ep
a r e m he
spring 2011 1
2
ephemera spring 2011
e
the robert d. clark honors college creative arts journal
Editors in Chief
Submission Review
Art Direction Layout Design
Jessie Erikson Katie Jentzsch Rachelle DiGregorio Abigail Pfeiffer Alaric L贸pez Lily Bussel Mackenzie Magee McKenna Marsden Michael Sugar Nicolette Dent Roxane McKee Tracie Allan Rachelle DiGregorio Jessie Erikson Nicolette Dent Roxane McKee
ephemera
pl.n. printed records of passing interest that later become memorabilia
Dear Reader, Ephemera is the student-run creative arts journal of the Honors College. We annually publish poetry, fiction, creative non-fiction, visual art, and countless other artistic explorations made by Honors College students. This is our second year publishing under the name Ephemera and the reasons why still hold true. Art that is identified as ephemeral can be seen as fleeting or a product of its particular period. As students, our time in the Honors College and at the University of Oregon is brief. By collecting and publishing students’ creative work, the journal transforms the ephemeral into the eternal. We may be here a short time, but Ephemera allows us to make a permanent mark. We strive to foster a lasting community that celebrates creativity within the Honors College. And while Ephemera lengthens the lives of artwork, it could not exist without students’ wonderful contributions. We owe our success completely to them. Thank you so much for reading and we hope you continue to read our journal in years to come. Enjoy!
contents one Train Station Train Stops Photograph Suicide of an Orphan Boy Portrait of the Artist as a Young Woman Tense Indescision Come Here My Pretty Winter Still Life, Kettle and Mango Abstract Self Portrait Selling More Than What You Can Touch An Artist’s Last Letter to his Love Deep Purple Painting Juxtaposition of War and Peace Joy Color Codes Eyes Bottomless Take a Walk
Nicolette Dent Daniel Ronan Lily Bussel Jordan Wilkie Jenna Westover Roxanne McKee Simon Narode Micaela Russo Anna Tomlinson Roxanne McKee Kari Odden Liz Zarro Christel Gomes Lauren Merge Kelsey Mills Micaela Russo Alexa Kanbergs Jessie Erikson Olivia Awbrey Kelsey Stilson
1 2 3 5 7 9 11 12 13 14 15 16 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 22
two Yellow Urban Rainbow Switzerland Mountains The Radiance Replicate the Mind Forgiving Cat Sweater Guinness full Gretchen Wanderlust Surprise Spirit Touching Toads The Owltown Orchestra The Newest Year Laughing The Inescapable Things in Life Mental Math Pencils cotton sheets afterlife
Kaya Aragon Micaela Russo Stephanie Crim Jenna Westover Jordan Wilkie Kyle Travis Rachelle DiGregorio Liz Zarro Jessie Erikson Mia Schauffler Anna Chelsky Mackenzie Magee Nicolette Dent Ellen Aster Jenna Westover Ella Anderson Thomas Varga Cole Goodwin Taylor Wilson Lily Bussel Jessie Erikson Jessie Erikson
25 27 29 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 39 40 42 43 44 45 45 46 47 48 49 50
three Liz Zarro Taylor Wilson Jessie Erikson
Morning Salutations, Hana Maui Before Gray without your body in my be, everything else is The Grand Canyon Morning, Sunshine narnia Deer The Omelet Maker The Kitchen Torn The Account Memories Friendship? Photograph movement Lub-Dup With Open Arms The ClichĂŠ, the Silhouette, the Soleil The Old Lemons (When You Were In Jail)
53 54 55
Adrien Wilkie Jenna Westover Jessie Erikson Jenna Westover Kaya Aragon Micaela Russo Alison Robinson-Widmer Abigail Pfeiffer Anna Chelsky Christel Gomes Lauren Goss Simon Narode Taylor Wilson Liz Zarro Ella Anderson Maya Hamanishi
56 57 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 69 70 70 71 72
Jessie Erikson Roxanne Olsson Jenna Westover Taylor Wilson Kaitlin Hoffman Riley Stevenson Riley Stevenson Riley Stevenson Kelsey Mills Simon Narode Cole Goodwin Madison Cuneo Madison Cuneo Jordan Wilkie Jessie Erikson Simon Narode Simon Narode Roxanne Olsson Ella Anderson Kevin Marshall Liz Zarro Jordan Wilkie
75 76 77 78 79 81 81 83 83 85 86 87 88 88 89 91 92 93 94 95 96 97
four rounding Chinese Influence Steinbeck at Sundown Tripless Guilt Lennon Wall, Prague Because I Love You Pura Vida Wishing Painting Swings Starry Night Flip-Flops Johnny Well Worn Embers Mission District Shadows at the Gorge The Big Guns Eagle Dance A Percussive Poem The Worm Dust Photograph
one
e
Train Station
1
Nicolette Dent
Train Stops Daniel Ronan
On so many trains I would like to ride, with you. So let’s ditch the car and parking and just ride. So many tickets to buy, schedules to check, but every moment will be with you. No more fleeting stoplights to wait for your caring eyes, Heaven knows, many have died that way. All we need are our backpacks and wallets. And maybe a packed lunch, but you and me, we’re taking all the stops.
2
3
Lily Bussel
4
Suicide of an Orphan Boy Jordan Wilkie
Kyle Haynes: Roommate at St. Jude Orphanage He told me that he hated this place. He said, once, he would transcend these mortal coils, but how could he? He was an orphan boy, wanted by nobody. Nights, hours after curfew, he read with a penlight, his back to me, whispering words to himself. Laying awake, I’d listen, though he did not know it, and when I heard things like, “The more man puts into God, the less he retains in himself,” I’d think I lived with a ghost. Marc Zettinger: Ninth Grade School Teacher Even when I asked, the Reverend didn’t want to tell me when the funeral was. By the time I found out, it was almost too late to get a substitute. I slept in and forgot to iron my pants and had to wander through the church graveyard until I found a hole being filled. The air was heavy. High clouds polluted expansive blue sky. Dirt, soft from the night’s light rain, thudded on the casket lid, and the Reverend read from his Bible too softly to hear the words through the heavy tempo of the work of the ditch digger. Kearie Thomas: Schoolmate He wasn’t my first kiss, but I told him he was. That was why I was nervous. When we finally moved together his breath steamed onto my face, sweet smelling, unlike the bitter brick he pressed his hands against. For two weeks we met behind the gym, cutting freshman English. When I heard he had fought the boy I was in love with I stopped meeting him, and two weeks later I heard he was dead.
5
Brother Jacob: St. Jude Orphanage The Reverend’s wife asked for an orphanage to be built just before she died. The church had been in her family for generations. She wanted to leave her mark, I think. A woman whose religion was trumped only by her compassion, I wonder how the Reverend’s memory of his wife did not add any soft words to his sermon on the morning after we found the boy’s body? Reverend Lukas Krimjov: St. Jude Orphanage My father was a religious man. It is how he survived coming to America, he said. It is how he survived my mother’s death. I never knew her, but my father loved her dearly. He was a hard, proud man. When I married he gave me his Bible. When he was going to die he refused to stay with us and so did it alone, in the cold house of my childhood. My wife could not bear the cold. She never understood why I liked reading the Bible best in the cold of night. If she awoke she would wrap a blanket around me. With time I stopped forsaking the comfort of warmth. I still keep the hearth glowing warm in these mild winters. After I was told there had been a suicide, after I let the boy down, I read the Bible through the night. I shivered when I told the children he had gone to hell, a sinner. At the funeral, I could not speak with numb lips. If I placed the old Bible on the embers, the embers would jump forth and swallow those fragile pages. Do you think the warmth could warm my frozen body?
6
Portrait of the Artist as a Young Woman
7
Jenna Westover
8
Tense
Roxanne McKee
soft sculpture, front
9
back
10
Indecision Simon Narode I was stranded at The head and foot of Two adjacent stairs, Undecided, Flickering between Mirrored destinations. You heard a piercing Tear Before my head fell south, Knocking each step, but Skipping always more Basement-bound, And committed, While my lidless Corpse marched surely toward the sky, But its thin blood fountains from A dark egress in its chest, Because my gray heart Wavers still, Mindless and formless, Between the high and low, Ever-further drifting, From tangible decision.
11
Come Here My Pretty
Micaela Russo
I was exploring Burano, Italy, an island near Venice with rows of brilliantly colored houses, and wanted to really capture the people of the town. I stopped to take his picture and he gestured me to come inside. I said, “Ciao, gratzie,� and as I left, I could here him whistling hoarsely through the gap in his teeth.
12
Winter
Anna Tomlinson
I thought that once the winter came My heart would freeze like the leaves Once danced, now encased with ice. I thought the shadows of my childhood would leave The small girl in the nightgown leaning over, Barely visible in moonlight, a stone in her outstretched hand. And how the moon shone so brightly that night, and every night As I lay watching fairies on the ceiling. I thought it wouldn’t hurt so much to come back. I didn’t know how it would be To look back on you and I kissing in the car Cold with warm mouths, saliva and hair Smiles in the dark. I didn’t think it would go bad, I thought it Would just end, without me. I didn’t know that time turns into real life, and before you know it, You are grown and far from where you used to be, yet can’t Remember how you got there. Step to the edge. Look. Jump. The suckers on the apple tree continue to grow tall, straight up Til Daddy prunes them down in the spring. Now there are No children to sort through the dark red canes as they fall and choose The most flexible and smooth, the biggest. The canes stand out against blue winter sky. My heart is not frozen. It is our destiny To beat out against the cold with the thrumping beat of our heart To stay alive no matter what happens To look back. I wanted to take a chance, that young 16-year-old Eager and shy and you were something unreal. I didn’t know I could have good memories but not want anymore I didn’t know that sometimes, you have to make the past Things are not just swallowed up by the turning of the sphere.
13
Still Life, Kettle and Mango
Roxanne McKee
14
Abstract Self Portrait To make this abstract self-portrait, I wanted to highlight the aesthetics of physical elements of my body. It is a mixed medium of ink and digital
15
Kari Odden
Selling More Than What You Can Touch
Liz Zarro
An Artist’s Last Letter to his Love Christel Gomes
You are only beautiful because I paint you so. Your yellow hair I render with gold, And lend sparkle to your eyes with the white of my brush. I set soft hues of rose into the curves of your cheeks, And round your lips with my shadow of blue. Your ordinary neck I flatter with soft light The dull blue of your eyes I paint to brilliance I lie in your portraits whilst your hungry eyes shine in delight (the only time your eyes ever shine) You are not my muse, my darling. I am sorry to leave, But not for casting shade On your impossibly vain love, your only love; yourself.
16
Deep Purple Lauren Merge
For my grandfather, Richard Horning
Leta’s hands ached as she pulled against the oars, pushing on the water of the bay. Her liver-spotted hands, knobby and old, burned in the sun as she rowed the wooden canoe toward a cove. She and Harmon had anchored there over the years to enjoy the nicest summer weekends. The day was hot already, even at 10:30, and Leta was exhausted. Harmon usually did the rowing, but not today. Today, Harmon was in the urn at Leta’s feet. She pulled into the cove, a large one with a private beach and steep walls of red clay. The scraggly pine trees clung to the walls, their roots gnarled even though the trees were young. She had to squint a bit to see them in the bright morning light. Across the way a white sailboat was anchored and a group of finely dressed people milled about on the deck. Strange outfits for sailing, Leta thought. She imagined they might be laughing but she couldn’t hear them without her hearing aids in. The sun felt hotter as Leta turned her back on the white boat, as if the life on it were radiating outwards, beating against her. The urn was heavy in her hands and it took her several tries to pry the top open. Her back to the cove, she closed her eyes, whispering into the ash. Then she gently shook him into the cold water of the bay. When she opened her eyes again, she looked up at the sailboat. Framed against the red hills, in the hot sun, a bride and a groom were being married. She watched Harmon’s ashes drift away from her toward the white boat. Soft strains of piano played, and Leta caught the opening bars of Deep Purple as she rowed home.
17
Kelsey Mills
painting
18
Juxtaposition of War and Peace
Micaela Russo
For my Art 116 class, a 3D design intro course, we made birdhouses specific to a site outdoors. I chose the cherry blossom tree outside of the ROTC and designed my birdhouse to challenge the concept of war using the beauty of the blossoms.
19
Joy
Alexa Kanbergs
20
Color Codes Jessie Erikson
making meaning: gnats become sunlight broken on only air
seeing my own image in the window of a bus clouds moving
#6183A6 #FCD59C
the gold glow of leaves: twin flashlights in the fog i am more alone than
lit from somewhere within what i still want to be
machinery
#9FB6CD
21
#FFA824
Eyes Bottomless
Olivia Awbrey
She sees, with a listening eye, Laughter fall back again. Tripping over itself until A blanket of grey glues it down. And trees whisper. And grass mingles. And layers of shouts sound. We cannot see beneath the hollow eye, A well deep and dark, Behind it, under it, through it; Nor the extent of which it may hold.
Take a Walk
Kelsey Stilson
22
e
two
Yellow
Kaya Aragon
It took a supreme effort to lift her eyelids. Or maybe they already were open. She couldn’t tell. Everything was dark except over there in the corner of her vision. Over there it was yellow. Relieved that this crazy dark world at least had yellow, she tried to feel the rest of her body. Slowly, painfully, she realized that she was lying on something cold and hard. Muffled sounds traveled through the darkness, stabbing her ears. She raised her head. The yellow was a traffic divider. Her hands and feet tingled. Now, instead of darkness, everything was strangely bright as if the world had a halo. A man knelt by her side. His lips moved but the sound came out all muddled. She tried to understand. He spoke again. The sound hurt her ears. His incomprehensible litany continued as he reached for her bag and pulled out her wallet. He compared the ID with her face. “Sarah Maria Euler.” The tingles increased. It felt like a mild electric current was coursing through her body. A name. Sarah Maria Euler. Sarah. Maria. Euler. Sarah. She forced herself to sit up. A name was a powerful thing. She vomited. She gasped for breath. Sarah. Maria. Euler. The man touched her shoulder. “Are you okay? Do you want some water?” She rinsed her mouth, and then drank greedily. He smiled. “Well, you seem to be alright. I guess the fall just stunned you. What do you think?” She glanced at him. Little silver spots floated in her vision. They made him look sparkly. He had light brown hair, hazel eyes, and a five-o’clock shadow. She noticed a small golden stud in his left ear—pirate style. It flashed in the sun. Like everything around him, the man wore a halo of white light that pulsated softly.
25
“You are okay, aren’t you? Sarah?” There was that name again. Sarah. “Hey, talk to me girl. You’re scaring me.” She moved her tongue around in her mouth to make sure it would work. It tingled. “I think I’m okay.” It was barely more than a whisper. He looked relieved. “Your bike doesn’t look quite as okay, though.” Her bike looked like it had been unable to decide if it wanted to turn left or right and had tried to do both at the same time. The left side seemed to be winning. She laughed but her head started throbbing so she stopped. “You know, maybe we should get you home. My car is just right over there. Where do you live?” “Um…I just live…” Suddenly she was scared. She tried again. “I live…” Her breath was coming quicker now. “I don’t know where I live.” Tears blurred her vision and splashed onto her cheeks. The left side of her face was numb. “Hey. It’ll be okay.” The man checked her ID. “We got your address right here. 1340 W Maple Street. That’s only a few blocks away. Let’s just get you into my car. Do you think you can walk that far?” She nodded and stood up. The street tilted alarmingly.
26
Shapes were reduced to silhouettes, their edges bright silver. Her ears rang and her legs felt like noodles. Spaghetti. She loved spaghetti. The man caught her before she hit the street. She came to in the car. “I love spaghetti.” The man turned towards her. He looked worried again but kept on driving. She looked out the window. The sky was dark with heavy rain clouds. She stared up and watched the little silver dots dance across her eyeballs. The tingling started up again, passing like waves up her spine. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, they were parked under a maple tree. Each leaf was exquisitely yellow, and stood out in sharp contrast against the dark sky. “Well, here we are. 1340 W Maple Street. Looks like a nice house.” The man came around the front and opened her door. He helped her out and half-carried her up the front steps. He rang the bell. Her roommate opened the door. “Oh my god! What happened? Sarah! Are you okay? Is she okay?”
27
They settled her onto the couch and put a pillow under her head. Her whole body was numb. Everything flashed and sparkled with blinding light. She whimpered.
The next thing she knew, yellow sunlight was streaming in through the window, warming her pillow. She blinked. The halos and the tingling were gone, and no more silver sparks clouded her vision. “Sarah!” “Sarah!” “Sarah Maria Euler!” “Geez, Beth, I heard you the first time.” “Are you okay now?” She thought for a second. “Yes. But, what kind of name is Euler anyways?”
Urban Rainbow
Micaela Russo
28
29
Switzerland Mountains
Stephanie Crim
30
The Radiance
31
Jenna Westover
Replicate the Mind Jordan Wilkie
How? Impossible! Simple. See the girls in the summer dresses, hear them flock like geese, “Like, duh,” “Like, duh,” “Like, Duh,” to the tall blond one in front? Easy. Predictable: just so many ones and zeros clip-clipping heel-toe down a sidewalk. But that girl – septum piercing, dark hair, a short cut, homemade knapsack, walking barefoot, reading– she holds mystery. Ask her if that’s Kerouac. She said, “Like, duh.” See? Oh… Simple.
32
Forgiving Kyle Travis
Sparks flicking on clay brick, gestures against the earthen essence of structure, here is your shattered wrist and earned impression of the world. Whittle new teeth from the stone but don’t pierce the heart, caress it. Here is the reluctant mother learning to clutch her cub. This is not giving up. The beast that whispered how you would find her had its own gamble. Here is a fresh tack: stubborn self-destruction or sharp relief. You click your tongue at me and sound out the words: Here are the nails that cut my palm Here is my silent disaster
This is the clandestine self-refusal.
33
Hi, I Made This Cat Sweater For You
Rachelle DiGregario
34
Guinness
35
Liz Zarro
full
Jessie Erikson
the things i want to say want to jump out of my mouth like a puppy yes a puppy soft and heavy and warm messy and noisy and breathing all over the place i cover them up with a blanket try to trick them to sleep
36
37
Gretchen
Mia Schauffler
38
Wanderlust
Anna Chelsky
watercolor
Inspired by going on walks in my hometown, Happy Valley.
39
Surprise
Mackenzie Magee
They weren’t very secretive about the surprise party. Aunt Miriam let a colorful streamer slip out of her purse; Mom purchased cake mix, sprinkles, frosting--all the unnatural ingredients essential to any party--and Julie kept asking, days before the date, if I was doing anything around 3 p.m.. I had so many things I could have been doing, but knew that I had no other choice, so I always told her no. I dreaded that day, May 7th, 2009, more than any day I’ve ever lived. I dreaded it more than the day I was supposed to perform at my piano recital. I was nine, and unable to handle the pressure. I puked in the bathroom minutes before the show, and the recital was canceled. I dreaded it more than the day I broke up with my longterm boyfriend. We had been going steady for three years before I realized that his nervous twitch, sweaty palms and inability to stop picking his nose in public really got to me. I almost took it back when I saw the tears swell up in his eyes, and felt the vomit sneak up my throat like an unwelcome, slippery snake. This time I swallowed it though, along with my pity, and broke his heart. This day was worse than the others, because I was unsure of its expectations. I was unsure of how my family expected me to act, at the anniversary party of my close brush with death. How is one supposed to feel at such an event? Was I supposed to feel shaken? Because I wasn’t anymore really--the scars on my body and the screams of the other passengers were fading into a distant dream. Was I supposed to feel grief, for the other passengers who weren’t so lucky? Because I didn’t really feel that either, as terrible as it sounds--I didn’t know them enough to mourn their deaths a year after, and truly feel the heavy burden of loss. Was I supposed to feel thankful? Because I was, I guess--though it was more out of obligation than actual appreciation. I love my family, don’t get me wrong--but that day, May 7th, 2009,
40
I didn’t want to think about how grateful I was to be alive. I didn’t want to think about the plane crash, either. I didn’t want to think about anything. Sometimes you have to think about others before yourself, however, so I showed up at my parent’s house at exactly 3 p.m.. Julie answered the door, and motioned for me to follow her into the living room. Try as I might, I couldn’t bring myself to activate my frozen muscles. I stood stock-still in the entryway, stricken and immobilized by fear. At that moment I was nine years old again, hiding in the bathroom before my piano recital; I was a college student, sitting in the passenger seat of my boyfriend’s car, trembling and stumbling over my words; I was an insecure young woman, frozen in the entryway of her childhood home, refusing to face her past and the people who love her. In a flash, this self-realization banished my timid, frightened selves from existence and left only me: an in-mate on death row, walking towards her certain doom. I took my sister’s hand and followed her to the living room. My friends, neighbors and family jumped out from behind the furniture; colorful streamers fell from the ceiling; a glowing white cake was perched on the kitchen counter, and a big banner with the words “Linda’s Celebration of Life!” adorned the wall. I looked upon it all, and smiled.
41
Spirit
Nicolette Dent
42
Touching Toads
Ellen Aster
When the little girl runs, she runs like tumbling pink tutu with twirling bulb and spaghetti limbs. Dirty fingernails creep into insect homes and lithe muscles monkey the branches of Alligator Junipers. Wild child cartwheels in a popsicle stick fix. Jump up like sing-song Cicada! Skip over like Antelope and slide down like sneaky snake: a sunbeam of childish ignorance, her teeter-totter body rejoices. Something catches her fickle attention, perhaps the red, succulent heartbeat of life and she bends over, body crooked like a no-nonsense N, scoops and softly cradles the horny toad. He is tauntingly tiny, quiet skin and bumpy. Closing his eyes, her small palm’s quickened pulse begins to drum beat a poem: her newfound joy. Standing still, a barrel cactus holding breath, the sun soaks her freckled neck. Scarred, they are Nose to nose Warm touch to warm touch and she Can feel his heart— beating. One eye of pepper
one eye of lightning-spark hazel hold hands.
Belly to earth she lets him go: Skit-scatter behind the Sagebrush his tail an afterthought’s farewell.
43
The Owltown Orchestra
Jenna Westover
Left: Childhood wonderment and fearlessness are entities I wish I could bottle up and keep with me as I grow older. Through the poem, I attempted to capture the excitement of young exploration.
44
The Newest Year
Ella Anderson
Laughing
Thomas Varga It’s been awhile. The groans and grunts, The backbreaking moans of fortitude.
45
The Inescapable Things in Life
Cole Goodwin
46
Mental Math
Taylor Wilson
My phone number crops up for the Gallup Poll, and the surveyor asks me to rate my life on a scale from 1 to 10. I can’t explain that I don’t understand the math required to integrate “incomplete” and “so happy I’m scared.” I can’t even approximate with a complicated sum. dPerspective/dt + diligence with decimal burnout. Add seeing my friends and not the future, minus root past, plus in love and in progress, times loving this hope for the progress at hand. Raise this to the power of grateful, and let x = a sunrise that I recognize with joy without knowing where my sum of sunsets falls. “Five and a half?” I offer in defeat. “Which do you want, five or six?” she evenly demands. “Five.” Oblivious to the lie she extracts and what turmoil ensues, the surveyor dials anew.
47
Pencils
Lily Bussel
48
cotton sheets
49
Jessie Erikson
afterlife
Jessie Erikson
for my father, captain of his soul and mine the desert knows me through infinite lines spaces that you have walked upon skies that you have slept and sang and swore under those cornerless maps become a catalog like me they have unintentionally collected you your memory which once moved instead making quiet speeches in the sand the swift smoothness of sheetrock your hands talked your laugh climbed
50
three
e
Morning Salutations, Hana Maui 53
Liz Zarro
Before Gray Taylor Wilson
I am not lonely in the early morning. My loved ones wander not in the variable world, but safely sleep at home. I conspire with the small hours to churn out secret productivity before Expectation stirs. Often work is a weary battle. The warm softness of the silent dark seduces more persuasively than cold-clacking computer keys. When Diligence hot-poker prods, the first of the day yields brighter accomplishment than any day’s dragging end. Sometimes, Diligence forgets to stoke the fire. This private discourse with the morning consists of part duty, part guilt, part peace, part refuge, and four parts negotiation: If I finish this paper, I’ll go back to sleep. Solve one more problem and I’ll write one more poem. Complete an assignment, facebook browse for a few. Take a run, once done with my list to-do. I feel closer to the morning’s heartbeat before the clamorous diluting world awakes and steps between. The day, before gray glows the edge of the curtain, scolds or hurries, or holds and breathes. She never pesters or tires of talking and listening to me, so by the time a Decent Hour rolls around, we’ve made peace, and may brightly join the world.
54
without your body in my bed, everything else is Jessie Erikson
for a while the pillowcases still smelled a little like you but now summer has gotten muggier: the weight of it smothers the sheets like it smothers me at night, making my dreams heavy and my eyes, and the air is thick but still it moves into every space, into every narrow line between eyelashes that lets in bits of light, early in the morning when the construction workers are awake and drilling, filling and leaving room for little else.
55
The Grand Canyon
Adrien Wilkie
56
Morning, Sunshine
57
Jenna Westover
58
narnia
Jessie Erikson when you come to me i feel you fall into me the soft collapse of cards buzzing between fingers i open for just you take you into me becoming a cabinet the wardrobe on the wall of your room my body is not a body not closed and covered by thick skin of a grapefruit the soft center of citrus my body is a bed i pull apart
59
Deer
Jenna Westover
60
The Omelet Maker Kaya Aragon
Eric pulled open the fridge and surveyed its contents. Now that she was here, the eggs, milk, and loaf of whole wheat bread seemed far more necessary. It was a good thing that he had bought them along with the essential and marvelous 2 pounds of vacuum-packed hickory smoked bacon. Water rushed to his mouth. Bacon. Ted or Ryan would have wanted the bacon and a glass of milk. His shoulders drooped. He could not serve her a breakfast consisting of pure, unadulterated bacon. Eric placed the carton of eggs on the counter. An omelet would be just the thing. Classy but simple. His mom made omelets all the time. As the refrigerator door fell shut, cool air wafted over him, and his skin tightened. Nipply. Eric could almost hear her clear voice saying it. He opened the cupboard. On one shelf, his bowls were lined up according to size. Eric took down the mega cereal bowl and banged one of the eggs against the rim. It stubbornly remained intact. He brought it down harder, flicking his wrist at the last moment. The shell shattered and almost half of the egg made it into the bowl. The rest oozed down the outside and formed a slimy puddle on the countertop. Eric slid open the drawer and grabbed a spoon with which to fish the eggshell from his omelet. Instead, he held the spoon in front of himself and made faces at his up-side-down image. Then he turned it around and looked more seriously at the right-side-up reflection. Distorted by the concavity of the spoon, his hair looked longer and more in need of a haircut than usual. Eric stroked his non-existent moustache. Would she be sleeping in his bed right now, if he had had a moustache? “I don’t know,” he told the Eric inside the spoon, “I don’t know.” After a heroic, but losing battle to pull the shell fragments out of the clingy egg whites, Eric scraped his first omelet attempt into the trash and rinsed out the bowl. On to Omelet 2.0. He selected another egg from the carton and held it gently but firmly. His face set, he inhaled deeply. And struck. Like a drumstick on a cymbal, the egg
61
crashed against the edge of the bowl, breaking neatly in two, its contents slipping gently down the side and pooling at the bottom. Eric stood still, his clenched lips gradually loosening into a smile. Then, he broke five more eggs into the bowl in quick succession. With a fork, he stabbed each yolk, and watched the golden spheres expand, mixing with the rest of the egg. He added salt and pepper and then whisked until the mixture was frothy. Suddenly, he stopped. He looked at the eggs. In two long strides, Eric reached the fridge and yanked it open. The contents had not changed. No cheese or mushrooms or ham had magically appeared. There was only one option. Eric hoped she would like a bacon omelet.
The Kitchen
Micaela Russo 62
Torn
Alison Robinson-Widmer
Anagama kilns are an ancient Korean innovation. The firing process is characterized by continuous wood stoking, ash from which is carried through the kiln and deposited on pots to leave unique markings.
63
The Account Abigail Pfeiffer
I’m at the office, again, empty-eyed at the monitor, which radiates down the retina like car headlights on the midnight highway. I’m motionless, but moving. But her voice slides from behind like a slip of leg into a porcelain tub. I turn, slow, my eyes, her smile, such a smile, white blouse, black vest, hair shining like crow feathers braided like a hand-wicker basket. I glance at my watch, the wall, her shoes, at anything but into her south-sea eyes, which feel like crawling on knees through a warm sand ravine. I yield to the feeling, a gut trickle, a sickly trickle, coiled in my stomach. She wants the memo, the budget memo.
64
Memories
Anna Chelsky
watercolor 65
Friendship?
Christel Gomes
What should I call this, This crippling inability to stop the desperate pounding in my heart when you walk by. Is this love? The gripping tightness in my chest at the mention of your name. How long does time take to erase from memory the sweetness of your kiss or the warmth of your hand from the memory of my skin. We converse, these days, like friends. Words and tongues skirting on the periphery of things that matter. I am bleeding to say the things I shouldn’t breathless and anguished beneath my casual words for my casual friend.
66
67
Lauren Goss
68
movement
Simon Narode
it’s slowing now. flowing now sliding gliding, grazing, fading, sighing, ebbing, basically breathing in your center. growing sinking rising waving, tiding, heating cooling melting, chilled and thawing, refreshing. Now swimming (smoothly slipping) dripping pooling puddle-gripping practicing now stop. it’s resting. Picking up now cascading, expertly-darting-skating-ziggingzagzaggingzipping dropping and pouring, Breaking Noise and falling, falling-falling fall. it’s spreading now. it’s glazing. Oh, it tickles, sprinkled and speckled freckled. glitter pindrop tinkling and tinsel Star-Room. dripping kisses. the honey. missing me? arms on my sides, pressure on my chest, harder, closer in me moving making heartbeat flutter feathers faster harder and harder still Stars. gazing at my eyes these eyes arms, my sides, and pressure…
69
Lub-Dup
Taylor Wilson It doesn’t matter if you know the life lub-dupping warm beneath your ear. If you love her, such the better. If you care, then pull him near. But a simple thumping heartbeat asks only soul and soul aligned. Masks and layers by the wayside, no call for witty lines. Simple touch communion, universal, like the rain on moss- and lichen-crowned trees. Quiet-thundered secrets of identity.
With Open Arms
Liz Zarro
70
The ClichĂŠ, the Silhouette, the Soleil
71
Ella Anderson
The Old Lemons (When You Were In Jail) Maya Hamanishi
Alanis Morissette playing on the hidden speakers overhead and she felt the lump in her esophagus and she felt sorry for the wide-brimmed heat-letting coffee cups and sorry for her hometown and the hundredmillionth coffee chain she was now sitting in and most of all sorry for the lemons, those luminous, biting orbs once vibrant and harsh waiting in the sun on a branch, full of potential, and then dropped at some point into distasteful glass bottles squiggles and cones and Os, filled with chemical preserver, corked and sold marked-down on the shelves of Marshalls, Ross, and TJMaxx Home. (Sometimes there was a pepper thrown in for color.) What happened to those lemons? How were those now muted, rusty lemons chosen for inedible eternal formaldehyde forgotteness while others where bagged in grocery stores; while others were half-heartedly squished by children’s dirty fingers, sold for a beat-up quarter on corner lemonade stand summers; while others fell to the ground and were scavenged by freegan passersby or by the watchful neighbors; while others were shipped to Japan, to Belgium, to Montreal, to Montana; while others were zested in bigcity bars. What had happened to those preserved lemons? Did they know, traveling to the preserving plant, that they were doomed to be stripped of their vibrance, heartily discolored, and forever halted in dated traces of nineteen-ninety-three? And—did they feel sad? Did they feel that they could have been more? Did they feel stuck? She refused to feel stuck. She could barely keep down liquids. She was a thousand emotions and volatile, biting her lip and switching from rage to compassion (almost real) to concern to love to concern to concern to concern to concern. Her bowels were a mess. Yeah, she loved him. But this is not a love story. This is the story of a girl and a boy in their lives in the world. And—did they feel sad? Did they feel that they could have been more? Did they feel stuck?
72
four
e
rounding
Jessie Erikson
things come together a new earth crafted out of clay seamless, separateless from the first mayas from the first moment standing there in my sequins those quietly glimmering dark discs like a forest of full of tiny eyes in the night the ground reveals itself to be rounder than we thought, after all
75
Chinese Influence
Roxanne Olsson
76
Steinbeck at Sundown
77
Jenna Westover
Tripless Guilt Taylor Wilson
Gallup Poll contacts me again. She warned me about this on the phone. I said sure, why not. They mail the survey, and as a token of appreciation for five minutes of my life, they enclose a corner-folded, pleated dollar bill. The survey questions about passport demand. Have I travelled? Where? Do I plan to? When? Need a passport? This, the same day as lunch with a friend who emphatically recommends study abroad, a feat which I have yet to complete or plan. The unknown other-worlds weigh enticingly on my naïve, domestic, homebound, home-obligated money-lacking soul. Of all the Universe’s guilt trips, why the Gallup Poll? Tripless guilt tastes like envelope paste. My dollar mocks my bank account. In my town with my friends and beloved, in my room with my bed and my books, I contemplate.
78
Lennon Wall, Prague
79
Kaitlin Hoffman
80
Because I Love You Riley Stevenson
I awake to the aroma of coffee and the sound of roosters crowing outside my window. My sparkly orange watch reads five thirty am. After slowly untangling myself from my mosquito net, I stumble into the kitchen to find my host mother, Elbia, brewing a pot of coffee over the gas stove. Still half asleep, I grab a cup, wish her a good morning, and, as I stare at the steaming hot liquid falling from the kettle to my mug, which reads, “Porque te quiero, mama” or “Because I love you, Mom,” I start thinking about the day. Gripping the warm mug, I walk out onto the porch, sit down at a wooden table, and begin to gradually awake. This small, rural community in Costa Rica called San Carlos, has already begun its day without me. My host sister and roommate, Rebecca, sits down next to me and laughs at my dazed condition. “Good morning sleepy head,” she says. I can only emit a grunt in response. She begins to tie her shoes carefully, pulling each string taut in order to compensate for their large size. The downfalls of hand-me-downs are a subtle nuance to Rebecca, but she does not mind. She pinches my cheek, takes a sip of my coffee, and hugs me goodbye before sauntering out the door to begin her work
Pura Vida 81
Riley Stevenson
for the day. Normally, a bus takes Rebecca and other youth at five in the morning to a secondary school an hour away, but she is on summer vacation, and for Rebecca, five thirty is sleeping in. I get up from the table, but only to pour myself another cup of coffee. Learning to wake before the sun is not an easily acquired skill, and coffee is the best way to evade the waves of sleepiness. However, with each cup I pour, I feel a small amount of guilt. Each refill is a result of countless hours of laboring by each of my host brothers and sisters, who work for their father picking beans on one of the many coffee plantations present in Costa Rica. I have seen these plantations from the highest point in San Carlos; they are carefully etched into the countryside, blended perfectly between rivers and banana crops. What I cannot see are my host nephews and nieces, uncles and aunts, tucked under the canopy, picking without pause, tired and sore, but complacent. To me, the fields are a lush decoration amidst the scenery, but to my host family, they represent a livelihood not easily earned. And here I am, curing my lethargy, with the product of their toil. Nevertheless, I sit back down and pause to listen to the sounds of morning. I hear Elbia singing along to the Catholic radio station as she pounds tortillas that will be served for lunch and dinner later that day. Motorcyclists sputter as they pass by, driven by owners who work night shifts in the city. My family’s new puppy slips across the floor in an awkward dance, greeting me with a nip on the toe. I take another sip, close my eyes, and rest my head upon the smooth surface of the table. I rest easy, happy to be where I am. The sun has risen now, and I smell the tropical flowers that grow in patches along the road. Sweat begins to gather on my brow as the sun burns my neck and shoulders, but I feel as though I could do this forever. The serene moment passes as I am startled awake by my five year old nephew, Junior, who, giggling, gives me a loud wet kiss on my arm. Junior has spent a great majority of his time at our house while his mother recuperates from the birth of
82
his new baby brother. He has quickly become my shadow, and this kindergartner is one of the primary reasons for why I have developed a dependency on coffee. He never stops moving, talking, or eating. “What are we playing today?” I ask Junior. “Super heroes of course.” he responds. “And your superpower?” I inquire. “Farting,” he giggles. “Great, we both know you do not need to fake that one.” Junior smiles sheepishly, and begins eating some tortillas and cheese that his grandma gave him for breakfast. I sit silently, as Junior crams food into his mouth, pausing only to pick up scraps he has dropped on the floor. Heaving and ready to begin our play, he smiles at me, leaps from the chair, and begins to “fly” around the porch, making airplane sounds. He has never been on an airplane, but his imagination compensates for his inexperience. Not wanting to keep Junior waiting, I rise from the table, slowly finish my coffee, and return to the kitchen to begin washing the dishes. As I station myself at the sink, Elbia finishes making the tortillas, and begins chopping vegetables for soup. We exchange smiles, and continue with our respective tasks. Above the sound of running water and Junior’s monotonous airplane noises, I hear Elbia say, “Gracias, mija,” or “Thank you, my daughter,” and I simply respond, “Porque te quiero, mama.”
Wishing 83
Riley Stevenson
Kelsey Mills
Left: I was a volunteer in San Carlos, Costa Rica for Amigos de las Americas in the summer of 2009 and returned in December to visit my host family. I hope to be a travel journalist or work at a US Embassy in Latin America.
84
Swings
Simon Narode I wish I could move like The sunlight Out on the swings In the woods. I wish I could flicker, Swim briskly Through some branches And leave silhouettes of life on people’s skin, Constantly changing Shape, Morphing, ballooning, dwindling In accordance with the winds And the shiver of their Rebel green leaves That really should be red Or brown, or yellow, Or dead. I wish that where I were not There would be shadows. My absence would be felt By the sting of a darker sharp chill, And my presence would be missed Like the warmth of a candle Or the sun on the autumn swings.
85
Starry Night Flip-Flops
Cole Goodwin
acrylic on foam
86
Johnny
87
Madison Cuneo
charcoal
Well Worn
Madison Cuneo
graphite pencil
Embers
Jordan Wilkie Grandma dried out during her final years and in death she was a paper sack shaped by kindling. My parents didn’t know how to pay for her. The body was cremated with three others. I bet she was the first to ignite. Still, our gas was cut. My father and sister cry in the kitchen on the strong shoulders of Mom. Stooping, I blow on the embers of a fire of wet wood. A long thin log like a femur catches and a drafty chimney blows smoke across my face into the living room. My eyes tear, I burn my hand trying to shut the screen, and soot drifts down heavily like the snow my grandmother died in, trying to fetch my father back from the bars.
88
Mission District
89
Jessie Erikson
90
Shadows at the Gorge
91
Simon Narode
The Big Guns Simon Narode
As all good comes, And all good goes, With gusto and, a dramatic pose, And a little bouquet of never-befores, A scarlet lily and a silver rose. The wars I would fight, The dragons I’d slay… Come with the chivalry from back in the day When I blew up the walls and built me my castle, Till time she came and she took me away. “Don’t go out.” Don’t go away. And in my aging arms I lay, Ripping in corners, dissolving in tears That my rosy light was going grey. Where was the bang? Where was the boom? My vitals were crawling away from the room. Where was my personal Revelation? Already in rubies, inscribed on my tomb.
92
Eagle Dance
93
Roxanne Olsson
A Percussive Poem
Ella Anderson
The high-hat has pursed lips And the bass drum trips on kicks While the hieroglyphics Ask if I could feel someone listening *** The marimba didn’t have enough low notes And the triangle didn’t have enough sides The tom-tom was of course too redundant But onlookers widened their white, soft eyes… The glockenspiel was much too foreign The cymbal cracked not of fury but of fear My mallets slowly flew from my hands But onlookers left before they could hear… The rhythm of the symbols -- I created myself -Carved ironies into every beat I watched as one of them Just broke into two; I danced on each ironical beat. But the crack in the symbol Is not the traitor here; I know what hit it much too hard It was the fear; lonely fury Never had a chance, but She’s left cleaning up all the shards. *** The high-hat pursed her lips (On the two, and four) And the bass drum savored kicks (A sick, pounding galore) While the hieroglyphics (That I could never ignore) Asked: Can you feel someone listening?
94
The Worm
Kevin Marshall
Veiled in a shimmering slime You lie, pale pink across an uninviting grey. Enticed by rain drops Dormant until trodden by a careless passerby. Silhouetted against twigs The notched grooves lining your body, The fleshy band aid, presumably concealing battle scars, Do nothing to alert your assailant. How could you have done nothing? But lie there, an easy target. An unknown target. Was it worth it? Did it hurt? Your body was destructured, stretched beyond the form you once took. It was treaded, the Nike swoosh embedded in the mass you formerly represented. You were lulled from the ground, Your secret home, And dared to travel a realm unbeknownst to the complexities and intricacies of your own. And the rain drops still fall.
95
Dust
Liz Zarro
96
Jordan Wilkie
thank you for reading
staff Abigail Pfeiffer Alaric López
Abigail is an English major and a David Bowie fan. “If I only had a heart,” says the Tin Man. “If I only had a pacemaker,” says the old coot. “If I only had a percolator,” says Alaric. It is said that the human body contains about 4.7-5 L of blood. In Alaric’s body, probably about 60% of this is coffee. This is enough to explain his capacity for survival as a senior English and Philosophy 2x major and Creative Writing minor. Abstract ideas FTW.
Jessie Erikson
Jessie is a lover of patterns, plans—as long as they are changeable, multiples of four, the American Southwest, alliteration, and—of course—lists.
Katie Jentzsch
Katie Jentzsch is a senior, English major, and business minor. She plans to pursue publishing and editing for her career. Her favorite movie as a kid was 101 Dalmatians, which made her want to collect 101 stuffed Dalmatian animals. She has 62 at last count.
Mackenzie Magee
Mackenzie is a sophomore who loves sand cats, or Felis margarita. Unfortunately, only 26 sand cats reside in the United States. Mackenzie has had the pleasure of meeting one of them in the Salt Lake City zoo. Her greatest dream is to move to the Middle East and see a sand cat in its natural habitat.
McKenna Marsden
McKenna is a junior and an English major. This is her second year on the arts journal. If you took a drink every time she mentioned David Foster Wallace in conversation, you would end up pretty sauced by the end of the day.
Nicolette Dent
Nicolette comes from the great state of Alaska. Since arriving in Eugene, the anthropology major has acquired a love of tie-dye, the Saturday Market, and the bus. She enjoys taking pictures of anything and everything. She truly could not survive without peanut butter. Nicolette loves anyone who will French braid her hair or make her laugh.
Rachelle DiGregorio
Roxanne McKee
Tracie Allan
join us
Rachelle is a junior majoring in advertising and math. She is passionate about design, data, consumer empowerment, and saving the wolrd. Roxanne, a sophomore and art major, enjoys many different kinds of creative endeavors, including drawing, painting, poetry, dyeing, embroidery, and screenprinting. This is her second year on the journal and she is excited to be taking over one of the editor positions next year. Roxanne invented the David Foster Wallace drinking game, and is still waiting for her letter from Hogwarts. Tracie is a robot that was constructed in a military base in Kansas. Her proficiencies are analyzing data and categorizing it into her memory banks for future use. Her occasional awkwardness is due to personality and interaction technology being very limited at the time. However, she has found music, reading, and a double major in psychology and economics a useful strategy for gathering more data on social interactions and humanity.
If you would like to join our staff, submit your creative work, or support us in any other way, please feel free to contact us at hcartsjournal@gmail.com.
thanks We greatly appreciate the Honors College’s help in making our journal a reality and we send special thanks out to Helen Southworth, David Frank, RenÊe Dorjahn , Miriam Alexis Jordan, the members of CHCSA, and alumni for their guidance and support.
102