from the pressure of human bodies around me, like a hen protecting a newly-hatched chick. I could feel the rice warming up from the heat of my hand. The atmosphere was oppressively humid even in the evening, and a rhythmic chant from inside the temple pervaded the air above the surrounding lake. I wanted the wait to be over, but the progress was painfully slow. I’d been waiting for twenty minutes now and I was still at the beginning of the bridge. The temple was apparently full, and the guards wouldn’t let people in unless someone got out first. To hell with it, India is all about waiting. There wasn’t a single other Westerner around. Good, white people tend to ruin the atmosphere. They are all are just gawking voyeurs eager to absorb as much Indian authenticity into their digital cameras as possible, and then blog about it. Almost like me. Meeting a Westerner is always full of mutual understanding, and mutual contempt. The day’s sweat was starting to itch and the glaringly orange scarf covering my hair felt uncomfortable. The explorative child’s hand wasn’t helping either. I scowled back at the five-year old boy behind me, and his mother pulled him closer to her own body. I tried adjusting my scarf, but my elbow hit someone’s wiry, grating beard. “Sorry for that.” There was no need to apologize, the man hardly cared. Everyone around seemed strangely complacent, as though

they were all born to be members of a waiting crowd. Could as well be the case, I guess. The two Sikhs guarding the entrance finally decided it was time for another batch of people to enter, and the crowd jolted forward. I walked for about two meters and had to stop - the guards blocked the gate with a wooden pole. When I looked back, it didn’t seem like we moved at all, the temple was still shining far ahead. Somebody’s warm body pressed against my back. Because I didn’t speak Punjabi, I couldn’t explain to these people that I hated physical contact, and even if I did, they’d probably find it funny. I thrashed my shoulders about to make some space, but the gaps were filled as soon as I created them. There was no hope of going back either, the crowd behind me pushed forward, as though they wanted to make the mass move faster. No movement for a long time. Suddenly the chant from inside the temple stopped, and we found ourselves in silence. I started wondering if anything had happened, but nobody seemed worried. Men were shielding their wives from the groping hands of strangers, because sacred places rarely prevent people from behaving like pigs. A rasping voice cut the air, rising and falling, sometimes in a sing-song tone, sometimes preaching, and then it hit me – I’ll have to wait through a sermon. That’s when I gave up – the stew of bodies, my shoeless aching feet and my itching back, the leaf plate crumbling in my hand, they all stopped bothering me. I listened to the prayers that I didn’t understand and I swayed with the crowd, meek to its forces coming from all directions. An hour passed. Eventually the prayers ended and we slowly started moving again, and at the end I left my offering at the entrance and then, finally, I entered the Golden Temple. In a few hours I would feel alone.

tuesday magazine / nonfiction

CROWN BENEFACTORS

WE WOULD ALSO LIKE TO THANK :

THE DALIO FAMILY

THE UNDERGRADUATE COUNCIL

WENYI CAI

THE OFFICE FOR THE ARTS HARVARD MEDIA VENTURES

PLATINUM CONTRIBUTORS

THE ENGISH DEPARTMENT

ANDREA JONAS

DANIEL DONOGHUE WENYI CAI

GOLD CONTRIBUTORS

KAREEM SHUMAN

LISA MANTINI

M AT T C O R R I E L

DAVID WRIGHT JIANHUA GONG AND MING ZHANG

If you would like to donate to Tuesday Magazine, visit our website at www.tuesdaymagazine.org and click “donate” under our “interact” tab. You can also mail donations to Tuesday Magazine / SOCH / Box 288 / 59 Shepard St. / Cambridge, MA. 02138. Make all checks payable to Tuesday Magazine, unless you would like a tax deduction, in which case you should make the check to Harvard University, with Tuesday Magazine in the memo line. To subscribe, visit our website and click “subscribe” under our “interact” tab.

genre / tuesday magazine

r acco o n k ati e tar onas photogr aphy

tuesday magazine / photography

genre / tuesday magazine