Humble PIe Vol 2

8/8/2019 Humble PIe Vol 2

http://slidepdf.com/reader/full/humble-pie-vol-2 1/55



HumblePie

V ol . 2 S pring 2010



Humble Pie , California College of the Arts’ undergraduateliterary journal, features ction, non ction, poetry andvisual art from undergraduate students in the Bay Area.

Creative DirectorsMichele Brooks

Allison Cole

Creative Non-FictionSo a Greenberg

Emanuel Maiberg

FictionDD Porush

Sophia Rowland

PoetryKate Conger

Promotions ManagersElizabeth Burgio Jordan Minter

WebmasterDavid Prinvale

Faculty AdvisorCaroline Goodwin

Program Assistant Julie Littman

Staff

Spring 2010 Writing and LiteratureCalifornia College of the Arts



Jesus FactoriesBex Freund

Cedar GroveMonika Rivard

EgretRyan Humphries

In the Space Their Absence MadeHope Zane

SkeletonCaitlin Clarkson

Carnival of Lies Abrefa Busia

Vernal Equinox Allison Hummel

HandwrittenMonika Rivard

UntitledKelly Hackett

5

9

10

11

13

14

25

28

30

Table of Contents





December’s eyes are blue, so goddamn blue like robin’seggs; you could just pluck them and suck the yolk out.

Under the washed-out skies, his mad eyes are super intenseand I’m almost too scared to look straight into them. I’m

feeling pretty sick, tired, disoriented-strung out on lemon skunkparanoia and no sleep.

We’re cresting a huge garbage heap of plastic Jesusstatuettes, their painted faces crumbling apart under our soles.There’re ies everywhere, circling lazily but leaving us alone.December’s got a big old shovel slung across his shoulder, and Ilook at it sometimes, to avoid his eyes. The shovel blade’s cakedwith mud and rust; the wooden handle made dull-smooth byyears of sweaty palms. It cuts a dark silhouette against the baresky. I’m dragging a big heavy garbage bag, and the smell frominside it makes the bile rise into my throat.

“Jesus factories,” December says, pointing at the sadshattered landscape. “Look at all of this depressing shit. Factories

spitting out thousands of worthless Jesus gurines.”Yes, yes, so what about the factories? I’m practically dry

heaving, I’m feeling so shitty.

Jesus Factories

Bex Freund



6 Humble Pie

But I know December’s about to make a point—he’s a writer,he loves for everything he says to make a point, no matter howlong-winded, crazy convoluted the verbalinguistic road.

“Jesus,” December says, and I really can’t tell if it’s meant asa statement or a curse. “Think of them, all those broken sons of God, thrown away to rot in a garbage heap. Sad times, man.”

I know he’s only just beginning one of his inevitablemonologues, and I’m too habuji to respond to him—he probablyknows that and keeps talking anyway, the asshole. I love himanyway. More mournful holy faces disintegrate underfoot, butwe’re walking a little slower now. The garbage bag‘s draggingheavily, scraping a shallow gouge in our wake. Now it feels likethe bag weighs a fucking ton, and my clenched ngers hurt.

“The Jesus gurines are cheap, manmade, sterile. Nosacredness—“ more crunching, shattering, tumbling. “—theyare only signi cant when people use them as artifacts of theirreligion, placing their faith into factory-made plastic molds doneup to look like a dead holy man.”

December was always a smart guy. Everybody I know, if Imention his name to them, they always get this certain look intheir eyes, a half-smile and nod, and they’ll say Oh yeah, I knowhim, he’s a smart guy.

December stops, thumps down his shovel, and the bladedecapitates an unfortunate Jesus. The head rolls bumpily downthe slope, bouncing into the air. December puts his weight on

the shovel, and starts to dig. He doesn’t stop talking.“Instead of faith in plastic, I prefer to place my faith in trees.



7Spring 2010

Trees make sense. Not manmade. Created through a processwe’re not in control of. A tree is pure, and utterly beyond us. Thetrees don’t need us, but we need them. “

The hole’s deeper. He’s sweating now. Still talking, thosemad eyes still bright, stoked blue-hot by the furnace of ideasinside his head.

“The Jesus factories, they demean the original intent of old man Christ. They render him a product, an icon, and allthe meaning, the caring, it’s all been sucked out of him bythe factories. However, What you’ve got to understand is,the products themselves have no inherent meaning in and of themselves. They only had meaning because of the context. Themeaning of the world does not reside in the world itself. Do you

understand?”Not really, no. December nods, as if that’s what he expected.

“Okay, listen to me. The meaning of the world does notreside in the world itself, in the same way that the meaning of a seed doesn’t reside in the seed itself. A seed would hold nomeaning to us if it didn’t grow into a plant, or a tree, or a ower,and bloom, and then die, and start the cycle anew. Within thatgreater context, the seed gains its meaning. It’s the same with theworld—we’re part of it, we’re inside it, so the greater context istoo big for us to comprehend. Which is why people have turnedto religion.”

You know, that actually did make sense. Maybe too much. I

chew over this new idea in my head.“Give me the bag,” December says. I hand it over, relieved



8 Humble Pie

to be rid of the dead weight. He hefts it, turns it over, andthe body of a hart tumbles out, all sprawling legs and headtwisted back at an unnatural angle. We had found it dead onthe roadside, its hind leg caught in the snarls of a barbed-wirefence. It looked as though the hart had caught itself in the fence,exhausted itself struggling to escape, and eventually died.

“We’ll bury the hart here,” December says. “Its body willfertilize the soil, and we’ll plant a seed. If we pray, a tree willgrow. In a hundred years, the tree will be massive. Can’t you seeit? Towering above this wasteland. It would be the kind of treethat a god would be proud to hang from.”

I look into his eyes, into the deep blue. I can feel the wind,hot against my neck, ruf ing our hair. And for a moment, I do

see it— the shadow of a vast tree re ected in his eyes, rearinginto the sky, its roots feeding upon the ground-up dust of manyChrists.





Ryan Humphries

Egret

As we slipped out of the empty roomThe wind spat a breath, andThe curtains chased our clothes,Trying to weave in.I left something behind.The egret we saw once?A paper cartoon standing on stilts,Choking for salty pond sh.I feel him yingOut of my heart!Feathers squeezing barely through my tunnels,His muscular aerodynamics ghting their wayOut of my pulsing tomb,

My great red intersection,My gasping stitchweed heart.That ghost, paper plane,Sauntering origami-His breath must smell like my insides.He aps and pulls the air down likeA cheap sheet in a storm.We hit the stairs.A ghost folded in my attic.An Easter Lily shines barelyI forgot the SpiritIn an empty room.



Hope Zane

In the space theirabsence made

I don’t want to draw faces. I’d rather just touch theplanes of your face and learn them smooth with my hands. Thesign reads, “This is life in a pressure cooker,” but oh please giveme something real.

He says, she says, “It’s coming from someplace deeper.” Say itwith me: I am so excited for life. Now mean it.

The sun falls, tumbles below the hills, and sleeps all night.Sunset like the sky’s on re. Our religion is to stay up with themoon. The night’s for lovers, so let’s not sleep.

&

I want the green-black ink of my grandfather’s army tattoos.I want—give me a connection to my roots.now cry for itthere are people sleeping on the streets tonight.oh god, but it’s cold outsidenow I’m wearing the socks of my homeless lover,tasting sweetness from apples on lips and the sharp scent of never sleeping insidecircles, roots, my family tree



Humble Pie

we breathe, “I’m sorry I’ve forsaken you.”hiding from the cars,straining to hear the words your ex-lover breathed into amicrophoneI’ve drunk too much coffee, too much wine,my hands shake, sorryI’m so sorry.my friends are on the streetoh but it’s cold last night the rains were coming, please.I want you to know these peopleso soft and sweet and sad it makes me want to breakangry, so angry, drunk and angry.I’m glass pieces, hold, ohhold me lover pleasethe clean skin on my back feels like a lie

12



Spring 2010 13

S keleton

by C aitlin C larkSon



Abrefa Busia

Carnival of Lies

Act I, Scene I: An Origin of Sorts

Dealing with people in life is frighteningly similar todealing with them on the stage. Every person projects

an energy, a combination of face, body, and voice, that tellsyou exactly what they’re about. The perfect response, theperfect reaction to every person is written right there on theirfaces, waiting to be read like the sign of a Las Vegas Casino.Sure, real people are slightly more subtle than their hyperbolic,caricatured counterparts, but all the world’s a stage. Just get upand dance.

Our hip-hop class has been over for a few minutes, but I’mstill standing at my position in the center of the room. There’s astory written on the oor of any dance studio, engraved as scuff

marks and scratches. Here at my feet is Homer’s epic, wherethe black masonite has been bleached tan in an almost perfectsunspot, like the shadow of a spotlight, worn away by the feet of a thousand and one child and teen dancers who had earned theright to a solo number and now try desperately to prove they’reworthy of the upper classes.

We’re eight sweaty girls and a doubly sweaty guy, with aninstructor who’s three years younger than the youngest of us,but four times tter than the most athletic of us. We’re sweatingand panting and falling; her body is exploding with the potentialfor a half hundred more eight counts of quicksteps. Teaganis actually a great instructor, considerate and understanding



Spring 2010 15

even as she bludgeons you with the blunt end of her favoritesequence whip. If I’m good (and I do believe I am), it’s mostlybecause of her.

She’s happily bubbling away with one of the two girls jointlycalled “The Twins” (I never got a chance to learn their realnames) while the rest of us shift into our dry street clothes in astrange sort of pseudo-silence.

“Hey Dayna,” I call, halfway between a shirt and sweater,“you mind if I catch a ride home?” It isn’t really a question.Dayna always leaps at the chance to offer me a ride, and if shehasn’t by now I know it’s because she can’t. But I don’t reallywant the ride. What I do want is the strength of our friendshipout on display for everyone to see. It’s passive aggressive, Iknow, but passive is the only kind of aggressive I have to myname.

“I can’t, I’m sorry,” a ash of desperation bolts across hereyes. “I have a job interview tonight.”Watching her, a pang of guilt lances my stomach. “Don’t

even worry about it,” I say as I paint my cheerful face. “My buspass is still good.”

“Next time, okay?” Puppy-dog eyes aren’t a part of herrepertoire, but I’d come to recognize the scrunched brow andwrinkled lip as a sign of... eagerness.

“Sure thing.” An awkward pause. “I appreciate it.”“Yeah.”Once the skit has played to its end, I’m pretty quick to get

out of there. There’s a chaffed attitude in the room, partiallybecause there’s something unnatural about a dance studio withno one dancing, but also because I’m more or less entirelytransparent; when you sow the seeds of discord you don’t linger

at ground zero.Maneuvering through a lobby lled with child dancers andtheir obsessive mothers takes some doing, but I just manage to



Humble Pie16

get out the door when--“Hey!”--Kendal’s sharp voice catches me. I’d only been half

expecting this-- my plots have the unfortunate tendency of going unful lled. Halfway out the door and halfway into themisty, coastal rain, I turn around and she’s standing behind me,biting her lip. I still haven’t gotten used to it; there’s somethinghatefully golden in the way my eyes see her, and they break meto pieces every time I let them.

“Yo.” I pretend to be just a little gangster whenever I want todetach myself. It never works out.

“You know, I could give you a ride home.” Like whenwe were dating. Of course I wanted her to make this offer,had hoped for it, but all at once the old conditioning wantsto bubble out, like a trained parrot hearing its favorite trigger

phrase. My mouth is half agape before I catch myself; self-sabotage is a habit that dies hard.“Nah, I’m cool with the bus,” I say casually-- Casually!I don’t think her Christian face ever scowls, but sour milk is

sour no matter where it might spoil. “I don’t believe you.” She’strying to sound playful, but the good thing about being trained isthat you know all the tricks.

I shrug, a big, synthetic thing meant for the stage. “Well, Ican manage.” I stroll away. “I’m a big boy after all.”

“Whatever.” Her voice falls at. I risk a glance over myshoulder and get to see her storm away. There’s a bus stop just infront of Elaine’s, but I haven’t even rounded the corner when mycell phone shrieks at me. A text massage:

If you want to be friends, you’re going to have to act like it.”My ngers twitch-- spasm really, and I stare at it for a long

minute. A thousand and one responses batter at my lungs andat my rib cage, but I shove it in my pocket. And who says Iwant to be friends? I’d yet to experience the cotton wire tilting



Spring 2010 17

of inebriation, but that’s exactly what I felt. Like a burglar or abandit, I had slipped into the great Fort Knox and spirited awaythe most valuable resource God’s two hands ever made: control.

Act I, Scene II: “A Wrinkle in Time”

When I meet Dayna in a beginner’s tap class, the rst thingI notice about her is her gure: a bit thicker than the classichourglass, with more emphasis on the hips than on the chest.Not exactly pretty, but, honestly, right up my alley. But there’ssomething off putting about her face. It’s not exactly masculine,but there’s a touch of snarky toughness woven throughout herfeatures. I can tell straight off that she’s stronger than me-- notnecessarily physically, but willfully.

After the rst few weeks of class, there’s still a lingeringtension between us students. We’re grim, silent, and

uncomfortable, but from the timid, sideways glances we sneakat each other, I can tell that we don’t want to be this way. Wewant an icebreaker, someone to look or be foolish so that wecan all become more comfortable. It’s a need I’ve stumbledacross more than once, and fortunately I’ve inherited its solutionfrom my grandfather; an infamous talent for mischief thatmanifests itself as a love of teasing. And as the only guy in theclass, I happen to be in the perfect position. You see, there aremaybe ve male performers in the county at any given time, andthe majority of these gravitate in the eleven to fourteen range.The result is that most instructors don’t quite know how to dealwith teenage males; all their poses and routines are distinctlyfeminine, with a lot of are in the hips, thighs, lips, and ngers.The idea-- or perhaps the hope-- is that in my male body thesteps will automatically be translated into a more appropriately

masculine technique. It’s not an unfounded hope; there doescome a point where a man’s body just wants to move differentlyfrom a woman’s, but with my continuous exposure to the female



Humble Pie18

form I’ve secretly developed a knack for being.... womanly.Tara F-----, a perky English professor the size of a tweenager,starts the music and we begin our number. A provocative, littlepiece set to the Big Bad Voodoo Daddy’s “Minnie the Moocher.”Normally, while my peers do their best to look sultry andsteaming, I try to come off as a sort of alpha male; while they“pop” I “pow,” so to speak. But about halfway through the piece,I drop the facade. I wiggle with the best of them, ashing leg atevery opportunity and gyrating like a kaleidoscope let loose ina bouncy house. By the nal pose, I’ve got one hand on my hip,my legs spread wide, and I’m ashing a hot, come-do-me-right-now look at the mirror. Half the girls are laughing so hard theycan’t nish the dance, and poor Tara’s face is a vibrantly crimsonmask of embarrassment (although I’ve never gured out if shewas embarrassed for me, or for the integrity of her routine).

“What the hell was that?” Dayna asks with an is-this-guy-for-real look on her face.A moment’s pause, then I say, “Well, I was going to steal

your boyfriend, and I thought I’d get some practice in rst.”Her face goes at for half a second-- just long enough for me

to worry I’ve offended her-- then she suddenly says, “If you cansteal my boyfriend, then you can have him. I don’t want to dateanyone who could be attracted to that!”

And just like that, a dynamic camaraderie evolves betweenus. She’s always been a bit too sensitive to take any seriousteasing herself, so we spend most of our time poking fun at myvarious quirks. I don’t mind rolling with the punches though;I’m used to it, and for the most part I’m simply happy to nda girl who’ll let me be silly. I think she appreciates it-- myoutlandishness-- because she enjoys being around a guy who’ll

let her be assertive while still appreciating her feminine style. Iwon’t say that I’ve fallen for her, but she de nitely spends a lotof time hanging around inside my head.



Spring 2010 19

Act I, Scene III: How the Other Half LivesI once wrote, “There are three sorts of men in this world:

fellows born with talent, fellows born to work hard, and fellowsborn to work hard at their talent.” A personal lamentation thinlyveiled as the insight of a ctional character. The character--to whom I never gave a name-- was pronouncing his ownworthlessness through the mourning of his deceased prodigyof a brother (to whom I did give a name). Looking at my ownsiblings, there’s more than a little parallel between he and I, butin my mouth the words are of a slightly larger scale.

Wherever I go I manage to create this reputation of beinga hard worker. Back home I’m remembered as the fellowwho rereads his script during a fteen-minute lunch break, orwho remains perfectly silent and perfectly motionless unless

being spoken to directly by the director. If one nds me, onoccasion, too silent or too uninvolved, that perception isusually readjusted by whatever work I produce, which has theappearance of being entirely involved.

But there’s something self-deprecating in the act of workinghard; it’s the difference between being a genius and being asucker. Anyone can be good at anything so long as they’rewilling to put in the hours, but very few people can be good atsomething with no prior investment. The genius is someone towhom life comes easy; the sucker is someone who gives himself an ulcer whenever he has to write a string of more than fourpages.

Kendal and I are walking down Paci c Avenue, the sole siteof interest in downtown Santa Cruz, debating vaguely abouthow to spend the evening. Suddenly I recall that she’s never

seen Neary’s Lagoon. Without saying another word, I boldlybegin leading her away from this heart of commerce.“Where are we going?” She asks, smiling now. She likes it



Humble Pie20

when I indulge in these brief episodes of assertion.“Nowhere in particular,” I lie. This excursion is somethingof a risk on my part; I don’t think the lagoon is too far away,but most people don’t enjoy walking quite as thoroughly as Ido. By the time we get to the entrance of the miniature wildlifepreserve, the only trace of the sun is in the peach and purpleoutline of the sky, and that smile she wears is as forced as aporcelain doll’s posture.

When she sees the old and faded sign that marks the lagoon,however, she instantly perks up. We spend the early hours of the night perched at the end of a creaking dock at the heartof a rippling lake. Her head is on my lap as we gaily swapsecrets, the private bartering system that’s the foundation of ouradolescent affection. She gets angry at me once when, withoutthinking, I make an offhandedly immodest comment about

Dayna (a subject that, in its entirety, has become taboo for eitherof us), but the idea of this romantic night on the lake is toosigni cant for her to stay that way.

But, on my part at least, it’s a synthesized romance. As nightcontinues to ow deeper and deeper inward, I become afraid.The sad and sorry truth is that I’m afraid of just about everythingyou can think of: I’m afraid of insects (even butter ies), I’mafraid of learning to drive, I’m afraid of speaking during class,and yes, I am afraid of the dark.

Sitting out on the water, absurd fears of shmen rising fromthe depths mingle with less absurd anxieties about the drunkenhomeless who sometimes prowl the area. All this stirs up in mybelly and in my lungs until I hit a kind of silent stupor which,thankfully, goes unnoticed by Kendal, who’s always preferredtalking slightly more than listening. All these fears continue to

boil inside me until, ironically, it’s time to leave.Leaving a place that frightens you isn’t ironic-- in fact,it’s exactly what you expect. But the only way out of Neary’s



Spring 2010 21

Lagoon is a single, narrow bridge that weaves its way beneathan arching canopy of willows and other trees that I can’t name.During the daylight, I’m enamored by this tunnel of nature andlife, but now it’s dark. It’s the kind of darkness that exists only innovels; a chute of pitch black with only a portrait of the far sidespeckled in the distance.

This place should terrify me-- everything exists in here-- butKendal is terri ed, clinging to my arm like a vision of an eightiesteenage girl at a horror ick. She clings to me and mumblessweetly, “This is scary,” and, “I’m so glad you’re here,” and bestof all, “I couldn’t do this by myself.” She clings to me and I feelunfamiliarly tranquil.

To this day, I don’t know if she was sincerely afraid or if she was simply playing the part, but I’m certain that it doesn’tactually matter. Most people are as easy to read as their

theatrical counterparts, but before this moment I had never beenaddicted to living the responses that they needed. Now though,I’m anchored in the role-- not just as Kendal’s boyfriend, butas the counterpart to... well, anyone. If someone else is afraidof a spider, I gratefully catch it and take it from the room. If someone is too lazy to walk to the store, there’s a secret thrill inhauling a bag of groceries on their behalf. It’s not that my ownstances don’t matter, it’s just that I’ve forgotten them. The mostimportant thing is this-- this harmony between people. As longas it happens, I don’t see why everything else shouldn’t fall intoplace.

Act II, Scene I: Of Life and Larceny Every story I’ve told you has been about lies. Moments in

my life where I’ve chosen to ll a niche rather than carving

one myself. Even at my most deceptive, I’m not trying to de nemyself, but to change the way that others de ne me. Thisharmony between people, it’s the most important thing, but it’s



Humble Pie22

also the fault line that runs through my person; good peopledon’t lie, but good people get along with everyone.People who know me tell me I live in a box. They dig after

what they think is my self, tearing at the curtain of mistruththat separates me. But as we all know, the best lies containa faint touch of this truth. No one can enter a place withoutannouncing their intentions, and once I know I can give themthe fragment of my self that best matches their vision. And evenif it’s just a small part, once they think they’re on the right trackthey’ll improvise the rest. They’ll tell me what they think I thinkand not even know that they’ve told me. When I agree withthem-- parrot back their own ideals-- they preen.

The stories I’ve told you aren’t just about lies, they are lies.Life isn’t a stage, it isn’t a song, or a choreographed dance. I

just want it to be because those are the games to which I know

the rules. But it doesn’t matter that people don’t move the wayI think they will. I have a ring of re breathers, of cotton candy,and bearded ladies, all working to veil the truth that lies behinda clown’s painted makeup.

The lies I tell are small lies, harmless lies, lies that no onenotices because they don’t make truth, just redirect it. But whatdoes the truth matter, when lies bring so much happiness?

Act II, Scene II: A Poet’s Purgatory People have said a lot of things over the years. So many

things that the desire to say has been left only to the mosteccentric of scientists and politicians; even artists, “the futureof culture,” simply sit around their studios and proclaimmournfully, “There’s no more originality!” No, for the rest of uslife’s journey has been condensed to the joy of discovering what

sayings match up with the beings of existence.Countless poems and novels have spoken at length aboutmoonbeams, shimmering arches that act as beacons to heaven,



Spring 2010 23

or love, or some other form of divine eternity. But for me, nighthas always been the yellow hum of street lamps and traf c signs.It’s only as I stand at the edge of a continent-- and realize justhow silver the grain of sand or the crest of a wave can be-- thatI hear the legacy that has been written for me. In this living-of-a-poem moment, I know that somewhere, in the canonizedgarbage heap of human history, I have been written, just waitingto be found.

But knowing to look and knowing where to look are,unfortunately, entirely separate things.

Up close the sand is not so much silver as it is this cold,gray mass that thwumps like a sponge beneath each footstep,clinging to everything because the drizzling night air has madeit all damp. It’s rock hard as I sit with my arms wrapped roundmy crooked knees, wiggling my toes in the platoon of grains that

have in ltrated my socks and my shoes through the holes in mysoles. The moon hangs small and distant in the sky and the lightsfrom the Wharf and from the Boardwalk have pasted over thestars so that only one or two spatter the ebony horizon.

I’m by myself with shoes and socks and purses while Kendaland Susan wade in the icicle shallows of the Paci c Ocean.The wind and the waves snatch their words away, but despitemy work-minded reputation I’m connected enough to thepolitics of drama to know roundabout what they’re discussing.A small circle of Kendal’s friends-- Kendal, Susan, Nicole--have all developed crushes on me at the same time; an ideathat’s not so far fetched if you recall that most theatre boys aresimply hyperactive thirteen year olds who can’t (or won’t) stringtogether a sentence of more than four words without screechinglike an eight year old girl at a High School Musical marathon.

But it’s not as catty as I make it sound; they discuss me quietly,as if I were another item in the daily post.As I sit here alone in the wind, staring at the silhouettes of





Allison Hummel

Vernal Equinox

Mine was the unholy of ce, held aloftBy will which in the morning rose greenBut withered dry and grey

Then slumped exhausted on itsDying day

Now in the wake of New branches

SeekingA grove

The unobstructed sky provides a vast bed

Sprawling edgeless

Circular,A chunk of pine amber to warm the palm.

A chunk of pine amber:Changed with a mercifulWarm electrical crackle

Making itself an open vesselFor any breed of grief



Humble Pie26

Once fragmented, I wasA crumbling sandstone cityContaminated byreFuneral pyre

Seeing nothing but endAfter death after end

Cold, without clothesSought a grove and found a wastelandSought a doe although

The doe that does not run is dead

But never again will a hunter be led within the groveunless it is as legend long has said:

The traitor will be buried alive,Within the oak’s cleft:A crack exposed only wide enoughTo keep him drunk with death

A bolt of lightning illuminatesThat all that is newIs all that is left

And that was a seductive look,Young:

Cast off that sullen disposition, you areYoung

And if you ever step over my weedsTo beseech



Spring 2010 27

An open vessel, free of lead andFree of grief

You will nd something more placid, murkyGreen

Shimmering, stirringNearly imperceptibly, a young thing

Spring begins to bend and ow



Humble Pie28



Spring 2010 29

by M onika r iVard



Kelly Hackett

Untitled

I asked what you were thinking

you said you didn’t knowyou were time travelingI wondered where you wentand why I couldn’t come with youyou told me you loved me toobut that you had to go alone

So I told myself I’d been alone forever anyway

I told myself I awoke aliveafter oating in the dead sea at night

for six hours and six hundred years

I told myself I was burped out of an underwater salt holeup to the surface and there I stayedUntil I forgot that anything on this earth was living

I told myself I forgot how to speakand I forgot how to move my limbsand I learned that microscopic algaemake better company than humans

I told myself my skin was just a temporary coating



Spring 2010 31

and I could evaporate at willoat into the skyand disappear

and I told myself that I would neverneed to know anyone ever againbecause nobody existed anyway

and I forgot what thoughts wereand I didn’t have a body or a faceand I never knew the meaning of languageor time travelor love



Beret Olsen

55 Reasons(Why I Am Not Out ShootingFabulous Photographs Right Now)

I was up last night worrying about the shoot.The light is not right.I cannot gure out the spot meter.The camera is wobbly on the tripod.I do not have a light tight place to load sheet lm.I do not know what to take a picture of.I suspect that I am not really a photographer.I need a snack.If I don’t try too hard, then I have an excuse later if nothing comes

out well.I think I might be getting sick.I am panicked about the economy.I need to pay the bills.I was up last night because the cat was making a ruckus.

My professional life is in the toilet.I still haven’t nished unpacking the boxes from my move fouryears ago.

I am perplexed that Alan Ernst has not responded to my emails.I am worried about my father’s driving.I can’t nd my checkbook.The zone system does not speak to me.I need a few things from the store.I should really call my mother.No matter what I think of, someone has done it well already.I am not sure what to do about the gophers.I just thought of a great status update that I don’t want to waste.



Spring 2010 33

I need to read a little theory to situate myself.I should probably head out early in case traf c is bad on thebridge.

I haven’t nished my homework.I need to pick a celebrity doppelganger for my facebook pro le.I missed the light for today.When was my last dental appointment?I feel a little queasy.I haven’t nished my thank you notes.It’s hard to think straight when the place is a mess.I am afraid of disappointing myself.I am afraid of disappointing Larry.I am too wound up to concentrate.I accidentally unwound too much.I should really make travel arrangements for the holidays.

I think I forgot my brother’s birthday.I feel guilty spending so much money on lm.And developing.And paper.Maybe I should do a little research on digital cameras.Was that my phone?I feel guilty spending time at art school while my kids are off

growing up somewhere else.A little yoga would really clear my head.I’m almost out of cat litter.My pants are too snug to be comfortable.I need to update my resume.I can’t concentrate with the kids running amok.Now that they are in bed, I am too tired.I need to reorganize my negatives.

I am worried that my parents are going to die.I can’t nd all of the equipment I need when I need it.I probably don’t have enough time now to really get a good start.



Humble Pie34

C oluSa 24

by t oMMy S tuber



Spring 2010 35

C oluSa 28

by t oMMy S tuber



Michael Burge

Excerpt From

The Cabin in Felt

O n the last Saturday of December Adela met John in thecafé for breakfast, and over a plate of English muf ns,scrambled eggs and sausage, she told him she was willing to tryskiing, as long as he’d take her on the easier runs.

“That can wait,” he said. He swept his napkin over his thinmouth. “I wanna show you something rst.”

“How to ski?”“A Santa Ana’s coming through in a couple days – dryer and

colder than a Quaker’s crotch. You’re from LA, you think SantaAnas are hot everywhere they blow. They hit the mountainsdifferent. The point is, it’s perfect weather for making snow. Welook forward to getting these winds each year.”

Adela peeled the top off a packet of strawberry Knott’s BerryFarm jelly, dipped her knife into the red goo, and pressed it intoher muf ns.

“I could tell you weren’t excited about skiing, so I thoughtmaybe I could show you what I do at work. Take you up on themountain with me.”

“Don’t you guys do it at midnight?“Sometimes 1 a.m. or 2, yeah. Is that past your bedtime?”“I’m a slug by 10.”Disappointment cumbered his eyelids. “Chug coffee. The

cold will keep you awake. You’ll get to see these huge fans and jets we use. It’s quite a production. No one’s out there. Just usguys. All the oodlights are on. It makes you feel like a kid withthe mountain all to yourself.”

“Something I’ve never seen before.” Adela sipped her coffee.



Spring 2010 37

A bumper sticker on the wall behind John’s head proclaimed, Awoman with ESP and PMS is a bitch who knows everything.“You’ll get to ride on a snowmobile. You up to it?”“When?”Two days later at midnight Adela drove to the ski resort, a

smattering of Swiss-style buildings and one misplaced modernglass-walled lodge at the foot of the mountain. The footballstadium-sized parking lot, too large for the resort, was empty, aspooky sight for a place that was usually lled to the brim whenshe drove past on her way to work each day. She met John up aside road forking off the parking lot to an of ce building besidea pond spraying a fan of water in its center. John introduced herto some of the guys, all in their twenties, lean and hard-faced.“They do all the grunt work,” John told her. “They don’t getenough credit, but they love doin’ it.”

He pointed to the pond below the road.“That’s our million gallon pond, one of three storage pondswe use for water. Two more up top, each hold nine milliongallons. It’s pumped straight up from the lake.”

“My department must’ve installed the pipe lines.”“Yep. Maybe you’ll put in new ones soon. They’re planning

on creating two more runs.”They stood outside the of ces beside a snowmobile and a

long green hose the size of a re ghter’s. A young man in a rattyred parka coiled the hose up, slung it over his shoulder, andhumped it over to another parked snowmobile.

“That’s Travis. He’s taking the hose to a pump at the summit.” John handed Adela an insulated mug of coffee. His hands

were bare, porous and red. The air was a spiky twenty degreesand dead still. Adela wore black snow pants and a matching

jacket she’d picked up at Wal-Mart. She had a gray wool capand black gloves. She felt like a burnt marshmallow.“What you and me are gonna be doing is standing about





Spring 2010 39

and iron smell. She felt her stomach op upwards when theywent up a rise and down. If I barf , she thought, will it freeze or will it melt the snow ? She didn’t want to nd out.

They continued up the mountain, passing under the stoppedchairlifts, until they were halfway from the bottom. John slowedand turned so they faced the valley below. The sky was clearblack, the stars like snow akes stopped midway while falling.

“Gorgeous, huh?”“Yes.” She had never seen a view of the area from above at

night. The town shined as small lights through the pines. Thenearly full moon layered a thin sheet of blue on the lake, whichotherwise looked like a sinkhole, and in the far distance acrossthe lake white and orange dots of light lined the shore. The sharpclarity of the air made the miles before her seem only a few feetaway. They got off the snowmobile and she followed John to the

middle of the open patch of dirt and snow.“Here’s where we’ll stand. Travis will be at the edge of thepines soon as he’s done up top.”

“How do you know whether you need more or lessmoisture?” Adela asked.

“Bounciness.”“Bounciness?” She exed her knees, pretending to jump on

the snow. “You gonna make me jump?”“You can if you want. I’d like to see that.” John smiled. “No

– it’s the akes that gotta bounce.” He held out his right arm likehe was preparing for an eagle to land on it and looked up itslength. “We hold out our arms and watch the snow land on oursleeves. If it sticks, too moist. If it bounces off, perfect.”

“High-tech.”“Couldn’t be simpler.”

The shadows of the pines thrown forward by the oodlightslooked like crevices carved into the snow. Adela squinted intothe light.



Humble Pie40

“It must sap a lot out of the power grid to run those bigboys.”“We got a six megawatt plant going. A three hundred ninety-

nine diesel engine powering the snow guns and the fans – sameas a train locomotive.”

“Jesus, that’s a lot of draining power.”“We don’t take any from town. All our own generators. Just

got a couple new ones that’re EPA approved. We’re like ourown town within Felt. There’s a lot of money pumped into thismountain, like the opposite of mining. More than enough moneyto keep those lights burning and the water guns shooting.”

“I’d bet there’s quite a nice dome of pollutants building upover the mountain. Seems the more snow you make, the quickerit will melt.”

“What do you mean?”

“All the carbon coming from the lights. Making a greenhouseroof over the town. Global warming.” She dug her toe into thethin snow, ground up a muddy hole.

“Naw,” John said. “Not like any exhaust is shooting into theair. It’s all electric.”

“Right, but even then there’s pollution.” John looked at her funny, turning his mouth sideways.

“What, you think it’s enough to do damage?”“Sure. It all adds up.”“It’d take a lot more than that to make any real difference.

Yeah, we got drought, but that’s not global warming. Just naturalcycles.”

“Pollution’s speeding up any natural cycles that may beoccurring.”

“You believe that junk?”

“How could you call it junk? You work outdoors. You’ve gotto know, everyone you work with has got to know what’s goingon.”



Spring 2010 41

“Scare tactics. Control.” He crossed his arms over his chest.“They, whoever’s telling you these scary stories, bout us screwingup the weather, they’re blowing it way outa proportion. I thinkthey’re big story-tellers who grew up in church learning aboutthe apocalypse and think they’re the ones that are gonna live tosee it. I bet they want to see it.”

“Aw, John. You’re way off.”“Fire and brimstone of the twenty- rst century. Science is the

new religion.”“So what if it was? At least it’s doing some good.”“It’s a way to control the masses.” His eyes narrowed and he

held his gaze on Adela.“You really don’t think all our pollution could do major

damage to the climate?”“Every generation thinks they’re the last,” John said.

“Remember back in the eighties, all the televangelists said wewere seeing the end of days. People hate thinking of the worldgoing on when we’re gone. Don’t you?”

Adela shrugged. “I don’t make much difference in it now,who’s gonna notice when I leave? But it’s a shame to think of what little of the wild still exists being obliterated because of us.”

John pivoted his weight over both feet, his baggy pantspushing in and out at the knees. “It’s like when I think aboutme retiring after this season, leaving the slopes and moving intomy own place.” A cold hard feeling like an ice cube swallowedwhole rolled down Adela’s throat and lodged between her breastplates. She swallowed repeatedly to make it go away.

“People will still be skiing up here,” John went on, “and theguys will still be making snow. It’s a weird thought. I can comeback while I’m still alive, but then after, people will still ski.”

“Probably not in fty years, not here, in Felt. All the snowwill be gone.”“You say it like you hope it happens.”





Spring 2010 43

“Bouncing right off.”“Exactly what we want.” John lowered his arm and steppedoff to the side. He waved to Travis. “The signal for perfect,” hesaid. Adela kept her arm up. The ecks bounced like they weredust particles, each piece like an individual molecule. Theground around her slowly grew whiter and her long monstershadow fanned out in three bodily forms before her, the centershadow the deepest, the oodlight directly behind and aboveher and John. She dropped her arm, turned, squinted up into thebright light and the prickling snow, and took in a deep breathand held it. Her belly heated the cold air and she blew it out,her breath fading in the powder.

“Time to get on to the next one,” John said. “You doin’okay?”

“I gotta piss like hell.”

He pointed to the trees. “I think the ladies’ room is backthere.”After she went they got back on the snowmobile and headed

down the slope to the next snow gun. Adela leaned her nose asclose as she could to the wet tips of John’s hair curling out fromhis cap over the back of his sunburned neck. She didn’t feeltired. She felt like she’d been up here for hours, like there was notime and the night was endless because she couldn’t rememberits having a beginning. It was the most fun that had come intoher life in a long time.

John brought her home a little after ve am in the electricblue air glowing just before daybreak. She said goodbye, holdingback a yawn, and entered the quiet house. Wet clothes off, shestuffed herself under her blankets, keeping the curtains open andtrying to stay awake to watch the sky brighten. The thought of

having the day off from work bolted her eyelids shut. She awokewhen it was a late, powered yellow-gray morning.



Angela Lashbrook

Untitled

what if birds. what if water.what if cameras, air, mouths that movemouths that move, a thoughteaten by words, air

slowing down, i. not enough time.curling things and swallowingthem, injecting them. my intentionis a or to surprisei can’t decide

the man who is and who readshamlet, emerging into lines

this helps

what if. or what about birds or speakingof eternity, as if it doesn’t exist Ican’t decide, or do I mind?

what if birds/questions/autumn/sex

what if ight ight ight



Brian Conner

Transvestite At HerBirthday Party

DianeI’ve wondered for so long

how it tasted

That cakewhich sags upon

the bed

like abeauty queen

discarded.

Did it

drown yourtongue in icing

When withshutter wideyou gazed?

Were youcarried far upon

a tide



Humble Pie46

of ashbulbsand balloons?

The smokeof

laughter

lingersin the

empty hall

And you knowno one will

know

What ittastes likebut you.









Humble Pie50

“I eat to keep up with him,” AnYing lied.“It’s a good thing you stay skinny then!” they said.There would be gossip afterwards, in her wake, dust rising,

people staring after the thin woman carting food higher thanher head. They chastised her soft mothering, gossiped aboutabsent husbands, about the lost beauty of youth - none of whichreached her because the neighbors always found her a littleweird and they had always been a little scared.

In the letters exchanged between her and her husband,AnYing wrote about XiaoDai, “He is growing big. I am worried.Perhaps I am feeding him too much?”

To which the husband replied, “It is good he has a healthyappetite. Boys are meant to grow up big,” and included in theenvelope her usual stipend.

XiaoDai was indeed too large, larger than any boy AnYing

had ever heard about; he outgrew his favorite chair three timesover, and already the new chair AnYing commissioned wascreaking ominously. She feared the day he would hit the ceiling,too big for her house to contain.

The letters had dropped off gradually. Year after year, shewould get a few less, until nally she did not hear from the hus-band at all, and XiaoDai nally ate too much. She found workas a bookkeeper in a small factory that made sunhats for Ameri-can distributors. When the supervisor interviewed her, he foundher so sexless that he hired her on the spot and praised her hardwork potential. When people asked, she would say she was awidow.

She was gone only during the daytime, but still XiaoDai didnot like this change. He whined, he cried so much he foamed,and he clawed at the armrests of his chair that he never left any-

more. It was her fault, AnYing thought, mothers were not meantto work. How would her son know she loved him if she was notthere to feed him?



Spring 2010 51

“But there is no way around it, XiaoDai,” AnYing said to herson, “I am doing this for you.”The next day she bought bags and bags of our, as many as

she could push with her tiny body. She moved the iron waterbasin indoors, drilled at iron together, mortar bricks to converther re burning stove into an oven. The smell of green onionssunk under her ngernails; she will smell it for the rest of herlife. She kneaded dough for days.

She was making a scallion cake. She had used her wholebody to roll the resulting dough into the oven. It cooked for awhole day and night. In the morning that it was nished, AnYingcut a hole from the middle of it. It was her masterpiece.

“Baby,” AnYing called her son.She rolled the pancake out to the living room. She stood on

a chair, because XiaoDai had grown taller than her, and many

times as much around. She heaved the green onion cake overXiaoDai, resting it on the back of the chair and on his shouldersso the cake did not suffocate him. XiaoDai’s head, a pink nub,peeked out from the middle.

“There,” AnYing said, “Now you do not have far to go forfood.”AnYing left XiaoDai with a light heart.

When AnYing returned from work, XiaoDai was dead. Hehad eaten the portion of cake that was in front of him, but notbehind him, leaving a crescent moon of aky scallion dougharound his neck. He had eaten what he could reach withoutturning his head and then he had starved to death.





Spring 2010 53

Angela Lashbrook is a sophomore writing and literature major atCCA. She was born in California.

Beret Olsen is a senior photography major at CCA. Her workincludes drawings and books, as well as photographs, whichwere recently shown at Hatch Gallery in downtown Oakland.

Laurel Prieto is a senior printmaking major at CCA. Although

she primarily works in woodcuts, lithographs, and etchings, shehas great appreciation for the literary arts, and enjoys writing po-etry as another form of self-expression.

Monika Rivard is a senior photography major at CCA.

Tommy Stuber is a sophomore photography major at CCA. Herreal name isn’t Tommy.

Hope Zane is a sophomore painting and drawing major at CCAwho makes art and noise, talks to people, goes outside, reads,and writes. She is a living, breathing human being who wouldlike to think of herself as a traveler-dreamer.



Humble PIe Vol 2

Documents