Unrooted by UNROOTED

UNROOTED VENTURE MAY/JUNE 2014 ISSUE FOUR

editor in chief : erin borzak creative director : mary coggins layout co-editor : natalie ng social media director : christine hillmann advertising manager : jessa tremblay literary editor : emilie bills editor : olivia rafferty editor : emily hunerwadel editor: courtney oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;connor staff writers : ramna safeer, greta rainbow, allie horick, lex scott, olivia yuen staff artists : evelyn challinor, eryn lougheed, greta rainbow, olivia yuen, lex scott, caroline dâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;andrea, nikita jackson, shelby wall literary contributors : anna jones, j. court reese, tam cao, elijah nobel el, faith christine, sam mcbride artistic contributors : elise von kulmiz, chase jenkins, misha khokhlov, nicole lane front cover misha khokhlov advertise in unrooted unrootedads@gmail.com submit to us unrooted submissions@gmail.com

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back cover misha khokhlov facing page elise von kulmiz

CONTENTS 5 Letter from the Editor 6 You Do Not Know Death 8 Lisboa 20 Abstraction 21 The Mackest Week Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve Ever Had 22 Cumberland Gap 30 Exploration of the Mind 36 Origami Poetry 38 Pictures of China 48 Home 50 Vandura 62 Little, Little Prince 66 West 73 No Woman is a Country 74 Arcosanti

Letter From The Editor It’s the time of year where it can rain for days straight, and newscasters and backdoor preachers start hinting at floods of biblical proportions, and it’s easy to get restless because we’re all stuck inside with our toes tapping. I’m not sure about everyone else, but rainy Mondays only make me want to escape the confines of my room even more. Thunderstorms take me outside of my body, outside of my mind, and let me wander. Metaphorically, of course (though I can’t say I mind a wander through a rainstorm, because few things will make you feel more alive than muddy feet and your clothes sticking to your body and delicate spring chills). For me, “venture” is about going places, but it doesn’t have to be physical. Most of my ventures happen inside of my head, embodied in tiny daydreams and magnificent escapes. I think I might have wanderlust of the mind. But as soon as the rain clears (and it will, it always does) I’ll be outside again, making that venture a bit more literal. It’s a good time of year for that, regardless of your hemisphere. Since we’re all heading towards a season of break, whether it’s winter or summer where you are, my advice is to find a song that makes you want to drive to the mountains, or the beach. Find a roadside attraction you’ve never stopped at, or take a bus to a new city. There’s something so intriguing about those little brown road signs that line the interstate, selling “world’s greatest” and “local favorites”. There’s a grotto I’ve always wanted to stop at on my way southeast, and maybe this summer I will. As for all of you, dear readers, have an adventure, but make it a venture. Let there be risk. My favorite thing about ventures is that they can be static, compulsive, terrifying or entirely metaphysical. A venture can be an idea, or the greatest road trip of your life. A venture can be moving to a new city or going stargazing with someone who makes your pulse hammer behind the skin of your wrists. A venture can be starting a business or helping someone who needs it. A venture is putting yourself out there, for better or for worse, despite the rainy days and sleepless nights. So go now, get out there, get going, and send me a letter about how great of a time you had. I’ll be starting a venture or two of my own, and waiting to hear about yours. Love, Erin

You Do Not Know Death Until It Stares You in the Face by Faith Christine image by Greta Rainbow

overnight vigil: i wear my prom dress to your funeral recycled black is not as beautiful i am all cried out i think

LISBOA by Jessa Tremblay and Sam McBride photographs by Jessa Tremblay

We only had five minutes to catch our train and no idea what platform it was on. Frantically we tried to piece together the bits of Portuguese we had quickly learned over the past couple of weeks to ask anyone and everyone in the station. With several gestures and disjointed English we were pointed in the direction of our train, if you could call it that. We found ourselves on a single car that contained local farmers. Before we could decide if we had the right train or not, it started to move and we could only hope that it would take us where we wanted to go.

going to our destination as the train sped away from the city and entered into the rolling greens hills lush with orange, and cork trees. After a couple of hours anxiety had built up on our decision to take this train, but all the sudden out of the trees we saw it. Castle walls jutting from the top of a hill in the distance. The train started to slow down and the ticket man gestured towards the oncoming train platform for us to get off.

The station was empty. Tiles had fallen from a beautiful mural, plants slowly devoured the surrounding walls. We started “Senhor?” I asked the ticket man. walking through fields of crops towards “Obidós?” I gestured to the conductor. the giant hill that lay before us. “Obidós?... Sim! Sim!” He replied back.

Obidós and many other places like it were a blast from the past in Portugal. Lisbon is We decided to ride on faith that we were the oldest city in Europe and ruins from

great empires litter the countryside. Roman ruins jut up from the ground, and Moorish castles command the horizon. As we walked around the walls, we saw a tourist group gawking at costumed actors. The annual Rennaisance Fair was just a week away. Two other Americans posed next to a mock executioner. This symbol of brutality may be part of bygone history now, but the oppression lives on in the memories of many Portuguese. For most of the 20th century, up until the 1970’s, Portugal lived under the dictatorship of António de Oliveira Salazar. Salazar looked modern and innocent, but was every bit as ruthless as his medieval predecessors.

to hear someone sing. It’s nights like these I will treasure for the rest of my life, these brief glimpses of true adventure and wonderment of experiencing something so rich for the first time. It’s times like these that create the never-ending wanderlust in my soul that drives me to keep on keeping on. And it’s times like these that let me appreciate all that I have received in my life and the opportunities I’ve been graced with. If there is one thing I’ve learned it’s that when there is opportunity, don’t let it pass by, because of fear, or money, or practicability, instead, seize it. Live your adventure, find your own path, carve your own history, tell your own story.

Under this dictatorial rule a new artform flourished in Alfama, the oldest neighborhood of Lisbon, Portugal’s oldest city. In the docks and taverns sailors, bandits and wenches sang a new song, a song of sadness and pain, but also a song of passion and escape: Fado. Fado transcends language and speaks to the soul. Though we couldn’t understand the lyrics, the pain and suffering of the Portuguese people could be heard in every note. From a range of subjects, from lost love to the dictatorship, Fado has commanded a place in Portuguese history and has developed deep roots in Alfama. On any given night, people wander into the local Fado club for dinner and subsequently stay to listen to the haunting melody that can trap them in a room for hours. We spent most of our nights in Alfama, looking in shop windows and stopping

Inquiry evokes denial. Upon inquiry, denial is prominent. Not intentionally at first, but it becomes habit. Within being constantly taught that thoughts and opinions are not worth verbalizing, and being constantly labeled and stifled, denial becomes a reflex. Denial is a blanket of neutrality that binds those who are afraid to speak up. Words that are being choked on, and that are being spilled into the open unnoticed, are louder than silence. Silence is, stifling. words and images by Chase Jenkins

the mackest week i ever had by j. court reese image by emilie bills

she told me she loved me ocean hues haloed her head she followed me on the morrow violet mixed with ginger cut short nerves of fire, we drank to pain and crows and spatial separation she shared a thought with me azure eyes alight behind golden silhouette canary sees its cage and cries aloud I whisper into her feathers she was a chance encounter in burning futuristic fashion she took the lead, first step, second, the witch’s knight was full of stars. but not before i swam in the sea once more. she was a second moon over the tides. I ask the lady of the calming waters and she said she would wait. she doesn’t know me yet but i will make her gossamer body well and hold her close so I can know I’m not alone

CUMBERLAND GAP misha khokhlov

EXPLORATION OF THE MIND by Eryn Lougheed

ORIGAMI POETRY

BY TAM CAO ARTWORK BY OLIVIA YUEN Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been practicing origami while passing time waiting for you. I press pretty words into hidden corners of paper creations. Folding and unfolding myself around paper- sharp edges and the feeling of insignificance. This one is a flower; it has a wish inside. The feathers of this bird carry the name of the wind and a sunset haiku I wrote for you. By 2 a.m. I unfold everything. Words fall from the creased pages as the paper tears and frays.

PICTURES OF CHINA by ANNA JONES photographs by ALLIE HORICK

Beijing, while not the most picturesque of cities, was one of those places where the things I did and places I experienced left a mark on my soul. It’s fitting that it was the capital of China where I could feel an overwhelming sense of the history and the people of China – I could feel their tragedy and triumph; the presence of both government and laity; their roots and growth and togetherness. I could feel a web connecting all of us; those that have come before us, those that will come after us, and all of us linked by a common claim to humanity. The first time I felt that connectedness was on my very first day in Beijing. We headed to Tiananmen Square, and I was struck by the meaning and far-reaching consequences of the place. It was larger than I had expected – a huge expanse of concrete surrounding the walls of the Forbidden City, flat and grey. It blended in with the smog that defined the rest of the city. It was reminiscent of my Kansas fields, as I could see from one end unobstructed (except by the random tourist) to the other, and it was completely monochromatic. The sound felt muted and dull; maybe it was because my brain was focused on the enormity of the events that had taken place there exactly twenty four years and one day earlier, but the sound of fellow tourists felt washed out and like a very low buzz. It fit with the dreary color of the plaza and the similar dreariness of the sky. That enormous concrete expanse, as nondescript and cloudy as it was, also conveyed an unbreakable strength. Concrete is resilient and stable, and that was reflected in the floor of Tiananmen Square, which in turn reflected the spirit of those who once stood there in pursuit of a different China than the one today. They stood, packed together, as sturdy as the concrete beneath their feet, protesting before the gargantuan and lifelike portrait of Chairman Mao hanging above the gates to the Forbidden City. The leader’s eyes followed me as I crossed from one side of the square to another to gaze upon the government buildings across the street. They also are grey and strong, fitting for an enduring government. The ground beneath my feet seemed to vibrate with all it had witnessed, and I was brimming with something I couldn’t quite place. I felt an overwhelming shiver of gratefulness to be there where so many had stood before me, with different ranks and agendas and stories, and to be included in the great record that Tiananmen kept of those whose feet had trodden in the same places. That same feeling of awe – to have been where so many before me have been – came again as I stood on the Great Wall. Though “Great” is hardly a fair adjective; indeed, I cannot think of one worthy enough to describe a hand built wall of such enormity. The stone was a dark grey, damp with the rain and the fog, slick with the sweat of the altitude of the mountain. As I inspected it for signs of aging and evidence of its many, many years I felt only solidity and strength. The stone was rough and dirty and gritty – but it showed no signs of crumbling or breaking. I am so much more breakable than that wall, and in the face of its vastness I felt my own fragility thrum. The wind whipped around me, chilling my bare legs and making my shoes slip against the slick stone, necessitating reaching out and grasping onto the wall for stability. The wall held me up

and in the wind you could almost hear the whispering of the millions of stories that wall contained. The lives the wall had claimed during its construction clamored to be heard, and the glory of a dynasty past demanded to be recognized. I contemplated the wall’s numerous roles. It is the world’s longest graveyard, witnessing untold tragedy and suffering. It is a symbol of the infallibility and impenetrability of a China of both years past and today. It is the root of China and the growth of China into its powerful position today. It was a government and people collectively coming together to defend and protect their country. It is Chairman Mao saying one is not a true hero until they climb the wall. It is the determination of the Chinese people and the reminder that even great powers can fall. The solidity of the stone beneath my feet contradicted the gentle sloping of the wall’s steps until they ran into each other, caused by the uncountable number of people who have worn them down. There was a musty, earthy smell that pervaded the air and the mist, belying the age of the wall. The laughter of the other tourists on the wall brought a contemporary life to an ancient wonder, and the miracle of the endurance of the wall was real to me. I was standing, perched high on a mountain, on a wall that followed the dips and curves of the range and which was built long before America was even a vague idea in the colonists’ minds. My lungs struggled to take in enough air, partly because of the high altitude, partly because of the heaviness and humidity, and partly because my life had never seemed so short or so inconsequential. Again, I was

humbled by the chance to stand on and be included in the record of an object that had witnessed more of human depths than I could ever hope to. The last thing in Beijing that relayed a story to me through stone was the ruins of the Emperor’s old summer palace. Large blocks of marble and stone were cracked, irregular, and lay about as if tossed haphazardly by a giant. I suppose they were in a way, as Great Britain was the largest empire at the time when it destroyed the palace during the Opium Wars. I felt the stirrings of shame in my British ancestors for destroying a place that must have held so much beauty. Small children clambered over and around the ruins while unconcerned parents watched, and the whole scene had me at odds. I felt the loud, raucous sounds ill-fitting for a place of tragedy and wreckage, but also found it hopeful that a place with a tragic past could engender so much life. It shared the same sorts of contradictions as Tiananmen Square and the Great Wall as a place that had seen both strength and failure, life and sadness. The sun was shining for once (a first for Beijing) and beat down weakly through the brown haze that was the city’s atmosphere. The air hung limp and dry and the smells of grass, dirt, and people reached me, commonplace and familiar. The splendor of the original palace building had faded with its destruction, but its place in the hearts of the people never wavered. It endured like Tiananmen and the Wall, maybe not physically like the others, but spiritually. I couldn’t bring myself to physically touch the ruins, not wanting to leave them anymore destroyed than my ancestors once had, but they looked smooth

except for where they had been smashed and broken into sharp edges and the white stone had been tinged with black charring. It seemed to be yelling at me to remember that all actions have effects, and that those effects were never lessened if they occurred to someone else. Rather, we are all people, and hurt the same. The Great Wall had told me a story of the lost lives that built it tall and strong, just as Tiananmen Square whispered of death and injury, and destruction and loss seeped from the old summer palace. However, those same places also exuded a strength and indomitability that came from it having taken its place in both contemporary China and the China of the future. Those stories that emanated from the ages of those sites were not felt any less by me because I was not Chinese. Instead, I could feel their stories within me as I connected to the humanness of the places Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d stood and contemplated, the personhood of those involved in both the great events and everyday matters of the sites. Above all, I took away a sort of residual strength from each place, endowing me with a bit of the staying power of each of those places and the chronicles that go along with them. With each rough, solid stone I felt or stood on or watched, I was inundated with a sense of their strength and history, to be carried with me and drawn upon when needed. They each have an endless store of that power, and will continue to gift it to naĂŻve girls like me who are only just beginning to understand the scope of life and are all the more grateful for the lessons handed down by those places.

HOME by Mary Coggins

“It’s like you feel homesick for some place that doesn’t even exist.” -Andrew Largeman, Garden State I don’t live in my parent’s house anymore. It’s been a few years, and if you’ve ever left a place in your life you know what I mean when I say that when I go back, it’s not the same. And almost always, in that difference, the place is less beautiful than whatever memory you had nestled in your heart. The place where I grew up is no longer my home. It will never be my home again, but at the same time, it will always be my home. Where we love is home – home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts. They were changing the fences in my parent’s neighborhood the first time I remember consciously feeling that old, metallic ache of change. I was young, maybe five or seven, and when they ripped up those old, soggy fences I felt like they were ripping out my heart. “It’s just change, honey,” Mom told me. “They’ll put new fences in.” But I wondered, what if I don’t want new fences? Home is wherever I’m with you. I was so afraid when I moved out of my parent’s home. I didn’t know a single person in the place I was moving. I didn’t know a single person and I needed to forget the people that I already knew, though it wasn’t apparent at the time. I looked around my room as I was leaving, all packed up and looking empty, the only things left being the books I didn’t want. My cat lay on my suitcase, distressed by what he must have known was imminent, but that he couldn’t understand. I wish I could have told him. Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they take you in. Where, if not in the house I grew up, if not in my little apartment, if not in someone else’s smile, where is my home? Where does my heart wander when I’m not looking, where do my bones feel peace? Sometimes I pray, “dear God please let there be somewhere I belong,” but does anyone ever feel that they belong? That they really, truly belong somewhere?

I don’t know the answer. I can’t tell what’s right any more than a crow can sing a nightingale’s song. Maybe the place my soul longs for doesn’t exist anymore, but, I think the way my heart turns in my chest when it recognizes the hills in the distance means something. It may sound strange, but I don’t know, I think I believe it. They say people from these parts have a deeper connection with the land, that it means something more than just a place to build on, that the dirt on my feet is also part of my blood. I think that’s true. Home is where the heart is So when I had to leave the place I knew so well for a place I knew nothing about, my heart was broken, torn in more pieces than a thousand lovers could ever rend it. I was old enough to know that things would change in my absence, things more important than old neighborhood fences. I would like to think that as I left my home – not the room but the land, the earth of my ancestors that was greater than the house where I was raised – that as I left my home I knew I could never return to the same exact place. Place is a fluid thing, like a person, always changing and growing and dying and being born. It only gives the illusion of staying the same. My home has changed since I’ve been gone, but I can’t pretend to be angry because I have changed, too. We recognize each other still, my home and I. The earth is in my blood, and my blood, generations upon generations of my blood, is in the earth. I left because I needed to go and someday will travel the world, but I will always return, and then we’ll change together, never noticing the change, my home and I.

VANDURA a photostory by elise von kulmiz

61 for more visit evkphoto.ca and unrootedmag.com

LITTLE, LITTLE PRINCE by Elijah Nobel El illustration by Eryn Lougheed

I do not vanish when you put me in masons. I do not blink. You put my heart on tilted shelf. You put me on. You did, did, did for years. Little boy, you cannot drink my love like motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s milk. I am not what fills you, no longer, no. I loved your rough hands when you loved my softness, And your touch when you loved my warmth. But I feel like stolen land. I feel like I need no longer house your body in mine, no. I imagined our children. I did not envision them. Therein lies the fullness of sorrow. You never loved me enough, not for that. You couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stand when I had the rough hands, The times I ached for more than touch.

The only thing that licks me anymore is the flame, Burns that affected me more than your touch ever could. They say youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll know how hard forgiveness is When you must one day grant it. All I know is that once my song was quiet, But now I am the voice that echoes through the mountains, That voice that haunts you whenever you look at beauty. I do not drown when you submerge me, submerge me. I do not vanish when you put me in masons. You cannot put me on the shelf and forget me. As a hurricane, I will rip your house apart until you say my name. Little, little prince, you exiled me. One day I will come for you. One day I will burn your country to the ground. Little, little boy, I do not vanish when you close your eyes. Awake and sweating and dreaming about bodies, You spoke a name not graced at birth, not at mine. I cried for all the times I had said I loved you. I begged for you to say my name instead of hers. But I was different then. A small bird sang in a giant jungle then, Trying to make its quiet voice heard in a loud place. Thrown into the storm, I was afraid. Aware of the cold, I was afraid. Time only knows if Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll harbor your ship in my crumbling space.

WEST

by NICOLE LANE

by Faith Christine Illustration by Lex Scott There are many lies that men tell their lovers before they go to war Don’t worry about me There are many men who treat me like a conquest, who look at me and think they can love me into submission: Gut me with their rifles, white roses stuffed down the barrels I’ll be home before you know it Hold your fire, gentlemen I surrender My body is a desert of white flags, blood, broken hearts Look at the ground, gentlemen It has not rained for months in here We’ll be all right It is easy for men to die for their country But it is not so easy for them to love it if you find my picture in his uniform just burn it

ARCOSANTI WRITTEN AND PHOTOGRAPHED BY OLIVIA YUEN

â&#x20AC;&#x153;The care of the citizen is the sap of the city. But one can care only for that which one loves. A lovable city is key to a living city. A lovely city is not an accident, as a lovely person is not an accident.â&#x20AC;? â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Paolo Soleri

Several years ago, when I attended a photography camp at Frank Lloyd Wright’s Taliesin West, is when I first discovered the simple elegance of building a living space that is peacefully integrated with the natural environment on which it is constructed. My admiration and appreciation for innovative and aesthetically beautiful architecture was restored after taking a short road trip to visit and tour Arcosanti: 20th century architect Paolo Soleri’s vision of a harmonious and sustainable community. His philosophy of ‘Arcology’, the combination of architecture and ecology, led him to plan and begin construction for a city that would embody this very idea. Before visiting Arcosanti, I only knew of the name Soleri from his creation of bronze and ceramic wind bells, one of which has hung in my backyard for multiple years now. Our bronze bell rings most furiously each July evening as the desert monsoon winds blow in, coloring the sky with pink dust. After seeing how these bells are crafted at Arcosanti, the chimes that can be heard even from my tightlyclosed bedroom window mean just a bit more to me. Though the entirety of Arcosanti was never fully completed, what lies in the central Arizonan desert today is a perfect example of what the future of our cities must begin to implement if we are to keep the nature that surrounds us available for every subsequent generation to experience for themselves.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;In nature, as an organism evolves it increases in complexity and it also becomes a more compact or miniaturized system. Similarly a city should function as a living system. Arcology, architecture and ecology as one integral process, is capable of demonstrating positive response to the many problems of urban civilization, population, pollution, energy and natural resource depletion, food scarcity and quality of life. Arcology recognizes the necessity of the radical reorganization of the sprawling urban landscape into dense, integrated, three-dimensional cities in order to support the complex activities that sustain human culture. The city is the necessary instrument for the evolution of humankind.â&#x20AC;? â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Paolo Soleri

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