Thoroughfare Fall 2010

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GET PUBLISHED IN THOROUGHFARE

1. Paint a picture. Write a story. Compose a mu-sical piece. Take a photo. Create a work of art.

2. Submit your artwork to [email protected]

as Windows-readable (.doc, .docx, .jpg, .mp3, .fld, etc.) attachments. ***

3. We review your submission(s) with a com-mittee of specialized and dedicated staff mem-bers.

4. If we like your submission(s), your work will be published in the CD and online version of Thoroughfare Magazine.

2 | Fall 2010 | Thoroughfare

a multimedia literary arts magazine

Thoroughfare is a multimedia literary arts magazine catering to the diverse creative pursuits at Johns Hopkins University. Pub-lished once a semester on CDs and online, Thoroughfare showcases the best of stu-dent fiction and poetry, as well as music, film, art, and audio recordings of readings.

Check out our website for more information:web1.johnshopkins.edu/thoroughfare/

*** Please submit all visual arts in the highest possible resolution under 5MBs. Feel free to include additional comments and/or informa-tion about your submission(s) such as medi-um, subgenre, background description, etc.

THOROUGHFARE

Thoroughfare | Fall 2010 | 3

http://web1.johnshopkins.edu/thoroughfare

http://web1.johnshopkins.edu/thoroughfare/

http://web1.johnshopkins.edu/thoroughfare

Editor-in-Chief Alexis von Kunes NewtonPoetry Committee Gabrielle Barr (head editor) Isaac Brooks Eva Gurfein Jennifer Hui Alexa Kwiatkoski Christina Luk Leemor Nir Kiran Parasher Ann Wang Jessica YooProse Committee Jerusha Barton (head editor) Shoshana Akabas Meaghan Bresnahan Allessandra Bautze Hillary Jackson Briana Last Doyen Kim Michael Nakan Kate Orgera Vicky Plestis Katherine Seger Sharon Sun

Art Committee Jean Fan (coeditor) Curry Chern (coeditor) Julia Bradshaw Georgina Edionseri Alexandria Kim Anna Kleinsasser Caren Lewis Luma Samawi Ava Yap Film/Music Committee Curry Chern (head editor) Kunal Ajmera Michael Nakan Emily SchillerWeb Committee Curry Chern Jean Fan Rachel LouieLayout Committee Jean Fan (head editor) Curry Chern Hillary Jackson Diana Xu

THE STAFF

Interested in joining the Thoroughfare staff? Just send an email to Thoroughfare at [email protected] and re-quest an application. No experience necessary; just enthusiasm!

Executive Board

President Alexis von Kunes Newton Vice President Jean Fan Secretary Ann Wang Treasurer Gabrielle Barr Publicity Chair Kathryn Alsman Webmasters Curry Chern Jean Fan

Editors


06 Audiophile by Ava Yap

07 Cognitive Dissonance by Shayna Abramson

08 Deja Vu (remix) by Charles Zogby

ASDF by Charles Zogby

10 Perfume by Jean Fan

11 Audition: Take One by Angela Hu

14 Fragile Beauty by Karla Hernandez Cuevas

15 Breakfast Time by Jean Fan

16 La Porte Jaune by Kathryn Alsman

18 Villanelle of Silence and Indecision by Colleen Dorsey

20 Outside My Window by Jean Fan

23 Bird with Flower by Thanapoom Boonipat

24 General Guan Yu by Thanapoom Boonipat

26 Full Moon Flying Duck by Thanapoom Boonipat

28 Opera by Ava Yap

30 Psalm by Shayna Abramson

32 Peacock by Thanapoom Boonipat

34 Mothra by Alex Neville

35 Flower of the Sea by Ryan Bickley

36 Otherworldly by Diem Vu

38 Me So Sleepy by Curry Chern

40 Yosemite by Jean Fan

42 Majesty by Samuel Cook

44 Obeisance to the Sun by Sindhoora Murthy

45 My Back Porch in Arizona by Lauren Adelaida Villa

46 An Olive Branch by Michael Nakan

48 New World by Angela Hu

52 Palace in the Sky by Sindhoora Murthy

54 Sandbox by Jiyoon Kim

56 Dinner Party by Angela Hu

57 Tai O, Hong Kong by Brittany Leung

58 Storm Approaching by Diem Vu

60 A Typical New York by Farhad Pashakhanloo

61 Snapshot Saigon by Diem Vu

62 An Evening, Late September by Colleen Dorsey

63 Weeping Wisp by Sindhoora Murthy

Locked by Sindhoora Murthy

64 Stormy by Diem Vu

66 Self Recognition by Farhad Pashakhanloo

68 Entropy by Kathryn Alsman

70 Vineyard 1 by Vanessa Verdine

71 Bartender by Angela Hu

72 Duet by Jean Fan

74 Victoria Harbour, Hong Kong by Brittany Leung

76 A Summer Reunion by Angela Hu

79 Bubble and the Kid by Farhad Pashakhanloo

80 Thoughts of Commerce by Kathryn Alsman

82 Heinz Baumann Emulation by Brittany Leung

84 Memory’s Price by Isaac Brooks

85 Good Times by Kimia Ganjaei

86 The Voice in Your Throat by Kaetan Vyas

88 Brushes by Kimia Ganjaei

90 Screams for Tina – One Last Show at the Viper Room! by Chelsea Rinnig

92 Unmoved Mover by Eric Luitweiler

TABLE OF CONTENTS


http://web1.johnshopkins.edu/thoroughfare/music.html


http://web1.johnshopkins.edu/thoroughfare/film.html


on the cover:

Audiophileby Ava YapVisual Art (Mixed Media)

Additional information:Lineart and hair done with ink pen. Colored in Photoshop.

Cognitive Dissonanceby Shayna AbramsonPoetry

At times I wish I did not believe in heaven; no comfy white chairs, or floating clouds that puff around your body like feathers, no lovers’ eyes.I would rather the brown earth, mud bubbling beneath pouring skies, the nitrogen from my body seeping into roots of roses like sweet dreams on fall evenings.For then there is no possibility of hell, my life played over in a loop-de-loop of broken film; each curse, each scream, each woman I made cry.Then there is no fear of living with the knowledge of all I could have accomplished and did not, no fear of living with the knowledge of what could have been, even after death, which they call the great escape, not realizing that God is sitting there laughing, or crying, and His tears are so silent we do not hear them fall.Atheists say that man created heaven, forgetting perhaps that while man has an infinite capacity to create diversions and drunk debaucheries, his ability to create means for con-fronting himself is rather limited; even pen and paper prove fickle and unworthy of the task.I would rather I did not believe in heaven or hell, or maybe even love, but only lust and the thrill of your hands on my breasts, closing my eyes to the beating of your heart, and a rush of thighs.

Although MATLAB is intended primarily for numeric computation and data visualization, Charles Zogby has used the mathematical programming language to make music. Listen to his pieces by clicking on the links below:

Music with MATLAB?

Artist’s Comments:

All songs were made with the MATLAB mathematical programming language using sine waves for the tones and white noise for the drums.

Deja Vu (remix): This is a re-make of the song “Deja Vu” from last year’s Thoroughfare. This time, it was made using music-programming software written for the original Nintendo Gameboy, called LSDJ. LSDJ is commonly used by musi-cians of the sub-genre of electronic music called Chiptune where musicians use old video game hardware to create new music with the unique sounds that were characteristic of those systems. The chip tunes scene has its largest repre-sentation in New York City and Philadelphia, where there are often live performances.

ASDF: This song actually will not sound right if your speakers don’t have any bass frequencies, because each note only has one frequency component, and the bass line uses bass frequencies.

Deja Vu (remix)ASDF

http://web1.johnshopkins.edu/thoroughfare/music.php


Although MATLAB is intended primarily for numeric computation and data visualization, Charles Zogby has used the mathematical programming language to make music. Listen to his pieces by clicking on the links below:

Music with MATLAB?

Artist’s Comments:

All songs were made with the MATLAB mathematical programming language using sine waves for the tones and white noise for the drums.

Deja Vu (remix): This is a re-make of the song “Deja Vu” from last year’s Thoroughfare. This time, it was made using music-programming software written for the original Nintendo Gameboy, called LSDJ. LSDJ is commonly used by musi-cians of the sub-genre of electronic music called Chiptune where musicians use old video game hardware to create new music with the unique sounds that were characteristic of those systems. The chip tunes scene has its largest repre-sentation in New York City and Philadelphia, where there are often live performances.

ASDF: This song actually will not sound right if your speakers don’t have any bass frequencies, because each note only has one frequency component, and the bass line uses bass frequencies.

Deja Vu (remix)ASDF

stock image courtesy of Peter Suneson on sxc.hu



AUDITION :

TAKE ONE

She would not have been completely intolerable, he surmised, had it not been for the colored contacts, bleached hair, her insistence that she was quadrilingual (she was, in fact, no such thing), her reduction of all true emotions to play-acting gestures, and her special brand of idiocy and self-importance mixed with a borrowed vocabulary (Quote: “I don’t understand the stigma against plastic surgery if it makes you hot”), her period of rapping and dressing gang-ster (to which he could only ever say, “You’re not black”), and lest he forget, the home-grown marijuana. On a second thought, the only part of the woman that was royal was her royal attitude problem. As Helen, turned Helena, and now referred to solely by her Korean name Ha-Neul, finished describing her regal family lineage to the captivated casting committee, Gael buried his face into his palm and massaged his temples. “So you see, I am actually a princess. Every girl’s dream come true.” She smiled with her eyes creased shut, tilting her head to one side like a kawaii kawaii fucking Hara-juku doll. Gael repressed his urge to barf right then and there. It was enough that she was accepted into his college with her tanked, stoner GPA and “my hard-working dry-cleaning im-migrant parents” sob-story. Now she was trying out for act-

by Angela HuProse (Short Fiction)

Perfumeby Jean FanPhotography (Digital)

Additional Information:Camera model: Nikon D80Camera lens: Nikon 50mm F1.8 Nikkor

Artist’s Comments:Self portrait. Manual focus. Christmas lights in the background.


ing positions for student films, and as an accomplished student director, and the only one on the committee who had known her all through middle school (when she was normal, thank god) and high school (when she went flipping out of her mind psycho) it was his duty to reject her ass before she could parade her mediocrity across his screen. The film professor, Professor Wilkins, comment-ed on how it was so unexpected to be in the presence of royalty, and Gael all but burst out laughing right there. “Tell us again how you’re a mix of Chinese, Japa-nese, and Korean blood again?” Gael asked stalely, not expecting an answer. He kept glancing at his watch to count the minutes he could have spent writing his term paper instead. “I’m only one-sixteenth Chinese and one-six-teenth Japanese, so I’m mostly Korean. But you would know this, Gael. I told you back in eighth grade, jì de ma?” “Oh, you’re just one fascinating factoid after an-other,” the professor interjected, as if he’d never looked ethnic diversity in the eye before. “Forgot.” Gael answered with a shrug. What he did remember was her constant copying of everything he

did. When he started drawing manga, she started draw-ing manga and butchering Japanese. When he switched to designing, she amassed tomes of her ugly dress de-signs, and told the whole school she’d put on a fashion show. Three guesses whether it happened or not, and the first two don’t count, Gael would always tack onto each retelling of the story. When he landed an internship at a graphics company, Helena followed suit. And now, Gael was sure that the perfect medium for his art was film, and here Helena was, like a wrecking ball aimed at his life. And it was so like her to tag on some Chinese just for him. Being half-Chinese and half-Scottish, it was a sore point that Helena used more Chinese than he did. The professor, genuinely impressed by her looks, if nothing else, fumbled for a stapled screen-play of their production, “My Life After Simon” written by Gael. “Here, Ha-Neul.” He struggled to pronounce. “How about you take a stab at reading the main part of Emily with me? Just read over it first and let us know when you’re ready.” She curtsied, raising the usual pitch of her voice a few decibels to appear younger than she was. “Thanks, kamsamnida, arigato gozaimasu, and xie xie!” she piped. Gael tapped his pencil roughly, gloomy enough that the part was being made into a female role when he had clearly intended the role to be for a gay male, such as himself. While the rest of the film students in the pro-duction club liked the choice, it had been shot down by Professor Wilkins, a “staunch” Methodist. He probably liked the fucking Twilight movies, Gael seethed. In the emotional climax of the scene, when Em-ily was expected to cry, Ha-Neul produced a sound akin to a kicked puppy tumbling down creaky stairs. Wilkins doled out unconditional praise like Dean Corll’s candy bars, and Gael knew that with the limited number of ac-tors, Ha-Neul was assured a spot on the cast, if not the lead female role. This is it, Gael thought. His screenplay had been bowdlerized beyond recognition. It now had the stamp of approval from Wandering Eyes Wilkins and would star Helen-Helena-Ha-Neul, and he wondered now why he had wanted to be in the film society at all. Gael was sure no one could direct through the bureaucratic bullshit. Between a span of seventeen minutes, he had counted, his brainchild had been raped and murdered, and no member on the committee had the balls to face Wilkins on this matter, not even himself. With the auditions over, Gael rose from his seat to leave...only to find Helena blocking his path out the door.


“Hey,” she said, “do me a favor?” “Good to see you too. I’ve been swell. How about you? Oh, wait. You didn’t ask me how I was, you asked me to do you a favor. In that case, NO.” “Gael, come on. I know I got in with a bad crowd, but I want to eradicate the past and press the reset but-ton, ‘kay? Look, I’m not here to get your forgiveness or follow you around like in high school. I’m done with copying you, aight?” “Then what are you here for? Because you suck at acting.” “Yeah, yeah. My friend in film studies has been harassed by Wilkins from day fucking one. And she knows he’s got this thing for Asians.” “That’s...disgusting. He’s a relic.” “Yeah. So do me a favor, and walk into the film closet in about ten minutes, ‘kay? I want to get back at him for all the girls who can’t speak up, y’know?” “You willing to take it that far?” Gael asked wari-ly. Helena turned and shrugged. “Nothing I haven’t done before.” Gael realized that with her lips glossed in a cherry hue and hair worn in French braids, her look was much younger than her norm. Under the professional studio lights, Helena’s eyes shone with a false silver glow that was much icier than he had seen them just minutes be-fore during the audition. He frowned at his own inatten-tion now, seeing her glide up to Wilkins with all of the personalities she had donned throughout her life in tow. Perhaps she was a much better actor than he had given her credit for. He shook his head and the briefly positive thought away, thinking, “fuck all.” Gael looked down at his screenplay, sighed, and waited.

O. O

O.

. Thoroughfare | Fall 2010 | 13

..

Fragile Beautyby Karla Hernandez CuevasPhotography (Digital)

Additional information:Camera model: Nikon D3000Camera lens: 18-55mm NikkorFocal length: 55mmF-stop: f/8Exposure time: 1/500 sec.ISO speed: ISO-200

Artist’s Comments: Natural outdoor lighting. Polarizing filter. Manual focus handheld. Blue paper used for surface, glycerine for making the droplets. Desaturation of all tones except cool tones in post editing.


Breakfast Timeby Jean Fan

Photography (Digital)

Additional information:Camera model: Nikon D80

Camera lens: Tamron SP AF 90mm f/2.8 Di MacroFocal length: 90mm

F-stop: f/4.0Exposure time: 1/30 sec.

ISO speed: ISO-100

Artist’s Comments:Minor curve editing in GIMP to enhance contrast.


la porte jaune By Kathryn alsman

Visual Art (Traditional Art)

Additional information:Colored pencil drawing

Villanelle ofSilence and Indecision

by Colleen DorseyPoetry (Villanelle)


stock courtsy of Davide Guglielmo at sxc.hu

I haven’t seen you in days, but when you call,I come. In bed, you ask me why I sigh.I don’t know how to answer you at all.

The week goes hard, and you begin to pallin my mind, your silence souring you. But you’re sly.I haven’t seen you in days, but when you call

me ‘rabbit’, what can I do? You forestallmy neglected pouts with whispers, stroke my thigh… I don’t know how to answer you at all.

Despite myself I miss you, miss your smallmoues when we tease, the way your hair’s awry.I haven’t seen you in days, but when you call,

I come and roll around with you and sprawlon your bed. There’s something new you’d like to try? I don’t know how to answer you at all.

You love my dishabille the best, the fallof my straps and hair. I guess I realize why. I haven’t seen you in days, but when you call,I don’t know how to answer you at all.


Outside My Windowby Jean Fan



Camera lens: Nikon 50mm f/1.8 NikkorExposure time: 1/30 sec.

Exposure bias: +3.0ISO-speed: ISO-100

Artist’s Comments:Self portrait. IR remote. Natural window lighting.

Multiplied yellow layer at 50% opacity in GIMP.

Thanapoom BoonipatChinese Paintings by

Bird with Flowerby Thanapoom Boonipat

Visual Art (Traditional Art)

Additional Information:Chinese painting

General Guan Yuby Thanapoom BoonipatVisual Art (Traditional Art)



Full Moon Flying Duckby Thanapoom BoonipatVisual Art (Traditional Art)


About the ArtistThanapoom Boonipat, a student from Thailand and a BME undergraduate 2011, has been painting Chinese paintings since he was 9-10 years old. He studied Chi-nese paintings with a private tutor and in classes in Chi-na and Thailand. In addition to exhibitions at JHU and publication through Throughfare, Boonipat has exhib-ited his paintings in national events on numerous occa-sions. He has donated proceeds from paintings sales to various hospitals and charities such as Siriraj, the larg-est and oldest government hospital in Thailand, and the JHU Children’s Hospital’s affiliated organizations.

Want to be featured? Include a short biography with your submissions to Thoroughfare. All medias (poetry, prose, film, music, visual arts, photography, and more!) can apply.

Operaby Ava Yap

Visual Art (Traditional Art/Mixed Media)

Additional Information:Acrylic, pen and tissue paper on canvas.


by Shayna AbramsonPoetry

Dear God, please grant me a poem out of this:

I twist the knife in my hand, its light playing upon my fingers.

You laugh, your fingers scything through oysters.Reflected through the steel sheen: diamond earrings,rocks hard enough to rip your larynx like a lily. Your hands were whiter than lilies when they crawled up my neck like a fly.

The knife squirms against my palm –its light plays upon the pink petals of your fingers.My mother taught me never to scythe flowers - only wheat,a sheet of gold drier than the hair of corpses,on which I once burnished my body with yours.

stock image courtesy of Sarah Barth at sxc.hu

Psalm


Peacockby Thanapoom BoonipatVisual Art (Traditional Art)


NaturalSelection

a collection of artworks Inspired by Nature

by Alex NevillePoetry

Her rainbow-wings fill the twelve inch screen.A dragon made of foam and rubber lets loose atomic flames,and she falls from heaven to earth.Her limp body, a hollow, plastic propguided by wires,comes to rest on her egg,and the empty-headed insectshows a mother’s love for her larvae.

I saw a moth fluttering by,from the kitchen to the porchlight.“Stupid moth,” said my father.There was a bucket of water beneath the light,full of moths compelled to fly into the false, electric moonthey saw on its surface.

On TV, two cartoon birds kissed like people.I heard my brother cry.Mother picked him up quickly,and automatically began to wrap his small, pink formin a white blanket, and as he becamea sleeping, motionless bundle of cotton,I wondered if she could do otherwise.

Mothra

Flower of the Seaby Ryan BickleyPhotography (Digital)

Additional Information:Camera model: Canon EOS Digital Rebel XTFocal length: 80mmF-stop: f/5.6Exposure time: 1/80 sec.ISO speed: ISO-800

Otherwordlyby Diem VuPhotography (Digital)

Additional Information:Camera model: Olympus u830/S830Focal length: 6mmF-stop: f/3.3Exposure time: 1/60 sec.ISO speed: ISO-63



Me So Sleepyby Curry ChernPhotography (Digital)

Additional Information:Camera model: Olympus EVOLT E-410Camera lens: Olympus 40-150mm f/4.0-5.6 ZuikoFocal length: 123mmF-stop: f/5.6Exposure time: 1/40 sec.ISO speed: ISO-1600

by Jean FanPhotography (Digital)

Additional Information:Camera model: Olympus EVOLT E-410

Camera lens: Olympus14-42mm f/3.5-5.6 ZuikoFocal length: 22mm

F-stop: f/4.5ISO speed: ISO-100

High Dynamic Range imaging (HRDi)4 exposures compiled using Picturenaut

Exposure bias/time: +1 step; 0.77 sec.Exposure bias/time: 0 step; 1/2 sec.Exposure bias/time: -1 step; 1/5 sec.

Exposure bias/time: -2 step; 1/10 sec.

Artist’s Comments:Minor color balancing and tone editing in GIMP.

Yosemite

Want your work featured? Include a description of the techniques, tools, or just thought process that went into your work along with your submissions to Thoroughfare. All medias (poetry, prose, film, music, visual arts, photography, and more!) can apply.


Majestyby Samuel CookPhotography (Digital)

Additional Information:Camera model: Samsung PL50Focal length: 12mmF-stop: f/13.2Exposure time: 1/90 sec.ISO speed: ISO-100

Obeisance to the Sunby Sindhoora MurthyPhotography (Digital)

Additional information:Camera model: Canon EOS Digital Rebel XSCamera lens: Canon EF-S 18-55mm f/3.5-5.6 ISFocal length: 55mmF-stop: f/5.6Exposure time: 1/2000 sec.ISO speed: ISO-800

by Lauren Adelaida VillaPoetry

I am the Mountain Chickadee’scheer song, bare feet on cold cement. I am summer liquor, boozing in the sloshes of Spruce-Firs, Desert Scrub, Juniper and Ponderosa Pines. I am the afternoon thunderstorm, soft whispersof neighborhood hikers, I am a granddaughter home-the deep booming hoot of the Great Horned Owl, white feathers ruffled, the favorite roost and perch spot, the smell of earth,showered. I am sunset shadow and the spider’s silver, laced in sudden snow.

My Back Porch in Arizona


stock courtesy of Swetko Qwertz at sxc.hu

An Olive Branch

a film by Michael Nakan

click to watch


http://web1.johnshopkins.edu/thoroughfare/film.php



by Angela HuProse (short fiction)

Señor Domínguez was not dearly missed when his body resurfaced beneath the docks in the Guadalquivir River this July. Few witnessed the discovery of the floating corpse due to Sunday Mass, though they would have derived some morbid absolution from his plight. Seville was rife with talk of the new world, of savages, of fortunes to be had, but these burgeoning tales could not yet rival the news that Domínguez was dead. He had it coming, some might say. A no good gambler. A swindler. No better than a common thief. He had shifty eyes, others would add. By the time he was discovered by some poor tannery apprentice and his sweet-heart, his carcass had bloated to twice its size, was scored in pecks from seagulls and pigeons, and the flesh atop his cheekbones and shoulders were beginning to slide off his bones. The tannery boy vowed never to shirk his duties, cupping a hand over his mouth as he gagged. His companion was seen better off, looking in the way of a crew of sailors who imme-diately bought netting and long poles to fish the man out. It seemed that the last to know of the body were the man’s second wife and son, when it was carted over to their home. “I don’t care what you do with him, but I will not be responsible for the bastard’s funer-al.” No one knew what to say, but an old fisherman amongst the group stepped forward saying, “He is your husband, Señora. His death must be honored so his soul may rest in peace.”

New World

To which the group observed her twisted lips scathingly asking after whether the bas-tard ever afforded her any peace. “Sink him with stones. Scuttle him like those wrecks in the shipyard. I never want to hear of him again!” The son was the only one still sympathetic towards his father. Tulio Santiago Domín-guez was fourteen years of age and had the luxury of a private tutor for only the first years of his education due to his father’s gambling with the sailors, all gathering to explore the new world. The other children all knew of Tulio, because he spied on their classes outside the win-dow. He practiced his writing by tracing words with water on the walls outside, reciting Latin under his breath. He was a testament to personal motivation. His father only ever took him from dice games to cock fights. His mother, the poor bird, had long since died of malaria and could not voice her dissent, and the Señora no longer slept in the same bed as her husband. Who was she to care for another woman’s son? No one said a word to her for throwing him out after the body floated up, though they prayed for her eternal soul during mass. Only one with a icy heart and a jealous, barren womb could resist the boy’s charm, they said. It was not the sort of charm anchored in physical appearance: his ears were large like whelk shells! It was rather the nature of his origins, well-known within certain quarters in Seville, that opened hearts and pockets to the sound of clack-ing dice, and his challenge to best him in a game of Hazard. Busy folks passed by, walking faster as they approached him. The sun was high in the square, packed with merchants selling spices and silk, musicians singing of distant lands, and soothsayers, trying to make a living from natural curiosity. Tulio was the only dice roller, standing alone to one corner. He called, “Come one, come all. Test your skill against the son of Domínguez himself! Can you roll big? Do you trust in your fate? Come all, come all! Good sir, would you fancy a roll? One roll of the dice would pay for my dinner. Or it may make you all the richer! There is nothing to lose!” One young musician in the square stopped his singing and walked over to Tulio with his gittern tucked under his arm. “I’ve heard of you,” the blonde teen said, looking Tulio up and down. “That’s not how it’s done though, my friend. I’m surprised you eat at all, shouting out your father’s name like that.” Falling into a steady silence quite unlike his calls for business, Tulio tossed his dice in his left hand. “Could you not crowd around me? You’re driving away my customers.” “What customers?” the other teen asked. “They’ll come.” Looking at the blonde teen, Tulio fought the urge to stamp on his feet and run in the opposite direction, and find another square to swindle people in. The other boy’s expressions seemed to him to resemble a stray dog. More accurately, an overly excited puppy. “Not if you tell them it would pay for your meals! No one likes a beggar.” “I’ve had enough time on the streets to know what people do or do not like, and it isn’t nosy self-important people like you.” Shaking his head, the blonde laughed. “You’ve been here for a week since your mother threw you out! Others have come before you.” Tulio seethed. “The bitch was no mother of mine. I’m tired to people feeling sorry for me for being thrown out. Tired of everyone who seems to have forgotten that his body was tossed back into the river. I know my father wasn’t a good man, but he had a better heart than that hag. Now, are you here to play games with me? Because the only game I’m interested in is Hazard.”

“Easy there. I’m just trying to help. You look like a skeleton under your clothes. You can’t put all your faith in winning Hazard!” The other boy tugged at Tulio’s thin blue shirt, frayed and worn around the edges. He himself was dressed in red and looked to be eating well. “If I had any faith,” Tulio began, leaning into the blonde’s ear, “I would not be playing with loaded dice.” The teen’s eyes widened for a brief second before his lips curled into a smirk. “And how far to you plan on getting before people start catching wise?” “Rich enough to skip town. Perhaps get inland and away from this heat,” Tulio an-swered, pocketing his dice. “Leave Seville? You must be mad! This is the town people are moving their entire lives to!” The teen waved his gittern with each wild gesture. “Hardly. They come for the new world, not Seville.” “Seville is the door to the new world. Can’t you appreciate how close we all are to our fortunes here? Imagine what it would be like to find gold and come back richer than the King of Spain himself!” At this, the boy strummed the gittern, accompanying the fantasy he had wo-ven. “Suppose it’s true. Where would we fit in that picture? Only Spain’s finest can make the journey. As if a penniless gittern player would be allowed to go. What’s your name, kid?” Tulio asked. The eccentric teen held out his hand. “Miguel,” he answered. “Call me Miguel.” Somehow in the gittern player’s strong grip, Tulio found it easy to forget his recent tragedies, and the watching eyes of Seville’s underbelly. “Miguel,” he said, “I’m Tulio.” “I know,” Miguel said, tucking his gittern back under his arm. “I’ve heard of you.” Tulio walked out in front of him, off in the direction of the baker with the few coins he had won during the day’s efforts. With a glance back to the smiling musician, he answered, “Don’t believe everything that you hear.” In its echo, Miguel heard, “I am not my father. We will not be disregarded.”

stock courtesy of Billy Alexander and Kriss Szkurlatowski at sxc.hu


Palace in the Skyby Sindhoora MurthyPhotography (Digital)

Additional Information:Camera model: Canon EOS DIGITAL REBEL XSCamera lens: Canon EF-S 18-55mm f/3.5-5.6 ISFocal length: 18mmF-stop: f/10Exposure time: 1/250 sec.ISO speed: ISO-100


Sandboxby Jiyoon KimPhotography (Digital)

Additional Information:Camera model: Olympus PEN E-PL1Focal length: 14mmF-stop: f/3.5Exposure time: 1/60 sec.ISO speed: ISO-200

by Angela HuPoetry

As a kid I wore out sandalsand father’s razor-thin patience(how was I to know he was a full-time student, full-time workerfull-time father, and part-time cook?)and pecked like a songbirdat the hearts of bok choyignoring the Mandarin lecturesand clicking of tongues.

I earned myself prolonged sermonsabout the zai hai faminesunder Mao’s Great Leap Forwardand the fanatical Red Guardswho ransacked bad elements’ homes,tearing apart the four oldsduring the Cultural Revolution,but their suffering, repeated back,only bored me.

I only had an appetitefor dinner parties,not revolutionary tales.With my nerves taut likeviolin strings, I wouldhide underneath the woodtable crafted by my parents’hands, crouch near the legs,& peer into the tiled kitchen.

I’d watch the cleavers fly,the black wok spark againstthe flame, as sesame oillept arabesque onto

Dinner Party

unsuspecting skin,only to come out at lastfor my parents’ special guests. With the door thrown wide open,they arrived in a parade.

Immigrants. No, friends,they knew by name,by year of arrival, by alma mater,by motherland & by province.I was told to fetchthe creased tablecloth,the crisp blue bowls,& matching cupsbarely larger than a thimble.

Kneeling on my seat, to match their heightI was the sole heir to their generational lessons, though mostof their rice wine fueled diatribesflew beyond my notice.Food and spectacle simply turnedtheir sent-down stories appealing.

I would gaze up at their gnashingjowls, merrily singing of red sunsets,and stare amazed as my father slurred his words.Matching their speech, I proposed a toastwith my short arms raised.Tongzhimen! Gan bei! Through their laughter,I saw tears mix into their cups.


Tai O, Hong Kongby Brittany LeungPhotography (Digital)


Focal length: 18mmF-stop: f/5.6

Exposure time: 1/125 sec.ISO speed: ISO-200



Storm Approachingby Diem VuPhotography (Digital)

Additional Information:Camera model: Olympus u830/S830Focal length: 10mmF-stop: f/4Exposure time: 1/800 sec.ISO speed: ISO-64

A Typical New Yorkby Farhad PashakhanlooPhotography (Digital)

Additional Information: Camera model: Nikon D90Focal length: 21mmF-stop: f/7.1Exposure time: 1/50 sec.ISO speed: ISO-250


Snapshot Saigon Poetry

Blinding sun reflects off of motorcycle mirrors.

The air is thick with exhaust from choked streets

And smoke from pork fat dripping onto charcoal

And the cries of vendors sitting on bright plastic stools

And the vaporous remnants of summer rain.On the edges of the alleys next to pilesOf discarded vegetables and fish bones.A little girl carrying a baby sells lottery tickets,

Pounding on the sides of tour vans that promise

Destinations of magic springs and fairy caves.A scooter carries a family of six, Another balances a refrigerator, And another carries a flock of snow-white ducks,

All hung by their feet and blinking without protest.

A woman with sad eyes sits on the ground andCracks beef bones with a cleaver.A scrawny cat disappears into a drain. by Trang “Diem” Vu

stock courtesy of RAWKU5 at sxc.hu


by Colleen DorseyPoetry (Sestet)

We finish the Chinese – or rather, youdo, packing up my picked-at kung pao beeffor leftovers. Grunting, you push your drawers (our table)back into place, and flop on the bed with relief.“I swear it got heavier,” you say, but you’re just unableto move with that adorably bloated stomach. Who

paid for it, ate it. Into the sated quiet,you ask, “Do you know the game cuarenta?” No –so you teach me, eagerly pulling the eights and ninesand tens, shuffling and dealing our hands in a flowof familiar agile motions. The battle linesare drawn. You say you’ll go easy. I don’t buy it.

You’re pitiless and sweet, laugh at my blunders, crowwhen you win, and never break a sweat – but you teachme, patient: draw from here; if you’re got a four,throw it; why aren’t you taking your ten? With eachdefeating round the cards get more and morespread out across your puffy quilt, a slow

pervasive cramp sets in my side, and my pridebegins to chafe. But three games later, you’reno longer winning forty/six. You’ve taughtme well, and when I beat you you’re not sore,you’re proud. The win is great, but dearly bought,despite the gratifying kiss you provide.

I wish I could unlearn the game. I’d rather lose.You squeeze my naked knee when you burn my throw,you laugh like that, and when I glower overmy hand, you draw a line up my thigh with your toe.Will you teach me again? Over and over?Will you help me live a lovely autumn ruse?

An Evening, Late September


Weeping Wisp

by Sindhoora Murthy


Lockedby Sindhoora

MurthyPhotography

(Digital)


Stormyby Diem Vu


Additional information:Camera model: Olympus u830,S830



Self Recognitionby Farhad PashakhanlooPhotography (Digital)



Entropyby Kathryn Alsman and Riley Alsman Photography (Digital)


Vineyard 1by Vanessa VerdinePhotography (Lomography)

Additional information:Mini Diana, 400 ASA film

by Angela HuPoetry

i hear you’re thirsty for pure intentionsno scar-covered walls, ‘white’ liesall platitudes & raw nerves

i might have something for that


bartender

Duetby Jean FanPhotography (Digital)

Additional Information:Camera model: Nikon D80Camera lens: Nikon 50mm f/1.8 AF NikkorExposure time: 1/2 sec.ISO speed: ISO-250


Victoria Harbour, Hong Kong

by Brittany LeungPhotography (Digital)

Additional information:Camera model: Nikon D40Focal length: 26mmF-stop: f/5Exposure time: 1/6 sec.ISO speed: ISO-400



Victoria Harbour, Hong Kong


A SUMMER REUNIONby Angela Hu

Poetry

[ ]


We decided to meetat the rusted swing sets

& towering monkey barsof the old elementary

school playgroundat half-past three in the afternoon,

when the sun would bathethe jungle gym

in the nostalgic colorof mango lassis.

Our five cars kept watchin the black paved

parking lot as we walked,with hushed but reverent

whispers, wood chipsfilling our sandals,

onto the neon orange structures.Our sentences ended, no,

began with, “that’s right, you’reright, & I remember.”

Glancing to one anotherwith the sun at our backs,

we wore halos aroundour crescent smiles,

as the memories softened

our faces, unpackagedfrom the sunny alcoves ofour memory. Our handsworked their way aroundcool chains of creaking swings.

Shoes, abandoned as the suneased onto the horizon,lay beneath us from our perchatop the monkey bars,where the world spread before usas in a painting or a dreamand our shadows played outat our feet, stretching intothin needles, like pointson a cardinal rose.

Leaping off the playground’sswings & bars & slides,we dug our heels into the wood chips,and wondered how many yearscorresponded to each layer of darkening soil.Until the sun set, and our shadowsstood so tall beneath our feetthat they touched our cars,waiting in the dusty lotto carry our hushed breaths away.


Bubble and the Kidby Farhad Pashakhanloo







Thoughts of Commerceby Kathryn AlsmanPhotography (Digital)

Additional Information:Camera model: Pentax K100D SuperFocal length: 55mmF-stop: f/9.5Exposure time: 1/125 sec.ISO speed: ISO-1600

Heinz Baumann Emulation



by Isaac BrooksPoetry

The day I left my home for goodI cut away a lock of hairAnd hid it under basement woodFor it to stay forever there

It seemed of no great consequenceMy hair, I thought, would soon regrowBut it has never grown back sinceThough that was many years ago

Instead my hair has all come freeOne strand and then another wentEach thought of an old memoryDemanded more hair to be spent

And here I sit, an old bald manWith not a hair left on my being And all that I held dear is goneI have forgotten everything

Memory’s Price

Good Timesby Kimia Ganjaei


Additional information:Camera model: Sony DSC-P32




stock photo courtsey of Billy Alexander and Stephen Davies at sxc.hu

by Kaetan VyasMusic (click to listen)

The Voice in Your Throat







Brushesby Kimia GanjaeiVisual Arts (Traditional)


by Chelsea RinnigPoetry

I left the cash in the cowboy bootand the Carrera under your name,The bookshelves brimming with LPsundusted, forty years the same.

The Fender Strats will sellfor thousands on eBayand musikfoto.com will skyrocket any day.

Bowie, Van Halen, McCartney and Mickemerge from dark room chemicals, immortal in print.

My blood pressure soars, singing my soul on Sunset Boulevard—ached heart writhing to the floor,screaming song, high D on the guitar.

Untethered by the weatherI shall wear my boots and leather,keep my hair dyed and long,and drink my coffee black with the LA Times at dawn.

Screams for Tina – One Last Show at the Viper Room!


stock image courtesy of Kymberly Vohsen at sxc.hu

Unmoved Moverby Eric LuitweilerPhotography (Digital)

Additional Information:Camera model: Nikon D60F-stop: f/18Exposure time: 1/80 sec.ISO speed: ISO-200Focal length: 55mm


Thoroughfare Fall 2010

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Transcript of Thoroughfare Fall 2010