Volition - Spring 2017 by Student Media George Mason University

Volume 23

volition

George Masonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Literary and Arts Journal

CONTENTS POETRY Joseph McGuinness Emma Beitzel

Luis Angarita Zaria Talley Kristopher N. Heaton Mari Baz Fizza Fatima Austin Savage

PROSE Laura Heffern Sierra Johnson

Eulogy to Facts | 19 Start Again | 22

SPRING 2017

PHOTOGRAPHY Melody Noori Emily Krause

Favour Nwagu Kelly Foster Sarah-Jane Dean Emma Bietzel Nina Motazedi

MISSION STATEMENT Volition serves to elevate the creative capacity of the Mason community by fostering freedom of expression across diverse mediums.

SPRING 2017

Geo Bodies | Emily Krause | film

Combinations alchemy is magic, teaching us to walk toward heaven, consciousness is chemical poetry combinations, revelations music is our father we danced in the mountains howling at you, Divine Intruder, to release us from your gaze and let us walk the maze innocently

| Joseph McGuiness

Suffering Bliss| Favour Nwagu | digital photograph

Millstones I have tote bags full of sweaters and teapots full of jewelry and a metro card full of memories not made. There are duffels full of sunsets on the kitchen floor bumping backpacks of filtered fog snaking mountains, past stop signs: into the heavens ‘till it suffocates the stars yet we’re left breathing. We hoard books to hold our hearts of disillusionment, building libraries of collective loss for something greater like words on a page or poems in a chapbook, published by the desparate for the desperate to find art again. There are 365 x 24 x 60 minutes separating me and myself every one of them arbitrary and significant to my hand-painted puzzle. Every second of yours significant to the stones you wear wrapped round your neck. Wouldn’t they be better skipping across the river?

| Emma Beitzel

Dream State Wallowing in nostalgic bliss, The sounds of your laugh are always missed. You were once my reason to awake, Now I only see you in my dream state. Laying in my bed, can’t sleep, The thoughts of you have gone too deep. Our past slips through my fingers grasp, Memories don’t always last.

Pictures fade, so does your face; I’ve lost track of all time and place. Oh man, when we were young and fun, Oh man, I am so numb and dumb. All I have left for us is hope, I pray it’s all a cosmic joke, As I pass over my hands shake, I’m joining you in my dream state.

| Luis Angarita

Autumn Bliss | Kelly Foster | Digital Photography

Observer | Kelly Foster | digital photograph

Things That Remind Me of Galaxies The granite countertops in my motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s kitchen. Butterflies flapping their wings in stomachs. Pouring milk into coffee. A brain when presented with a blank page. The twirl of clothing in a washing machine. Spilled glitter on clean surfaces. A flock of birds floating through the air as one. Clusters of orange, red, and brown leaves. Curly hair in its most natural stateâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;wild and free. The last blizzard of winter that lulls cities to sleep. Hazel irises sparkling in the light. Splashes of freckles that line cheekbones. The Milky Way.

| Zaria Talley

Mirror This man seemed great to them, A true artist, a true gentleman, a true Model in the wakes of life Where only mundane and ordinary so thrive.

I speak of course of this fine, Amazing man, no, this Who lives inside My mirror. This voice tickles my ear. This hair gleams bright in the Darkness of my bathroom. And these eyes look with astonishment that makes me feel so special. Idleness? Trouble? Me? NEVER! I’m content with this fine person and this Fine reflection. I learned so well to be at last. I don’t need that broader world or that Fine summer’s air or that Nostalgic white winter. Only the mirror and the only Opinion I’ve been able to convince.

| Kristopher N. Heaton

Behind the Set | Sarah-Jane Dean| digital photograph

Float | Emily Krause| Film

Womb As women, we are never asked to carry the burdens of the world on your shoulders, spines, and hands. We are required to by men as if it is our duty and sole purpose of being born. It is not. I repeat it is not. Our hands were not made to hide your sins. Our hands are made for creating masterpieces. Our spines were not made to bow down before you. Our spines were made to carry the soft bodies of our unborn children. Our spines were made to create love. And our shoulders. Our shoulders were not made to carry your sins. Our shoulders were made to carry our sleeping daughters. There is no room here or anywhere in the world for you to come and make houses out of the bodies of women.

| Mari Baz

The Girl Who Fell In Love With A Valley She was afraid of heights. She was born in a city carved out of the mountains. She was surrounded by heights. And yet.

There is something to be said for the view of mountain tops. There is a comfort that can be drawn from gazing up at peaks. There is a luxury in being blanketed by your own personally outlined piece of sky. There is a mutual ownership between the Mountains and She. She, belongs to the Valley the Valley, belongs to the Mountains and the Mountains, belong to her. Unrequited love is not the fate of girls who fall in love with valleys.

There is something to be said for the view of watching things attempt to touch the sky. Only for the Mountains, do the heavens bend down to kiss the rising hills. There is great skill in capturing the celestial and giving it definition. A skill only mastered by The Royal Crests of the Earth. Once Upon a Time, there was a girl that fell in love with a Valley. and because the Valley belonged to the Mountains they fell in love with her.

She is afraid of heights. She enjoys looking upward towards summits rather than looking down from them. It comes from a place in the valley, the fear and the perspective, Both. | Fizza Fatima

Biomorphic Sculpture | Emily Krause| Digital Photography

Stencils |Emma Bietzel | Digital Photograph

Stencils Fog on the mountains makes stencils out of trees, while crows make stencils out of me. Ninety years, nine rusted chairs they sewed me into. Years after birds became bees and top shelves olympus, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be a willow, the whisp in velvet.

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m sunk into the bottom of the bog I used to coax fish out of when it was deeper and I, shallow. When paths were paths and earth, dirt. Now I tunnel tents and time tempests with the shaking of my bones. The mountains I once owned, own me, with a grip of iron and coal sucked up in my car engine. Ten mile radius with a feathered frontal lobe and fettered soles and souls. Reliance, on the crosshatch windows at night. I am on that mountain, above, and below, pressed between pages and not yet picked by little hands. Pickled, and not yet planted, like the stories set in no-manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s land. I am paper thin and running to outrun the ten-foot man.

| Emma Bietzel

Eulogy to Facts We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of something that has touched all of us: Facts. Some of us may have cultivated a friendship with Facts for many years, and some of us may have only known Facts in their twilight. For all of us, it seems too brief a time. When I remember Facts, I recall their contested character: the best of friends to many, but formidable foes to some. Facts did have a way of being brutally honest. But among friends, such candor was often appreciated. If Facts were anything, they were outspoken. This brings to mind a conversation I overheard a few months ago. It happened at a party. An acquaintance of a friend, a bigshot in real estate, began denouncing the increase in average global temperatures. Facts, having defended for years their work on the veracity of climate change, commented slyly “I expect your investments to profit exponentially, for soon your real estate will be beachfront.” Facts certainly had a dark sense of humor, but it came with a deeper understanding of the world. Facts, however, never dwelt in darkness – they sought the light. Facts had an unwavering devotion to truth. Facts never told you what you wanted to hear – Facts told you what you needed to hear. Now, in the wake of this tragedy, we need clarity. I find it comforting to recite simple truths: orange is the natural color of fruit, not skin tone; ‘huge’ begins with the letter “h,” not the letter “y.” We need to stay true to the facts like Facts stayed true to us. Facts will be missed, but their memory will live on in each of us. May we please have a moment of silence.

| Laura Heffern

Start Again I find it easiest to start at the shoulders and work my way down. Some prefer the hips to start, but they are too varied in their size, their shape, their strength. Shoulders are all the same, no matter the weight baring down on them. I build my shoulders broad. Round rotaries and wide sockets made of steadfast ideals, though thin or slender shoulders work just as well, provided you build them from denser convictions. They must withstand the tension strung taught between them. They are the bow that fires life, and they must not snap before the arrow flies.

From the shoulders, begin sculpting the muscle. Roll and knead this well, for stiffness will find its own way in with time and use. String the muscle thin over the frame, slowly layering it over itself. Build small hills and valleys, rolling tides and rippling streams. Be cautious of excess, for bulk is ill advised. Your back must still be able to bend. Carve out a spine from a material of your choosing. Oak and willow serve well, and marble can be cut to fit, given patience. Iron rusts quickly, causing irritation, and gold is much too tender for this business. Gold serves much better caged around a beating heart. Once the vertebrae have been polished, string them together on their chord. Copper wire works well for this, but if you have a nerve or three to spare, these feel better, even if they need more maintenance over time. With the spine placed – careful not to set it crooked or twist it – you must rest the shoulder blades on top. Lay first a thin layer of muscle to fasten the blades, and then press them gently. Twist them this way and that, making sure they’re not too sharp as to tear the foundation. If tears appear, remove the blades and sand them down on mismatched morals. Sprinkle the powder on the muscle to strengthen the tears, and place the shoulder blades once more. Test range of mobility. The blades, once attached to the shoulders with another thin layer of muscle, should move as a butterfly’s wings. There should be no creaking, clicking, or cracking noises at this point. Add muscle and ambition, if necessary.

Starting at the spine, stretch and coil the rest of the muscle down the torso. This valley should be long and straight, but not too deep, and the mountain ranges on either side should be soft and round, but not too steep. Once satisfied with your landscapeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s size and shape, attach ligaments and tendons to the hips. Piano wire or braided fishing line will do in a pinch if there is no more patience. Secure torso to pelvis, tighten and adjust tension. Check for adequate balance. Any issues can be corrected with the addition of organs, fat, skin, or shame. Finally, and this is very important, place the weight of the world squarely against the shoulders. Do no support this weight yourself, as it is very dangerous. Load the back with memories and every broken heart. Any discarded friends should be added, and all regrets and anxiety should be stacked in a haphazard tower between the shoulder blades. Listen for groans. The spine should bend inward, extending its natural curve until the golden ribs butterfly outward. The shoulder blades should displace themselves, but the process can be expedited by the addition of more regrets. The older, the heavier. Continue adding to the burden with afternoon tears and midnight screaming. Sprinkle inconveniences down the right, and apply devastations liberally across the left. When, at last, the back snaps and collapses into a pile of bone and loss, salvage any pieces, and start again.

| Sierra Johnson

Identical Infinity| Nina Motazedi| Digital Photography

Soon I seek to write as anyone else besides myself because I am unsure what and who I am I do not know what man

I may become, but what I do know is that someday too soon I must assume my own persona

| Austin Savage

for I cannot mirror on forever.

The White Lady The White Lady haunts me surrounded by ten thousand eyes wearing a halo she borrowed from the moon

in the middle of the night through the cracks in my mirror she floats into my room a ghost on a breeze an apparition in the wind immortals sit in a circle on a mountain in the sky far away in the distances of her rest blue steeds run toward the shore White Lady, White Lady gently she blows kisses my lips and tickles my nose The White Lady flies Above the sea her reflection the shape of a tree a new breed bearing fruit with no seed White bars on mirror cracked her son is ready to light the fuse Out of focus And breathe in deeply

A light drip in his head becoming waterfall evolve prove deism White Lady, White Lady gently she blows kisses my lips and tickles my nose The White Lady sings Through grinding teeth Her lips numb Her ears tuned in to High noise frequency Speak to me In a language unconscious Dionysian syllables Ambrosia and wine She knelt down in the wet sand Casting a holy book Into the ocean Cursing the thoughts it left in her mind “You were once an angel to me, now you’re nothing but a muse” the waves roll in thicker and darker the wind howls darker and longer

A storm that had already passed Returned in the current Signals sent were misguided and stark The breath that filled her lungs Scorched her insides And everything was lost in A language unconscious Left flying over seas of disregarded trenches Burnt by holy offerings Not able to let go But attempting to lift the madness from within and place it on a page The mage, the mind The stage is Time Skin peels back and your body turns red The river flows blood again

I am ten-thousand fires Simultaneous burning The core of self Stuck in the past It flows unguided It will not last I should have written sooner It would have meant something then Now bomb Is mightier than pen Fuel me Burn me And leave me in the sun To wither away White Lady, White Lady gently she blows kisses my lips and tickles my nose did today really happen? Some dreams seem so real

The end of men The morning star White Lady, White Lady gently she blows kisses my lips and tickles my nose

I’m hoping that something will wake me soon I’m hoping that something will wake me soon I’m hoping that something will wake me soon

| Joseph McGuinnesss

Geometry in Nature |Emily Krause | Film

Just a moment | Nina Motazedi | Digital Photography

STAFF

In Association with the Office of Student Media

Executive Editor Gia Primerano

Prose/Poetry Prose and Poetry Editor Mary Cuccio

Faculty Advisor Jason Hartsel

Kim Bartenfelder Taylor Davis Madison Hoffman Ume Tahir 31

Art and Photography Art and Photography Editor Mary Cuccio

Karolina Blaziak Caroline Cho Kevin Cruz Valerie McKenna

Graphic Design Design Director Anya Cooke

Public Relations Public Relations Officer Ayleah Hanton

William Dickson

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