All posts tagged: Staff

To Make Windows

Words and Photo by A.A. Reinecke The word “yard sale” draws, to most, an image of dust bottomed glassware; to the soft of mind it conjures prospect of silverware to reveal, with lye and metal wool, the initials of a president’s cousin or another man of once-removed significance. To John Brady, the worth of whose brain had been estimated—by a small, but by all means reputable newspaper—at the sum of four million and seventy five thousand dollars, it meant a particularly green afternoon in Poughkeepsie, New York. Karen’s was a good house with a wide lawn, a brick exterior and a tennis court made of imported clay. She had a folding table open on the cement of the front walk up; over her face sat the effect of hastened dissipation. “Brady,” she said, when he approached the lawn, “The million dollar brain.” Brady stopped at the table. His nephew stood at Karen’s legs with his six year old palms tight to her jean-clad calves. “Hey Bumby.” Bumby clung tighter. “Say hi, Bumby.” “Where’s Dad?” said Bumby. …

Like Ian

Like Ian Words by A.A. Reinecke It is cold like a prison like Antarctica gray and on the folded bit a dribbling of blood the shape of: Minnesota. St. Paul. That’s where he’s from. St. Paul. It is noon now. That was breakfast. The room was a sideboard with bits of fractured glass. The windows spoke in tongues or through lust strained in milk. Q: Do you love me? A: I don’t know. Chai was sweet grain melted like the wetness of my mouth and your tongue tasted still like Ian and his carpet and his gin like a plow for planting prohibition. Q: The flask? A: No. My plastic cup membrane shed quartz like history nabbed from a headband. The 1920s. Q: You eating? Coffee? Anything? A: No. St. Paul. That’s where he’s from. St. Paul. Photo credit: Brandon Yung

On the $6 Lauren Bacall Mints I Lost

Poem by A.A. Reinecke People hated Kennedy at Harvard (crimson). Do you know why? Do you know how hard it is to be wrong beside people, like him, whose failures are beautiful? I bought you a pack of mints at LAX to say something hard. Is it cowardice if I preface this? I’m remembering the punch bowl at the Mormon party and how when I binge ate Carvel ice cream cake you left a Himalaya on your plate where synthetic pink melted into white. Do you know I love you? And the color of your politics? Or that I was trying to humble myself to our shitty teacher when I smiled at the story about how her son’s nose was broken at Georgetown? Did you notice that in Spanish class the matador on the wall never was authoritarian about your using the restroom? Or that a pair of almond eyes, before being lost in hotel laundry, intended to will from you a treaty? Know I miss you. That I’m sorry. That I wish sometimes you’d …

Letter To/From The Editor

A sweet old photo from the Tunnel Brunch that I took. Some scenarios: Somi and I spent a lot of time together in my room one night in mid-May planning the Textile event. We had been really excited about this “soundtrack” idea that included a mixture of songs and dictating poems or stories out loud. She picked a short story about teeth. It was a perfect choice—the balance between guttural and gorgeous that is Tunnel. Dentaphilia turned out to be 20 minutes long when read out loud; Somi sat beside me while I read and read until I was talking in the gummy way that happens when you run out of saliva. The day of the event we decided that listening to a soundtrack of our own voices is really uncomfortable and ended up not using any of the recordings. The first time I met Somi, as in recognized her from Facebook and introduced myself, she was wearing wide-leg overalls! Olivia Nouriani was wearing the pair of pineapple pants two days ago and four different people, in …

radio silenced

Photographs by Hana Tyszka Poem by Amelia Anthony first day of school  stomach pit (bottomless) shriveled ball of tin-foil feelers. be my lover, ave maria gorgeous. a pipe dream swan song boneslime. toothpick rhetoric crunch feet on roads ontrailsonpaths on ring-fingersnap poems. i have not really missed anyone. long bells i cried today. radio silenced. laced hair slice. quickie-licked cowlick.

the self-portrait

Words and Paintings by Amelia Anthony I never really painted until around May when I did a portrait of my friend Addy for school. I ended up making another portrait of my friend Harper and one of myself in the same week because I enjoyed it so much. It was easier for me to paint myself, probably because I know my own face well and also because it was so soothing. I didn’t have real deadlines or expectations to my newfound self-portraiture; for the first time in a while creating visual art was relaxing! Previously I had only been a writer—only written about myself instead of painting pictures of myself. Currently, painting is a ritual. I blend the same skin tones and trace the same features soft-listening to music and bask in brushstrokes. Self-love is a very strange thing in media right now; it is trendy to appreciate your image and share that appreciation with other people. However, self-love is something I am unsure anyone has mastered. Self-portraiture has definitely helped me work through self-love; not just …

semantic satiation

Words by Amelia Anthony Photography by Pablo Gaeta PRUFOCK’S PERVIGILIUM a partial case study of “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Eliot i hadn’t seen Michealango yet and i hadn’t seen god. sure i miss the way i used to write now and I think i have seen both In the past week. funny how Things like this work out “that’s a thing people say but it has NO meaning. neither do i tell myself. suddenly this month heaven sounds delicious. spiritual people live differently and i am so optimistic about death and am confused about the tears on deaths. i can’t cry about anything but myself. no sign from God to confirm. am i ever going to change the world? why does it matter when i can go to Washington. a body of mine is a body of yours Michael- angelo. ON SPACE (IN SPACE) Is feeling cold an emotion? Sometimes, it’s so much more than a temperature. Or a lack of heat I know that space is cold I am …