Biography

I discovered art journaling in 2008 during a very dark and sad period in my life.  It helped me through that period- gave me a place to go, to create, to dream and to let go of my sadness.  It has become a part of my life now— it’s like a form of nourishment– like breathing– I must do it.  I don’t know where it comes from, but it is a constant urge that I have to fulfill.  I use books, paper, and magazines from the recycling center up the street, old stamps from my father, junk mail and catalogues.  I work mostly in journals— though this piece was done on a piece of junk mail.  I mix in oil pastels, watercolor pencils, acrylic and ink.  I have no formal training— I have taken a few classes in figure drawing, some clay sculpture classes and one design class.

Biography

I was introduced to the world of analog photography during high school, where I became a darkroom assistant. I had chosen to pursue Photojournalism at Point Park University in Pittsburgh, where I also worked as a lab assistant. Soon after I decided that photography should just be a hobby for me. I’ve transferred to the University of Delaware where I am currently trying to pursue a career as a Foreign-Aid Worker.

Website: www.flickr.com/photos/whiteouttheworld/

FAQs

Flight Leader

So, yesterday I am on the phone with a group of students from Mary Washington College who are asking me questions about writing, an interview for a new magazine they are starting called Pendulum, and there is trouble with the connection they are trying to use, they are trying to use Skype for the first time, and each time they connect they sound like the sound is ripping cloth or more exactly muffled ripping cloth, and then a recorded voice with a British accent comes on and says this phone call is being recorded and then the call is cut off, and then they call me back several times until they connect, and then they ask me the first question which is a question I get often when I do interviews which is how do you find the time to write?, or maybe something like-do you need time to write?-and I am getting ready to answer my frequently answered answer when this ripping sound comes tearing into the house as if it is the ripping sound in the phone and it has leaked out and been amplified on steroids, and I look up and see the silhouette of a jet aircraft cut through the quadrant of mullions of the window I am sitting across from, streaking through the graphed paper of the tree branches, overwhelming the static of the phone connection, and I ask them-did you hear that?, and they all-it is a conference call and I think there are four of them but I can’t be sure-answer, yes, and I tell them the Blue Angels are in town, and that was a Blue Angel practicing for the air show that will take place tomorrow over at the airfield right across the river from my house.

Wing

Outside now a second jet, dark blue and close enough to the ground I can see the gold trim and the gold number 2 in Helvetica painted on the outside port surface of the port vertical stabilizer, and it is so close to the ground (I have gone outside now and I don’t think the voices on the phone know I have, but they can’t help but hear the screaming of the jets as they vector back and forth over the neighborhood doing a maneuver they call an opposing knife’s edge) that I can see the rudder flexing, and the control surface that is the whole horizontal stabilizer digs into the air, ricocheting the jet up up up and then the afterburners kicking on and through that roar I hear the second question which is what is the difference between fact and fiction?, and I am preparing to answer that one with my frequently answered answer about how a fact is a thing done and a fiction is a thing made so that even the most real thing, after it is done, has no reality, and how even the most made-up thing, when it is made up, has a reality-the reality of a book, say, of words on paper, a transcript you can hold, manipulate, when the two jets meeting at the apex of the loop they have both been pulling begin to emit a dark blue smoke that I will learn later is a paraffin based solid vaporized by the flame in the engines, and the punctuation of the smoke, a kind of cursive wave, is already drifting to the north as the planes (one tucked under the wing of the other) disappear over the horizon toward Mississippi.

Fat Albert

The sound, too, of the two jets is drifting away though it seems (when you do hear anything) it is always trailing way behind the jet that is actually making the sound, or, even stranger, the echoes from some other run-by are running ahead of the jet, reverberating, coming to meet the jet as it dives toward the ground, and the sound is bouncing off the ground up to meet it, a kind of stutter or shriek, and the students on the phone ask me if I think teaching has affected my writing, and they can actually hear through the phone the sound of the jets bouncing off the sky and the ground and the trees and the river and the buildings, and I give them an answer about how writing isn’t like the other subjects of the university, how it is more like a gift that runs through us all, both students and teachers, what is received must be given away, that art is erotic property, property that stays in motion when, suddenly, a huge blue C-130 cargo airplane, the one the Blue Angels named Fat Albert, rises up behind my house, as if it were a big balloon floating up, actually nicking the top of the long leaf pines in my neighbor’s back yard, its four turbo-props digging into the humid air as it lumbers so slowly; it is so slow, especially after the blinking speed of the jets, that it doesn’t seem to have enough oomph to remain aloft, always already about to fall, as it is more like a blimp, a zeppelin, wallowing now right overhead as it rolls port, showing me its belly like a whale sounding and stalling, sliding backwards, it seems, but then splashing forward, a graceful awkwardness out of the water, over the golf course, its overstuffed rounded and rounding organic shadow casting on the organic cutouts of the greens and bunkers and ponds, and the plane shakes, straining to find an inch of lift, and hunking down to gain momentum, and then seeming to levitate, waging its tail and launching, like a navy blue cetaceous cumulus cloud, shading, now blotting out the bloated sun.

Slot

The jets are back as the intermission clown car of the cargo plane settles down for a landing on the other side of the river, and the jets-there are four of them now-in their famous formation of four, emerge from behind a cloud, diamond-shaped, the fourth airplane in the slot beneath and behind the lead plane who’s wing-tip-to-wing-tip with his two wingmen’s wing-tips but that is hard to see, hard to say, because what is behind or below or above changes instantly effortlessly constantly, it seems, as the planes move through the delta v of this calculus, rearranging themselves in each dimension-x, y, z, and time-and from this distance, it looks as if there is just one plane instead of four, so precise is the handling as the “they” that is really an “it,” roll and pitch and yaw as one, and the students have all been talking to me on the other end of the phone, asking their last question, saying this question coming now at me at the speed of sound, at the speed of light, is their last question, and it is this: If I would consider publishing something on-line, as their magazine Pendulum is published on-line, and would I send them something to publish?, and the four blue jets up in the blue-going-to-white sky, their manufactured blue smoke spilling from them, another signature, with serifs and accents and underlines, and I tell the students that I am working on a book of fictions made up of things made up in fours-the four chambers of the heart, the four seasons, the four humors, the four winds, etc., etc., etc., etc., and I am working on something now I will try to finish and send to them to consider putting in the magazine, and I am watching the formation reposition itself into what I will learn later is called a Double Farvel, with two of the four planes inverted, creating a mirrored image of each other, before they breaking apart once again, corkscrewing through the air, vectoring to each corner of the sky, reining in their speeds then raising their noses at an extreme angle to almost stall, and then extending their gear, bank, and heading for the airport over the river, and I tell the students that the Blue Angels seem to be finished for the day, and the pilots of the F/A 18s will now attempt what they call a “landing” on land but what they usually “land” at sea, on an aircraft carrier (they are navy planes after all and the pilots are not pilots because in the navy a pilot is someone who pilots a ship not an airship, so these pilots are naval aviators), and they are about to land on land and not on the deck of ship with a tail hook and arresting cables, the ungainly and suddenly ungraceful difficult ending to what has been all effortless and elegant, the falling, gliding, silence, all taking back with a vengeance, in the final maneuver called simply, a controlled crash, the only true answer without question… gravity.

Biography

I’m just a teenage girl that likes looking at things from a different perspective with or without a camera.

Biography

I am a simple person, I did not study arts or photography. All that I have and I love is creating every little feeling that I have or see in this world.
The place that I live, is the country of dreams, and the place that I will go is the city of peace and light.
Every thing that you need to know of me, is that I am a believer and dreamer that wait for a new world of love and hope.

Biography

Biography

I’m a self taught sculpture artist from Etna, Wyoming. I use slab construction and hand build techniques to create my designs. Being a product of the ‘Star Wars’ generation I love fantasy. Plant life, steam punk, robots and chickens with bad teeth are some of my favorite exploits. In the past 9 years I’ve sculpted over 400 original pieces.

Tranquila is a continuation of my green man series that centers on cactuses. She exemplifies life. Full of water, her ribs are smooth and her head is adorned with a crown of fragrant flowers for the desert birds to enjoy.

Website: www.bluefoxgallery.com

Biography

Steve Simpson has been creating award winning illustration for major ad & design companies for the last 15 years. His characters have appeared on everything from postage stamps to 48 sheets,  snack packaging to gourmet pies and plenty more beside. In recent years he’s been illustrating children’s books both at home and in the States. Steve won gold in the AOI’s Images 32 for his Pure Pie branding and has recently had work accepted for both The Society of Illustrators and 3×3 Mag awards.

New York State of Mind

Biography

Lover of contemporary art, NYC, fibers, beads and well executed craftsmanship, Fiber Options and Mixed Results.
Mixed media artist – fiberarts background. Handweaver in the early ’80s, fond of tapestry. Shifted in the 90′s to framed and sculptural mixed media. Exhibit in galleries and private collections.
Paperweaving in two and three dimensional forms with fiber and beads, designs are pictorial, geometric or abstract.
Seed beads in a variety of forms. Pictorial and patterned pieces: woven, embroidered, applied with paints or created as glued mosaics.
Recent works: acrylics, polymers, beads, metal and stones in combination.
Active family life,full time insurance career and some time each day devoted to art.

Biography

I work primarily with fiber and textiles and prefer to involve as few steps as possible between the idea and its execution.

Website: embloggery.blogspot.com

Biography

Biography

Biography

I am 16 years old and I live in Częstochowa, Poland. I have been interested in LEGO for nearly 13 years.
My favorite Lego series is: Adventures, Indiana Jones, old City, Castle and Racers.

Biography

Jon Turner is a British character designer and illustrator, and a graduate in English Literature from Balliol College, Oxford University. More of his work can be found at thisisjonturner.blogspot.com .

Biography

Photography – both the craft and the art – helps me to be. It allows and enables me to live creatively, which is to honour Creation and my own existence. As I consciously pursue my craft, my concerns, anxieties, fears, loves, hopes and dreams bubble up from my unconscious. In this meeting of the conscious and unconscious, I can acknowledge my wounds and experience healing. Photography is neither a religion nor a panacea, but it provides me with the opportunity of “growing towards wholeness.” And that, surely, is what the religious quest is all about.

Biography

I am an art pilgrim half way down the life journey. As a creative person I strive to understand our universe and how we fit into it. Hopefully I’ll never completely figure it all out because then life would be too boring. I love art, filmmaking, photography, painting, art history, nature, urban energy, world cultures, Human form, Philosophy, organic food, and so on. My flaw is having more ideas for projects than I have time to create them.

Biography

My primary artistic interest is pinhole photography using completely manual wood/brass pinhole cameras. I record both b/w and color images on large format (4×5) and medium format film. Free of the distractions of lenses and electronics, I must compose without the ability to see through through the camera. Exposure times range from 1 second to 1 hour, and digital scans of negatives enable enlargements to at least 4×5 feet in size.

Through the pinhole, the real becomes surreal, and I explore perspective, texture, and enhanced three dimensionality via my camera’s ultrawide, rectilinear field of view (160 degrees) and infinite depth of field.

Please visit my website to see over 100 other large format pinhole images. Limited-edition fine art prints of any of my pinhole photographs are available, and, if interested, please email me at scott_speck@yahoo.com. I also do fine art portrait work with the pinhole camera, as well as works by commission.

Website: www.scottspeck.com

Biography

I am a documentary photographer living in Shanghai for four years. Outside of documentary & editorial photography, i am doing a more personal work trying to add an emotional and artistic photo to documentary meaning. I am working with a whole range of camera from large format to pinhole to achieve those results.

Biography

Spanish software engineer living in Tokyo trying to wake up his artistic instincts taking photos.

Biography

I believe that as artists we all have a certain pool of creative energy that we draw from. For me, I have found that it does not matter what I do with that energy- whether it is drawing, painting, building picture frames, writing music, taking photos, designing corporate branding, writing software, designing logos or creating digital composites- it all comes from the same place- and it doesn’t matter how I use it, it only matters that I do use it. In my life there have been periods where I was not creative, and in hind sight, those were some of the toughest times in my life. Now I know that I cannot be happy in life unless I am being creative, and so that is why I am an artist.

Biography

I’m an amateur photographer from Buenos Aires, Argentina. I’m mostly interested in landscape photography and panoramas. I’m a positivist photographer focusing in images that depict nice scenes or hapyness. I try not to include people on my landscapes and most of my pictures. I mostly use open-source software to edit my pictures, especially Gimp.

Biography

Love taking photos, the fun is in sharing them!

Work with development and humanitarian aid takes me travelling .. but as I’m not there for photos, I can’t always take advantage!

Shifted to digital in March 2006 – finally – with a Canon EOS 20D (and a camphone that gives surprisingly good results!) I have a long way to go before I make good use of it! But I also still have a lot of photos to scan, taken with my Canon EOS 500.

Biography

I’m a college student studying journalism and literature. I write, edit, and layout for our newspaper, The Captain’s Log. I take photographs for fun and listen to a lot of eclectic music. I like to take long walks at odd hours, soundtracked by comedy podcasts on my iPod, and joined by my dog, Tess, if I’m at home. Also, I’m a bit weird.

Biography

I’d like to think that I am a fun-loving person… Proud father to my son Sebastian… and proud husband to my wife Rhizanthela…

Recently bought my Canon EOS 40D… Originally bought Olympus e520, however decided to change it to Canon EOS 40D, due to high ISO noise issues of the Olympus. It’s a shame, I really loved the Zuiko Digital 70-300mm Lens. No regrets in my decision though! Now I’m saving for better lenses to compliment Canon ESO40D’s capabilities.

After trying out a lot of “hobbies”, I think photography is something that will definitely stick with me this time.

Biography

I’m born in Germany in the fifties.

I’ve worked asleep in the Matrix for 25 years.

I love Flickr
I love digital art

I love selecting and recomposing elements from nature to evoke a particular mood. And I love to work with symbols and archetypes to think about.

When a picture evokes feelings and thinking it’s well balanced.

Biography

Biography: William Casper Spaulding is about to be a Sophomore at UMW, and has no idea what he wants to major in. One day he would like to be a teacher.

It was eerie,
And unexpectedly moving-
For a moment I considered
That I might be more than
Stale smoke and cigarette ashes
Remnants of yesterday
Complemented with matted hair
And the scent of stale liquor.

I wanted to stop and enjoy the moment
Despite my aching head and churning stomach
I ventured on, though, and left it to the judgment
Of my absolutist alter-ego
Just like the others that went before me,
I am only human, after all.

Mind Attack

A choking sensation wakes me at three a.m. and
my breathing shallows from a crushing weight as
I hear my son cry out in strained, partially muted terror.
Struggling to get up, my mind prepares me to fight or run.

My breathing shallows from a crushing weight as
palpitations cause sweat to boil from my flushed pores.
Struggling to get up, my mind prepares me to fight and
breaking free from fear’s paralysis, I run to my son’s room.

Palpitations cause sweat to boil from my flushed pores while
I attack the air between my son and me. Ready to protect him I
break free from fear’s paralysis and reach his bed yet
my heart has run away with my mind and I steady my breath so they will return to me.

I attack the air between my son and me. Beating away the nightmare with a quiet song,
I hear my son cry out again in strained, partially muted terror.
My heart has run away with my mind and I wait for them both to return to me, calm after
a choking sensation awoke me at three a.m.

]]> http://pendulumjournal.umwblogs.org/2009/04/19/mind-attack/feed/ 0 http://pendulumjournal.umwblogs.org/2009/04/19/deployment-treasures-of-a-navy-wife/ http://pendulumjournal.umwblogs.org/2009/04/19/deployment-treasures-of-a-navy-wife/#comments Mon, 20 Apr 2009 00:50:10 +0000 Jess http://pendulumjournal.com/2009/04/19/deployment-treasures-of-a-navy-wife/ Deployment Treasures of a Navy Wife

Hand turned from Odessa, Ukraine, she came today.
Green eyes, blond hair, and golden scarf framed face,
she nests fifteen women all in one place.
Matroyshka, please keep him in port, to stay.

Hand sewn from Turkey this camel skin jacket arrives,
double breasted, waist tie, soft suede with the scents
of ship diesel fuel and dirty socks, represents
nine months at sea, but now he’s home alive.

Hand painted from Rota, Spain, freed from its foam,
the smooth porcelain maiden with pastel blue dress,
holds my favorite calla lilies and though I’m impressed,
I’d trade Lladro’s art for Brian to remain at home.

Hand carved from Vicenza, Italy, on a chain rests
a lady on carnelian shell. The cameo is dear
but I won’t celebrate when he’s not here.
This is a lonely anniversary, at best.

But the most priceless of all these treasures are
his handwritten letters in my top drawer.

A Mumbai Boy in New Jersey

There is a crevice

in our kitchen,

in between

the fridge

and the

stove.

And if you peer,

there -

Dust bunny cities,

populated with dropped

fennel seeds, inter-

mixed

With bits of

mango.

Saffron walls,

a vermillion river,

and,

stale banks made from

snapped spaghetti shrapnel.

A few grains of Basmati rice,

Haldur stains -

Yellow, not quite.

Thatched roofs made from

Grandma’s mint leaves,

potting soil out back composed of

Puppa’s Kerala coffee grinds.

Unbrewed coffee on

the countertop.

Tepid saucepan on an unlit burner

with

not enough

fennel to sauté.

An empty fridge -

caramel residue of where

the mangoes used to be.

Cultures,

growing unseen

under stray fluore -

scent lighting, in a crevice

in between the fridge and the stove.

My wife-it was the worst for her. We’ve always had this problem: I like to keep ketchup in the fridge, but she wants to leave it out on the table. That’s what they do in restaurants, she says, but I tell her to look at the goddamn label. Anne, I tell her, Anne, if the company says to refrigerate the damned bottle, just shove it in the goddamn fridge already!

I came home from work one day and I was tired, I was hungry. As I was walking through to the kitchen I passed by the dining room table. What did I see? The goddamn ketchup was out, sitting between the salt and the pepper. For a minute I didn’t know what I wanted to do-call Anne and yell at her, throw the bottle across the room, or stick the thing back in the fridge and be real passive about it. In the end I chilled out and chose the latter. With as much calm as I could muster I walked into the kitchen and stuck that warm, red bottle in the door, next to the mustard.

I was still hungry, so I turned on the stove, filled a big gaping pot with water, and brought it to a boil. Now, me, I like long spaghetti noodles, but Anne only buys this baby shell pasta. The stupid little shells, they kept leaping out of the packet and spilling all over the counter. I would accidentally crush them every time I picked one up to put it in the pot. It was annoying, you know, because weird crushed bits of pasta never cook, they just float around on the surface of the water. So I got a spoon out. I started trying to fish the damned broken pieces out, but when my spoon broke the skin of the water the bits moved and sloshed water over the side. And it pisses me off, you know? I was still trying to get them out, and I threw the spoon down in the pot, and all that boiling water? It splashed me in the face. I was hollering pretty loud, but I had enough common sense to run over to the sink and put my face under cold water-which hurts, by the way-and it was then that my wife came in.

She was carrying the groceries in and she had the dog on a leash and she was laughing at me. My face was under the sink, I had these red welts coming up all over my skin, and she was laughing at me. What did you do, she asked. Pasta water, and I said it through gritted teeth because I was already pissed, very pissed off. She kept laughing, kept making fun of me because, apparently, I couldn’t cook pasta. I told her, I had a hard day and I didn’t need her shit. Her Dalmatian was wagging away near my feet, and I wanted to kick it because it was in the wrong place. But, I mean, I was holding back, I’m not a cruel guy, so I wasn’t going to kick a dog. So I turned back to the stove and started moving the pan around on the burner.

We have one of those flattop burners. It’s basically ceramic, doesn’t have an exposed heating element, so it has circles to show you where to put the pots or pans or whatever. I moved the pot around instead of, you know, hurting the dog. I figured, maybe if I just concentrated on putting the pot directly in the middle of that ring, I would calm down. But it didn’t fit. The pot was too big, too damn big. So I tried moving it to the front burner. I turned that one on, felt it heating up. My wife was just standing there, giggling stupidly and petting the dog. I really couldn’t stand the panting noise the dog was making, so I said, Anne, will you please remove that damn animal. Just take it away. But Anne said no, why would she do that, the dog is fine where she is. And I was fiddling with the pot, I had hold of the handles and I was just moving it, back and forth, water climbing up the sides every time the movement changed direction. Anne asked me what I was doing. She said that sloshing the water around wasn’t going to make it cook any faster.

And here is where I start to have problems with my memory: see, I don’t remember moving. Maybe I recall gripping the handles harder, maybe the dog’s claws scrabbling around with no purchase on the wooden floor, but I don’t remember moving. There is this one thing, though, that comes back to me, and that is the sound of water hitting her face, and this little hissing noise when the pasta shells met and fused with her hot, wet skin. Then there was this clatter, which I think was me dropping the pot, and this thud, which I think was my wife hitting the floor. Cause I didn’t see it, you know, just heard it. People say you see red when you’re mad, but I didn’t see anything.

Purple Barnacles

Biography

Busy maker of arty/crafty objects. Collector/magpie of many things….bbbzzzzz…..bbbzzzzz

Dominaludus sexagentaquad

Biography

I graduated from the George Washington University with a degree in fine arts. I specialized in sculpture. I’m very passionate about creating, and I feel like sculpture is my purpose. Currently, I am working in Austin, Texas as a commercial sculptor. I have a few things expressly noted as collaborations with Howard Connelly Designs, but everything else on this website is my own work, of my own design, and made on my own time for my own satisfaction. Nothing here has been backed by a corporate sponsor. It’s all one-of-a-kind, and comes straight from my soul.

Website: Heartless Machine

Untitled, Bedlans Series

Biography

Heather Silverman is a sophomore majoring in Fine Arts at the University of Cincinnati. She is interested in photography and more importantly, photographing people. She tries to capture a personality or a deeper meaning with people as her subject. Whether it may be a comedic piece or something more on a spiritual level, she tries to show more than a snapshot.

TAG

Biography

In my observations of all modes of creative expression, I am perpetually intrigued by the fact that, though we all share the exact same planet, the ways in which we interpret it are infinitely diverse. In general, I am most inspired and impressed by interpretative works of art that are derived from or in some way comment on elements of real life. I think that those pose the most challenge to convey in a compelling way from a unique perspective, and are the most appealing and relatable universally.  Most of my own work is based on true memories or experiences, whether they are my own or those of others who have shared them with me. Part of my goal in creatively portraying those experiences is to invoke a voice of reflection and vulnerability that resonates in some way with my readers’ own views on life and humanity.

Lamentation for a Homeless Alley-cat.

She channels Odetta past eleven

at night when every pinhole

in the sky is patched with black,

& every word is a punchline.

Each time she laughs she tears

a cavern between her nose & chin

& with her palm pulls across blank tape.

She says we cannot have a cat,

or push the bookshelves back

just a little further into the wall;

she is not worth a poem, but if

she were, this would be the only one.

For the brine, who so besiege the whale in enterprise.

There is no scene to fit inside this frame,

no Thursday morning endlessness in beds

of deadened skin, of dogs with tongues like sand

or finches, throaty breasted pearls outside

who send to wake & end the glimpse of death,

a whistled stark refrain.  There is no passage

westward, no evening’s guiding gracious shade,

nothing stirred from Adam’s hand

or washed by frothy ships on sea-less stones

in sandbars bleached & sun-stained dry & pale.

The lyric of an inland dirge, a wind

a whistle’s pitch rebounds around the walls

between the shipmen’s eager hauling cries

and lifting beams of steel & stalwart prospect -

a frameless scene of empty Thursday’s rest.

Commentary/Biography

The thing is not an animal or we would call it an animal (or: it is an animal in the way that we are animals, though we forget it so willfully). Shaggy with fur and moss, it nonetheless has a mind like ours, and eyes like ours, and its hands are hands, for all their claw and rattle. (And yes: that green tint is plant growth, and in the spring the small things on its back flower. What we have here is ancient.) Do not underestimate the creature you’ve encountered, do not deny it its many strengths and wisdoms. It may still eat you alive.

You are without weapon save your body and wits and a single small knife you have carried since age sixteen “just in case.”  You are young and you are febrile with terror when you find this thing, which is the reasonable response, since your backyard had never before been a forest. It clutches at trunks and branches and watches you with gold-flecked eyes, eyes that look like treasures, eyes you’d see enshrined in museums surrounded by glass and discreet security sensors. It is cold out, and your breath makes a pale distraction in front of you, but when the beast breathes it sends a blanket of steam out to rise up and die.

You begin to back up. You begin to quiver. Your heart rate rises, you breathe faster, your ears ring. Your throat contracts, you can feel it, your chest muscles tense and stiffen. The beast keeps pace with you, stepping soft, the leaves fluttering on its back, its enormous cloven hooves digging gently into the lush grass underneath it.

Where is the snow? So recently there was snow here. You check your boots, where some had crusted, but find them only damp and muddy. Through the trees above you the sky is black and recklessly full of stars.

The beast presses closer, looming and tattered, and you stumble over your feet and fall back, catching yourself uncomfortably on your wrists. It bends its great head down and levels those treasure eyes at you. Its jaw is the length of your body and you can see the delicate texture of the skin on its wet nose. You breathe in with a shiver that disrupts and stutters the sound of your inhalation.

You put your hand out feebly, shaking, the muscle along your forearm jumping. Your palm lands against the beast’s chin, which is soft and intensely warm, under which you can feel bone, under which you can feel the movement of blood. The animal tilts its head and your hand meets its muzzle; under the flesh of its lips, you can feel the curve of its teeth, heavy with implicit harm.

You withdraw your hand and scuttle back, undignified. You imagine you can smell the beast’s breath on you, a tangible thing, laying over you irremovable. You gasp in the smells of spring growth and the damp rot of fallen leaves, overturned earth and wet red clay, rust, living wood, termite, falling snow, dry bone, moss, predation, clover, rising bread, stone, crow calls, cloud cover, full moon, birth, the fear that comes with a deep love, the sound of an owl on a night without wind, beeswax, birch bark, animal musk.

It lowers its head to you until you are met again by that still, glimmering stare. The word is “fascinate.”

Years later you will come back to this place. It will still be there, greener now and greyer, too. Leaner with age, thicker with knowledge. Its tongue will not be forked. You will remember how you fled, before, how you broke its contact and ran shrieking back to the snow, the backyard, your family gathered in the warmly lit living room around the fire and the tree and the as-yet-unfilled stockings and how your sister was the only one who saw you were unsettled, but you wouldn’t tell her what happened, she only pried it out of you when she found the violet, still fresh, stuck to your damp boot. So you walk up to the beast, not slow, your regular pace. It still seems huge, but though you have been the same height since your late teens and certainly haven’t grown since your last encounter, it does not overwhelm you.

You put your hand on its heavy flank. Underneath your palm there are ribs, long-broken and long-mended, and the seam is a nearly intangible bump under your gentle hand. The beast crouches, so that it is level with you, and it tucks one hand under your chin and lifts your head. You close your eyes and inhale.

The animal sighs, and you reach up, eyes still closed, and stroke its neck. You feel its hand withdraw. You open your eyes to find the thing bowing its head, looking at the ground, which is still green and studded with wildflowers.

You kiss its brow, which feels like nothing so much as the kisses you used to give your dog, before he was struck by a car and returned to you dying. The beast is dying too, or will die before long. The snow is only feet behind you now.

Untitled

Biography: Stephen Andrews is a Political Science and English major.

Biography: Leighton Scott is a senior English major at the University of Mary Washington. She was born and raised in Tracy, California. It’s a very small town that takes only about ten minutes to drive through, and on any given day, when running errands, Leighton will inevitably run into someone she knows. Which she hates. Leighton is considering a move to the Hampton Roads area as she continues her fruitless search for an entry level job at any company that will have her.

Bam! I am suddenly hit by a wave of emotion and memory. I ease up on the throttle just a bit and slow down, sinking into the water instead of skipping across the surface on a plane. I feel like I have just run into an invisible brick wall. I press my thumb forward, giving the Yamaha just a bit more gas, and I am once again trailing my boyfriend, but some metaphorical wave is still crashing over me, keeping me down, drowning in the undertow. I have been here before. I have been on this jet ski before.

I cannot recall ever having déjà vu as a kid, probably because, as a kid, I really wasn’t too concerned with it, or even really knew what it was. I probably just paused for a moment and then went about my day as if nothing had happened. But now that I’m older I find myself much more affected by déjà vu, and often times crippled by it. It’s not so much the actual experience of déjà vu that gets to me; it’s the questions that the experience leaves behind. What’s just happened? Why did I just have déjà vu? What caused it?

Google can only help me so much with these questions. Actually, Google isn’t really helping me at all – just giving me more questions, and no answers. There are quite a few articles and websites out there about déjà vu. Some of these websites say that déjà vu is nothing more than random brain synapses misfiring. Others say that it’s due to the slight, nanosecond difference between human eyes. One eye takes in the event first, and then, a millionth of a second (or some other equally infinitesimal amount of time) later, the other eye registers the event, causing the déjà vu effect. And, of course, there are other, seemingly less scientific ideas behind déjà vu. Some say that déjà vu is a sort of ESP phenomenon – the memory of previous glimpses into the future. There are some people out there who think that déjà vu is proof of the existence of another dimension. Others say that déjà vu is us remembering our past lives. And some people argue that déjà vu is an echo of dreams we don’t remember. But which one of these possible explanations is the right one?

I can kind of see the logic behind the echo-of-dreams scenario. The amount of time that humans spend dreaming over the course of their lifetime is about six years. That means, statistically at least, that we dream two hours a night. I think I remember about one dream I have per month. That means that there are hundreds of hours of dreams I don’t remember, so I guess it’s possible that my subconscious could be regurgitating bits of them back to me. But what exactly is in these dreams that would lead me to have déjà vu? Did I dream about riding a 1988 Yamaha Waverunner on Lake Kerr in Virginia during the first week in August? That would be one hell of a specific dream.

But maybe I did dream it. After hearing my boyfriend talk so much about the camping trip (in preparation for it), I wouldn’t be surprised if I had a dream about camp. I don’t remember having one, but, like I said, there are probably billions of dreams that go unremembered. But could my dream have really been that specific? Or maybe the generalities (me being on a jet ski in a lake) were similar enough in both my dream and in real life to tie the two together. Similar enough to give me that familiar feeling of déjà vu. But then this brings up all sorts of questions about the subconscious. Why remember this dream at this moment? Is it just because the circumstances are similar, or did I really dream that I was riding a 1988 Yamaha Waverunner on Lake Kerr in Virginia? If I did dream that… does that mean that my dreams can act as some sort of window to my future? I’m not so sure. I’ve never really believed that my dreams were trying to tell me anything. And I’ve never really tried to “decode” them. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

And I guess sometimes a misfiring brain synapse is just a misfiring brain synapse. Unless, of course, it isn’t. The logical side of me wants to believe that déjà vu is nothing more than that, a random misfire of something in my brain, a small brain hiccup, if you will. This is the same side of me that chooses Charles Darwin over Jesus, fact over faith. But I can’t just write it off like that. The logical side of my brain is screaming “danger Will Robinson, danger!” while the other side of me, the non-logical side, continues to wonder just what the hell is really going on. The problem is – the logical side of me is afraid of what the answer might turn out to be. I’m afraid that the answer I get won’t be logical, and it won’t be simple.
Because what happens if all this déjà vu is really a glimpse, an echo, of something out of one of my past lives? I find myself coming back to this point, although every fiber of my being screams that I must be wrong. I can’t possibly be remembering past lives because there is no such thing as a past life. Right?

Right?

I have a great aunt (who my sisters and I affectionately refer to as Auntie Rita) who says she is a natural clairvoyant. In my household growing up, this was not subject to interpretation, but rather a fact. I never gave it much thought, as is generally true with most “undisputed” childhood facts. At the same time, I never really believed her when she told me certain things, but I never really doubted her either. I remember, when my sisters and I were little, she told one of my sisters that she had an old soul – meaning that she had lived a number of past lives. At the time I thought nothing of it. Actually, at the time, I felt like it made sense that Lindsey, out of all three of us, would be the one to have an old soul. But that can’t make sense. It can’t make sense because, if it does, that would mean that past lives do exist, and that déjà vu might just be momentary flashbacks to them. And past lives just can’t exist. It’s just not logical.

Whenever I do get hit by one of these déjà vu experiences my brain automatically tries to reason it out by breaking it down into two parts: 1) the situation I am currently experiencing, and 2) my memory of the current situation. My memory of the current situation is entirely separate from the current situation itself. I can always distinctly recall having remembered the experience before, although I cannot recollect when it was I remembered the situation in the first place until the very moment I am having déjà vu.

I want to make sense of déjà vu… and I also want to avoid the question altogether. Most of all, I just want everything to make sense, to be simple and logical. But I’m not even sure if that’s possible. What if the right answer, the answer I’m looking for, isn’t the logical answer?

Maybe I want to rationalize déjà vu so much because of my Western upbringing. It feels unnatural to me that I should experience déjà vu so frequently… or that I should experience it at all. Sure, we’ve made movies about déjà vu and can chat with our friends about it, but it is still one of those things that is “strange.” Déjà vu is in the same boat as haunted houses. We talk about them, and God knows we make movies about them, and we may even know people who have “seen” a ghost… but they still fall under the category of “creepy” or “strange.” I think déjà vu is more likely to be socially acceptable in other cultures, probably because other cultures are more accepting of the “strange” and the supernatural. Take a look at the concept of past lives and reincarnation. Nearly every major religion in the world has embraced some form of reincarnation, except for Christianity (and although America is a culturally, racially, and religiously diverse place our country, and our ideals, were still founded by a bunch of dead, white, male, Christians). Also, in other parts of the world, there are prophets, wise men, and oracles. There are fortune tellers, and palm readers too – but we use them strictly as entertainment in carnivals.

And, as if my brain wasn’t addled enough, the middle of this paper has mysteriously vanished. What you were reading just a moment ago is all a recreation of what I believe I said the first time around. I was using another computer to continue to write my paper, having written the first half of the paper on my own trusty laptop, with the aid of my pen drive. I clicked the save button a number of times while writing the on the foreign computer. As a matter of fact, the computer even asked me if I were sure I wanted to save. I assured it that I did, in fact, want to save what I had just written. I even clicked the save button three times in a row at the end of my typing session, just to insure that my work was indeed saved. It was not.

My pen drive reveals no trace of the paper, and neither does the other computer, even after a thorough file search. My boyfriend, to whom the foreign computer belongs and who was the one to complete the file search (being a computer scientist), told me that I had “obviously not hit the save button.” I remember hitting the save button. I hit it multiple times… but if I did hit it multiple times then what happened to the middle of my essay?

For the Brine, who so besiege the whale in enterprise

Lamentations for a Homeless Alley-cat

Joyeux

L’arbre

Riddle of the Sphinx

little one, precious of the flock, where have you gone to these days?

purple ninja turtle backpack- yellow wheat- on the way to school

building blocks goldie locks frera jaques and a moment later is too soon

did you tell the priest the mess you made the first time you had sex,

5                  there is no purgation in attrition.

little one, precious of the flock, where have you gone to these days?

red jaguar sports coup- green grass- neighbors think you’re a tool

baseball bats awkward chats dinner scraps and a night with no moon

did you tell your loving wife all the passion you suppress,

10                you should always listen.

little one, precious of the flock, where have you gone to these days?

black tie family funeral- brown dirt- swimming in an empty pool

tennis courts golfing shorts chocolate torts and an appointment at noon

did you forget to tell her you loved her before she left,

15                confession is not submission.

little one, walking the valley of the shadow of death

afraid of your own shadow, afraid of your own breath

slowly close your eyes- let the rest be the rest.

Threnody for a Lover’s Foreign Touch.

Hey radiator

this is not a song for you

but for the simple swathe

of ragged cloth under

three thin blankets of warmth.

This is not to say your tin

man’s song does not swing,

or at night send vibes

along the notches of the spine,

but your Coltrane feel is unreal

and radiator it’s been cold

far too long.

And while sleep

is a gentler stranger, back

bent hovered above a saddle

of glowing rhythm,

no outlaw fire’s embers

thaw thick loneliness

as morning’s swaddled womb will -

& hey radiator this part

is for you, and I would lie

if I said I had melted like this before.

You called me hook-shaped
and so I imagined my spine
contorting to groove itself
around the traction of your ribs,
lifting you writhing, glinting
in suspension above the surface,
where we are both adapting
to new air. I am careful
of your scars, desalinating each
with stolen sunlight as you
blanket my insecurities in
ripples of rhythmic tenderness.
I hold the line, though imagined
lures tug upward at the corners
of my own mouth, the ends
of cords stemming from riverbeds
encircling the black periods
of your eyes.

Believe me when I say,
I want neither to cook you
nor nail you to a board above
my mantle. I only hope that
when I am able to release,
you swim upstream
to reach and continue
alongside me.

Leaf Fade

Biography

I am a self taught land artist and sculptor from Lancaster in the North West of England. My work usually consists of ephemeral sculptures made from natural materials found round and about where the sculpture is made. What comes from nature soon returns to it be it in a few short minutes, hours or days: everything is reclaimed by the sun, tide or wind. My work focuses on the structures, processes and forms of nature and my sculptures attempt to reveal a fresh perspective on what we know about those materials and processes. A particular tree during a particular autumn flush of colour may afford the land artist the opportunity to reveal all the colours of autumn. This chance may come only for a few days and during a particularly good season. I am of course heavily influenced by Andy Goldsworthy and I have extensively studied his sculptures including trying to create my own versions in an attempt to discover the process he went through. I am currently artist in residence at Beacon Fell Country Park in Lancashire.

Website: Land Art

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Biography

Website