The Catalyst Issue #2

THE CATALYST contemporary literary arts magazine

special edition:: incite isla vista

issue 2 // spring 2014

BULLSHIT // MATHew JAVIDI O D e T O H O L L y // A D r I A n G r O n S e T H J A r // T O M M y A L e x A n D e r SALT OceAn cHILI MAnGO // GIAnnA STODDArD A L B I O n // A D A M D e G r e e a b e a u t i f u l y o u n g n y m p h . . . / / n a t a l i e o ' ’B r I e n JUST AnOTHer GHOST STOry // HALey pAUL c O U c H S U r f I n G // S e A n n O L A n On ArTISTS // VIJAy MASHArAnI c U r M U D G e O n // M A T T H e w M A L M L U n D D r O p L e T S // S I M O n e D U p U y A D r I f T I n O B L I V I O n // y I B I n G G U O D e A r I S L A V I S T A // B r A n D O n p I n e I r A fIrST THIS BeSTIAL MArk... // DAnIeL pODGOrSkI e S p r e S S O S H O T T H r O U G H T H e H e A r T // A n J A L I S H A S T r y A w O r L D O f L I T e r A T U r e M A J O r S // c A n e L L e I r M A S e V e r y T H I n G y O U S e e O n T V // r y A n M A r T I n A z z I w I n T e r n e V e r c O M e S // J O S H G O O D M A c H e r w H e n T H e B I r D f L I e S // B e n J A M I n M O S S A f T e r M A T H // k A T H L e e n B y r n e T H e r I S I n G // D y L A n c H A S e f e B r U A r y // D e V I n B I e r M A n c O n T r O L // c H r I S c U B B I S O n O n e f r e S H f O O L // A D r I A n G r O n S e T H LAck Of ALcOHOL // JOSepH LeGOTTe AMTrAk // STeVe AUGUST TOGeTHer In ISOLATIOn // MAyA JAcOBSOn, nIcOLe HyMOVITz O I L r I G B O y // M O L L y H A M I L L A MOrnInG STrOLL // SeAn nOLAn

letter from one eDitor DeAr reADer, Isla vista is one living breathing ocean organism. You touch it and it responds to you. We can’t pretend for long we know what we’re doing here, that we know what to say. Amidst the insanity, the utter disbelief we all must be feeling right now, what words will make it change? Ryan Yamamoto wrote “The Catalyst,” a poem in our last issue, that challenged us to change our community from “empty handed torch bearers searching for our Prometheus” to igniting the flames of passion in creative collectivity. That’s not an easy task for anyone. How do you paint confusion? How do you arrange pain on a Word document? As it turns out, a lot of us generated flame imagery with the first crop of submissions for this special edition.

We know fire. The California fires burning elsewhere are but a backdrop to the war happening here, on our home-front. This will always be our home, transient as it is. Though many have and will call Isla Vista home, those currently living here will always share a bond as a result of the events we have endured together.

It’s impossible to look at this place, and the work in this issue, without a new perspective. Professor Alan Fridlund, in a lecture on May 27, 2014 told us that we would never quite return to the “normalcy” we experienced before Friday, May 23rd. We will tell our kids, our friends twenty years from now, and we will never be able to explain the way this feels to anyone. We will be forever tied and connected to our Isla Vista kin.

This past year has been hard, and indiscriminant in its tragedy. The media has already tried to pin the ailments of an entire society on our small backs. Yes, there are problems.

No, Isla Vista is not just the picturesque sun kissed image we uphold it to be, but a place of growth and decay. Generations shuffle in and out, take a stake and grow roots. But eventually the tide turns all away, sending us back to a strange unknown world outside our bubble. Yet as much as we struggle to, we can’t ever fully rip ourselves from this breathing, growing, strengthening ecosystem. A part of us will always remain here, a few infinitesimal grains of the sand’s immense store once the waves have worn us in.

Have you ever gone skinny-dipping while you’ve lived here?

Have you ever joined a club? Did you watch the eclipse? Have you been up Storke Tower? Have you ever called an office, annex or building on campus “home”? Do you call a professor by first

name? Could a restaurant employee in IV guess your “regular”?

Have you crashed your bike? Have you listened to KCSB? Have you seen a live performance of any kind? Did you go to Extravaganza? Have you “become a member”? Have you ever ran to catch the sunset? Did you take pictures? Did your freshman dorm have a twilight smoking group? Did you ever break into the faculty pool? Did you ever play at an open mic? Did you ever get a Woodstock’s bottle opener? Did you ever break anything? And, have you made something here? If the answer is “no”, you may be viewed as lucky. You, unlike these poor barnacles, might have a cleaner break from this rock we call home. But for the hangerson, how do we begin to cope with leaving?

This last weekend has revealed that our foundations run deep here. Like so many of my friends I found it impossible to abandon IV this weekend. Yet, without the words, without the Facebook statuses and tweets, the links to media sensationalist garbage, we are one. And one we will remain.

This particular issue, Incite Isla Vista was initially a DIY response to the failure of the lock-in fee for funding. It has become much more than that. Now more than ever, we need something to uncover our beating heart, warts and all. The voices here are many, and varied. As my content weenies put it: “So we got together to share how we see it, which is what you see spread over these pages. In spite (or, maybe because) of its narrower scope, this issue has a diversity of perspectives on display: shitstarters and arsonists, tweaks and catatonics, star and seagazers, fools and fossils, the green and the overseasoned, drifters and anchors, turkeys and dodos.”

In this square mile of ours, our faces become the streets, the storefronts, the houses. Without us, only ghosts would remain.

Perhaps our issue crosses lines. It definitely crosses boarders— the very same we cross daily from campus to IV. This issue is defined by the month-old words within its own bindings. I recommend that you read this thing out of order, since chaos is what got us here. In the words of Brandon Pineira you’ll find that Isla Vista is not just a means to an end, and that we are ready to be looked in the eyes.

-n May 28, 2014

cover: photo:s // haley paul, Natalie o:brieN, megaN fisher

t i h s l l u B

By MATHew JAVIDI

gaucho marks magazine

Wake up, motherfucker.

That’s right, I’m talking to you, you mindless, helpless, brainwashed drone of society. Wake up.

It’s about time somebody told you that. Look away from your Apple Handjob 7 or whatever the fuck it’s called and listen to me. LISTEN TO ME. YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW IMPORTANT IT IS THAT YOU LISTEN TO ME. Okay, good. Now wake up.

You’re about to get a life lesson from someone who knows better. It’s okay, you can trust me. I’m in college.

You cruise along throughout your day without a care in the world. You go to work at some job that you hate, and you take orders from some guy you hate, and then you go home to a house filled with stuff that men in suits told you to buy. You’d probably hate those guys too. And why do you do it? Because it’s easy? Because that’s “just what everybody does?” Because it’s the safest, most secure way to get through life without having to confront your impending death on a daily basis? Because it pays your mortgage? Let me ask you this, then.

What the fuck is a mortgage? Seriously, I have no idea what that word means. Never in my life have I been confronted by the deeper concept or gravity of a mortgage. But fuck you for paying one.

You’re in a stupor, drunk on a substance so pure yet so synthetic that even the men who create it fall victim to its potency. I’m talking about bullshit, man. It’s in our food, it’s in our water, it’s in our make-up and our lotion. Did you take a shower this morning? Did you use shampoo? Guess what? There was bullshit in that too. I know this because I read a lot of Phillip K. Dick and Sartre last year while

my idiot roommates (who are just as brainwashed as you) just kept going to the bullshit fountain and taking long swigs. But I knew better. I knew better because David Foster Wallace knew better. That’s why he killed himself, man. Because he didn’t want to keep eating, drinking, and breathing bullshit.

Now, I’m not going to do what he did because I’ve got a mission to complete, but he had the right idea, you know? Definitely made him a hero. In fact, I don’t think I ever would have read Infinite Jest if DFW hadn’t killed himself.

But why am I even telling you this? You know all about bullshit. You love bullshit. You spread bullshit all over your morning fucking bagel and eat it with some bullshit flakes in bullshit milk. You’re the one who keeps paying for high-speed Internet and cable in one package. That’s like installing a bullshit waterfall in your own home. Why would you do that to yourself? So that you can be with people and alone at the same time? You’re killing yourself, buddy. You’re rotting your brain cell by cell. But hey, if you are going to stay online, you should like my Facebook page, “If Corporations Are People Then They Deserve To...” We need likes, dude. Otherwise, nobody is going to get the message. I’m trying to free people here, and I can only do it if they like the Facebook page. It’s really easy. You should do it now, before you forget.

I know it makes you angry. It makes me angry too. But that’s why I have to scream at you about it.

You wouldn’t be angry about it if I weren’t screaming at you. You wouldn’t wake up if I didn’t bombard you with performance art, spoken word, and Jack Kerouac poems in a venomous, spit-laden rant at

photo//michaela vachuska

three in the morning. I’m making sacrifices here. It takes a lot of my little brother’s Ritalin to organize my thoughts cogently enough to hit you with this. That shit fucks with your brain after a while, but that’s the price I’m willing to pay to save you. Because you need my help, friend. I am a social justice warlord.

As a member of the upper-middle class, I am the best person to rip it from the crisis of identity and philosophy it’s currently experiencing. I am the hero you both need AND deserve.

I am your Bullshit Batman. ▲

art//chanel miller

Through these turbulent years you’ve kept me afloat with an enduring example Seas and cities swirl but you remain unmoved, a fixture in the fathomless chaos of growth and pain senility and madness discovery and death all the absurd sub-clauses attached to this lease on life Man-made, true, but I can’t imagine the sparkling blue without you, contrasting the earthly palate with cool raw steel, complementing the landscape like any noble monument For four years now I’ve tried to decipher your mystery I’ve heard all the rumors of rape and violence, the accusations of lust and plunder, the cries that claim you represent a culture depraved beyond redemption, with no regard for planet or progeny And surely they can’t be false But I’ve also seen another dimension, studying, pacing these twisting angles of sand and rock From afar you’ve continuously morphed in my imagination: one day the peeking periscope of a Japanese submarine, a frozen invasion floundering in the riptide of time; the next, wandering the coast on more mushrooms than Morrison, I’ve spied a clear crystal fist illumined like a jack-o-lantern,

middle finger stretched straight to the sky; sometimes at sunset the apparition of a pirate ship emerges, tattered sail of pink lemonade clouds hovering above, a raucous melody rising from your ghostly decks Entire days and nights spent watching you Gray meditative mornings, shrouded in Melvillian mists, your face only visible in memories or stolen moments until the fog floats by The stark clarity of high noon when even the endless ocean seems stagnant and the stink almost overpowers my unenlightened mind Yet it always drifts away with the light, the rush of day imperceptibly fading into evening…

Our sun reclines behind your caged silhouette, bursting its show to a close (the way we all should go), shedding its dying rays on streaks of clouds, slicing open the sky like fresh rhubarb pie, bleeding bloodorange juice on the glassy shore Dazzling alike the mind of man bird and dog, every starfish surfer and log strewn along the beach in reverence, worshipping A new moon rises to rival your light, glowing deeper in the enveloping cloak of night All sounds ebb away…

We’re alone Interrupted only by the occasional raccoon and adventurous love-locked couple whose kisses can’t compare to what we share— the deep unbroken unspoken bond of acknowledgment, exchanged through knowing winks and soft chuckles in the midnight calm Dawn breaks as before, purple pages inking the floor, saltmorning scent wafting my soul with the desire to strip down dive in swim out to you…

But now it’s finally farewell We knew it couldn’t last, this secret sultry affair— was it really four years or just the four seasons of a day?

Ah, either way it must be adieu, unknown winds and waters whisper me away, beyond that western horizon you’ve faithfully guarded like a gate Silently standing sentry: you know your work and place Now I must find mine

Perhaps we’ll meet again in distant days, after continents have shifted, surfaces risen, but time’s inexhaustible barrage of blows somehow still gliding by you, melting in the warm breeze You will raise your spire and a toast with a smile, lighthouse of our hopes, dependable as the bubbling tar and the urgency of youth Humbly doing your duty, shimmering, buoyant anchored deep outta sight, puzzling and protecting each class of passing dreamers on the waves. ▲

ODE TO HOLLY

By ADrIAn GrOnSeTH

photo // mariah tiffany

JAr

By TOMMy ALexAnDer

Jar, a big glass jar filled with hot black coffee and left in the fridge to cool, gradually, slowly, forgotten until i need a caffeine fix and reach into the fridge to find the glass frosty to the touch and drink it all down in a few thirsty gulps. it’s like when my father would give me water in a tall square mason jar during prepubescent weekend visits, gnocchi pasta boiling on the stove rolling big handsome meatballs in the kitchen of that cozy pink house that’s swallowed in the gob of years. i drink out of jars now because it takes me back to a time when i could still change everything that happened, and how i acted, and how i took that mason jar and drank down the water and pissed it all over the floor consumed with this baseless faceless simmering solipsistic rage and left and made my father cry. i could smash all the mason jars in the world and it wouldn’t change fuck all so here i am drinking whiskey out of a jar at three in the morning and my father was supposed to call again today but forgot or prioritized and i could’ve prevented this all in that pink house on valparaiso.

Salt Ocean Chili Mango

By GIAnnA STODDArD

On nights warm enough we slip out of our clothes, toss them onto unlit sand, trip and run and stumble for the dark, open-armed ocean— rippling skirt hand-stitched with stars—to dive and rinse the stickiness of the Mango Man’s flower-carved fruit from our skin.

The burn of brine always recalls the chili-salt caught on our nostrils and mouths and chins, edging our tongues in sweat.

photo//megan fisher

art // michaela vachuska

ALBION by

ADAM DE GREE

As I lay down to sleep last night my eyes beheld a curious sight: an endless scale of space and time played out across my unfolding mind.

Luckily for me and you my role was just a sideline view, but I pray that these words suffice for I had no camera and there were no lights.

Only Black as I fell back, Gravity released me, and with no ground beneath me I began to fall in place, suffocated by dark proto-space.

Back and back through the terrible Black until there was a mighty crack— melodies came pouring out fountains of sound and light did spout into glistening glorious song: the stars announcing the first dawn As the eons swiftly passed, galaxies crumbled, ran out of gas, with no one out here to miss them until I arrived in our solar system, where a creature crawling on ground heard just a whisper of the stars’ sound, and suddenly thinking himself wise, she proceeded to map out the skies.

Finally, grown swollen with Pride at what he’d done with those little eyes, she cried “Behold! The glory of my handiwork!

No longer do I play with sticks in the dirt.

This greatness is now all now my own, Mom, can I finally move out alone?”

Mother Earth replied with a smirk, “Not quite yet, you’ve got unfinished work!

Let’s just say that by the look of your room I’d be sending other planets to their doom if I said yes.

And while you’re here let me address

some issues I’ve been holding close to my chest: These constellations that you see are just conventions, connections constructed by your invention.

You think you can see the stars in their dance?

Why, you don’t even know when to take off your pants!

Consumed by wet dreams of Power and Fame, Uncontrollable ejaculations of shame.

See, I too was once 16, My valleys have also been pierced by streams; I’ve had my share of bedding disconformities caused by last night’s faults and orogenies.

But you are still young, your orgasms come at the point of your gun.”

Then Albion cried out: “Ok I get it! You don’t need to shout.

Even so, I disagree, in my body there is no unity.

Still, I swear, that isn’t me!

Those are just deviations, growing pains, abbreviations.

Throw out those hormonal sighs and I’m still here without the lies.”

“I’m not sure if I should laugh or cry,” came Gaia’s sighing reply, “Your lie begins With the simple word ‘I.’ Other life on Earth is part of the cycle of death and birth, of food and fuel.

But you with your ‘I’ sit there and rule, Perched above, alone on your throne, As you blindly burn down your home.

Now you want to leave me alone here to bleed, again I say No!

Do you not see you are part of this rock?

I am your mother, from none other could you come to be.

So if it finally comes to pass that when you say me you mean more than your various incarnations, more than color, language, and nation, more than the products of your history, the words you use to chain Infinity If it comes to be that your me includes the earth, the sky, the sea, all the things that gave you birth, when you realize that your worth with them is inextricably tied, when they are included in your ‘I’

when you include me in your I, then, my human, then you will fly.”

What happened next I cannot say, for it had passed the break of day, and as my alarm released its scream the dream at last took its leave and left me wondering what will be…

So after all that’s come to pass, well, next week, I’m sleeping through class.

And even now, I have some hope that though humanity can be a sad joke, we still will hear and echo the stars in the furnaces of our hearts, until the Earth burns not in damnation but with the Fires of Creation. ▲

Then no more will you wander alone, no more will you burn down your home, no more will your hormones control the fires you start with the sparks of your soul; no more will your creations bring hate, bringing you to your enemy’s gate; and no more will you have need of me berating you with these words.

For then you will see that you, human, make things sacred.

The power I have is the power you give.

I am a story, a manifestation of themes you’ve experienced since your creation.

One day, maybe, you’ll see the Truth that I, Mother Earth, live in you;

photos // ava mortoN

A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG NYMPH GOING TO CARNIVAL A lullaby to Juliana,

For her the night awaits.

She spends the afternoon preparing, Gluing feathers, trimming lace.

She works under the lamplight while The sun is growing dim She only has an hour left Before Carnival begins.

She takes her time before the glass Symmetric lines she draws Carving shadows along her face To accentuate the jaw.

Next she takes the rouge in hand and gently scores her cheeks her eyelids marked, the hairs removed her lips are plumped and sweet.

The only things now left to do to send her on her way: put on her gloves and tie the mask So she can slip away.

Shadows growing on the wall Inviting in the Night They crowd the room and whisper “soon” To the Day’s waning light.

“Where did Julianna go?

She drank all the champagne.”

“All is fair in Love and War” Sing chorus and refrain.

Palm fronds to talons, shadows curl Waiting for their prey A picture perfect paradise, In Carnival, betrays.

By Natalie o’brieN

Jewels in place, façade complete The games will soon begin.

Though Julianna doesn’t know, That no one ever wins.

Just

By HALey pAUL

photo//sara QuiNtaNilla

ANOTHER GHOST STORY

In a certain tower

above a lagoon lived a young girl who never felt quite right there. On a night like any other, with a friend, she travelled to the neighborhood nearby, where the masses gathered in somnambulistic vagary, to wander ‘til dawn in the misty streets. Policemen stood about like animalistic stone statues in a park, feasting their eyes on the crowd as if they weren’t even there, yet ready to awaken. The girl and her friend were growing tired of the cold night when a peculiar thing happened.

They weren’t planning to meet anyone in particular, but they did—an entertaining young man with

bright white hair and an exotic voice. He insisted they follow him, and to push the long walk home further down their itinerary, the girls accepted.

He led them to his house on the corner where inside there were many other white-haired, tank top-clad men with strange voices throwing balls into cups. With uptmost politeness, the man offered drinks to his lures and both accepted, though the nightly craze was alive in them already. With the man’s mixed concoction in hand, the young girl consented to an invitation to the balcony where conversation and people-watching could manifest.

With every sip, though, the girl fell farther and farther away from the material present into her own world, her own mind, where the scenes recorded by her eyes erased faster than she could watch them.

Up the stairs and down the hall—the girl could not remember if she had made it there herself. In a bedroom, there were two large mattresses on the floor, beckoning her to the inevitable prospect of sleep. But the sweet cold arms of fresh air grabbed her and pulled her onto the balcony and soon she could feel her weight become pathetically dependent and her flesh raw, soft, juicy! A fragrant little tangerine she suddenly became! And he was no longer a man, but a beast ready to feast. Her skin he unpeeled, and into his hands fell her sweet tangy pods ready to burst. He had her now, inanimate, and so he ravaged and ripped her apart from inside out. He devoured each saccharine slice, hocking and slurping her zesty skins. In her mind, she screamed and cried NO but just like in her dreams, nothing came out. When he was finally through, he offered the last bits and pieces to a friend, or two, and they tore the rotting fruit from her bones ‘til nothing but a carcass was left.

Slowly returning to her human state, the girl searched anxiously for her clothes.

She didn’t dare look up at the two men who stood conversing in the corner but their gaze pierced right through her, and it wasn’t just them. It was the walls, too. Yes, the walls had eyes! Wallpaper eyes were engrossed in her suffering the way people always stop to indulge in car accidents and public arrests.

She felt hollow beneath her skin, paralyzed like a hunted rabbit. She was terrified: of the men watching her re-dress, of losing consciousness, of everyone in this cold, cold world. Before she could figure out how to lace up her boots, the thought of her feeble state drew her to the bathroom down the hall. After heaving the contents out of her body, only humiliation was left, buried eternally deep in her stomach. To her tower by the lagoon the young girl returned to forget the whole event as she finally laid her head to rest.

Her story doesn’t end quite yet, for a couple years later she lived just around the corner from that same grim apartment, though the ghastly beast was but a flicker in her memory. He must be gone forever, the girl thought and she was at least somewhat right.

Thereupon, she met a friend to whom she told everything, because the two shared similar stories and manners and an understanding of what it feels like to be devoured. One day, she was invited to her friend’s house, and like a reoccurring nightmare, she drifted right back into the belly of the beast.

Unbeknownst to the young girl, her closest friend ate every meal in that very same kitchen, showered in that very same bathroom, slept all through the night in that very same room. How could her friend call that wretched structure a home after what had happened there?

Truth be told she couldn’t wait to return to that place, to rehearse her emotionless reaction, to stare right into the face of her shame and feel nothing at all, a skill she’d been perfecting all her life through various painful situations. She wasn’t afraid of the big bad beast anymore. And so, the young girl scurried inside her old hungry menace and with a grimace, it murmured, remember me?

Suddenly a pale cold clarity swept over her— the windows and the walls and the floors were possessed. The kitchen, it menaced, would you like another drink?, and the staircase, it probed, back so soon? The outlines were perfectly preserved and all that had changed were the residents and a few belongings, the same old flesh and bones with a new spirit. Everything that had vanished from her mind had at once come home and she felt the great burden of her memories like silence in a crowded room.

In the months that followed, the young girl returned many times despite her fear of the ghostridden house, and after each occasion, a stone was lifted from her heart. Thus, the healing began, and the house was slowly cleansed of its monstrous role in her memories. After all, the ocean spends its life erasing footprints on the sand.

This very same girl lives now in a land far away where she happily belongs and doesn’t bother to forget anything of the past and at night she falls to rest humming Blues My Naughty Sweetie Gives to Me. To feel something is better than to feel nothing at all. ▲

Couch-Surfing

By SeAn nOLAn

S

itting in the rain on a Sunday morning waiting for a man to give me a lift somewhere.

Yeah, somewhere.

Anywhere.

Maybe back to another warm-lit hostel...or to a lovely home for a family of four. Maybe to another beer-stained roach-infested living room where I’ll be condemned for eternity to eat the ashes off the floor and collect stoge burns with fervent gusto. More likely they’ll just take me back to the cosmic shit heap.

Either way, the kind of sagging worn low a man feels in the rain when he’s been ditched, beaten, burned, stepped and slept on, will be a grinding feature.

It was cold and the sky bled fat-bellied drops of smacking sputum. It had been pouring for about four hours now and the possibility of them coming back

photo // mariah tiffany

for me was quickly petrifying into a definitive wrong!

I sat half off the curb, straddling the gutter and sidewalk, polyester skin steadily growing swollen and soaked, swamping across my rickety widestarved frame.

The fuckers just left me here!

No warmth no love no gridlocked goodbyes, they had essentially thrown me from the back of the truck!

Fuckers.

That’s all I have to say about ‘em.

God damned fuckers...all of ‘em.

I guess you could say I’m a bit bitter, but you would be too if you’d been shuffled from holy land to hell hole the way I’ve been. Six families in four years, all downhill. Like I just came off the factory line and immediately began the slow decay of all.

The rain picked up and I stared defeated into the now raging gutter glut.

And all I ever did was try to be supportive.

A ravaged dog yowled down the street.

I used to have it made.

A loving family, albeit not my own, shelter, care, fabric softener and oh I can smell it now!

SWEET FEBREEZE!!!

I always loved that therapeutic candle shit that they used to do—pretty ritzy compared to my current predicament.

We would all curl up and watch shitty rom-coms and the occasional craptastic Tyler Perry flick. The kids were awesome. We’d jump up and down and tumble to floor while Ma made boiled veggies and fried chicken. I didn’t even mind when they swept their little fingers clear of grease all over my arms. I swear it was affectionate!

It never lasted.

Never did.

They got a cat and the fucker hated me.

DID I MENTION THEY WERE FUCKERS????!!!!

Yes. The bastard cat hated me.

The second they brought this little shithead home he lunges on top of me and proceeds to tear me to shreds!

I freaked the fuck out. No one noticed. They went about their business.

Everyday this would repeat ad nauseam. The door would open, early morning, patpatpatpat REOAWHHH! And cue the claws.

Every once in a while they would shoe the rascal away and I would get a brief taste of what used to be.

Until the hairtriggertabbytempered demon stopped tearing at me and started pissing.

ON ME! I say the furry monster was pissing...ON ME!!!

It wasn’t long after that that they started to want nothing to do with me.

Eventually they asked me to leave and with the help of two rather belligerent and smelly men tramped me out to this familiar place. The curb.

Yeah, kicked to the curb. Well, not this one.

But one like it. They’re essentially all the same, these curbs. Barely hanging on, one foot in the grave and the other in a heaping pile of dog shit. I still can’t believe they found me another home. I guess it was a final gesture of good will, you know, no harm, my bad, sorry things didn’t work out. From there I bummed around a youth hostel, and after that

a geriatric old woman’s house, then the Curb again, then an alleyway, then an apartment filled with drunken universitikes. Then Curb, then another apt., Curb, yet another apt. and there and back again.

The fucking Curb is my best friend!

I called myself Greg.

The last guy I lived with was a pretty bad stoner He would corner me in the room and attack me with a vacuum and a coffee filter, hoping to find dust to smoke his day away. He would have sex. Relentlessly Never once asking me to leave the room.

Hey don’t judge me I swear I’m not a pervert I closed my eyes really!

Besides he would have locked me out. If I could find a way out. I was pretty beat by then. Tired, wasting and weathered. My skin took on the ash-dirt hue of the grimiest of vagabonds. My legs cracked and developed hairline fractures. I was couch-ridden.

Did I mention he would have sex on me?

The hound was only ten feet away now. I shooed at him wearily. He smacked his chops and closed in.

Yawp! Yawp! Yawp!

He began licking my leg in a spot where my last roommate had spilled a girth of soy sauce that had stained me deep. That was his last straw.

The licking turned to gnawing. I gave a great shudder and collapsed into the gutter-Seine. The sky cracked simultaneously and the callous canine gave another defiant Yawp! before scampering off.

I cried.

But just when I had decided to lay and decay here forever, the storm broke. Clouds busted aside, a shard of sun shearing through.

The fuming clods of grey stepping aside for the big blue and ole Sol. I swear the heat was instantaneous.

It bore over my sunken and ragged frame and enlivened me.

I had been here before.

On the Curb.

In the gutter.

Down in the dumps.

All that Jazz, but now it seems to me that it’s all so transient and fleeting. The streets look good. Kids are walking out of their houses to see the quickly brilliant post-storm masterpiece that always makes the wait worth it. Who knows, maybe they’ll see me here and take me in. Make me one of the crew,

one of the gang. A local, yeah, a real mensch Maybe.

When the storm finally subsided Dave and his friends got together with the old gas can and walked outside. They had been planning this forever and today was the day. After a storm? No one would expect it!

Sure, it was soaked solid through, but gasoline would take care of that! “GLORIOUS DAY” Dave howled.

His friends snickered and they clotheslined down the street whistling an easy tune and grinning long. Dave’s roommate Tyler began chanting. “Burn motherfucker burn motherfucker burn.” He began in a whisper and took up a sadistic timbre, “Burn motherfucker burn!”

They drew in a semicircle around a glistening verdigris couch glossed with ashes, cum, and wine stains. Half off the curb straddling the gutter and sidewalk, it was already gasping heat in the day’s light. “Burn motherfucker burn motherfucker, motherfucker burn!”

Dave began re-soaking the new hope sofa. The acrid smell shimmered like mirage in the crisp air. Dave’s eyes glowed senselessly, Tyler was in a feverish trance, “BURN MOTHERFUCKER BURN MOTHERFUCKER, MOTHERFUCKER BURN!!” Dancing like impish fantod witchmen screaming and howling.

They poured out the whole gallon jug and ripped a match. ▲

art // viJay masharani

how DiD you Do that?

HOw DID yOU THInk Of THAT? You:re such a hipster!: Are yOU SInGLe?

i wish i could do that, i can:t even draw stick figures!

T

By VIJAy MASHArAnI

his separation between MERE MORTALS and ARTISTS is kinda good for my ego, but it’s bad for art in general. I’m not a god, nor am I significantly naturally talented. I do have a solid, obsessive work ethic. I’m also very critical, which means that I don’t plateau very easily. On behalf of people who make art, I’m going to have to ask you all to stop deifying us, and start engaging with us. We are the same. You probably make art and don’t even realize it.

In the documentary of his life The Radiant Child, Jean-Michel Basquiat is described as frustrated with the New York gallery scene when he was on the come-up in the 80s. Minimalism was the predominant aesthetic, and Basquiat believed that these highly conceptual works were alienating the art sphere from the general public.

A similar phenomenon is illustrated when I talk to people about my own practice. Viewers of my work aren’t interested in their own interpretation because they view themselves as unworthy or unknowledgeable. This phenomenon is frustrating for artists who are trying to engage in an honest dialogue with their audience.

Perhaps the art sphere is in a similar phase to what Basquiat observed, or perhaps society is still trying to figure out the alienating nature of some conceptual works.

Not only is the disconnect between the art world and the real world harmful and frustrating, it also doesn’t make sense. Art is inescapable in the real world. Every building, every article of clothing, every advertisement, and every piece of furniture comes from the same mental place as the paintings and drawings that seem so nebulous and unreachable to the general public. Furthermore, artists, while somewhat deified by many, are also paradoxically disrespected, and viewed as the bottom rung of society. We are called stoners, bums, future baristas.

The arbitrary barriers between regular people and artists are torturous to me because they distinguish categories that don’t exist. Normal people are artists, and vice versa. I’m done talking. Let’s make something. ▲

z

Z

z

Z

art // viJay masharaNi

By MATTHew MALMLUnD

CURMUDGEON

B z z z z z z z I feel the sonic oscillations in my jaw and watch my eyes follow themselves around the mirror.

They wince at hints of light Still red as if I cried last night.

B Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z But I do not feel beyond that damn throbbing in my head.

But I do see the motions Getting up, brushing, swallowing.

B z z z z z In the reflection my face is wrinkled and despite my callow efforts my teeth are the same Xanthous yellow they will always be B Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z In the reflection, but behind the water spots, I am half asleep and I’m the same stoned fellow I will always be...

Droplets

by simoNe Dupuy

The clouds are billowing overhead and droplets obscure the pane.

I watch them fall and run together as I’m driving home again.

At first they all resist each other, then attract and cling on tight, photo // mariah tiffany

rolling down the slanted glass as one until finally out of sight.

Like Vladimir and Estragon, instead of holding their own, they band together to ease the fear of facing the unknown.

aDrift in

oblivioN i. The light filters through the shutters of the blinds

And I remember those Autumn afternoons staring at that very same light, Filtering through leaves and infinite tree branches, And those withered leaves rustling with the breeze.

The echo of your departure reverberates off the walls And it resonates within the darkest depths of my being.

I walk through these streets full of life With the sound of the waves guiding me.

At night I hear the wind whistling As its whirl shakes everything up.

And the mysterious light of that ship perpetually lost adrift Telling infinite stories About dreams and illusions, Raised on your mast, Spread out amongst the foam Living adrift from the fugacity of things themselves.

Eternally returning and beginning anew.

escrito por yibiNg guo

I sit on the edge of my bed, My feet swinging on the edge of oblivion.

I look at my surroundings, The sky and the Earth, And these roads that seem so familiar, Yet so distant.

Innumerable lives have walked these paths.

Halls that house ideas from other times.

A recycled life. . .

Like the drawers that hold my secrets.

Like the silverware I use to swallow this nostalgia.

Tiny conch from the shifting seas Tell me how many people’s ears you have whispered to.

How many stories do you keep in that eternal spiral?

Share your secrets with me About the oceans and waves And all the tracks that they’ve erased.

ii.

Me siento a la orilla de mi cama Y mis pies tambalean en un abismo de olvido.

Observo mis alrededores: El cielo y la tierra Y estos caminos que parecen tan familiares Pero tan distantes.

Incontables vidas por estos rumbos han pasado.

Y estas aulas que encasillan las ideas de otros tiempos.

Una vida reciclada…

Así como los cajones que guardan mis secretos.

Así como los cubiertos con los que me trago esta nostalgia.

Conchita de altamar Dime a cuántas personas les has susurrado al oído.

Cuántas historias guardas en esa eterna espiral.

Comparte tus secretos conmigo, Acerca de las olas del mar Y todas las huellas que han dejado atrás. ▲

olvi Do:

El eco de tu partida reverbera en las paredes Y se propaga en lo más profundo de mi ser.

Camino por estas calles que se llenan de vida Y las olas me guían.

Por las noches, escucho el viento silbar Alborotando todo a su paso.

La misteriosa luz de aquel barco Perpetuamente perdido a la deriva Cuenta infinitas historias De sueños e ilusiones que se alzan en tu mástil Y que terminan esparcidas como la espuma del mar.

Viviendo a la deriva de la fugacidad de las cosas mismas.

Un eterno regresar y volver a empezar.

a la Deriva Del

La luz se filtra por las rendijas de las persianas Y recuerdo aquellas tardes de otoño, mirando esa misma luz Filtrándose por las ramas e infinitas bifurcaciones de los árboles Y esas hojas marchitas crujiendo con el paso de la brisa.

DEAR ISLA VISTA,

pHOTOS // TreVOr MAUk

It is much harder to write a love poem about somebody you know well.

You are a stone that has not stopped skipping, Each bounce punctuated erratically, like a brisk set of footsteps.

I watch across the way, looking for what threw you.

There was always a sweetness to your weekend strangers, the bleary smiles on their faces that say, “today might as well be yesterday.�

Though some filled their bottles with the sun and never stopped drinking, and some lost their intentions below sea level.

But you are not a means to an end.

You are not an ant farm, and I won’t be entertained by watching others shake you.

I dreamt you were the headless statue of a former hero championing an empty case of Keystone Light and a membership to Chase Bank.

People stood next to you in hilarious poses and took photographs, leaving their litter by your feet.

I spent the rest of the evening Searching for your face So that someone might look you in the eyes. â–˛

By BrAnDOn pIneIrA

first this bestial marK & then that

By DAnIeL pODGOrSkI

G

aunt, bespectacled Tom Weber paced with purpose the university-adjacent slum, feeling with every step the adrenal high of betrayal. Certain half-deserted streets. From some stark-lit student tenement emanated steady pulses of bass.

And malt does more than Milton can To justify God's ways to man.

"Take your word for it," Tom muttered.

He brushed his fingers through the sparse hair on his chin, then cupped his hands and breathed them warmer. Four women crossed Tom's path at the corner, each more scantily clad than the last.

As they went, they profaned the temperature of the night. Behind them some distance, walking the same direction though more generously dressed, were Aja Wilson and James Nasim-Pemberton.

Tom donned the hood of his sweatshirt. Blending.

"Tom!" called Wilson. "Hey, Aja." Tom exchanged a perfunctory nod with James.

"Something going on thataways?" she returned.

"Yeah, something. You?" responded Tom. "Sack's place. What something?"

Making all his nowhere plans for nobody.

"Hey James," Tom asked with a measured calm, "did Sack ever get around to giving you the money for bowling?"

"I'm hiring a collection agency."

Wilson chortled and said, "Break his thumbs?"

"Probably his knees."

"I'm telling you, he forgot," Tom offered.

James shrugged. A bus full of lowing matriculates crossed the intersection. Somber, lighter bus some time later, peopled by fuzz-minded vegetables. Disgust the slaves with freedom. A few

streets over, a siren howled and barked for peace.

Meat on a nearby grill kindled Tom's hunger.

James nudged Wilson.

"You could come," she said. "I'm sure he has enough."

Thick air in a pungent room. Aja Wilson's contented face glazed over dreamily; she talked about her love for Jesus. Maybe I ought to. That's the only net I have, got to eke out what art I can. Declined, the pair slipped off, and Tom resumed traipsing.

More sirens sounded in possible supplement to the first. Pulling his phone from his pocket, Tom noted that he had been walking for almost seven minutes. No posts to drape duration on. The little mailbox symbol was greyed out. Another pang of adrenalized discontent coursed through him.

Obviously. Seven minutes. Just keep walking.

The unlit western streets of the area were a bastion of anonymity. Keeping his hood on, Tom could be no one. If you want to reduce violent crime in the area, street lights would be a start. He caught fragments of conversations from passerby: "—put calc into calc, and they're teaching us their baby."

"Freddie was so gone." "Never seen him that gone." "Right?"It's cold as balls."

"—gotta eat something or I'm gonna literally die tonight. Need to down enough vodka to stop thinking about Casey's stupid—" A greasy lump on a disused bus-stop bench shifted to reveal the deeply lined face of a homeless person asleep. Mulaney may've been right about me, like that, thirty years on. Aqualung my friend. And someone'll take a photo of me, like

the Irish mushrooms. Not to think of people as just symbols. Everyone's an end. A sad-faced young man in a flannel shirt sat on the edge of the sidewalk, holding a guitar but not playing it. I gave my love a cherry . . .

Looking up, Tom realized that he had drawn near his home, so he turned back, heading now due south. He checked his phone; no messages, fifteen minutes. Surely, it would be hours yet. Dropping her off like her father. Maybe I should just head home.

She would not call him as she said she would.

Rather, she would appear at his house, wavering, and crawl into his bed to sleep. How he desired not to be there when she slunk in! Just for that moment, later, when she would ask where he had been, so he could not answer her.

Tom stalked down the street, the air suffused with sewage and alcohol.

Filth of all hues and odors seem to tell . . . Something something by their sight and smell The offal of a culture of abandon.

"Hey, is that Tom? Look, it's Tom! Hey Tom!" spouted the familiar voice of Calvin Trout. Though his idiosyncratic greeting implied a group, he too was walking alone. The pair clapped hands.

"You're going out?" prodded Trout. "Just not in."

Trout smiled and asked, "Like a rolling stone?"

"Like a complete unknown? Just trying to be a rock, and not to roll, actually." "What?"

"Nevermind. Did you just come from Katie's?"

"Yeah, man, she's a trip. She was just telling me about how . . . something about genes. Anyways, she's knocking out already, so I'm hitting up Phil's party, if you want to come with."

Aja and Cal inside of thirty minutes. And just

before, the first declined invitation.

"Not really feeling it right now." "Meeting up with your lady?"

Innocent enough. He'd ask that any night. Anyone might; Tom had been seeing her for over two years now, an exorbitant commitment in his acquaintances' estimation.

"Yeah maybe," replied Tom. "Which way're you headed?"

"For now, toward the beach." "Felicitous," Trout joked. "Most felicitous then."

Sticking to the darkened western road, the two soon reached the street nearest the bluffs, whereon they turned east.

"She's there without you, yeah?" Trout asked, leading. "It's no big deal. She knows what I'm like."

"Okay."

"What? What okay?" "Just . . . you know." "Yeah, I know."

Human, on my faithless arm.

"Tell that bitch to be cool. Say, 'bitch, be cool,'" Trout recited. "I'm Tim Roth? And you're Samuel L. Jackson?"

"Yeah."

"No way. If Samuel L. Jackson's taken, I'm John Travolta or Bruce Willis." "You're maybe Steve Buscemi."

"Buscemi's in it for all of ten seconds!" "You comin' in or not?"

"Nah, maybe I'll get something to eat."

Trout beat-boxed as he walked away, fading down a long soft-lit driveway. As soon as he was out of sight, Tom pulled the phone from his pocket: no notifications. Could've sworn it buzzed. Just over twenty minutes had passed. Tom walked another

few blocks and turned onto the old wooden stairs down to the beach. He descended into a black, breathing maw. Belial's wide womb of uncreated night. Or his king stepping out the front door. Bye, dear. Bye, honey. Bye, lad. See you this evening. Mwah.

The tide was in. Tom stepped carefully on rocks against the bluffs, heading now down the coast, feigning purpose even to himself. Spare lighting dotted the scene from a wooden balcony's spotlight and the glorious, luminous spirals of a few offshore drilling platforms. None descended from on high; a general dark grey mass above provided no hint of star or moon. A man and a woman on the balcony looked down at Tom as he stepped through the spotlight. Move, move. Don't worry, you're nothing to them. Outside their life. The stale freshness of beachside wind tousled Tom's person. In an octopus's garden, in the shade. In the shade—what'd he mean by that? Sounded good, anyway. Big nose.

Tim Roth.

This is where. Claims I can't write a nice poem about her. Maybe she's right. Then empty night took us, with a moment prepared for each. Not such a bad line, maybe. Back to that very beach delivered.

Prophetic I guess.

To his left, the long tan stone of the campus tower pierced the grey night. Proud. To every institution of higher learning, a rod of higher sticking. How far?

Not to the pier again. Still hearing bass. Train wheels.

Riding on 'The City of New Orleans.' Going back, but never really. Bringing the new me to the old them.

No sufficient theodicy. Poor pa. Just wants his soul.

Materialist for a son. Unlucky. Her too. Unbreakable kernel of atomic optimism. I wrote that. Nothing nice, true enough. Something crunched underfoot, and Tom, startled, hoped it was a dry plant. The chances

it's not. Chance. Maybe that's the trick to going with her next time—fake it 'til it's sincere. Both wagers break with multiple faiths.

Now a different balcony, stone, soft-lit, empty, rose on his left. There, Tom had spent many nights, two years prior, when he had lived near. Phone conversations had been had as he looked out over the dark, low waves. He had brought her there to profess his love. Just one in a series of professions.

Three ages of love. One gone. Pangs even now for the second. Pretty sad. Sadder still, the first; though funny now. Tragedy plus time. Then, a theist's love for a heathen. Now, atheist love for a deist. Guess neither works in the end. Tom sat on the dry top of a smooth boulder.

Panoptic philosophy. So many long nights, just hoping to be understood. Their fault, not mine. If only everyone would set aside given knowledge until they'd got more given knowledge. All you lived and live by is a lie. Fault not in our stars but in ourselves.

What am I now? Socratic. Know nothing. Know all.

They know other things. Me, some eclectic, thorough catalogue of arcana. Alone. An indistinct, muffled sound came from one of the nearby grooves in the bluff. Reasoning that this was either an animal or another homeless person, Tom began his trek back.

Limping back up the wooden stairs, Tom removed his hood. Blending. An hour had now passed in total.

"I like your jeans!" a stumbling girl called to Tom while her friend attempted to silence and steady her.

Tom smiled and nodded without stopping.

He passed a closed cafe. Elaine. Can't you have coffee with people? Always blamed Hamlet and Portrait for making me see things as they are, but the spark was there even then. Pretty existential for a

sit-com. A crowd of disinterested students, as always, swelled like so many flies about the perennial noontime patio of the burrito joint.

Tom paused at the next street corner. Having exhausted his usual haunts, but only managing to waste a little over an hour, he recognized suddenly that he would not be able to whittle away an indeterminate further amount of time, estimating at least two more hours to be necessary. Maybe I could leave again, later. Never works.

Having no alternative.

Beginning to move once more, Tom passed a man seated on the pavement, entirely still, his head in his hands. A rattling from an alley called Tom's attention, and a raccoon jumped from a tin garbage can to the ground, scuttling away.

To his surprise, Aja Wilson shouldered past him, walking with her arms crossed. "Aja!" She turned, glancing back and forth between Tom and the ground. "What happened at Sack's place? You alright?"

"You can believe what you want to believe."

Bloodshot.

"Yeah, I guess that's true. You okay?"

"And I can believe what I want."

Several cracks rang through the air. Probably fireworks.

"Also true... what happened? Did Sack say something?" She coughed.

Tom continued, "Don't worry about Sack."

"It was James."

"Oh." A pause followed, punctuated by rhythmic electronic music from a sidestreet droning a single lyric about time again and again. "What happened?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Why not?"

"Ending it tomorrow."

What should I? No more turn aside and brood?

Just cruel. Everyone knew it? Worse.

"So?" she asked, staring at Tom. Him not you. Plenty of fish. Meant to be.

"Okay," Wilson said blankly, turning to go.

"Wait."

She's come too, sure it's over. Talked it out. Decided love's still there. Love. Wilson stepped away; Tom followed.

"I'll walk you."

"Don't."

"Feel like I should."

She turned, pushing him away, and exclaimed, "Don't!"

People looking. They must think I'm.

Tom turned down a sidestreet toward his house, moving perpendicularly away from Wilson's march with haste. A singular shout in the distance betrayed some primal iniquity in the life of some other scholar.

Can't keep my eyes from the circling skies, Tongue-tied and twisted, just an earthbound misfit, I What's the difference? I'm Vladimir and that guy's Estragon. So what? The stuff I don't get to see. That's the worst of it. Thoughts unhad. Art unmade. Truths.

But like Nietzsche says about truths, they— A buzz from Tom's phone ended all thought, and briefly all circulation. Another pulse filled every limb with instinct, a fuller reaction to the same betrayal felt throughout the night. Tom clawed manically at his pocket to free his phone like an ape opening a nut, hoping with it to free himself from himself. Please. ▲

photo // megan fisher

espresso shot

THrOUGH THe HeArT a n d o t h e r c o n v e r s at i o n s w i t h s t r a n g e r s

I had two weeks

to write a paper, so, as one does, I waited until the night before. At 11. Well, I started the research at 11. Somewhere around 1, I really regretted all the decisions I had ever made that had led to this point in my life.

With an unhinged look in my eyes, I wrote out sentences like, “The protagonist is an especially lugubrious one.”

Lugubrious: depressed.

adj.

Overly

morose

and

An inspiring thought: I am the protagonist of my own life. A depressing thought: I am an especially lugubrious one.

After dragging my sorry ass out of bed (don’t sleep even for an hour after an all-nighter. I swear it will make you feel more like hell than you already do) and getting to work by 9:30 a.m., I was sending out texts trying to make amends with my friends, for death was near. Texts that went, “To my dear friend, I am so sorry I ate your croissant. In my defense, it looked delicious,” and so on.

At 10, my friend walked into the Writing Lab and greeted me with, “You look like hell.” I figured it was time to get some drugs.

The SRB coffee cart carries the most important study drug that college students need: caffeine.

I was greeted with, “Good morning!” It was a particularly not good morning, so naturally, I, Clint Eastwood-style, grouchily demanded the drink with the most caffeine possible that was not black coffee. “What abouuuuuuuut....” she started, stretching out her vowels. “Whaaaaat abouuuuut... a latte with a triple espresso shot?”

The words espresso shot instantly made her 40

times more beautiful.

A few minutes later, after she recounted her own experience earlier that week staying up all night studying for a midterm, I was given a large coffee with a triple espresso shot. “Wait,” I started. “I think you charged me wrong. You gave me a large with espresso shots. You charged me for a small latte.”

She smiled at me. “No, no mistake.” Scratch that, she’s one-hundred times more beautiful. ▲

It's astonishing how difficult it is to pack a lunch and take it to campus. You have to make a sandwich, put it in a sandwich bag, put it in your backpack, take your backpack to campus, take out your sandwich at lunchtime, and eat the sandwich. I had, as usual, failed to do that this morning, and so, in the afternoon, after trying to convince myself I could stay alive until dinner, I was standing in front of the baked goods in the Arbor.

So there’s banana bread, coffee cake, blueberry muffins, chocolate muffins, donuts, bagels, and croissants. Hmm, maybe a croissant. Right, so there’s cheese croissants, almond croissants, spinach and feta croissants, ham and cheese croissants, chocolate croissants, and of course, plain croissants.

Breathe in, breathe out. What were meant to be calming breaths turned into heavy duty hyperventilating.

This croissant decision was crucial. The cheese croissants were obviously Berkeley, and the almond croissants Northwestern. Spinach

I felt an arm brush past me. The beverage door was open, a SmartWater selected. What makes this particular water smart? Does it make you smart? Is the water itself intelligent in some way?

Ten minutes later, after contemplating the nature of SmartWater, I was still struggling with picking a croissant. I started to doubt whether I even wanted a croissant at all as I checked out the banana bread (moving back in with my parents after graduation) and muffins (dropping out of school and living in a cardboard box next to a highway) as viable alternative options.

I was still staring at the goods when the guy who picked out the SmartWater came back for ice cream. He paused, obviously recognizing I was having some issues. “Hey, you okay?” he asked.

Without hesitation I looked up at the stranger and started to wail, “It’s not about the croissants at all! If I can’t pick a croissant, how can I pick a grad school?!”

“Oh boy.” He came over with his ice cream in one hand, StupidWater in the other, and flung an arm over my shoulder. “Okay, we can figure this out.” He motioned to the baked goods, “Sweet or savory?”

I gulped, and then yelped out between ugly sobs, “Savory! Savory sounds delicious.”

He patted my arm, and we slowly went through them, one by one, eliminating almond and chocolate because they were sweet, ham and cheese because I’m a vegetarian, and plain, because by virtue of being a deranged human having a mental breakdown in front of the croissants in the Arbor, I’m anything but plain.

A few minutes later, we ended up with a spinach and feta croissant. Perhaps that SmartWater worked.

As I was paying for my croissant, he walked back up to me. “I looked it up, University of Maryland’s mascot is even dumber than ours.

What even is a testudo?”

“A turtle, I think.”

He contemplated it for a minute. “Okay. Well, go Testudos!” He walked away with his Santa Barbara swiggity-swag.

Go Testudos, indeed. ▲

When I was touring

the UCSB campus my senior year of high school, my tour guide mentioned to the group that Psych, one of my favorite shows, takes place in Santa Barbara.

I thought about this and logically concluded that this was a perfectly good reason to become a Gaucho. A few months into my freshman year, I looked up Psych and which of the cool places featured on that show I should visit during my time here.

It’s filmed in Vancouver. ▲

By anJali shastry

and feta is University of Maryland, ham and cheese croissants Syracuse, chocolate croissants Columbia, and plain croissants USC. What was I going to do?

I am a mature adult.

I maintain this, despite the ever increasing mountain of evidence that suggests the contrary. But it’s just that the gangly British guy sitting next to me at Caje was particularly irritating me, so I had to resort to imitating his accent.

“Thaht’s ah rahther gewd idear,” I drawled. “Sew loverly.”

“Are you mocking me?” he asked.

“Auf cohrse nawt,” I gasped, mock offended.

“You can’t mock me,” he snapped. “You guys are the idiots who pronounce schedule ‘skedule.’ How do you even get that? It’s obviously shedule!”

“It’s got a c! And c’s are pronounced like k’s, except for when they’re pronounced like s’s–” I tried desperately to justify the stupid pronunciation of schedule.

“And laboratory,” he cut me off. “Why on earth do you guys say ‘labratory’? That makes no sense!

There’s an ‘o’ there. It’s lab-o-ra-tory,” he carefully enunciated, just a few inches away from my face.

I could see a baby pimple on the right side of his mouth. An angry red dot desperate to earn its pimple street cred and turn into an angry red mountain.

“This is why we dumped the tea into the harbor, to avoid you Brits hating on our pronunciation,” I snapped. “And nobody likes Marmite.”

“YOU TAKE THAT BACK!” We sat next to each other in silence for 20 minutes, then I felt bad about insulting Marmite, even though really, I don’t think anybody likes Marmite. “I think we dumped the tea over taxes or something,” I began in an effort to reconcile with this perfect stranger whose favorite snack I just insulted, which, frankly, is a ridiculous situation to be in. “And we really wanted to establish ourselves as a coffee country.

Also, red isn’t really our color. We’re pretty much anti-anything red – communism, John Boehner’s face, and red British soldier uniforms.”

He looked up, trying to suppress a smile. I think he wanted to have this amused look on his face, but he just ended up looking constipated. “You guys still say ‘laboratory’ wrong.”

“Yeah, I blame Reagan for that. I mean, he’s to blame for trickle-down economics and probably Alec Baldwin’s meltdown, so...”

I stopped and awkwardly focused really intensely on my laptop’s desktop background (a picture of a seductive duck, if you were curious). I felt someone’s eyes on me, so I looked up to see him staring at me, and as we made eye contact, he hastily looked down at his own book. So I looked back down too, and when I turned to sneak a peek at him, I could see him grinning broadly at his economics book. Eh, who needs maturity anyway? ▲

Missed Connection: To the man with the long hair and the flannel shirt eating an apple on the steps of Storke Plaza, we made eye contact the other day, and I haven’t been able to forget you since. I still remember how carefree you looked, how easily you leaned back on the stairs holding your apple, completely comfortable as other students scurried past you with their worries and agendas.

You soaked up the beautiful Santa Barbara sun; I think you’re the only person on this campus who seems to understand what life is all about. When the wind blew, your hair flew everywhere, and you casually brushed it back and swept it up with one effortless movement. You magnificent human, I have only one thing to ask you: What shampoo do you use? Seriously, that’s one luxurious mane of hair. You have better hair than I do, and frankly, it’s insulting. You give Simba a run for his money. Keep on keeping on, my man. ▲

throughout history, people

have gotten up at the crack of dawn to go out and till their farms, milk their cows, and whatever else is done that early in the morning. So it didn’t seem like it should have been that difficult to take a 6 a.m. bus from Santa Barbara to San Jose for winter break.

Wrong. The wind was so strong, I thought I could actually see the air twist in front of my eyes, ending in little wisps that seemed like something out of Frozen.

I was freezing, I’d had about four hours of sleep, and I had the heaviest bag ever stuffed to the brim with laundry. I couldn’t remember where I had accidentally packed my glasses, so, to see, I was wearing my prescription sunglasses. The morning was pitch black, so sunglasses rendered me pretty much blind. I probably would have been better off wearing no glasses at all.

I crankily stumbled onto the bus, dragging my oversized duffel. After much judgment from my fellow passengers, I managed to get into the bus and dropped heavily into my seat. I looked around

and saw that there were perhaps about five other people on the bus, so I could easily spread out and be alone. Relieved, I set up my sweatshirt as a pillow, stretched out my legs, and lounged back.

“Hey! Can I sit here?”

My eyes snapped open and my head jerked back out of surprise. Nursing the bump on my head where I hit the window, I stared at him groggily.

He was wearing a bright neon blue headband that held back long wavy hair, a red tank with The Endless Summer printed on it, and green Bermuda shorts. I was shivering and wishing I had on boots, but he was wearing sandals that looked like Doctor Scholls insoles tied onto his feet with pink elastic bands. I looked him up and down, then looked around the bus. The five other students had set up shop in the other seats the way I had, and there were about 50 open seats. Of all the seats in all the buses in all the cities in California, he had to pick the one next to mine.

“Right, okay,” I said. Are you kidding me?

“I’m Dom,” he said, grinning. I was the epitome of cranky, and this guy was flashing his teeth at me at six in the morning. I was not in the mood.

“Santa Barbara’s great, isn’t it?” he continued as though he couldn’t see that my eyes were drooping and my eyebrows were narrowing. “I went surfing yesterday, and took a night hike last night! I wanted to go for a run before this bus, but I just couldn’t get up. I usually get up at five, so four was kind of a struggle.” I was getting tired just listening to him.

“I’m so excited to get home, because my buddies and I were thinking of going out surfing in Santa Cruz. I know the water will be cold but I think it’ll be refreshing.” Please stop talking. “Have you been surfing? You’re in the best place on earth, you need to go surfing!” Okay, kid, time to shut up.

The hours started to pass in this way. As the sun came out, his already sunny disposition became blindingly bright, and his storytelling became more animated. He would bounce up and down

in his seat, tapping his leg on the ground and playing air drums out of an inability to stay still.

The more he smiled and told his stories, the more he grew on me. His stories ranged from life plans (joining Doctors Without Borders and saving the world one kid at a time) to how he got all the scars on his arms and legs (one from crashing hard into a rock while surfing near Campus Point, another from trying to make friends with a squirrel near Inspiration Point).

After about two hours of us chatting up a storm and filling the bus with noise, he noticed the girl sitting in the seat diagonally in front us, curled up into a tight little ball and reading a book distractedly. He stopped mid-story and bounded up out of his seat and plopped down next to her.

“Hey! I’m Dom! So, Fifty Shades of Gray, huh?” He referred to her book. “I’ve heard that’s terrible. I’m dying to read it!”

Christina looked confused and actually a little terrified of Dom’s incredibly high energy. I felt pleased that I was not as confused as Christina anymore. “Yeah, me too,” I said. “I bet it’ll be hilarious!”

“May I?” he asked her. She wordlessly handed it over. He flipped to the first page and started reading out loud. If there was anyone who would commit to reading Fifty Shades of Gray out loud on a bus, and probably follow through on the whole thing, it would be this hippie creature.

He did voices. A low, gravelly one for Christian, and a high pitched falsetto for Ana, again his free hand gesturing to nothing in midair. As he got louder, he attracted the other people on the bus, who were almost exclusively college students. They all started moving towards us and we pooled our snacks, laughing and eating as we listened to Dom. As people got onto the bus, they wondered

what was happening and everyone collected around us. At our peak, we had about 40 people eating and hanging out. Dom and Christina started reading it together, with him playing Ana and her playing Christian.

San Jose rolled around a few short hours later, and I was disappointed to reach the end of my journey. We had finished Fifty Shades somewhere near Salinas, and had moved on to The Fault In Our Stars, Dom managing to seduce a few girls with his flirty depiction of Augustus Waters, picking a girl and winking after every line. I couldn’t stop laughing, even when I was supposed to cry.

As we pulled into the station, Dom read the last line as dramatically as he could, and snapped the book closed with a flourish. He grabbed his backpack (handmade and burlap), flung it over his shoulder, and sauntered off the bus.

“We have reached the end of the road. It was a pleasure, my friends!” He bowed, bounded off the bus, and his curly hair and blue headband became a speck in the crowd of people on the platform. ▲

guys were going at it, tossing lawn chairs and punching each other. Thoroughly freaked out, I asked the girl next to me, “Whoa, what’s going on here? Why are they fighting?”

“Well, Chris thinks that Ophelia killed herself because she was desperate to be with Hamlet and he spurned her, while Trevor thinks that Ophelia is actually much more of a feminist character than Chris gives her credit for, and that the reasoning behind her suicide has to be much more complicated than just a rash reaction to a spurned lover.” I stared at her, mouth agape.

She continued undeterred, “I’m personally on Chris’s side here. As much as I want Ophelia to be feminist, Shakespeare doesn’t have the greatest track record with feminist characters.

I mean, look at Juliet. She’s a total idiot. YEAH, YOU GET HIM TREVOR! GET HIM!” She turned back to me. “What do you think?”

I don't know about this, but apparently

Nope. No way. I started backing up slowly, hands out in a gesture of peace. Once I made it to the front door, I yelled, “Everyone in Hamlet is a little bitch!” and then bolted home, vaguely hearing the crashing sounds of Hamlet-induced hysteria and backyard lawn chair target practice.

Ah, college. ▲

UCSB is a party school? Forget the fact that we’re the 11th best public school in the world, and ranked 2nd in the Leiden rankings. We’re a party school, so you know how it goes – drunken shenanigans, fights over girls, and furniture breaking, all in the pursuit of a “good time.” So, as a UCSB student, I decided to go to one of our famous UCSB parties.

I entered the house on Trigo excited for a night out, ready to paint the town, prepared to boogie and jive with all the cool cats out there. As I stepped foot in the door, I heard this huge smash and then the stampeding sound of footsteps all rushing towards the backyard. Curious, I joined the hoard out to the backyard, where two

ILLUSTRATIONS//ANGIE SHEN

Poets that write about sex and cooking, peach fuzz hugging legs, and bras that don’t fit.

Mad hair and voices that ooze, reading soft and smooth like talking dirty.

The quiet ones that look like pianos, cool and contrasting fair white skin with big eyes and dark hair.

Freckles lean back in broken chairs, speak low, chin high as eyes slide round a wooden oval, chair to chair, slouched back and intoxicated by ink and Shakespeare.

Lean forward on elbows delicate batting eyelashes that will never fail to write a memoir.

An office job is a crime to deprive the full-fledged You Crossed legs atop a spinning chair, never use at a desk—too predictable.

Rather wreck with wildness, our great wide world of words, contained and uncontained in just enough walls.

and eyes that consume and devour, laugh distinct and loud, echo through halls, tripping on bathroom tiles and carpeted walls.

A sign begs you not to smoke, but the stall still smells like dope.

Woodchips and park benches, pre-symposium cigarettes; screw the ban— I’m addicted to the secondhand smoke.

A World of Literature Majors

By caNelle irmas

Rooms that smell like smoke, candles, and paint, outdated chalkboards that don’t quite erase, dark stubble that never conforms to a direction

art//natalie o:Brien

everythiNg you see oN tv By ryAn MArTInAzzI

t

he two of them lay on a sloped hill. To his left was a half empty packet of cigarettes: to her left was a purse full of birth control and Zoloft: between them were blades of grass devoid of green, crunchy and uncomfortable. A light fog made the streetlamps amorphous. She looked pretty. If he’d noticed, he hadn’t said anything. He drank from the fifth of vodka that had been on his stomach, and placed it on the dried grass between them. They both stared at the sky’s night. Neither of them spoke to the other. In her skirt and the fog, she shivered. She did not ask for his jacket, and he did not offer it. They had not brought a blanket. The stars were not apparent in the sky. There was to be an eclipse.

I can’t see a thing – she said.

He, too, could not see much, though he did not express this. He reached for the pack of cigarettes, extracted one, and set the end aflame. He could now see the lit tip. She, too, could see the glow, though neither expressed this. She pulled her knees towards herself, huddling for warmth.

What’s supposed to happen – she asked.

Umm – he responded. She took a drink of the vodka. Well, the earth’s gonna be right between the moon and the sun so the moon’s going to be basically invisible – She gazed back up at the sky.

So, like, right now – she asked. Is this it?

No – he responded, looking at his watch. That’s just the fog. We got a half hour – his exhalation dissipated into the fog, unnoticed.

Why’s it so special? – she asked.

Reflection – he answered. Or maybe refraction. . .

No, reflection, I think. All the sunsets and rises going on right now are gonna make the moon light up red – he took a drag. Like a cigarette.

Oh – she said. The vodka helped ease her shivering.

She looked at him. He looked at the sky, which had become clearer as the fog dispersed. They were not fucking. Her gaze landed on his eyes, then followed them upwards. She looked at the as yet unshadowed moon, and the newly unfogged stars. He watched the moon, hopeful that the fog not return and she not say it. He did not say it. She ruffled her skirt, shaking off the lawn. Her movement tore away more dead grass.

photos//trevor mauk

To both East and West were hundreds of thousands of others doing the same thing. Hundreds of thousands of other human beings were sat down, or standing, alone or with friends, spouses, lovers, all with their head tilted heavenward, all waiting, all watching for the Earth’s shadow to slowly crawl across the moon, some using telescopes, professionals and amateurs, most unaided, or aided only by the lenses of their prescription glasses, all waiting, hundreds of thousands, some speaking, speculating, gossiping, others listening, patiently, sipping wine, beer, water, having fun, bored, passing a joint, looking up, hoping, hundreds of thousands, looking around, exchanging glances, happy, smiling, in good company, alone, laughing, sad, jealous, angry, bitter, exhausted, paranoid, confused, alone, in good company, hundreds of thousands, expectant, exhaling, inhaling, thinking, cognizant, unaware, perceiving, feeling, full, bloated, overwhelmed, nonplussed, content, empty, anxious, waiting, watching the Earth slowly rotate around the

Sun, quickly rotating around the Sun, alone, hundreds of thousands staring at the moon together.

He hoped that she would not say it. The fog had left a clear sky. Many stars could now be seen. She identified to herself the Big Dipper. She knew no other constellations, though she thought he might.

He did not. She did not ask. He stared at the stars, uninterested in constellations. He did not look for them. He considered whether he should say it, though it was not true. So many times, on so many screens, he had seen it said. When he’d seen them say it, actors, they seemed to believe it true. He wondered if they really did believe it true, the actors themselves.

He thought they might. Maybe the writers did. He wondered, if they did feel it, if he and they were really the same species. He wondered if his inability to feel it meant that he was somehow different, incomplete, broken. He lit another cigarette and peered at the cosmos. He wondered if there were other people peering at the cosmos. He wondered what other people

felt as they peered at the cosmos. He wondered if there were other people. He wondered, if there were other people, if they thought about it. He wondered if other people discussed it when they peered at the cosmos together, as he had seen so many times on so many screens. He wondered if other people discussed how the discussions on the screen were bullshit, untrue, fiction. He wondered if these fictions disturbed other people. He wondered if he was disturbed. The sound of the wind filled the silence. He hoped that she would not say it. The fog once again obscured the view. They waited, watching. They both took a drink from the

vodka. He hoped that he was not alone in his belief that it was bullshit. He hoped that he was not alone.

Hundreds of thousands stared at the moon, waiting.

She put her hand on his leg, and smiled at him. He hoped that he was smiling back.

It really makes you feel small – she said. And really shows just how big and amazing everything is, doesn’t it?

He said nothing. He wished she hadn’t said it. He looked back up at the moon. And the Earth slowly blocked the remaining light. ▲

Is this really what has become of Us? This white powder courage and these remix war cries Maybe, all that is left of holy human savagery is spray-tanned creatine-filled muscle wielding 40 oz. battle axes And this enemy, molded of plastic capsule cops with plastic shields and rubber bullets.

Men and women just trying to do their jobs.

The old gods are dead abandoned forms.

And the sacred stars are balls of gas.

And the once mighty sun is gas.

And lightning is nothing but simple friction.

And we, we studentslocalsoutsiders, are feeble things.

We are children playing History Channel Vikings and Che Guevara t shirt revolutionaries, And all that is real, all that is left when the smoke has cleared, Are injured bleeding friends and a deserved feeling of pettiness.

Winter never comes.

photo//mariah tiffaNy

By JOSH GOODMAcHer

- epimetheus

photos//mariah tiffany

WheN the birD flies By beNJamiN moss

Apparently,

college had taught Pat a lot about turkeys. He came home for Thanksgiving one year and discussed them at length. “Farm raised turkeys can’t fly,” he said, “but wild turkeys can, as fast as 55 miles per hour in short bursts. That’s why when Dad and Phil go hunting them, they leave all that food on the ground. They want to keep them on the ground. Turkeys feed on the ground.”

It was all exciting. Pat was six years older than I was, so it was all so damn exciting. When years later I checked his facts, I found that he couldn’t have been more right.

But Pat knew more than turkeys apparently.

He had learned about an Asian pepper sauce that was ubiquitous on the West Coast. He needled Mom about it for ten minutes straight until she caved and sent me to the market to

see if they had some. They did not. He had learned about regional dialects, and he told Elise that if she ever wanted to move to LA, she would have to ditch her New England affectations. He had learned that the proper indoor temperature is roughly seven degrees lower than we had previously imagined.

Pat’s learning thoroughly pissed Dad off.

Not the learning, I guess. The whole way of his face. The bounce he had acquired at the expense of tact. The smell of ocean on his breath. I guess you could say he was Californian—no, he had become Californian.

In his Californianness, he was like the nouveau rich. You know, don’t you? The way new money is somehow worse than old money. Pat had become a foreigner, but that wasn’t the problem. He had become too damn proud of it.

I was playing chess with Uncle Phil after dinner when I heard raised voices. Dad was saying a lot of “fucks” and Pat was saying a lot of “cocksuckers.” Mom was crying. There was the clinking and clanking of pans, and the ruffle of clothes going on. I heard the squeak of the screen door swinging open, the thud of the full door slamming closed. Pat was out, in the wet snow and dirt, pacing his way down

the sharply sloped driveway. Dad was after him still yelling.

Uncle Phil tried to edge me out of prime real estate by the window, but he was not a strong man. He refused to give a full push, and so I was able to hold my ground. Able, that is, just long enough to see Pat blushing, walking backwards, full fury into the cold.

Apparently, college had taught Pat how to check into a motel.

The next morning, Mom went alone to see Pat off at the airport. I don’t know anything about that exchange. I just know that when Mom got back, I was waiting for her in the same

spot by the window. Now it was full daylight.

I saw her taking slow and dizzy steps through the snow and dirt, up the sloped driveway. I heard a much more delicate squeak from the screen door, a softer thud from the full. Her cheeks were rouged. Dad was out, working.

I can imagine, though, that the bird flew.

Some 747 turkey, large and imposing in the sky. Pat no longer had a reason to stay on the ground in New Hampshire. There was nothing to eat in the driveway. The next time we met for Thanksgiving, Pat’s whole life was in Japan. ▲

By KathleeN byrNe

aftermath The birds bicker At the end of Sunday Below them The waves crash against the shore Just as they always have Just as they always will I can only imagine How it feels To be as ancient As a bird If I could fly I would Into that infinite darkness But I can’t So I wait Under streetlamps Because there is nothing Else to do While the lateness Turns into early morning

The birds sleep As Sunday turns into Monday And all those people That have never seen The sunrise,

All those people With predators For eyes, Are hoping The birds Just might Be touching earth art//maya trifunovic

photo//mariah tiffaNy

By

I guess they smelled him first my father says between gnashes of thanksgiving ham and cranberry. good lord aunt mary says laying down her fork.

He must have been in his house two, three days dad says.

We focus our eyes on food but try not to smell The Rising Fried onion, Velveeta, garlic.

In the morning exhume my bike from the garage old smell of turpentine and rust rising through the settled air.

Wheel down to the salty bay toward his old house, seagulls lining the sand By the path, squawking over some crust.

The path gives to gravel and nicer houses.

Scold myself for not making the bike before in the last year when he started to forget our names, unplug his phone when the sun went down.

Stage one, my dad had said.

His things are in back, dad thumbs to the hallway after dinner.

I pad across wood floors to the spare room, finding a mad stack of cardboard boxes to rifle through.

Reach in one, pull out a whole array of playing cards from 1981 Steve Mura, Rick Wise, Ruppert Jones All frayed and faded.

In another box, a charcoal barbeque, a bag of briquettes, unopened I take an hour looking at toasters, tea plates, Books on Golf.

An inventory of everything he couldn’t take with him.

I find the old house on the quiet street not like it used to be.

Wood slats all arrayed like playing cards.

I finger Wise in my pocket, start up the walk and confront the fishbowl windows where he used to look up from a book and wave when I would arrive.

They glare, I glare back.

Knowing the house took him In the last months, when our names started the first Rising first up from his head and then settling, deep into the wood, somewhere.

Long before anyone smelled him. â–˛

DyLAn cHASe

the risiNg.

February

By DeviN biermaN

art//tim rossi

It got to the point where we were swimming naked in the ocean nearly every Saturday night.

There were usually five or six of us, always me and Trevor and a rotation of cameos.

We were cold and kicking and forgot the stale taste in our mouths.

Morning found tar in the bathtub and sand in the bed sheets.

In the shower, while thinking of the consequence of circumstance, I instinctively put a palm of body wash into my wet hair and sighed.

for a frienD I spent the better part of this morning trying to find the cold spot of my bed.

“Lather, rinse, repeat”

When I gave up and retreated to the bathroom to brush last night’s cigarettes and cheap beer from my mouth, I could not for the life of me, find my toothbrush.

My Mother says not to sweat the parts of life you cannot control, and my Father sweats too much.

Circumstance controls him.

I am unsure of my Brother because he is unsure of himself

I have a feeling that it is gone forever.

There is solace in uncertainty.

It is better to bask in it while you can before the particulars force you to

start keeping score.

We’re out of coffee, and nameless friends of friends occupy my reading space in an alcoholic slumber. I leave them on the lime corduroy couch, where the light hits the pages and not my face.

When will I count my strokes?

by chris cubbisoN

coNtrol

Yesterday’s sorrows float still like a thousand-year old moss on the surface of the lagoon in October afternoon.

How does the light gleam from the bottom looking up?

for myself “Make me better,” I tell myself in the morning.

As if speaking to the ideal Platonian self.

Someone to work towards.

Drink less, smoke less, smile at passing strangers so that someday they are neither strangers, nor passing.

Understand the privilege of eating. Rid myself of toxic distractions that aim to shrink the apertures of the creative self.

Stop shaming myself for past mistakes, missed opportunities, slips in judgment still hanging in the air and instead make right

with the demons offended, with the elected silence that is too easily, too frequently self-prescribed.

Understand that to be human you must be wrong from time to time, and that’s alright as long as you know you are. photo//trevor mauk

E N O FRESH FOOL by aDriaN groNseth

Over three and a half

years ago I fell flat on my face. Not quite a blackout, because I can still painfully recall the rapid succession of fist-skull-asphalt, but pretty damn close. My first hysterically failed attempt to navigate this treacherous world alone ended with naïve freshman blood trickling onto the asphalt of 65 DP. I hadn’t even been one of those overprotected underexposed highschoolers who can’t open a bottle of wine, but those first few whiffs of freedom sure fired up my blood.

After all the excitement and commotion of move-in day—shopping trips and floor meetings and final farewells—a strange stillness descends.

I remember hugging my crying mom and shaking hands with my smiling dad before returning to the silence of an unpacked dorm room in the corner of San Nic. Staring out the window, studying the palm fronds gently waving in an early evening autumn breeze: alone. Just like thousands of my suddenly foreign neighbors, I’d been plucked from a familiar life that would never return and dropped off at the beginning of a new journey.

That nervous feeling of novelty was inescapable.

Any road I chose to travel would be new and

utterly unpredictable, and the paths were pouring out of every corner. I wanted to do it all—join every club, meet every person, explore every nook and cranny of my vast new home. But there was also a quiver of trepidation, a hesitation that held me back far too many times, the incessant chorus in my head forever whispering “but what if…?”

Which is what the alcohol was for…at least in theory. I’d smuggled in a fifth of Jim Beam at the bottom of my suitcase, cushioned by socks and fading t-shirts, hidden from the eyes of a mom who always seemed to discover my secret vices. I’d bought it the day before at a rundown liquor store surrounded by crackheads on the seedier edge of my hometown. The proprietor, a middle-aged Chinese man, knew that my friends and I were nowhere near that absurd American drinking age, so he charged us a few extra bucks on every purchase. Win-win. Now I’d have to find a new avenue for booze, not to mention another job to fund the illicit habits I increasingly depended on.

Once the room darkened, the door suddenly burst open and a grinning face flew in, shattering my solitude.

“You Adrian?”

“You Tim?” I stood up and shook hands with the guy I’d be sharing this strange place with for the next nine months. Short and broad, with light brown hair buzzed in an orderly rectangle, he bounced around the tiny room, exuding a natural confidence that I could never fake. He looked poised and powerful, unpacking his few possessions with a flashing white smile that rarely left his face.

“I got this from our R.A.,” I said, pulling out a slip of paper. “It’s a questionnaire we’re supposed to fill out—sleeping habits, favorite color, diets and allergies. Meant to break the ice.”

Tim grabbed it from my hands, shot a quick glance over the contents, then crumpled it into a ball and tossed it over his shoulder.

“Fuck that,” he said, “let’s just play some music and talk. You like the Pixies?”

After that, I knew I’d landed a lucky one.

“You like bourbon?”

Ten shots and a couple albums later we were already best friends, laughing and telling stories as Black Francis crooned through the portable speakers.

“Shit man,” I said, taking another hearty slug.

“I have a good feeling about this place.”

Tim’s eyes lit up.

“You wanna walk around IV? My sister lives in an apartment on Sabado Tarde.”

Isla Vista. Even the abbreviations and street names sounded exotic at that point. I’d only been there once before, getting lost in the car with my mom after a campus tour. We were both overwhelmed and disoriented by the apparent mayhem, and mom got so flustered she started

driving through Pardall Tunnel, almost taking out a few bikers before slamming on the brakes.

“This place is nuts!” she’d cried in prophetic warning.

“I’m down,” I said, smiling at Tim. We weaved by the lagoon as Storke tolled his hourly chime, and when we clambered up the hill and passed Manzanita, IV loomed ahead large and loud in the night. We both paused before crossing that eucalyptus threshold separating order and chaos, reason and madness, academia and anarchy. It felt like there should have been a sign hanging from one of the branches: skull and crossbones blowing above the words Lasciate ogne speranza, voi chi ‘intrate. We smiled at each other and charged through.

His sister was a senior Comm major, a gorgeous golden goddess hammering out a thesis while we were fumbling with iClickers. She gave me a warm hug and welcomed us into her place, introducing me to her other sexy senior housemates. They all seemed so much older, wiser and curvier than any girls who’d given me the time of day before.

Fully-formed women. Sweet butterflies started swarming in my stomach, merging with fear and excitement to increase my insatiable thirst.

Luckily, there was an open bottle of tequila on the counter.

photo // viJay masharaNi

Margaritas, like champagne, are dangerous— you don’t know when you’ve had too much until it’s much too late. When I finally stood up to say “buenas noches” and receive some swaying besos on the cheek, I was feeling pretty invincible— officially a college man.

Tim and I laughed and hollered our way to the 66 block of Del Playa, where some of his high school friends were partying at a house above the ocean. A house above the ocean! It’s one thing to see pictures and read about it, but to actually take shots over the sparkling moonlit mass is a surreal experience (especially when the alcohol has already skewed reality long ago).

“To the best four years of our lives!”

Raise, clink, gulp, repeat. I’d already danced with more people that night than during my entire high school tenure, and my rising high seemed to have no ceiling. When the music transitioned form Motown to Dubstep, however, my feet were itching to keep exploring.

“I’ll see you at home, roomie,” I told Tim, giving him a sloppy hug. “This is just the first of many.”

“Be safe, man.”

His words were quickly drowned in the flowing Lethe of Del Playa, the river that swallows all streams and empties into oblivion.

I staggered east, intoxicated by a cocktail of newfound liberty and ego. Gone were the nights when I’d have to slip in the front door, silently praying that our Springer Spaniel wouldn’t wake my parents with yips and howls. Hell, I didn’t even have to go home right now—I could watch the sun rise over the sea with one of those blonde girls from the flyers!

Thud.

My right shoulder shot back, colliding with an unseen chest.

“Watch where you’re going, motherfucker.”

I swung around and saw a bulky bearded form blocking the streetlight.

“Fuck you, man!” I shouted, continuing down the street.

“Why you walking away, pussy?”

Without thinking I turned back and puffed up to within an inch of his face.

“Let’s do this right here, then.”

I’d never started a fight before, but this sounded like the right thing to say. At that moment, two more large figures strode out from a nearby driveway.

“What’s up, Phil? Who’s this skinny little bitch?”

I shoved Phil in the chest, knocking him back a few steps, before something flashed in my left peripheral. I turned right into it—obviously, I wasn’t a boxer. Bone-on-bone, like getting knocked blank by a baseball bat. I was so drunk the street broke my fall. A classic one-two punch, first the fist and then the asphalt, leaving no side of my skull unscathed.

I lay spread out on the street, far beyond the point of shame, surrounded by a growing crowd of onlookers. Numb and confused, I almost called it a night and fell asleep right there. Blinking, drifting away, my jumbled brain somehow made out the image of approaching colorful car lights—cops. All my previous misadventures with authority must have sent a jolt through my body, because I immediately mustered my remaining strength, jumped to my feet, and started sprinting away. I followed the North Star of Storke’s red lights all the way home until I collapsed on my top bunk, staining my new sheets with dirty blood.

My dad says life is all about flux, and it’s how we respond to the endless changes that defines who we are. The first impression I made on neighbors and classmates in college was of a scarred, black-eyed, brainless kid who couldn’t handle his liquor. And that was spot-on. But, looking back now, I think I got pretty lucky.

Compared to an arrest or a stabbing or worse, a minor concussion and a permanently red pillowcase seem like pretty light consequences.

And, almost four years later, I’ve avoided all the other mindless mayhem that shakes this town almost every night. Not that I haven’t kept making mistakes, or won’t continue to screw up, but I have learned a little about watching my step. Sometimes it takes the force of a fist for that to really sink in. ▲

LACK OF ALCOHOL

by JOSepH LeGOTTe

We filter in, laying claim to spots, which henceforth flags raise and defend with relentless vigor.

Those foes vying for your prime place.

As the influx of bodies slows, and the room fills with eager minds dulled by the monotony of syllabi and the fidgeting nervousness commandeering social skills each mind has built up over countless years of schooling all in preparation for extension of knowledge, thought, emotional capacity is effortlessly forced out by the quickening silence diffusing into each mouth as eyes find screens in attempt to repress the awkward phantoms that possess each glance, and the tongue, strongest of all fibres, fails words to find or utter and shatter the silence for fear of‌

art//tim rossi

AMTRAK It was late Spring, Memorial Day weekend, and I looked through the smudged glass of the train as I rode through towns I had seen a thousand times and never touched—towns like San Clemente and Fullerton and Santa Ana that whispered by briskly without ever making much fuss of themselves. It was a holiday, and the train was filling quickly as it passed through Los Angeles’s lower territories.

The privacy usually afforded to me by an empty seat to my left and an open window to my right was in jeopardy. Filipino families speaking Tagalog, big men in business suits, and college students looking for anywhere to sit but next to me all streamed by and threatened to derail what had thus far been a pleasant trip. I tried my best to give an uninviting air, with my newspaper spread on my lap and music in my headphones.

Suddenly she leaned over my seat and asked to sit down, smelling of vanilla flowers in that unjustly offhand way that women sometimes seem to. I nodded and presented the open chair with a sweep of my hand. Her hair was short, a bright blonde pixie frock that swept her small forehead sharply and grew shorter in the back. She wore plastic heart-shaped sunglasses with magenta lenses and when she pulled them up to talk to me her eyes were spearmint green and it was praise to Allah and Vishnu and the Zodiac that she had sat down next to me.

“How are you today?” I asked.

She smiled and let out a long sigh.

“Ah, I’m good, just exhausted. Had a really fun weekend.”

“Oh yeah?“ I said, “what were you up to?”

“Oh, um, I was at Lightning in a Bottle, this festival out in Skinner Lake.”

“Really?” and I suppose I really was awed, looking at the severe dark shape of her eyebrows cutting against a pale brow. “I’ve always wanted to go ever since I went to Coachella. The lineup looked so good this year.” I remembered seeing a poster, but I actually recognized very few of the artist names.

By steve august

“Oh my gosh, it was so much fun.” She talked about some performers, and I asked, “Did you happen to catch an artist named Baths?”

That was the only one I could recall.

“Oh my god yes! I was waiting for Bonobo and I had never heard of him, but it was so live and dancey!”

“Yeah, I can only imagine,” “I honestly haven’t slept in like three days, I probably look like a crazy person right now.”

“You don’t look too crazy,” I said, “but three days is a while. What were you on? If you don’t mind my asking,” ”Well, we did acid Friday and yesterday and some molly all three, “ she said, and then giggled a little with a hand over her mouth, glancing across her shoulder as if suddenly aware of the other passengers,. “But yeah I was getting like the craziest visuals all last night and barely got any sleep.”

She leaned down to set her bag on the floor and I glanced behind her ear, where a fading tattoo of musical notes curved around her cartilage.

I learned that the notes belonged to Sublime’s “Santeria”, and she had other tattoos on the inside of her arms, polite cursive script of an Elizabeth Gilbert quote. I couldn’t help but see the tattoos she had and imagine them set against her milky skin as she unfurled on bedsheets. My ears burned.

She had other things, too—piercings in the inside cartilage of her ear (‘industrial piercings is what they’re called, I think’), a job at Ben and Jerry’s, and a VW Jetta that didn’t run. I dug for details, continued to ask questions, knowing that if the conversation fell to silence the gap between us would be too awkward to bridge. I chipped away at our strangeness. I was half-listening as she spoke, trying to fight the quiver in my throat. I wanted badly to touch her.

When I learned that she, like me, grew up in San Diego, it seemed I had found a clearing of connection, a world of potential do-you-knows and have-you-ever-been’s.

art // naomi patton

“Where’d you go to high school?” she asked.

“Castle Park,” I said, “it’s a crappy little school in Chula Vista.”

Suddenly she lit up.

“Chula Vista! That’s where my boyfriend’s from!”

My ears burned again. I had already fallen in love with her, somewhere in the distance between Burbank and Chatsworth.. But I’d have to give her back.

We talked idly for a half hour more or so, and disembarked together in Ventura to share a quick cigarette. It was camaraderie, if nothing else, and I found you could expose a lot to someone whom you knew you might never see again. I told her about my family. She told me some of hers. She had a brother who was deployed and a mother who had been through rehab a few times. I wondered if life could be the same way between all strangers, if only everyone had their final destinations marked so clearly on their tickets.

Later, after she fell asleep, her knee came to rest against mine. I let it be.

I watched the drivers on the interstate from my window as she dozed beside me, a thousand red

lights blinking like satellites out in dark space. They looked so lonely out there, carved out in their little metallic bubbles. I thought that if the train crashed, I’d at least have her, at least have a hand to hold or a mouth to kiss—boyfriend notwithstanding--if there was a last moment of panic as we barreled off the tracks. None of the drivers could say the same.

When we reached Goleta and walked down to the platform, I did something cowardly.

“Hey, what’s your last name, anyway?” I said, “maybe I can add you on Facebook or something.

You know it’s tough to make new friends around here.”

She smiled, gave it to me, and turned to a separate taxi.

Later, I added her on Facebook. She was still beautiful, smiling in a hundred profile photos with her boyfriend. We never met up, never messaged, and never made plans. She just added me back and there we were, two profiles in empty space. I knew that I should have let it be. I knew that I should have preserved her in an old place, placed between the pages, a little inscription in my life that I could trace the outlines of, again and again. ▲

together in isolation:::

Two Experiences By

maya jacobson

//Nicole hymovitz loNely

“FUCK FT!” Once again the words carry through my window where I sit, already in my pajamas with a laptop balanced in front of me. I hear the laughs and shouts of glee as the carefree upperclassmen drive away from paying homage to their former home. I listen to my fellow freshmen run along the hallway drunkenly, professing their love for one another and excitedly exclaiming their plans for the evening. I look down to my phone to see one new message on the usually blank screen: a friend from high school asking about college, because surely I must be having a great time at UCSB, right? How can I even find any time to study, with the nearby beach and beautiful people and crazy parties and nonstop fun? I push down the loneliness, the regret, the jealousy, the fear that nothing will ever change; I tell her that everything is great and I have awesome friends and I am just so happy—because nothing could be more pathetic than the truth. I am just an eighteenyear-old girl sitting alone on a Saturday night, because I am too scared of being judged and overwhelmed to join the happy people passing outside my door.

ENGL 162: Milton

They say that when you die, heaven is a bright light. Go towards the light and you’ve made it. It’s not a lie, but there’s a crucial detail that no one warns you about: Hell is a bright light too. The two lights are almost indistinguishable. The decision you make is your final test. You’re given two choices: structure or freedom.

Seems simple enough, right? All your life you’ve lived as an underling. Every day has been a deadline for a step to reach a goal that you never even set for yourself. This freedom is real freedom. It’s not the freedom to set your own goals, it’s the freedom from goals. It’s the freedom from responsibility and it’s the freedom for fun. It’s a never- ending party, no alarms, and no standards.

Libations and hospitality provided upon request, everyone is always asleep or always awake (it’s hard to tell the difference because either way everyone is smiling), and bottles are free to pile up into immense mountains casting vast shadows. There is the freedom to say and do what you want, whether you want it or not. It’s the obvious choice, so you make it. You step into the light and realize that this one burns you. And then reality scars you. Turns out it was a trick question--it was really a choice between safety and peril. It’s the freedom to have anything said and done to you, whether you want it or not. Libations are always a yes, everyone is always asleep or always awake (it’s hard to tell the difference because either way everyone is drooling), and bottles are free to pile up into giant unstable mountains casting inescapable shadows. You’re an idiot and you failed the test. Because there is one type of freedom that does not exist, and that is the freedom from consequence.

Freedom is dirty and smelly and loud. Freedom is walking the tightrope without a net. Welcome.

hopeful

I nervously check the message on my phone, verifying that I’m standing outside the correct room. I knock quickly, hearing loud laughter and quiet music pulsate in the air, while I stand rubbing my sweaty palms against my jeans and trying to calm the butterflies in my stomach. Finally the door swings open and I am admitted, walking into a crowded room in which only one face is familiar: the face of an hometown friend, the one person at this school who seems to know that I exist. I take a seat next to him on the floor and watch as the others joke with each other good-naturedly, hoping that I appear calm and at ease. Finally, the moment that I have been dreading arrives: I am offered a shot.

I decline politely, choosing not to explain that I don’t drink, that I never have and probably never will, that I have such a fear of it that I almost didn’t come tonight at all, that my desire not to is why I was almost alone again on this weekend evening, hoping that I wouldn’t be ridiculed or judged. The one who offered asks if I’m sure, and I laugh nervously, saying that I don’t drink.

Flashes pass through my mind of past instances like these, responses that made me feel tense and alien and other—“What do you mean you don’t drink? Why? That’s so weird! What do you even do to have fun?” Yet this time I don’t get that response—a girl exclaims how cool I am, how she wishes she had my self-control. For the first time my lack of interest in alcohol doesn’t feel like a source of shame, but pride. I flush with delighted

embarrassment as the entire room raises their drinks to me, toasting to my sobriety, giving me well wishes.

Though I am not fully accepted, though I am still a bit uncomfortable, though I still know none of them and they soon leave me to roam the drunken streets of IV, I feel a little bit happier.

Spring Break

You hear a pounding but you’re not sure if it’s the bass of the crappy music at this crappy party or maybe it’s the precursor to the headache you’re gonna feel in the morning because you had one too many drinks but you think it’s your heart because you found the one decent boy in the whole place and with every passing sentence he’s been leaning in a little closer. You didn’t quite catch that last sentence but you did catch his smile and his hand around your waist and holy shit you might be wasted but when was the last time you felt this happy?

You don’t know where your friends are but you know they’re around and even though you were taught to be afraid of men and drinks and men with drinks and men when you drink you feel safe because he’s only a boy but he makes you feel like a woman. And then you see it in his eyes, that certain glimmer, that twinkle, that sparkle, that spark. And you know he’s going to kiss you. You know it on this whole other level, this drunken, pounding, unearthly level. So you close your eyes but all of a sudden the music begins to change. The beats turn into laughs and the lyrics turn into ‘This so isn’t like you!’ ’I never thought you were that kind of girl.’ And you start to hear tomorrow’s jokes and the ridicule and you can no longer feel your friend’s gentle presence but you feel the stabbing of unwavering eyes and all of a sudden you begin to lose your breath but not in the amazing way like when you dive to the bottom of the pool and have to shoot up for air but in the awful way like when you hear everybody whispering about you and your head spins but it’s not from the alcohol so you open your eyes and you turn your cheek to this beautiful boy who only wanted to give you a taste of the clouds. “I think I should go home.”

accepteD

I walk nervously alongside the other girls, pulling uncomfortably at my borrowed dress and adjusting my hair repeatedly. I wonder what I’m doing here, I worry that I made the wrong choice, I’m scared that I’ve made the worst decision of my life; yet I continue to take one step after another, following the girls ahead of me as

I fight the thoughts that I’ve battled with all morning.

Suddenly I see the chalk writing on the ground: my name, as well as those of the other girls, leading us in the right direction. A bit more heartened, I enter the yard and see all of the girls waiting to surprise us. They sing joyfully and wear welcoming smiles, laughing together and handing each of us a sign made just for us, showing how excited they are for us to become their new sisters. And as I take the sign, as I take my pledge pin and become surrounded by this welcoming group of girls, I finally leave behind my suspicions and doubts—who really cares if I don’t drink? Who really judges a person’s character on how they like to have fun? I realize that no matter our differences, they are just happy to bring me into their family. And for the first time, I see a glimmer of hope; for the first time I feel like I may have found a place where I belong.

GEOG 3A: Oceans and Atmospheres

Pushed and pulled back and forth, chipping and sanding and smoothing and shaping. Working hard to create thousands of miniature masterpieces. Feet tread by, indifferent and unappreciative. They don’t realize that if even one piece was gone the entire world underneath them would have a different structure, questionable stability, and would probably crumble.

Crashing and smashing, the massage continues to mold each and every individual piece until they fit like a puzzle. Always astounding—how each piece receives the same treatment and yet they turn out so differently.

Orange, grey, strikingly white. Shells constructed with character and solidarity. They’re all part of that same landscape, being formed equally by what impacts them as by what supports them. It’s an entire ecosystem, a highly complicated network where one part informs another, one part supports another, one part becomes another, and no part can exist without the other. The part we see has been here a long time. We see it as a network complete with what’s already here. But what we don’t know is that we’re just part of a part of a whole, a vast unseen cycle, like the water and soil we live on.

We can put a bottle in the ocean on one side of the world for someone on another shore. Without anything new there is only sand, which slips through your fingers. A beach is nothing without the little treasures that stay in your hand. But the things we hold in our hands will eventually turn to sand, to be replaced by the new.

In roughly four years, the new shuffle in, and the last traces of who we were are pressed in the sand. ▲

OIL RIG BOY

By molly hamill

Tortoiseshell cylinder curls framed the oil rigger’s face and I knew his honest slate eyes saw Orca’s in the morning

His voice was tired haggard wind spent his days in the kitchen but he told me once that baking was his true passion.

And a meth addict flopping on deck like any other fish out of water in the late evening.

So I spend afternoons daydreaming of him three miles off coast, surrounded by starfish and a million pecan pies. ▲

Sometimes the rig felt like it was moving, other times it actually was.

He brought moonshine to my house.

“No you don’t understand”, he said “I’m just happy to be back on land.”

No one made me appreciate my living space as much.

art//michaela vachuska

The Sun has nearly cleared the rooftops. lift Crows & dive Talons scraping at the rotted tarmac.

Clutters of glass and milk-cartons, shards of yesternight’s laminate bravado Decaying in sweet solace, rustling in the gust.

Barefoot and tired, She marches amidst the haze of early morning.

Jeering jackdaws from crumbling balconies catcall Stale beer lining their floors and bellies, Barely steadied by a cast iron rail.

A Morning Stroll Eyes ahead and head high.

Backbone to the Heavens, Smeared make-up clouding proud Eyes.

She laughs, Shaking her defiant hair, Lifting her chin, Upturned, Above the mosquito Sun’s seething beat. ▲

By seaN NolaN

THE SKELETON CREW: THe BIG cHeeSeS natalie o:’Brien sean nolan cOnTenT weenIeS aDrian gronseth ryan martinazzi parisa mirzaDegan Daniel poDgorski DeSign hooliganS' haley paul natalie o’Brien marina wooDBury sarah wilson ethan reul murphy Quinn the homieS' gaBBy aguilar megan fisher tim rossi SuppoRt Staff' emily hernanDez

art//megan fisher

special thanks

▲ UCSB Student Veterans Organization ▲ The University of California Santa Barbara English Department Faculty: Candace Waid, Jeremy Douglass, and Department Chair: Bishnupriya Ghosh. ▲ John Arnhold & the Arnhold Program ▲ Dean of Humanities & Fine Arts, David Marshall ▲ Tim Roof & Scott Gordon of Haagen Printing/Type Craft Incorporated. ▲ Ellen Anderson & Ye J. Ahn of Isla Vista Arts, Nick Alward, Eileen Joy, KCSB

art//tim rossi

cOnTeMpOrAry LITerAry ArTS MAGAzIne

IS A STUDenT pUBLIcATIOn Of THe enGLISH DepArTMenT Of THe UnIVerSITy Of cALIfOrnIA SAnTA BArBArA.

THecATALySTUcSB.cOM