In Bloom

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twofold in bloom

is a collaborative print and online project that collects work from a creative community of student artists, writers, designers, photographers and chefs. Twofold curates high quality, sentimental pieces of work that represent feelings, ideas and the vision of our communal culture. In our pages you will find generations-old recipes, lyrical essays detailing morning routinves and daily commutes, critiques, poetry, interviews and how-tos alongside photography, art or design to illustrate its written counterpart. Designed to provide a process-based experience for contributors, one edition of Twofold will be published each year in order to ensure a most cohesive, aesthetically pleasing, detail and design oriented final product.

TABLE of CONTENTS 4............................................ potluck

8................................ sip back and relax 12.............. true love: a treatise against irony 14............................. mediterranean feast 20.............................. in bloom, a playlist 22.................................... going to seed 28..................................... pen to paper 32......................................... in bloom 34..................................... the pedestal 36............................... phantom memories 38....................................... spring tide 40............................... the moment i knew 44........... you caught me at a very strange time 48............................................ kairos EDITORS-IN-CHIEF

CONTRIBUTORS

Asal Ehsanipour & Candice Navi

Thalia Bajakian, Allison Begalman, Sabrina Bouzaglou, Juan Bravo, Nick Hazelton, Emma Katz, Ted Katz, Allie Mendelson, Caroline Rashtian, Desiree Rashtian, Sridevi Reddy, Aaron Taxy, Chrissy Twicken, Catherine Uong, Michelle Yousefzadeh, Gracie Warwick, Keely Weiss cover by s. bouzaglou

Twelve months ago, 11 contributors released the first issue of Twofold. It was an expression of creativity, an intentional commitment to art, a manifestation of our collective community.

In the year since Twofold was first published, much has changed. Some of us graduated from university, traded one city for another and travelled the globe. Some of us had our hearts broken, ripped open and our sexuality rediscovered. We’ve accepted job offers, declined others and pursued life trajectories that were sometimes right, but also sometimes wrong. We’re like kids grabbing at straws, stained pants tumbling through the washing machine. We’re still in transition, much like we were a year ago. So while a lot has changed, nothing has changed.

The theme of Issue 2 is “In Bloom.” As springtime approached, our original intention was for it to signify maturing, adulthood, a clean break from our parents and our former selves. Hey, world, it would have called out. Look how we made it out alive! As if we’d just survived the stifling, stagnant winter that was adolescence: Wanderlust, satiated. Thirst, quenched. Life goals, met.

But, no.

If anything, “In Bloom” is a reminder that we don’t always turn with the seasons.

Sometimes winter emotionally binds us and we remain stalled while the world around us carries on. Other times, while our buds may blossom, the fruits of our labor ready for harvest, our flowers will invariably close at the season’s end. Spring will come and go, just as all seasons do; there’s no solution other than to confront ourselves all over again next year. Young adults who experience rapid discovery and rediscovery, we are forever in the process of becoming who we are meant to be.

With this issue, we honor that we are always blooming. Constantly changing. Building new relationships with ourselves and the world around us. There is no template for maturity. We are trees, our branches intertwined, growing in all conceivable directions.

But our roots run deep, and we are just trying to stay grounded, every single day.

Most sincerely, Asal Ehsanipour and Candice Navi

c. navi

the tf p otlu c k

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O

n a warmer weekend in February 2014, the contributors of “Bookends,” the first issue

of Twofold, celebrated the magazine’s release with homemade food and the joy of good company. The smell of sweet wine, Oreo chocolate brownies and tofu salad filled the air in a small apartment in downtown Los Angeles. As what tends to happen among good friends, hours passed and candles melted with no sense of time passing deep into the evening.

It was a lovely night. Rummaging through these images, we can’t help but feel that the potluck—as a celebration of our collaborative effort—embodies the collection of “magic moments” that Twofold was created to safeguard.

Thank you to everyone who made it out to the potluck, perused the first issue or supported the contributors in the creation of Twofold Magazine. We feel overwhelmed in our gratitude for the friendships, memories and insights that made this project a reality.

We hope you enjoy the second issue as much as we enjoyed creating it.

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c. navi

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o ur lovel y c ontr ibu tor s

7

&

sip back

relax

Words by Asal Ehsanipour Photos by Candice Navi Tea by Michelle Yousefzadeh

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White, green or black. Iced or hot. Infused with honey, lemon or milk. It’s funny to think I used to reject my parents’ offers to pour me a cup of Persian tea in the morning or with my dessert. But as I grew, crowding around my family’s kitchen table in Northern California with a glass cup of hot tea—lamenting on life together— became my picture of “home.”

My morning ritual of family with a side of tea is a simple treasure. The wisdom exchanged during years of tea talks took time to absorb, but now I realize they’ve shaped my feelings on love, independence and the future.

Tea around the table forced me to stop and listen to the rain pounding on the pool in our backyard, soak in the smell of mom’s home cooked meals or watch the dogs playing outside. It’s brought me closer to friends as we held our glasses and cuddled into the nooks of our couches, talking into the night. It’s added a new dimension of love between my family and me; sharing a fresh brew as my parents tell stories or relay advice is now a symbol of our bond. And for those who are new to my home, offering a glass of tea is an invitation to my world.

I couldn’t imagine trading these little moments, nor could I imagine my family imparting their love in a more gentle or understated way.

More than that, drinking tea extends to the type of life I want to live and the person I want to be. Either with my loved ones or by myself, it offers me stillness. My ritual symbolizes calmness and serenity when the stresses in my life bog me down; the stirring is replaced with a gentle appreciation for the present. It’s a pause, a vehicle to confront the people and values that hold meaning in my life. Tea has the magic ability to usher moments of tranquility, introspection and honesty—especially with myself. With it, I find grounding in the present.

I close my eyes. Take a deep whiff. Ah, there.

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true love:

a treatise against irony by

A

Keely Weiss

s a native Brooklynite I am of the opinion that there is a special level of hell reserved for the disaffected creative types who colonized

Williamsburg in 2004. Part of this is because they ushered in a generation of New Yorkers who think of themselves as outer borough-savvy but wouldn’t know Prospect Lefferts Gardens from the Astoria Beer Garden. The greater part of this sentiment, however, has to do with the Gentrification Brigade’s responsibility for introducing America to the concept of liking things ironically.

Last fall, while I was ferrying my boss around in my car one afternoon, the seminal Ke$ha hit “Die Young” came on the radio. I turned the volume up because, I mean, what do you think I am—some kind of barbarian or something?

My boss, however, was less than impressed.

“You like that?” he asked.

“What—Ke$ha? Yeah, I love her.” I adjusted the volume.

“Okay. But, like, ironically, right?”

Look, I get it: I was a snarky, New York-bred intern with heavy bangs, the vocabulary of a librarian, an entire wardrobe of pleated skirts in various colors and patterns.

I’m sure he hardly had me pegged for the sleaze queen’s number-one fan. For all my hipster sass, however, I happen to kind of pride myself on my sincerity. If I can promise

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nothing else about my taste levels, I can at least assure you that none of my enthusiasm will ever be artificial: not my

affection for Mormon culture (no, actually, I’m a Jewish atheist—why do you ask?), nor my undying obsession with the Monkees (I like them better than the Beatles THERE I SAID IT WHO WANTS TO FIGHT ME), nor my everlasting appreciation for the movie Showgirls (to the extent that it even figures heavily into my virginity-loss story). I am of the steadfast belief that, with the exception of most fascist dictators, anything can be cool as long as you like it hard enough.

Besides, don’t we have better things to do than cultivate an array of artificial interests? Aren’t there actual musicians and books and movies we can spend our time honestly enjoying? Because that’s the thing about liking something sarcastically: whether you’re pretending to like something you actually can’t stand or trying to downplay your genuine affection for something “uncool” in order to impress someone who probably owns Rick Astley’s entire discography on vinyl anyway*, professing to like something “ironically” is really just an edgier-sounding way of lying about your interests. What are we trying to prove, really?

Are we actually afraid of how our friends will react if we tell them we watch Two and a Half Men? And if so, well, isn’t the real issue just that we need better friends? What’s the matter with being authentic about who we are and what we like?

That’s what this is really about, after all: authenticity.

Isn’t it about time we admit that “playing it cool” is just about the least cool thing we could be doing with our energy? From our favorite TV shows to our secret passions, I think we owe it to ourselves to be earnest about whatever it is that moves us. And, sure, I suppose the cultural misappropriation of “irony” isn’t the greatest threat in the world to living an authentic life, but life is too damn short to pussyfoot around about who we are and what we want as long as we can afford not to—whether that means telling someone you love them or telling the same person that you love Nickleback. So go on and buy those tickets to the local high school production of your favorite musical: there doesn’t have to be anything guilty about it. *If this describes you, I’m sorry. As research for this article I spent some time searching for a Rick Astley song I could non-ironically profess to enjoy as a sort of olive branch, but I couldn’t find a single track I liked. Not a one. I do, however, have the utmost respect for your musical predilections. Besides—why be concerned with impressing a. mendelson

someone who listens to the Monkees?

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mediterran

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nean

feast Recipes by Aaron Taxy Art Direction by Asal Ehsanipour Photos by Candice Navi

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Israeli Salad (serves 4) 1 cucumber, peeled 5 roma tomatoes, diced 1/4 white onion, diced Extra virgin olive oil Balsamic vinegar Juice of 1 lemon Cumin Cayenne pepper (optional) Salt and pepper to taste Mix vegetables, a drizzle of olive oil and a dash balsamic vinegar in a serving bowl. Add 3-4 dashes of cumin and desired amount of salt, pepper and cayenne to taste and mix into the salad.

Avocado Hummus (serves 4) 1 can of chickpeas 1 avocado 1 clove of garlic, chopped Juice of 3 lemons 2-3 tablespoons, extra virgin olive oil 5 dashes of cumin 3 dashes of ground coriander seed Salt and pepper 2 dashes of cayenne pepper Paprika for garnish Place chickpeas, avocado, garlic, spices, salt and pepper into a food processor. Process at a low speed while drizzling in olive oil and lemon juice. Process until hummus has taken a smooth, creamy texture. Serve with whole wheat pita bread.

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Roasted Eggplant (serves 4) 1 eggplant, cut into 1/4-inch slices from top to bottom Extra virgin olive oil Juice of 1/2 lemon Cumin Ground coriander seed Turmeric Paprika Thyme Salt and pepper Cayenne pepper (optional) Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Place eggplant slices on a well-oiled pan. Generously drizzle olive oil onto the eggplant slices. Dash each slice of eggplant with spices, salt and pepper.

Place pan in oven. Remove when eggplant has turned a goldenbrown color (about 15 minutes). Immediately drizzle lemon juice on top of eggplant slices and let cool.

Sauteed Mushrooms (serves 4) 2 cups of mushrooms, sliced 1/2 white onion 2-3 cloves of garlic, chopped 1 twig of fresh rosemary 3 dashes of cumin 3 dashes of ground coriander seed 3 dashes of paprika 3 dashes of turmeric 3 dashes of cayenne pepper Salt and pepper Extra virgin olive oil Juice of 1/2 lemon 1/4 cup dry red wine Heat sautĂŠ pan to medium heat and drizzle 2-3 tablespoons of olive oil. Place onion and garlic onto the pan. Immediately dash onion and garlic with salt and pepper. Occasionally stir onion.

When onion begins to soften, add mushrooms, spices, salt, pepper and lemon juice. Remove rosemary leaves from stem and add to pan. Mix occasionally. When mushrooms completely soften, add red wine and cook for 3-5 more minutes while stirring. Place into serving bowl and let cool for two minutes before eating.

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Roasted Bell Peppers (serves 3–4) 2 bell peppers, red and yellow 1 clove of garlic, chopped Extra virgin olive oil Balsamic vinegar Salt and pepper to taste Preheat oven to a high broil. Cover a pan with aluminum foil and coat with olive oil. Generously coat bell peppers with olive oil and place on the well-oiled pan and place in oven. Check every five minutes and rotate peppers one-quarter around when the skin begins to blacken. Once fully blackened, remove from oven and immediately place in an enclosed paper bag for 2-5 minutes.

Remove from bag and place in ice-water bath. After cooled, remove skins, stem and seeds, and slice into 1/2-inch lines. Place in bowl. Add chopped garlic, a drizzle of olive oil, vinegar, salt and pepper to taste.

Quinoa (serves 4) 1 cup quinoa seeds 2 cups water 3 dashes turmeric 3 dashes cumin 3 dashes of ground coriander seed 1 dash of nutmeg Salt to taste Sprinkle of chia and flax seeds Mix quinoa, turmeric, cumin, coriander seed and nutmeg in a pot of water. Keep uncovered and bring to a boil. Once at a boil, bring down to a simmer and cover the pot. Let the quinoa simmer for 10-15 minutes or until all of the water has been absorbed. Fluff out the quinoa with a spoon to check absorption.

Place in serving bowl and mix in desired amount of salt to taste.

Sprinkle chia and flax seeds before serving for added nutrition.

Editors’ Note: The ingredients included in Aaron’s mediterranean recipes include seasonal, warm weather crops. During the spring and summer months, we encourage our readers to experiment with these recipes using produce from their local farmers market.

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in bloom, a playlist by

Twofold Contributors

(1) Bloom, Paper Kites (2) Eli Eli, Misun (3) Flowers Never Bend with the Rainfall, Simon & Garfunkel (4) Eyes Shut, Years and Years (5) Retro, Childish Gambino (6) Never Going Back Again, Fleetwood Mac (7) Days Are Gone, HAIM (8) Like the Dawn, The Oh Hellos (9) The Weight of Lies, The Avett Brothers (10) Santa Fe, Beirut (11) Little River, The Tallest Man on Earth (12) My Silver Lining, First Aid Kit (13) Summertime Clothes, Animal Collective (14) The Seed, The Roots (15) Blue Moon, Beck (16) Talking Backwards, Real Estate {listen at goo.gl/5F6ubz}

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c.navi 21

going to seed by

Asal Ehsanipour

I can’t say enrolling in an urban farming fellowship is what I’d envisioned when I graduated from a careeroriented college a few months earlier. You see, I finished school with a public relations degree, spending my summers in fluorescent-lit offices interning for nonprofits and public radio stations. As I entered my adolescent years, I never fully embraced the label of an “outdoor person,” either. I was the bookworm who read 100 stories in 100 days and preferred puzzles to sports. For a while I avoided hiking for fear of injury. I never learned how to pitch a tent.

When I got to the farming fellowship, I realized many of the others were the types to WWOOF in Peru and hike the Appalachian Trail. One had spent his last three summers planting trees in the Canadian bush. Several others already had their permaculture certifications. I, on the other hand, had no knowledge of the difference between a seed and a seedling.

No matter.

After my first day on the farm I texted my parents that I realized how much Ilove getting dirty. “You always loved nature,” my dad replied. *** I remember the first day I’d ever thought to myself, “This is the best day of my life.” Alone—little girl, big world—I stood on my backyard patio, gazing out into the green lawn and picket fence beyond me. I jumped from the patio again and again—I was Pocahontas diving from the cliffs, landing smoothly in the water. I climbed up, jumped 22

down, on and on for hours and hours, every time surprised when I touched dirt so suddenly.

*** I fall in love with atmospheres. That backyard is where I danced through our muddy garden while my dad watered the plants, collected pill bugs, built a fort within our goliath grape vine, played Survivor behind the fig tree until the sun disappeared. Yes, I was the bookworm who read 100 stories in 100 days. But I was also the little girl who liked the softness and the squelch of my bare toes curled into dirt.

The one who led my pregnant mother by hand, splashing in the frigid ocean. The one who chewed on sour grass and made wishes on dandelions.

*** It appeared that, for a while, some of the most poignant aspects of my childhood—those that took place outside— seemed to trail in my shadow, lingering a few steps behind.

My connection to the outdoors still existed, though only as a series of stars whose dots I hadn’t yet connected.

Sure, I spent hours at my college’s garden, hiked to lakes and waterfalls during an environmental conservation trip to Orcas Island, and worked on a campaign linked to a Showtime series called Years of Living Dangerously, which aimed to highlight the human effect of climate change. But still, it never occurred to me that I might one day work in sustainable agriculture, spending my workweek shoveling goat manure. Rather, my tiptoe into environmental space seemed like a happy coincidence at the time. Now with some distance—five months under my belt at the farm—I realize my attraction to experiencing and protecting outdoor spaces was a subliminal pull more than anything else. Let me explain.

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I have a theory that human beings are constantly in the process of returning to their childhood selves. Maybe you’ve felt it, too—that the purest version of our character manifests at the earliest age. We do what we love, run free in our natural identities, unadulterated by societal norms or a mediocre notion of what the masses prefer. That changes for a while, I think. Whether it has to do with social pressures or life’s distractions, I don’t know. Maybe we feel the need to explore something different, idly assuming that there exists something better than what we already know and love.

With any luck, we can return to how we were at the beginning. Perhaps the return is intentional. Or it might happen naturally like it did for me. I think that, for some of us, the florescent lights are blinding. So no matter how plum the paycheck, once I’d begun to reconnect with my inner child, it became impossible to imagine cashing in the spiritual and healing effects of gardening.

I’m only 22, but I feel the tug that pulls me back to my childhood self. That little girl, both bookworm and one-day-agrarian may not have been quintessentially “outdoory.” She eventually graduated from a career-driven university and spent summers working indoors. Still, her bright and beating spirit boomeranged back to me, landing softly in my chest. ***

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Reflecting on my earliest, happiest, simplest memories, maybe becoming a farmer isn’t so surprising. Maybe it’s the return to childhood innocence I craved. Maybe my childhood foreshadowed an urban farming experience, after all.

Although everything I’ve learned here is new to me, it’s all eerily familiar. Digging through the soil feels like sculpting mud pies I prepared in elementary school. Shaping a plant bed or sifting compost is like rubbing my mom’s back or smoothing my sister’s hair. Finding a fully-grown zucchini in an unattended patch is my victory at hide and seek. Years ago, I fed the ducklings at the pond behind my grandmother’s house. Today, I feed our farm’s chickens.

Collecting littered bottle caps to make jewelry has now become foraging rosemary bushes for my homemade lotion.

Digging through trashcans to transfer plastic bottles to the recycling bin… Well, I mean, that still happens sometimes. *** It’s a beautiful thing, sprouting towards the sunlight. It’s not receding into childhood again, necessarily. More like growing into an enriched version of our earliest stage of life.

I think we parallel the lifecycle of a plant. What begins as a seed eventually blooms and bears fruits. But after the plant matures, it’s fruits become flowers and it prepares to “go to seed.” In doing so, the plant not only returns to its origins, but also leaves a legacy for the next generation of its kind. I like that—the cyclical nature of things. *** 25

“It is spring again. The earth is like a child that knows poems by heart.” ­Rainer Maria Rilke 26

Truth be told, I’m still a child. I’m still in the process of understanding how the bits of knowledge I’ve acquired will guide my future. I’m also still trying to figure out how my rekindled love of nature fits into my puzzle-doing, book-devouring, “not-your-typical-outdoor-person” groove. It’s a mystery I’ve yet to solve and a binary I don’t quite understand. But what I know now that I didn’t know before is this: A connection to the earth exists innately within many of us. It certainly exists within me.

It’s primal. It’s vibrant. According to the master gardener Patricia Klindienst, it “provides us with a sense of coherent meaning.” Sometimes, it just takes some patience to retrieve it.

We mustn’t let ourselves idealize simpler times. Instead, we should—we can!—return to them. Whether deliberately or by chance, growing into ourselves means reconnecting with our roots. We must be brave. We must pursue the extraordinary. And sometimes, the extraordinary can be found in our own backyard. ***

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pen to paper Candice Navi Translations by Desiree Rashtian by

H

idden away in the garage hides a box filled with Caroline’s fondest and faintest memories. While

living in Paris at the age of 12, Caroline decided to start keeping every letter, every memory. Since then, decades worth of correspondence with friends, family and old flames followed Caroline through each new city, friend and stage of life. Keeping a physical record of her past connections is all the more essential after having attended multiple boarding schools and living in Paris, Tehran, Geneva, New York and Los Angeles.

Caroline’s love of writing and deep emotional investment in each letter was well known; her gift of choice was always stationery.

“I would go to the mailbox and for me, it would be the highlight of my day. I remember the feeling I had every

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time I got a letter. If I didn’t have a letter I would be sad.”

While sitting at the kitchen table over iced coffee and French croissants with her daughter Desiree, Caroline mused over the authenticity of connection and emotion that can only be found in a handwritten, mailed letter.

Caroline explained how email— today’s digital equivalent of the more traditional envelope and stamp—is not a real emotional vehicle for heartfelt communication. Caroline’s digital correspondence is often reserved for shallow dealings at work or to schedule the occasional appointment with a plumber. Email, Facebook messages, texts and even phone calls are a courtesy compared to letters or seeing someone in person.

“In long letters, I tell you everything. Now it’s ‘How are you, I haven’t heard from you, hope your family is well…

Bye.’” Caroline cannot help but notice the disparity in digital communication to when she is occasionally reunited with friends in person. “When we see each other it’s still the same.

[My friends] have husbands and wives but it’s still the same.”

Even without the shift from handwritten to typed, there is a discrepancy in meaning between English and other languages. Because Caroline is trilingual—she is fluent in French, Farsi and English—she is able to note the small differences in how emotions are often exaggerated. In English, words like ‘love’ or ‘hate’ are used freely without realizing that, with each incorrect use of the words, we detract from the intended meaning.

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“The problem with the English language is you lose love for chocolate, you lose love for people. ‘I love this, I love that, I love to go out.’ So the meaning of love is lost in between. Words that are spoken are the best because they stay forever.”

Caroline was moved to tears when revisiting the letters, which were exchanged over the course of decades by old classmates, nannies, grade school teachers, her brother and her parents. But, she said, what saddened her most were the people she could not remember or the forgotten feelings expressed by her family, with whom she was often apart from for school, and later, marriage.

“It’s sad some of the people I don’t remember. My good friends I remember, but some of the people I met… There are a lot of things I don’t remember. Some of the time I thought my dad didn’t care as much and then I saw these letters and I remembered that he was really in my life. You have this tendency to forget a little bit. You have proof—on letter it’s different. When you revisit you remember.”

“Words that are spoken are the best because they stay forever.”

Some of Caroline’s favorite letters include one from her boarding school best friend on beloved Snoopy stationery, a postcard from an old friend begging her to attend his engagement party in Paris and a letter from her father on his Parisian Persian rug company’s stationery. Each of these letters, written in French, is filled with je t’adore, true affection. She was inseparable from her longtime boarding school classmate, whose letter says ‘my love, my darling, I miss you so much.’ Caroline forgot about any letters sent by her brother. After rediscovering them years later, she was pleasantly surprised to see that they were filled with love she did not think he was capable of during their adolescence.

“On Facebook, you don’t write these things.”

In the last 15 years, the constant influx of letters transitioned to email and Facebook. Despite the change in medium and inadvertently in the message, the one thing that has not changed is how Caroline feels with each person when they are finally face to face. Even with years and oceans separating them, there are some connections that 30

have the ability to start right where they left off.

My dear Caroline, I hope that this little note finds you in good health and that you’ve started your studies seriously and that you have adapted to life in Los Angeles which you said is very peculiar. But sometimes in life, you have to adapt to circumstances even though they’re difficult. I hope that you will receive this letter in time for the 10th which is your birthday and I wish you a happy year in good health with a lot of success in every aspect of life. I hope that you arranged your schedule so that you are able to work. I hope that you see Ameh Farideh often. It will soon be Yom Kippur and I know you will fast. I wish you a nice and easy fast. How was your cousin’s engagement? Do you have news from your brother?

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The blue of his eyes had swept a thousand hearts under his bridge, a river of The resonant easy laugh, large hands, a nose not shy but blunt and Friendly to comers, dogs, all types‌ even with the hardest edges.

It was a work life that started on the docks with a grip hook and Ended 70 stories into the sky, nothing but steel, glass, and agreeable conce That shifted the labors and living of others obscured through oceans Of numbers, digits manipulated no less than the hoists and forklifts of his Playful hard-boned youth, digits running to down-current towns and continent Gripping fingers not unlike his own long-ago gripping fingers.

Now those blues of his had run watery, the fixed sparkle of attention dissipa As the pale Indian Summer haze, Before the cutting gales wrack the granite coast and clear a colder view.

His birthplace and busy landing by now had slipped from sight, left far behi In this quietsome pass of inkept breath, with only the tick and tock of cloc To count the integers of one thing to another, There came a dewlap day, underhung and tremulous, when his vague gaze Flittered to attention, to land fleetingly, pausing and light footed As a sprightly sandpiper,

Perhaps just a pinpoint eddy in a migratory swath, vanishingly unharrowed brief, Perhaps a pivot as oracular and driven as his first elevator ride from doc dominion, Perhaps only imagined by whosoever had happened by his chairside.

Whosoever. This was clear to him despite his blurring vision and in the soundles of Conversation coming and going around his sittings and stiff-backed trudging post To dutiful post, a few short steps from here to there and then, these short co limits of a late life.

Whosoever.

But where had that girl gone?

And again he lost all bearings in a swirl.

Who is she?

She left him a valentine once.

He was too shy, blunt nose and all, to invite her to his birthday party.

She patted his hand now, this one last touch to backwash into the life he le She was a seabird as reflected as the sky, Now a red tide blooming through his veins.

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Ted Katz Illustration by Emma Katz by

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the pedestal by

Allison Begalman

n. hazelton

M

y first girl crush was on Idina Menzel in the fifth grade. It was Wicked that made me love her, but

her portrayal of Maureen Johnson in Rent that fueled my admiration. Maureen is a sexy free-spirited performer and activist—a description I hoped to one day embody. But a year later, someone told me that Idina smoked cigarettes; that’s where my adoration came to an end. Because cigarettes were BAD. Although Idina was my first girl crush, she certainly wasn’t my last. There have been a slew of female celebrities I’ve continually romanticized throughout my years.

This romanticization is something we all do, and not only to celebrities, but to people in our own lives. I’ve subconsciously taken friends—even those I’ve just met, whose outward level-of-cool intimidates me—and I‘ve put them on an invisible pedestal, expecting them to live up to

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an exaggerated creation I’ve manufactured accordingly.

As wonderful as it can be to admire and celebrate another person’s uniqueness, I’ve realized how harmful this pedestal has been to my past relationships: while putting someone up, I’ve put myself down. This act creates a transparent wall of separation that ultimately tarnished most of my childhood and adolescent friendships.

T

ake my seventh and eighth grade best friend—she had been the elementary school-badass, but had

since matured into a witty, fun-loving, I-don’t-give-a-fuck teenager. Once the Forces That Be (aka the fact our last names are at the beginning of the alphabet) placed us at the same table in science class, it became my secret mission to befriend her. Although our friendship was wonderful, a defining factor of my middle school experience, I was always aware of the division. In my mind, any fight we had was most likely due to my own dramatics or jealous tendencies. I couldn’t confront or, even worse, blame her for anything that happened—even when our friendship began its slow demise.

I recognize now that even before we became friends I had elevated her too high. I’d stuck her in a box, heightened to the point of sainthood, while I tried so desperately to be half as cool as I thought she was.

This pedastilzation was the Willy Loman factor to our friendship, always foreshadowing the inevitable, and has continually peeked its ugly face. That is, until I became aware of what I was subconsciously doing to myself.

And that makes me wonder whether others have done the same to me, put me on an elevated platform, assuming I could do no wrong. Well, let’s hope not… for their sakes, of course. Because I’ve become an expert in fucking up and halfheartedly attempting to clean up the mess.

So maybe Idina smoked, maybe she didn’t. Either way it didn’t matter, because that piece of information at that time brought her down from her sanctified, almost dehumanized level. Relationships will never be real, truly authentic, until we see and come to accept the other person’s flaws. On the pedestal they will start and that is where they will stay, until we discover that they smoke cigarettes. (This is actually a PSA against cigarette smoking.

Stay tuned for the feature presentation.)

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P H A N T _ MME M R I E S by

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Candice Navi

Sometimes I catch myself smiling at memories that I either dreamed or consciously fabricated just for the chance to feel, in that brief moment, the fleeting excitement that accompanies a phantom memory.

The first time I noticed your glance was more than a glance but a full-blown stare and for once I stared back. The night I stopped thinking and finally decided to let you in. When you cried and told me that you had never felt so connected with another person, and even though I couldn’t cry I really hoped my speechlessness was enough for you to know the feeling was mutual. The first time I asked you over while my parents were on vacation and you made fun of how messy my room was.

That was the first night we kissed: there in my childhood room.

That road trip we took. When I met your parents, saw your hometown. When I met your dysfunctional family. When I met your dog. The day I took you to my high school and gave you a glimpse into my life at its interpersonal lows.

I catch myself smiling, blushing and coloring in these memories with extravagant and beautiful details as if I’m trying to convince myself that they’re all true. But they’re not. I’ll never meet your dog, you’ll never see my high school.

I never returned your glances, there were never any explicit proclamations of love and adoration.We never kissed.

Ours is a story of gray. You reside in a world of moral loopholes; I exist in a realm of make believe.

Tonight I’ll indulge in our fake affair, but tomorrow I will wake up and know I want something real. I deserve something real. I am capable of something real. What I wish for most is to haunt your dreams and passing thoughts with fond memories of me, of us—real or imagined. I want you to feel the distinct pleasure of phantom memories: the nostalgia of a reality that never really was.

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spring tide by

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Gracie Warwick

Contrary to its name, spring tides are unrelated to the spring season. Rather, they are named for the sea that springs back and forth so forcefully. Spring tides occur at the full and new moon, when the Sun and the Moon are aligned with the Earth. The gravitational pull of the Moon and the Sun reinforce one another, causing the most powerful rise and fall of the tide—the highest highs and the lowest lows. The greatest spring tides occur at the equinoxes twice each year, when day and night rest at equal lengths.

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the moment I knew W

e asked some of our friends who we admire most: when did you know? Did you have a decisive

moment? We’re talking the kind whose impact reverberated through space and time, causing a ripple effect ever since.

The epiphanies. The game-changers. Those moments that reveal life trajectories and deepest souls. Can such moments be pinned down? Or better yet, do they exist at all?

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by

Chrissy Twicken

I find myself unable to write anything of conviction about a moment in my life in which “I knew.” It appears that the times have taken a toll on my penchant for playful, creative, and elaborate expression. Each year, each day, each hour as of late I see Black Americans, among countless others, being shot down like dogs in the street.

My sense of faith, of gratitude, of amazement is not thick enough; when I look out over the skies of my past I see the traces of a series of eclipses. Eclipses of meaning and knowing and feeling. The epiphany-moment—so ablaze with meaning, knowing, and feeling—eludes me. I am who I am, I do what I do, I love the way I love, because I have come to believe that in spite of it all it is a lovely thing to have been, to have done, and to have loved. My courage to be is rooted in a DuBoisian hope against hope; it lives independent of some fireworks-show going off in my soul.

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by Juan

Bravo

I was nine years old when Mamí and Papí tracked down the two-cassette special edition of Jurassic Park. My heart was torn in two; I didn’t take well to scary movies, but I had grown frustrated with the static drawings in my dinosaur book collection. I needed to see these animals come alive.

For two hours, I watched those magnificent animals roar and run without regard for their own extinction. As the credits rolled, I jumped for the second cassette, which contained a fascinating making-of documentary. I watched grown men and women in earnest conversation about dinosaurs, cameras and storytelling; conversations I would have given my LEGO collection to be a part of. There were professionals out there making a living in filmmaking, and suddenly the path ahead seemed clear.

It never surprised my family that I would pursue the arts—I was drawing when I was three—but I credit this moment for cementing that in my own mind. I’m certainly leaving that “storyteller” moniker open-ended: I’m too young and technology changes too fast to lock myself in to cinema. The Internet and mass availability of filmmaking tools continues to change the field in exciting ways that I can’t predict. Until then, my crayon storyboards for Jurassic Park V remain safely stowed in my parents’ attic, patiently awaiting Mr. Spielberg’s inevitable call.

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c. navi

by

Catherine Uong

When I was little, everyone asked me, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” And I answered, “A teacher!” I must have inherited it from the three generations of teachers in my family. I also come from three generations of small business owners. When I came to the University of Southern California, I wanted to utilize those business skills to change education for children in low-income communities.

Somehow I got lost amidst the dozens of urgent social issues that currently need our attention– sustainability, health technologies, homelessness, conscious media. You name it, I’ve probably looked into it. After I coordinated EdMonth 2013 at the University of Southern California, which was the first national student-led movement about the state of America’s education system, I re-committed to my passion for education. I realized I had spent around 20–30 hours per week preparing for EdMonth and didn’t even blink.

While I knew teaching wasn’t my strength, I learned that I want to build ecosystems for educators, students, parents, and industry professionals to collaborate on the best solutions for the future. EdMonth helped pave this path for me. I am grateful for all the opportunities USC has given me, pushing me to recognize and foster my own strengths and passions.

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Poems by Keely Weiss Graphics by Sridevi Reddy

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kairos

(n.) the perfect, delicate, crucial moment; the fleeting rightness of time and place that create the opportune atmosphere for action, words, or movement.* by

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Nick Hazelton

A

fter narrowly missing my connecting flight through Copenhagen to Athens, I arrived in Athens to watch the baggage carousel go

around and around...with no sight of my orange traveler’s backpack in sight. With only a few hours to make the second connecting flight to Santorini, I submitted a lost baggage claim, but tried to push it out of my mind.

Exhausted, we boarded the last 45-minute plane ride to the island of Santorini. After stepping off the plane into an open-air airport, we caught our hotel cab and made our way over the island to the northern town of Oia, where most villas and resorts are located.

Immediately after checking in to our villa, the stress, exhaustion and frustration that came along with traveling instantly disappeared. It was hard for them to wear on me while staring out at the bluest ocean I’ve ever seen, so calm it resembled a lake.

Over the next few days, I survived on my emergency stash of underwear, swimsuits and the new clothing I bought from local vendors. Somehow, losing my bag didn’t matter. I was in the most beautiful place on earth.

Though Santorini is undoubtedly a place you have to see in order to believe, I’ll do my best to show you around the island.

This was one of my first views from my villa: white houses hanging off of the cliff, with nothing but blue sky and blue ocean on the horizon.

*Definition Source: Castle Fan Fiction

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Santorini, and Oia specifically, is known to have some of the most beautiful sunsets in the world. And I couldn’t agree more. They were...pure. No light pollution, no smog or clouds to give false varieties of color. The whole town congregates at the very northern tip of Oia to watch the sunset each night. It was a beautiful experience to see the community come together in appreciation of nature.

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Though the sunsets were gorgeous, my jetlag continuously woke me in time for sunrise, as well. The water was calm, with multiple shades of blue meshing to form a single magnificent view.

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T

hough Greece is not most famous for its food, it does have its specialties. The baklava­—crispy, flaky,

dripped in honey—melted in my mouth while I sipped on (strong) Greek coffee. And, of course, no matter where I went the Greek yogurt was 100 times better than any Greek yogurt I’ve tasted in the United States. Thick, creamy, covered in fruit, walnuts, honey, or some combination of the above, yogurt is a must when visiting Greece. Also, perhaps unsurprisingly, Greece’s juices are almost always freshly squeezed. Every orange juice I had tasted like it had been made 20 seconds before it was served to me. Thick, pulpy and intense flavor defined the juices. Being on an island, surrounded by the sea meant plenty of seafood.

When we took a walk down to Ammoudi Bay to cliff jump and swim in the Aegean Sea, we stopped at a restaurant overlooking the bay and ordered the most flavorful squid I’ve tasted. Combined with a Greek beer and a salad of cucumbers, tomatoes and olives, the meal and day were picturesque. Before we left to return to the mainland, we stopped in Fira, the capital, for some Gyro.

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Lolita’s gelato deserves its own explanation as a food category. Pistachio and hazelnut pictured here, Lolita’s is an Oia must. Amazing gelato, perfect for the hot summer days.

The boys that serve you are also pretty cheeky. “Money or numbers are welcome,” they’d written on their tip jar.

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We rented ATVs for a chance to visit the island’s neighborhoods outside Oia (which isn’t too hard, as you can make it end-to-end in 45 minutes). Along the way, we ran across both a black and red sand beach, as well as many wineries and viewpoints. The black sand beach was touristy, lined with bars on the beach and hot sand that made sticking your toes in the ocean all the more appealing. The red sand beach looked like Mars. While there was a shuttle that transports tourists from the red to white sand beaches, the latter remains a mystery since we ran out of time.

One of the best days I had in Oia was when we walked to the end of the town and landed in Ammoudi Bay. There’s a path that wraps around the northern tip of the island, with an area to put your belongings down while you jump into the clear water. We even came across some cliffs to jump off.

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TF