Dossier Spring 2011

Table of Contents

4 Dossier Spring 2011

6 78 910111213141516171819202122232425

Sweet StingPeter Xiao

Flower BedAmanda Yuan

Little Bit of LoveJonathan Chung

DragonBarnik Saha

RelativityAurelia Henderson

FlowersClaire Castleman

In absence of the world, do you believe?Meela Dudley

Strength in TilesAsha Carroll

“A Lesson in Crabs”Jessica Dickinson Goodman

Hainan, ChinaJonathan Chung

Stardom, Newness, and Faking ItAaron Bernkopf

The Entrance of the BrideJuan Fernandez

TroubadorNina L. Mohan

AdolescenceAmanda Yuan

Danny Vesus the IrtistTom Pike

Losing InnocenceAurelia Henderson

MooseClaire Castleman

Saddle Worn ReturnAaron Bernkopf

ScrollsYihuan Zhou

Dear Reader,Welcome to Dossier! Originating from the French idea of “a bundle of interactive documents or artworks,” the magazine in your hands contains the work of Carnegie Mellon’s most incredible writers, artists, and photographers. This magazine is compiled, designed, and produced by our very dedicated staff and supporters, and we would like to acknowledge those who have put forth their efforts to make the Spring 2011 issue such a success.

First, we thank everyone who submitted to the magazine. Your work inspired us to showcase the amazing talents here at the university. We hope you will continue to create such brilliant work, and we encourage everyone to submit again in the fall.

To our staff - you are amazing. Dossier is not only a magazine, it is a process. Over the course of numerous meetings, our staff evaluates each submission carefully, makes tough and critical deci-sions, and spends countless hours designing the magazine and bringing it to life. Without the energy and dedication of each of our members, making Dossier would be impossible.

To The Tartan, thank you for sharing your space and resources with us. You show us constant sup-port, and you are always ready to help with whatever we may need.

Lastly, we would like to acknowledge the unique character of the Dossier magazine. Each semester we produce an issue that highlights the interdisciplinary nature of our university by publishing those who exhibit extraordinary creative talent, regardless of their major or years of study. In this issue, you will find the work of first-year engineering students alongside senior art students and cre-ative writers. The diversity of backgrounds, experiences, and skillsets manifest within Dossier make the magazine an exciting, unexpected, and enjoyable read.

So please, turn the page and journey through the creative minds of your fellow members of the campus community. In addition, if you would like to get involved with Dossier, we are always looking for new contributors and editorial staff members.

Enjoy,

Erica CherryLiterary Editor

Joshua C. ClaudioManaging Editor

Yihuan ZhouDesign Editor

Letter from the Editors

5

The Entrance of the Bride

Moose

Scrolls

Reading Staff: Katie Dickson, Christopher Grant, Amanda Yuan

sweetPeter Xiao

Hey, pretty Honey,You’re so sweet that you stunned meUntil you stung me.

STING


Peter Xiao

FLOWER BEDamanda yuan

7

DragonBarnik Saha


Stumbling over to my closet I take a pair of denims off of a rack, pull them on, and step into brogues. I’m wearing a shirt from last night and though a link is missing, I won’t be bothered. I touch perfume onto my wrists and dab some on my neck, toss the bottle onto the bed. As I walk towards the door, I put on the coat that needs to be pressed and grab my pack. And here, on the table in the foyer, lies L’étranger. I take it with me.Headlong and stumbling across patches of dirt and grass, the notion that I am penned in for the pursuit appears before me with an insincere resilience. The thought is mis-placed, I mutter to myself.

Yet I believe it. And because of this, looking forward to tomorrow is made a bitch of a task. It isn’t entirely that I don’t enjoy tomorrows, though I couldn’t tell you what it was.Melancholia? That’s reasonable. It’s all very tastelessly regimented, to be honest.As I begin to envelop myself in the pages painting a portrait of humanity’s inclination towards peculiar irony, a diversion during lecture, I become ill at ease. I haven’t con-sidered this man misunderstood and his opaque stolidity for a long while and I can-not now. She walks into the room and seats herself beside a boy; he is handsome and doubtless charming, and is able to make her laugh. He inspires this ethereal warm smile she wears, which I can feel burn the inside of me. I wish her well I guess. A little bit of heaven and a little bit of hell.

Resolve is what I need, as I enter a sort of decadence of my own. I press my eyes closed for to see her is a torment. Dark and exotic hair so like that of a goddess, bronzed skin scintillating no less than the grains of Thasos, and eyes impelling more manner than is palpable. She is fantastically beautiful.I feel insubstantial - am rather a ghost. While she is here, I am without assurance and stripped of my defenses. I try to find a decent position in my chair, but it’s become re-ally very difficult. And doesn’t anyone else in the hall feel this damned heat?Time finds my life to be little more than a plaything, the years have taught me. Stealing cowardly glances, I recall not three months ago our introduction. I would have it mean more, but everyone has this story, so I breathe deeply and disappear into myself. Forty more minutes.

I wish I had confidence. I would catch her up after class and say something. Say… something. Instead, I notice watches being checked and hear the sound of the many metal teeth grinding together, and I sprint.Nixing such feelings was my policy. I had been fond of one girl hitherto, while living overseas many years ago. Quite disastrous, were the effects, so I thought it best to wreck all nascent optimisms thereafter. What I feel presently, however, is strange and more, and with substance. The sensation and repercussion cannot be ignored. Hell, I even stay awake at night thinking about her.Away from class, I retreat to the generous shades of an oak, and beneath it I stumble again on these thoughts, and that her impression of me is nothing short of botched. I stand across from her and see her. If she happens to see me, she sees nothing of me, I know. She sees somebody unlike who I am.I wish that we would say hello or that I might lend her an implement. I wish she might take up a seat beside me. Perhaps whisper to me how tired of class she is.

I wake up and open my eyes slowly – so much damn light in my room because I cannot remember to get blinds.

My work from yesterday is partway done, but that’s better than the day before so I’m glad to sweep it into my dustpan of a backpack.

Little Bit of Love Jonathan Chung

9

Claire CastlemanFlowers10 Dossier Spring 2011

Whenever I see the fog collect on my glasses as I stand over a pot, I whipaway the residue from the outside with a swipe of my index finger. It leaveslines. But yours never did. That night in the rain when you took yourfingers to the frame and gently flicked each drop away to rejoin theirsiblings on the ground and did the same with my check and then my lipsbefore your hands found their way to the back of my head in quietanticipation of a lone kiss, there were no finger lines, no smudges ofwrinkled knuckles. Perfect. Smooth. Like you were then. Like you were thenand like I never was. Like I never will be. I keep trying, but my humanitygets in the way. *

RelativityAurelia Henderson

11

I. in love at first sight

that’s the problem with love—you really can’t forge it,and in an effort to describe to someone how he once made me feelI’d have to force myself to go backto that chamomile colored night on the living room floor,where we built ourselves a fort out of goose feathersand lay tangled in each others limbs.

I wanted to write about how fast I fell,in love, out of it, all over the floor,but I couldn’t remember what it was liketo appreciate how he turns every simple question into idealistic metaphoror how he reads novels out of the little things I do and say.

II. one can redefine honesty

It’s fucking freezing in here but he’s sweating, as always.Peeling my chest away from his freckled back,I wrap myself in fleece and enter isolation in the corner.Tomorrow he will rephrase everything he’s said tonight,each plea and bargain, to make me feel dumb about still being in love withhim.

I will still smell him tomorrow—the rain, the water that keeps me alive.But for now, I cling to his pruned fingersgrafittied with tobacco stains and lint from the bottoms of his pockets,and pretend that he’s not collecting, like the bottle caps and togs,feelings like mine.

III. that you have the willpower

He’s got me in a headlock.Most of the time I just sit around and wonderwhy he had to do the things he did,why the timing was disgustingly relevant,why I have to be so susceptible to apologetic shoulder blades.

I thought about writing a story.I had made myself a crumbling impish metaphor for sovereignty and closedemotions,I had made him my exception,and I had put the world against us.

In the absence of the world, do you believe? Meela Dudley


Strength in TilesAsha Carroll

13

Hainan, China Jonathan Chung


The beach on the north coast of Oman is warm, clean, fresh in a way the water hasn’t been inCalifornia for decades. The water, heating-pad temperature in the afternoon, had cooled to hourold tea.

Sitting in the lawn chair with my lovely shepherd of a self-appointed chaperone, I saw a glint bythe waves. Perhaps finally a plastic bag, a piece of glass, a syringe?

A pale blue and blushing crab was hovering by the waves’ edge. He sideways-sauntered to the edge of the water.The waves were coming in knee-high to me, too high for the crab to see over. A tsunami for a

man his size. I watched him; he watched the waves. Then he ran in. The waves, little tail-ends,not more than twice his size, pushed him back. Keeping steady, staying righted, he surfed.

The wave sets him down again, he corkscrews his body, and glares into the waves. He dancesleft, and right; wanders up, and down—runs into the waves again!

He grew more jewel-toned in the fast-fading light. Dives in, is pushed back; observes, dives in, ispushed back. He enjoys both the diving and the looking, but especially keeping his balance when

he’s pushed back.Sounds like a good way to be for me.

Jessica Dickinson Goodman“A Lesson in Crabs”

15

The Entrance of the BrideJuan Fernandez


When I think about growing up, I don’t thinkAbout getting a job, having kids, a house, 2 cars, and An extremely sexy wife, no. I think about Florence

The 42-year-old French woman I made love to 2 newYears ago. I think about how her outfit seemed to float

Over one shoulder strap, and how her face and body began to glowOnce she let her hair down. She told me that night when I

Met her “the way you dance is an expression.” I told her “danceIs an art, I intend to keep it that way,” and I made art outOf dancing all around on the inside of her mind. She was

And interior designer who attracted billionaire clients – she told meOne day when I become a rock star, she’ll do my plane.

Between climax cruising altitudesShe sighed, “I love you” in her

Brass accent. I little whisper jettedAgainst my ear. I chose to ignore

That – we didn’t sleep. She told me that she had 2 kids but I dared not ask her

Their age, lest she say my oldest is 23, and my having turnedTwenty 18 days ago. I tried to read her some of my poetry

While we were refueling and smoking a joint but she told me thatShe won’t understand my “words”, I told her “then don understandMy words, understand my voice” – my tone just like the silly things

We do with the things between our legs. Silly like when she gave me domeAnd simultaneously rode my big toe. The feet and genitals share a cortex

In the nervous system, so when I was flying high there was a moment when I couldn’t tell the difference between the sky and the ground.

My two minds became one. I felt quite complete.

When we birds landed I couldn’t help but notice whatA nest her hair had become. As I put my garments back on

I could see her love increase with every piece. “That’s aBeautiful coat, I didn’t notice it before.” We had rushed

Drunkenly into a cab, and into a bed without safe lining. Then she gave me her number in France, but it was time

For me to go. Could I conceal my simultaneous feelings ofJoy and pain at my departure? I don’t know, but that

Feeling, and that going is what I think about when I think aboutGrowing up: the 22 years I could never fake.

Stardom, Newness, andAaron BernkopfFaking It

17

Ach! We are carried away by the crest of the waltz,busting open the tombs of the greats – Barber! Haydn! Tchaikovsky!Chausson! – to rob them before the climaxdecrescendoes on their lips. We hollowtevery last beat from their twelve–tone hearts and let the improv flame out into the night. Why? We’re “born of what we feel!” An impromptugarden of melodies sprouts up for remembrance. We pluck outhandfuls of neopolitan violets, bouquets for the senseless.Indifference is our enemy, so we cruise the alleys for jaded minds and rotting ears, ready to tranq,knock, pound, beat, drag and smash until the sounds creeplike goosebumps marching under the skin of the earth. “Moltomosso!” Everyone screams when we infect them. They awakennow, first with a humming in their marrow. The rhythm – Oh! They have moved past feeling. Allpain, all hunger, all bliss lines their lungs with chords of silk. Questioning us is out of the question. We are the DJreveling in the sight of this rhapsody in spit, as teeth become timpani,sending notes of the soul soaring hightowards the night. Even the once jeering,undeserving corpses shudder in their graves. IfVerdi could see! We are delighted our work is never done.Wandering on, our toes feel the pizzicato pull to scratch undeadXX eyes. The euphoria of the eurhythmic yearning pushes us past the double bar to electrify the numbzones and spread the irrational joy of the oom-pa-pa oom-pa-pa

TroubadorNina L. Mohan


AdolescenceAmanda Yuan

19

“Thank you all for coming,” he said. “Since 1972, I have been an artist. As of today, I am officially no longer an artist. I am now an ‘irtist’.” The reporters stared back with blinking incompre-hension. The cameraman behind them placed his body in between the rain and his equipment. “I will now be taking questions,” Mueller said. One of the reporters stepped forward, a twenty-something who had once thought that by this point in her career, she would be writing for Newsweek. She tried to maintain her professionalism as she asked, “What does ‘irtist’ mean?” Mueller handed her a business card. “That re-mains to be determined,” he said. Sputtering but unwilling to concede defeat, she followed up. “Yes, but why did you make the change?” “That remains to be determined,” said Mueller.

Cocoa Pebbles spewed from Danny Byers’s mouth. He managed to get most of them back into the bowl, but a few landed on his parents’ ugly paisley-patterned sofa. As the camera cut back to the news studio and the anchors tried to segue from the “irtist” to a story about a man bitten by an opossum, Danny laughed uncontrollably. This was everything that was wrong with the local news, where every day was a slow news day, and someone with literally nothing to say could waste everyone else’s time. Why would you hold a press conference to tell people you’d made a decision that meant nothing for reasons you didn’t understand?

*** Clay slopped in Danny’s hands. He fought to center it on the wheel, cupping it gently, guiding it. Here, in the empty, quiet after-hours, he could actually hear him-self think. Mr. Foster opened the door to the studio. “Don’t you ever go home?” he asked Danny, smiling. “Eh,” said Danny. “I’d rather be here.” Mr. Foster shrugged, as if to say, suit yourself. “Door was locked yesterday,” Danny continued. “So I’m trying to make up for lost time.” “Volleyball meet,” said Mr. Foster as he sat at his desk and shuffled through papers. “How’d it go?” “I’d rather not relive the experience,” said Mr. Foster. “Two years ago, I had everybody where I needed them. Not that I blame the people I have now, but, there’s

no denying we’ve had recruitment issues…” “Yeah,” said Danny. “That sucks.” He didn’t really care about high school volleyball, but he did like Mr. Foster. Danny eased his foot down on the pedal. The pottery wheel spun faster. Danny pushed his thumbs into the center of the mound of clay, creating a hole in what would become a pot. Some time passed in silence as they each worked. Then, without warning, Mueller’s completely straight face popped into Danny’s head, saying, “That remains to be determined,” and Danny suddenly laughed. “Bring enough for the whole class?” asked Mr. Foster. “Just something stupid on the news last night,” said Danny, smiling. “Some mustached old guy got up in front of the cameras and said he was now an ‘irtist’, not an artist, even though he couldn’t tell anyone what that meant.” “I don’t get it,” said Mr. Foster. “Well, it’s funny because…” Danny stopped the potter’s wheel, trying to put it into words, gesticulating with a mud-covered hand. “I dunno. I think he’s right to say he’s not an artist. Art is about communicating. He’s not saying anything. So many of us work so hard to get our messages heard that it’s just insulting when some faker comes along, throws crap at people, and hopes they read their own meaning into it. He’s selling snake oil.” “Unless,” said Mr. Foster with a sly smile, “that was the exact reaction he was hoping to provoke. In which case, he’s an expert communicator, isn’t he?”The conversation had taken a turn Danny hadn’t been pre-pared for. He’d meant to rant, not debate. “Clay has to be deliberately shaped,” he said. “It won’t shape itself.” “Look, I’m only playing Devil’s advocate. I’m just sayin’, maybe he’s got something to say.” Mr. Foster returned his gaze to his gradebook, then looked back up at Danny. “Who was he?” “The anchor said his name was… Mueller, I think?” Mr. Foster nodded. “Him. Yeah, I can’t decide whether he’s either brilliant or an idiot, but he’s not some-where in between.” “You know him?” “Of him. Johnstown’s art community isn’t big enough that I couldn’t have bumped into the guy a few times.”

Two soaked reporters stood under umbrellas that did nothing to block the sideways-falling rain. In front of them, under the awning of his Johnstown townhouse, Bill Mueller stood, wearing a dated tuxedo. Spray collected on the bristles of his moustache as he read his statement.

Danny Versus the IrtistTom Pike


“Yeah, but, how big is Johnstown’s irt commu-nity?” Mr. Foster smiled, almost laughed, and shook his head. “Look, I’m only playing Devil’s advocate. I’m just sayin’, maybe he’s got something to say.” Mr. Foster returned his gaze to his gradebook, then looked back up at Danny. “Who was he?” “The anchor said his name was… Mueller, I think?” Mr. Foster nodded. “Him. Yeah, I can’t decide whether he’s either brilliant or an idiot, but he’s not some-where in between.” “You know him?” “Of him. Johnstown’s art community isn’t big enough that I couldn’t have bumped into the guy a few times.” “Yeah, but, how big is Johnstown’s irt commu-nity?” Mr. Foster smiled, almost laughed, and shook his head. “What?” asked Danny. “You’re mocking something you don’t under-stand.” “I thought you said the point was that I couldn’t understand it.” “I said I thought the point might be that.” Mr. Foster turned to his computer and tapped at his keyboard. After a moment, he leaned back. “There,” he said. “Tell you what. I found his address. You give me a two-page writeup of what he means by ‘irtist’, and I’ll give you up to four bonus points.” His printer started making noise. Danny felt almost insulted. “I don’t need bonus points.” “Fine, whatever, don’t take the free points. Your call.” “And why doesn’t the jerk have an email address or phone?” asked Danny. “Why do you think he doesn’t have a phone?” replied Mr. Foster.

Mr. Foster being coy, taking Mueller’s side, an-gered Danny more than it should have. All he had wanted was a quick laugh at something stupid. And there Foster was, telling him to consider stupidity from its own point of view. He hadn’t been curious about what ‘irtist’ meant because he knew it meant nothing, but now he had to go see this irtist, if only to prove Mr. Foster wrong.

*** Danny stepped out of his car and looked up from the sidewalk. Mueller’s townhouse sat in front of him, its flat face revealing no answers. Hesitantly, he approached, and used the knocker. He steeled himself for awkwardness and stupidity. Mueller opened the door. He seemed unsurprised to see Danny and uncurious about who Danny was. “Do you want to come in?” he asked, but something was off about the way he said it. It was not the formal way most people say, “Come in,” but instead, a genuine question. This threw Danny off, but he regained his footing and nodded. Mueller let him in. The inside of the townhouse was almost bare, revealing old wooden floors and walls. A gas fireplace crackled in the corner, even though it was not really cold

enough outside to justify using it. Aside from the fireplace, the only furnishings Danny could see were a plain couch, a reclining chair, and several empty picture frames on the walls. Hesitantly, Danny sat on the couch, testing it gingerly to see if it would collapse. On the cushion next to him, he noticed what appeared to be a pile of irregularly-shaped paper. Upon closer inspection, he could see it was a newspaper that had all the articles and headlines cut out with an X-Acto knife. Mueller sat in the recliner, folded his hands, and stared at Danny, and it dawned on Danny that he was expected to speak first. “I saw your press conference,” Danny began. Silence. “Is this dada?” “Define dada,” said Mueller. Danny sighed with frustration. “No one can define dada.” Mueller again said nothing. “Is the answer much simpler? Are you a crazy person?” asked Danny. “Would I be doing this if I were crazy?” “I have no idea,” said Danny. “Are you making a statement? If you are, what are you trying to say?” “What do you think I’m trying to say?” “I think you’re trying to say nothing. But why live this performance if there’s nothing behind it?” “Is there nothing behind it?” asked Mueller. An ugly realization dawned on Danny. Mueller hadn’t answered a single question—he’d just let Danny fill in the blanks with whatever his first guess was. Danny came to the conclusion that Mueller was a living Rorschach inkblot test. Briefly, he considered asking Muel-ler if he was a Rorschach test, and then decided it would be pointless. “Are you doing this to piss people off?” Danny asked. “Why do you believe I would want to piss people off?” said Mueller. Danny’s frustration began to boil. He stood. “Why are you doing this?” he demanded, spreading his arms. “Are you just hoping I’ll supply all the meaning? Are you living a madlib? Why?!” “Do you think I’m living a madlib?” “Fuck what I think! What’s true?” “Define truth.” “Objective reality.” “What do you see as—” “You know,” interrupted Danny, walking to the door, “My teacher thinks that you’re trying to provoke exactly this reaction out of me. I think you’re simply a fraud.” He opened the door. “But you know what? It doesn’t matter which one of us is right. Because either way, you’re a pretentious douche.” Danny left and slammed the door. Empty silence descended. The irtist quietly rose, and picked his cut-up newspaper off the couch. He sat down, smiling a faint Mona Lisa smile. He opened the paper, staring into the holes. Contentedly, he began to read.

21

Claire CastlemanMoose


You told me not to stop*Keep driving

It’s the right way, I promise.*I wanted to go back.

*It’s too late for that nowThe day moves forward without you.*

I wanted to run and jumpThe way girls playing

Hopscotch hit the ground,Feet never firmly planted.

*Keep driving.*Why must things grow

Further away as we moveDown the road?

I could still see the sidewalk.The chalk, bright yellow,

Was still glowing.*Keep your eyes on the road ahead.

It is safe, necessary.*

Losing Innocence

Aurelia Henderson

23

Scr

olls

Yihu

an Z

hou

II. [Dark Transit]It’s always Hurry up and wait. Grey hound, NW bound;home of the great lakes, that I can’t remember having ever been to. Family there,going for thanksgiving turkey (gobble) – my knees up against the seat up ahead. Are we all loaded?I think I have space, a whole row to myself. Still homework to be done,still sleep to be had, but I am glad to be going.

– Coda – : On the way we drove … past an *illuminated* LCD display on the high-way that read “Destiny has a new home” and underneath thatwas a penguin. I slid with the penguin receding into black display-cement:

III. I am mixed, sometymzeven torn.

I feel the Haitian Voodoo in me,

I feel the German efficiency,

I feel the Japanese [something],

I feel the French Pretention.

There’s stilla piece of me lost in France, 2 younger twin sisters I haven’t seen since I was 5.

Triedspeaking to them over the phonenot too long ago, but they didn’t speak much Englishand I had forgotten French;it resulted (from my point ofview) in “[gibberish gibberish]I love you [gibberish].”

I am the separate corners of the globe, fighting for territory in my soul.

Sometimes I don’t know who I am – sometimes have nowhere to identify

Sometimes I’m everything, e x p a n d i n g past eon’s of light-years in cosmos of a deities’ dream.

Sometimes I am nothing, not even the dust in the air, not eventhe gum on the ground, stuck on the shoe – transported everywhere with no volition.

But right now I’m everythingin between, I am a sandwichof a person – a double/tripledecker a laugh into a void, anecho back into my face.

Sad

dle

Wor

n R

etu

rnA

aron

Ber

nkop

f

2525


Contributors’ BiographiesJuan José FernándezA man of questionable taste. For him, there is no greater satisfaction in life than sweaty bike rides followed by long ink and brush sessions in his studio.

Barnik SahaBarnik is an Information Systems major at Carnegie Mellon who enjoys photography as a hobby. He does both film and digital work and loves experimenting with a vari-ety of photography techniques.

Claire CastlemanClaire is an amateur photographer who likes taking pictures of pretty things in her spare time.

Peter XiaoPeter is a tired freshman CS major who can frequently be found sleeping.

Aaron BernkopfAaron is from Brooklyn, NY and plays the drums. Sleep is much needed.

Tom PikeTom Pike’s ghost drifts through the halls of Carnegie Mellon, hoping in vain to some-day graduate.

Nina L. MohanNina emerged from the jungle at 13 only to find she had never reallyleft.

Yihuan ZhouYihuan is a math major from Fremont, California and hates the cold. He loves penguins. Amanda Yuan

Amanda is a freshman majoring in Creative Writing.

27

Jessica DickinsonMy name is Jessica Dickinson Goodman and my ethnicity is geek. I go to Carnegie Mellon University, where I am a senior in Ethics, History and Public Policy, with a minor in Vocal Performance. I am also in the Humanities Scholars Program in the School of Humanities and Social Sciences.

Asha CarrollAsha Carroll is an opera singer, writer, traveler, bel canto geek, vintage aficionado, and now, photographer. Hats off to NYC’s Greenwich Village for providing the setting for this issue’s photo.

Goodman

Meela DudleyMeela Dudley is a sophomore double major in Professional and Creative Writing with a minor in Global Systems and Management. She spends the majority of her time manag-ing various Carnegie Mellon publications as Publisher of The Tartan and Assistant Editor of The Cut.

Dossier Spring 2011

Documents

Transcript of Dossier Spring 2011