WARNINGS ART AND LITERARY JOURNAL VA N I T Y
“Every time I write, every time I open my eyes I’m cutting out a part of myself to give to you. So Shake the Dust, and take me with you when you do...”
Editors Amelia Wolf amwolf@loyola.edu
WARNINGS Loyola’s Art and Literary Journal Vol. 5 Issue 4 April ‘11
Taylor DeBoer tcdeboer@loyola.edu Anthony Medina ajmedina@loyola.edu Design By Amelia Wolf Annie Furnald Taylor DeBoer Editorial Staff Madylyn Fagan Ashley Twaddell Joe O’Riordan Anthony Medina Annie Furnald Send all submissions to: warnings@loyola.edu Warnings is published periodically. All rights reserved. All content, unless otherwise noted, is the property of the author(s). Warnings welcomes and considers unsolicited manuscripts and electronic submissions are either kept on file for the annual writing contest, are available on warningslitmag.tumblr.com, or are discarded. For more information, e-mail warnings@loyola.com. In works contain herein denoted as fiction or poetry, any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Store in a cool, dry place not to exceed 72 degrees F.
Thanks to those who helped make this magazine possible:
Education For Life, Doug Evans, Crystal Staley, Lia Purpura, Dan Schlapbach, The Writing, Fine Arts, English and Communications Departments, SGA, The Greyhound Collective Poetry Revival, Anis Mojgani, Loyola University Maryland, all those who are graduating and all those who support the arts and creative thinking.
Don’t say we didn’t warn you!
Well folks, that’s all she wrote. This is our swan song, our last hoorah, our final calamity. The 2010/2011 school-year is over in less than a month and this issue, VANITY, will be it until next fall. Joe O’Riordan, Ashley Twaddell, Amelia Wolf and Taylor DeBoer are all graduating in May. Please, hold the applause. Joe will be a Writer in Residence at Northwestern University where he was awarded a grant to write “The Next Great American Novel.” Ashley was invited to paint a mural of Jackie Onassis on the wall of the capital building in Boston, Massachusetts. Amelia will become the youngest member of The Screen Writer’s guild and has been given a grant to produce a documentary on college literary magazines. And Taylor will be aimlessly wandering America in hopes of writing a Great American Novel better than Joe’s. This issue is extremely self-centered and way too concerned with its own appearance. Madelyn Fagan has explored what it means to be vain, while Anthony Medina has reflected on his own vanity. Anthony Medina will be taking over as Editor next year along with Samantha Smith (Design) who will be returning from the land down under. In the words of Fall Out Boy, “Thnks fr th Mmrs.” Yours Truly, Taylor and Amelia
front cover: Alexa Yakely back cover: Annie Furnald
by Billy Thacker
The Vanity
by Madelyn Fagan
When I was little, vanity was not an abstract concept. It had nothing to do with the apparently inherent hedonistic and malevolent nature of man. Because who debates morality when you’re ten? Vanity was not on my personal check list of what was considered naughty or nice. Yes, I was always trying to score points from the Father Christmas, but you cannot pretend to be something when you don’t know what it is in the first place. At that point in time vain was not even a personality trait I could tack onto someone I did not particularly like. It was something much more corporal than that. To my prepubescent self, vanity was the key component to playing dress up. And by vanity, I do mean the old fashion piece of furniture. Metal dipped in a milky white paint framed the voluminous mirror right at its core. The mirror looked like a prop that was stolen from a flapper’s bedroom. It had a tendency to sway back and forth from even the slightest investigatory prods I made at it as I sat in front of it on its matching pedestal. I liked to pretend the reflection could distort itself from different angles like the ones I had seen at a carnival, but my hands on inquiries revealed no secret images or alternative universes, only conspicuous finger and palm prints.
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Below the mirror an open glass drawer was partitioned off, where makeup could be carefully enshrined at my choosing. The vanity was my flood gate to adulthood. In it I put my very first form of maquillage, the powder makeup my grandmom gave which looked like sandy beige snow covered by a cloud puff, compactly concealed in a dark circle. This was accompanied by my random ensemble of fruity chapstick, and the red lipstick I borrowed from my mom with the intent of returning later, of course. My use of my growing hoard of nail polish was only a mere extension of a new type of finger painting I was still getting the hang of. While I have grown out of using cosmetics as stage makeup for my imaginations’ private billing premieres, nail painting is still anesthetic vanity of choice. I do not remember when vanity stopped being tangible for me, but it was most likely around the time when my vanity broke. My vanity did not shatter into countless jagged fragments. It simply lost its foundation to the extent that it became necessary to send it on a voyage to the garbage. It’s ironic that an object that proliferates con-
scripts of beauty in such a subtle way can so easily fall into the snare of decay. I would like to believe I have grown the childhood narcissism we all go through when we believe we’re the center of the universe, but even I have relapses. I do not examine every miniscule imperfection of my skin in order to assail it immediately with moisturizers with mysterious origins. I take perverse pride in the fact that I see no need to slab on makeup like I’m ashamed of my natural pallor. Because I’m not remorseful about shadows under my eyes from sleep deprivation. I earned them through midnight laughter and conversations, just as I’ll someday work my way up to be able to watermark laugh lines onto my face. As much fun as it is to hold ourselves above our more obviously narcissistic and egocentric peers, particularly when their choice of attire clashes with our sense of temperature and propriety, I’ve come to realize that type of scorn is a cop out. It hides our own insecurities. It is much is
...you cannot pretend to be something when you really do not know what it is in the first place.
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much easier to spotlight others’ imperfections than to stand in front of a reflective glass and look at are own. As the culture we live in places a lot of esteem on being an individual, there is some virtue which glimmers through the basis of this p ar t i c u l ar vice. Vanity, in moderation, is a self-preservation tool. If we inflate our egos, the emotional hits we take from the perceived judgments of our peers are at least halved. Who is to say that vanity is not a form of confidence necessary for social interaction? Modesty is not practical anymore anyways. Modesty is a rare commodity, and I would venture to say that it’s on its way out. Most of the time humility is a way to hide our arrogance by juxtapositioning ourselves with openly vain people. Some women call makeup their battle armor. Maybe there is some truth to that. Perhaps the obsession we have with ritually putting on makeup and staring doe eyed into a mirror everyday stems from the feeling that we are still stuck in the limbo of childhood, and still struggling to fit into our off kilter reflections, and attempting to make believe that vanity and makeup make us all grown up.
It’s ironic that an object that subtlety proliferates conscripts of beauty can also fall so easily into the snare of decay.
by Kate Marshall
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I. HYPE pouring out the door in waves of beauty and youthful vibrancy-the frenzy in the night air, the thrill of uncertainty, and the promise of excitement-shining so to make you wonder if there’s something to this whole thing.
Definitions
by Sarah Karpovich
II. HOMOGENEOUS you sought that defining element, that something of yours. you proclaimed “never will I ever!” and stomped your foot and stood your ground, but here you are among the ranks, all uniformed and held on strings-so easy to control! III. HYPOCRISY I bet you never dreamed that these conversations would be yours, that these stories would be true and about you. I bet you held yourself above all this mess, hovering, sighing, shaking your head at all the fools and their mistakes. IV. INQUIRY apologies bubbling on your lips-to whom? for what? memories in pieces, still shots and frames-what fun! what shame! brewing in your chest, a little potion of opposites, a series of questions and wonderings: yearning for explanation as to why it seems to matter quite so much.
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The Mannequin in the Department Store Wants to be real. She no longer thinks of what she wears as she stands there, the tiny moon eyes dissecting her body in the day, the rolling misshapen shadows of the mall by night. It is not enough to stand so with her shiny skull among the wigs and belts, the leather and the numerous grabs, with her sculpted breasts pushing softly against the pale green sweater and the hardened feet consistently arched, regardless of the shoe. She has not grown used to the dismemberment that comes with each new season, and broods her inability to suffer the weight of time.
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by Nicole Ferrari
The Cyborg’s Mirror Life Drawing Class Professor Christopher Lonegan
“I have so often dreamed of you, walked, spoken, slept with your Phantom that perhaps I can be nothing any longer than a Phantom among phantoms…” - Robert Densos: “I Have do Often Dreamed of You.”
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clockwise from top: Christina Marchetto Andrea Delgado Sarah Bowen Lyndsi Maciow Molly O’Brien Helen White
“I am a little world made cunningly Of Elements, and an Angelike spright…” - John Donne: “Holy Sonnet V”
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clockwise from top: Kat Murphy Katherina Grace Rebecca Longo Philip Bolton Pooja Bhatnagar Ayla Badell
Automatic Doors I’m the type of person who looks the same in every picture. I do everything in my power to avoid the camera. My goal: to prevent this collection of identical photographs from growing any larger. Where the necessity of documenting each and every social event came from, I do not know. Nor do I know what will become of this inevitably increasing stack of photographs. I’ll never be the one who looks back on old photos. No nostalgia to be found in my photo book. What will people say when they pour over images of me through the years? How quickly they will realize that I have never changed nor do I seem to be changing. This is me, excited. This is me, distressed, overwhelmed. This is me when I was surprised at your spontaneous, almost-candid shot. This is me, overjoyed to be there at your brother’s party in his new apartment. Here I am marveling over his decorative prowess, the antique chest-ofdrawers, the frosted drinking glasses. Such details have never been and could never be recounted. My glazed eyes are the only consistent detail one could glean from a flip through my photo collection. This is a photo of me with no children, no ancient family traditions, no stories, no place to be. I woke up this morning at age 36. Today would be the day I wore my grey suit and rode the bus to
work. So would tomorrow. My exwife called me at the office. Something about her niece’s graduation and how it would be nice if I came because the whole family would be there and it doesn’t look great on her part if I distance myself completely and if I’m not there her mother will most certainly take notice and most certainly make vocal her concerns about my lack of responsibility and my apparent distaste for her entire side of the family. If I attend, there will be photographs taken. Another evening of dodging the lens. But I do attend, and as I am only present out of obligation, and everyone knows it, no one wants to include me in their snapshots. Afterward I retreat to the living room of my apartment. On the sixth floor, under a soft glow of lamps, surrounded by dark wood floors, wood paneling, I feel alright. The next day I go to work. I must make a trip to the city hall to deliver a document. The revolving door that I usually enjoy is stuck, and when I step to the side an ordinary door opens for me electronically. The place has tall ceilings and smells like dust and stone and paper. When I’m done I stop at the bank. No drivethru, I go inside. I wait in line in the bank’s metallic atmosphere. After work I go to the grocery store. The
What will people say when they pour over images of me through the years?
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doors open up for me instinctively. The sterile lights, the shiny floors, the vibrantly colored, meticulously organized boxes and cans make me feel overwhelmed. There is something disquieting about the integrity of the shelves. They carry an inhuman quality, a robotic perfection. People from all around gathered inside the store, all performing the same action, all here together in the same place, only out of necessity, not because we want to see each other. Not interacting, but co-acting. No one comes here to meander through the safe, clean store and just look at people, recognize them, appreciate that we are all human, all gathered inside the same man-made structure for the same reason. When I leave, I face the automatic doors once again. They seem to open anxiously while I am still somewhat far off, as if they are ready for me to leave. After the grocery store I stop in a carry-out restaurant. I sit on the small, uncomfortable red bench in the corner while the bright ceiling lights hum like wasps. I wait. The cashier and I, alone, in the same place at the same time, co-acting. When I make it back to my apartment I settle into the living room once again, sheltered, isolated. This is a photo of me living my life indoors.
They carry an inhuman quality, a robotic perfection.
by Chris Sweeney
by Morgan Kenny It crusts on lashes like a scab, crunching miniscule hair follicles into alleged perfection. Succumb to crying and it bleeds on your pillow, staining helpless fabric and streaking your face like dense oil slicks. Try not applying it, as if you don’t care. But you do, oh everyone does. Feel exposed without and vulnerable in its absence. Pump it again and apply it once more. Placing mystery ingredients near a critical organ, the very organ that creates its need. Flawless features, that’s what everyone wants. They hope anyway, but they’re deep in it too. That makes it necessary, so we can be pretty, I think.
- Anonymous 10 | Warnings
Coming to Terms with the Mirror 11 | Warnings
On the subject of vanity Let me not start outwardly judging all humanity But rather begin some careful inflection and thought About what is perhaps my own insanity and obsession with self. Maybe, just maybe, I am asking for help And for someone to validate my periodic glances Over at windows of academic buildings Which I seem mechanically programmed to do. Like Clockwork. Insecurity lurks in the confines of my mind Where mirrors often like to smudge and blur lines And claim to be friends and attempt to hide the fact That they’re my worst enemies. Harshly Judgmental. I become a reflection of my reflection Shamelessly expressing all the flaws of others From their clothes to their complexion Refusing to acknowledge my own vain nature. And Nature has given way to society Which I have come to realize, via my newfound sobriety, With these open eyes how influential it has been And how naïve and impressionable I really am. I am a man. A flawed one at that. My conceited demeanor isn’t always visible But now that the beer goggles are off and the darkness is exposed to the light I get up for round two with the mirror And truly realize how ugly I am, and have been. I breathe in. Then out. It is humbling…
by Anthony Medina
One day I had a memory:
Vainglorious
A blonde girl of my height and age patiently blowing her nose, rubbing her heavy-lidded eyes and smiling in the warmth of the summer sun. I blew my nose, too. On those days when the AC wasn’t quite enough my sinuses were more full than in January, when our mountain home saw snow. The combination of hot and cold produced such life in the spring that transplants could not cope with pollen that painted the streets gold. We were unique for our exotic birth certificates. Mine was of the garden state, but hers? I discovered, as my heart grew large, that she hailed from Aetna’s sunny shore. Young, I knew not pain. The decade, which neatly contained both our final embrace and the day that assured it had been the last, saw my mirror populated by a procession of monsters: Abandonment and Disloyalty, chief among them. For as I grew more distant, her inability to confide in me seemed a great cruelty, for her. And my first kiss, which came just before moonrise, could not have been a more perfect betrayal of the trust I’d once believed placed in me. The memory of the blonde girl came when I saw her name in the paper and discovered I’d been wrong. For in those last minutes it was not I who was a comfort to her, but the arms of another, who had been busy making everything all right, while my self importance had depended on it being wrong.
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by David Hipp
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by Billy Thacker
My All-American Packaging Black & Tan, Green and white, Blue, You. A thousand vices—a thousand things you left behind. Clinking glass, Wisps of smoke, A cheap plastic flame, Yours. This is the image of me you created. A frail pile of flesh and A rough L-shape propped upright between the warm ground and stone wall, Blurred in shadows of a summer night. A blank stare, A blank soul. Sloshing sickness, A crippling haze, Your lighter. A tangible relic of what would be the last time we smiled together. A hand weighed down by a glass bottle, Breath choked short, a mind cloudy with Marlboro smoke, A heart suffocated. As fingers toy with a stupid lighter, Lips gently, slowly mouth “Black & Tan… green and white… blue… you.”
by Kelly Robertson
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Go Forth
This place has no ghosts, they tell me No ancient tome of lore and no scholar perks his brow at our printed name, Dear friends, has Ignatius died in vain? The collared Architect sits in his oak-trimmed office lifts the crown of his pen and tries to conjure spirits Ones to hallow these halls, ones to grow ivy on this stone
by Jerard Fagerberg
But we never asked to be haunted Give me the vital throe of a heartbeat A quivering banner in the wind flown at full mast proudly proclaiming that nothing here has died The fire of the Earth that never burns down into a ghost.
by Jerard Fagerberg
15 | Warnings “...so when the world knocks at your front door clutch the knob tightly and open on up, running forward into it’s widespread greeting arms with your hands before you, your fingertips trembling, though they may be.� -Anis Mojgani