online version of the book - MiraCosta College

GROW

25
vol
MIRACOSTA
COLLEGE
TIDEPOOLS
a JOURNAL OF IDEAS
2011

Preface
This 25th edition of Tidepools is signifi cant for a variety
of reasons. This publication is a collaborative effort of
the entire college community: MiraCosta students,
staff, and faculty provided the fi ction, essays, poems,
and photography included in this book. Rob Archer
and Gloria Floren, Letters Department faculty, helped
choose the best submissions.
The advanced publishing students in the Media
Arts & Technologies course Output for Print carefully
developed the layout, the details of the master pages,
the design of the section dividers, the style defi nitions,
the bleeds, the folios, the cover, the table of contents,
and the index. They digitally input all the text and
images and elegantly wove the book together.
With effort and artistry they created a publication
of the fi nest quality, integrating their creativity, their
professionalism, and their ability to work as a team.
Tidepools 2011 iii

iv
Editors in Chief:
Jill Malone
Jane Mushinsky
Literary Selections by:
Rob Archer
Gloria Floren
Jane Mushinsky
Book Design
Coordinator:
Jill Malone
Managing Editor:
Erin Contour
Copy Editor:
Amy Chin
Photo Art Editor:
Charlotte Taylor Gordon
Tidepools 2011
Production Editor:
Pamela A. Meistrell
Book Cover Design:
Amy Chin
Title Page Design:
Erin Kavanagh
Section Divider Design:
Charlotte Taylor Gordon
TABLE OF CONTENTS and
Index Design:
Erin Contour
Master Page Design:
Josh Caserta
Tyler Mackin
Frank Morales
William Reynal

Natalie Allen
Jorge Benitez
Josh Caserta
Amy Chin
Erin Contour
Cody Gentry
Charlotte Taylor Gordon
Nelvil Hechanova
Graphic Designers:
Erin Kavanagh
Tyler Mackin
Pamela A. Meistrell
Frank Morales
Chantelle Murray
William Reynal
Amelia Walker
Kaitlin Wilson
Tidepools 2011 v

vi
Tidepools 2011
We would like to thank
Dr. Al Taccone, Dean of Career and Technical
Education, for his support of this project. His allocation
of CTE funds was essential to the publication of this
book, and his positive attitude and sense of humor
were crucial throughout its production. We are also
grateful to Pam Deegan, Vice-President of Instructional
Services, for her financial contribution and continued
support of the students at this college, and to the
Letters Department, which supplied the bulk of the
funding for publication. Thanks to their generosity, this
book’s journey from the classroom to the print bureau
and ultimately into readers’ hands was a success.
We also owe a great deal to our patient and kind
staffers, Dana Ledet and Becky Kessab, without whom
this book would remain an impenetrable bird's nest of
submissions and forms.
Finally, we would like to thank all of you who have
chosen to read this book and to make it part of your
collection. We trust you will enjoy curling up in your
favorite easy chair to view and read the pieces within
these pages. Provocative and heartfelt, they are
windows into the MiraCosta community.
:: Jill Malone and Jane Mushinsky
:: Executive Editors

tidepools: grow AWARDS
COVER ART:
Amy Chin
FICTION:
The Tall Man
Jennifer West
ESSAY:
My Castle in My Sky
Jenai R. Frison
POETRY:
Closing Rectifi cation
Laura Bender
ART:
Teenage Angst
Nick Pourfard
Tidepools 2011 vii

viii
Contents
Change 3
She's Leaving Home . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .4
My Castle in My Sky . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .7
ART: Antique Garden . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .11
STARTING FROM SCRATCH . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .12
NUCLEAR SOLUTIONS to SQUIRT GUN PROBLEMS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .17
ART: Half Dome at Dusk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .21
Vision 23
Haiku 1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .24
Haiku 2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .24
ART: Fanning Frond . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .25
Home . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .26
Sembrando . . . el jardin nuevo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .28
ART: California Sand . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .30
Challenge 33
Requiem for the Future . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .34
ART: Chevy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .35
VA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .36
Cold Spaghetti . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .38
Dusting is Such a Bore . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .40
Dad says like Footprints and Hume Beans . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .42
ART: Innocence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .49
four month relationship with english 201 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .50
ART: Modest Fairytale . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .51
Dear Seurat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .52
My Last Dance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .54
ART: St . Petersburg Series No . 1: MUSHROOMS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .59
Tidepools 2011

Achievement 61
Have you paid your D .U .E .S .? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .62
ART: Progress . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .65
It will Grow, Never Doubt It . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .66
ART: Reaching for the Sky . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .71
Betty's Part Time Job . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .72
ART: Standing Tall . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .77
THE NORTH AMERICAN TWINKie CHALLENGE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .78
Clarity 81
Wanting Her . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .82
The Planting of Trees . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .84
ART: Flourish . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .85
The Tall Man . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .86
Healing Waters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .88
ART: Teenage Angst . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .89
We Were There . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .91
Transition 93
The Window Box . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .95
ART: colossal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .96
closing rectifi cation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .97
Bittersweet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .98
ART: No . 3715 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102
Wings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103
ART: Roses in bloom . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104
Index of Contributors 105
About Tidepools 110
Instructions for All Entries 111
Tidepools 2011 ix

Change
Tidepools 2011

4
Tidepools 2011
Natalie
Nutman
She's Leaving Home

“That was great, babe, as usual,” he said before taking both their
plates to the kitchen.
“Glad I fi nally wore you down, Dad,” was her reply. After nearly a
decade of offering her twenty-dollar bills for the consumption of
In-n-Out burgers, he had begrudgingly developed a liking for soy
products. She made dinner for the two of them. He refused to let
her help with the dishes, then watched decades-old game shows
with her until she fell asleep. They had developed these quaint
traditions along with countless others since she left her mother after
graduating from high school. They went to the gym in their condo
complex together. Some nights they walked to their neighborhood
Mexican restaurant for dinner. On weekends they lost hours in
bookstores and rode bikes to the beach. They swapped stories of
the vices of youth like old friends, making up for lost time without
ever acknowledging that time had been lost.
For months now she had been spending occasional nights at the
home of a boy she met in English class. He didn’t object to this,
rationalizing that she was technically an adult and seemed to have
a reasonably well-developed judgment of character. Yet he always
felt compelled to ask the same question, “How are things with your
boy?” He yawned when he said it, like he always did when forced
to talk about something that made him uncomfortable. This time,
however, her response was more than the usual “Fine. Just fi ne.”
“They’re actually great...” She trailed off and stretched awkwardly,
“He actually suggested that I bring some things over to his place
tonight.”
“Oh?”
“You know, clothes and things; just to avoid me living out of my car
like I have been for a while; all my shit in my trunk...”
“Well, you live here.”
“I know, I didn’t mean it like—”
“Not that I’m saying you can’t live anywhere else—”
Tidepools 2011 5

6
“Just to test it out for a little while, you know?”
“Like a free trial kind of deal?”
“Something like that. I love him,” she finished lamely.
No father can take those three words seriously when they come
from the mouth of his only daughter, but he nodded gravely,
respecting her earnest and naive adolescence in the way she
needed.
It only took half an hour for them to pack her essential belongings
into the tiny car they had chosen for her together. They lingered
in the street after they finished, finding excuses to delay her
departure. Did you hear about the new store opening down the
road... Why don’t I check your oil before you set off... I’ll have to
come by next Wednesday to trim your hair; you’re looking a little
scruffy... You should probably take some groceries, can’t have you
going hungry... trivial things that meant everything to them in that
moment.
“I guess I’ll be heading out now,” she remarked with unexpected
finality, once all the light had faded from the sky.
“I have to let you make your own mistakes, babe.”
“I know, Dad. Thank you.”
“You know you always have a place with me if things don’t work
out.”
She did. She nodded slowly and fell into a long, safe hug, the era
closing almost tangibly around them. A few pats on the back and
one meaningful look later, she was gone. He watched the end of
Family Feud by himself.
Tidepools 2011

Jenai R.
FRISON
My Castle in My Sky
I have created my fantasy. I have strategically placed myself in
this house, within this very town. Every person, every decoration,
the sound of the television, the ding of the oven timer. Every object
around me has been placed there to create the illusion of a stable
and comforting home. I live with a mind that constantly wants
to be greater. I live with my boyfriend, Chris, who I spend every
waking moment with. We laugh, we argue, and then we eat. We
try to help each other grow to become better people. We have
things in our home placed here for our enjoyment- gadgets, books,
couches, and TV’s. We surround ourselves with these material things
so leaving our two bedroom fantasy is not necessary. We eat here,
sleep here, we wake up and it’s just us. It’s peaceful. If we are
quiet, all is quiet. We hear the birds and the wind, the trees and
the leaves. Our minds have tuned out the sound of our out of date
fridge. The hum is now relaxing. It’s our hum. Just his. Just mine.
Tidepools 2011 7

8
I have a routine. A routine that keeps me sane, keeps me afloat,
and keeps me “normal”. I drive to school, to learn. I rush to work,
for pay. I exhaustingly stumble home, to sleep. I do these things,
day after day, rain or shine. This routine makes me feel like a normal
person in society. I spend a majority of my free time cooking. All
the women in my family do it, so I must also. I realize this is mostly
done for comfort, but who is going to stop me? No one turns down
a good home-cooked meal. It’s time for feast! This is my getaway.
My escape. It is my time to dance, to hum, to sing, to taste, but
definitely not feel. I mix the old with the new. Foods I miss from my
aunt’s kitchen, to that dish I wanted to try from Food network. I’ll
make it all. I cook to be calm. I cook for myself. I cook for my friends.
I cook for Chris. He loves to eat. He is very soft spoken and caring.
He knows what I need before I ask for it and brings me flowers
before I say I’m having a bad day. He holds me, makes me feel
safe and thinks of me when I’m gone. Chris makes me smile and
excited about our future. He brings me back to this reality when I
am stuck dreaming in the clouds. He is everything I never thought
I would have, and never thought I deserved. I sit back and think of
how he puts up with all of this insanity I bring, and he doesn’t leave.
Here’s a thanks to you darling, your favorite, chicken parmigiana.
I haven’t been back since I was 17. Back to any house I once
lived in. I say house, not home. I’ve never had a home to go back
to. The definition of home is, “a dwelling place together with the
family or social unit: the place where something is discovered,
founded, developed, or promoted.” Discovery in my house was
discovering no food in the fridge. Foundation? Certainly not a good
one. Development? Stress, hatred, loneliness. Promotions? Get
yourself together so you don’t end up like this. I am not sure which
physical place I would actually call my home. My Aunt’s house? My
grandmother’s? My sisters? Perhaps one of the many apartments
my mother was evicted from. I do not have a physical place to go
“back home” to. Instability was a word I came to know very well,
and very early as a child.
Tidepools 2011

A tricky character she was, my mother was tall, thin and
beautiful. She had caramel colored skin and radiant golden
hair. She was breath taking to the eye, but a sad soul on the inside.
I use was, because she is no longer a part of my life. She was quiet
and shy, until the doors of the house were closed, smiling and
laughing, until she was weeping in her bedroom. She was here,
until night arrived, then she was gone, and she was trying, until no
one was looking. My mother was depressed and mentally ill during
my childhood. She did not know how to deal with the life she had.
She emotionally detached herself from the world, her children, and
sanity. We grew up without hugs, “I love you’s” and without positive
reinforcement. We grew up being yelled at, and hit. We were not
told to go to school, because she never did. We moved from place
to place and were set aside for new men she would meet and
bring home. My brother and I fed ourselves, helped each other
with schoolwork, and fi gured out we wanted a better life. It was
too much for her. She could not care for us. She could not care for
herself.
As a child, I ran to extended family and friends. They were always
there with open arms. My Auntie Netra in particular was the mother
I always wished I had. She was a large women who spoke what
she thought, and made everyone laugh in the process. She was
so comforting and so caring toward everyone. She was always
smiling and laughing. She asked questions that my mother never
asked, “How was your day?” How do you feel about that?” and
“What do you want to do when you grow up?” She made me
feel important. She did all of this from her kitchen. This is where I
learned to cook delicious meals like hams, biscuits, collard greens
and sweet potatoes. My happiest childhood memories were in the
kitchen with my aunt. I cook now because I need to feel some sort
of connection with her. I need to remember the holidays I used to
spend laughing, learning and helping her. My Auntie Netra died
two years ago. Just like that, Ovarian cancer. Even now, thinking of
her death sickens me. Of all people to go, it had to be her? I can
Tidepools 2011 9

10
never forgive myself for not telling her what an amazing person she
was to me and how she kept me smiling through all of the hurt in my
life. I will never forgive myself.
I am bitter. I feel angry about the word home. I feel robbed. I do
not go “home” for fear of feeling it all over again. My mother makes
me sad. The choices she made in her life make me sad for her. I
still cannot set aside the things she has done to me and my siblings
because of these choices. I am sad for her life. She made it all too
easy for me to hate my life growing up. She made it even easier
to leave and never come back. I stay away. I do not call. I make
my own holidays. Cook my own dinners. I have made my friends
my extended family. I pick up my little sister around the corner and
take her away so she can escape for a weekend. I have and will
continue to rid myself of my mother’s toxins. Every thing I do, every
move I make, is to further myself from being like her. School, work,
relationships, anything! I will do anything that she did not have the
courage to do. Am I growing? Achieving success as a valuable
person in society? Or am I letting myself grow into hatred for the
women who disappointed me.
I am not sorry. I will never regret. I would rather have my sanity. I
would rather have my confidence and self worth. It is not worth
the tears and the distressing memories for me. So I will retire back
to my staged home. My Chris, my pots and pans, my stove, and
my blankets. They are mine. I can create the home I have always
wanted. I can grow into the person I want to be. I can pretend to
delete the memories of my irregular childhood and replace them
with the great life I am giving myself now. In my head, they fit
perfectly in the file I emptied long ago. The scratched up, torn apart
and taped back together file I once labeled home.
Tidepools 2011

Antique Garden
Allison
Mousevi
Tidepools 2011 11

12
KIA
Magnani
Tidepools 2011
STARTING FROM SCRATCH
It is two forty five am. The vacuum wakes me. My mother is cleaning
again. My bed is slightly shaking, the dryer pressing on through the
night on the other side of the wall. The fresh scent of fabric softener
fills my room. I turn on my radio, roll over, and try to fall back asleep.
The next morning, my mother greets me with a complaint. I didn’t
clean to her satisfaction the day before. She’s sitting on the couch,
dog in her lap, surrounded by long platinum blonde hair, her fake
boobs practically ripping the fabric of her shirt. She hasn’t slept yet.
I try to apologize and tell her I’ll do better next time. I grab a slice of
sourdough bread, the only thing in the fridge, before I walk out the
door. I had to get out of there.
I left home when I was eighteen. The world was so promising. No
rules, no more absurd cleaning rituals, and no more mom. My life
had been hard on me emotionally and psychologically. My father
had passed away years earlier, leaving my mother to raise me
alone. I did not have a bad childhood by any means, but I felt
resentment toward my mother. Her constant anxiety started to
become my own and I seemed to inherit all of her issues. Home
was never a place I liked to be. I was suffocated by her constant

nagging. I could never be good enough in her eyes. I often had the
feeling that she felt I had robbed her of something. I popped up
unexpected in her life, suddenly demanding all her time, money,
and attention. As much as she loved me, I don’t think she ever
forgave me for such an intrusion.
Throughout my teenage years, I struggled to conform to the image
my mother made for me, skinny, tan, big boobs, and blonde hair.
Blonde wasn’t even my natural color, but up until I was eighteen, it
was all bleach and hair extensions for me.
Eating was always a big issue in my mother’s home. She never
cooked, and there was never anything in the cabinets. She lived off
of Slimfast and fed me fast food soft chicken tacos. I’d often sneak
in junk foods like chips and cookies; these were contraband in our
house. It was a little hypocritical of her; apparently soft chicken
tacos from Del Taco aren’t junk food, but Doritos are.
Once I had left her house, the very fi rst thing I did to symbolize my
freedom was to dye my hair. Brunette, almost black. This was only
the beginning of an array of colors, blue, orange, pink and purple.
They’ve all had their place on my head.
I’d visit home occasionally, to pick up my mail or pay my car
insurance, and every time I had something new to shock my
mother with. It was a game to me. Let’s see how long it will take
her to notice the new piercing; I wonder if she’s seen my tattoos
yet? Yet every time I came home, there was a part of me that so
desperately wanted her approval. I even changed my hair back
to blonde on several occasions just because I wanted her to think I
was pretty.
Tidepools 2011 13

14
Eventually, after about two years of limited contact, my need to
rebel calmed down and my mother and I were able to have a
conversation without one of us swinging the broom at the other.
We were, however, by no means able to live together. By this
time, I had just moved in with my boyfriend, Blake. My mother did
not approve, of course. He stood for everything she was so firmly
against, long hair, unkempt, and tattooed. Blake and I made
wherever we slept our home. We lived out of my car for about a
month and slept on the beach under the stars. Neither one of us
was in a position to have the other move in, so we abandoned our
living arrangements in search of a new home, together. The first
apartment that we found together was a large, spacious loft with
two bedrooms and an oversized utility closet that we rented out
cheap as a room to a friend. Our loft was on coast highway above
a thrift store, only two blocks from Moonlight Beach. It was old,
dirty, and I was surrounded by only male roommates, but it was our
home.
My mother only visited me at the loft once, when my cat had
kittens. She loves animals, and, of course, had no faith in my ability
to care for them. When my mother got there, she nearly fainted.
Her face turned red, I could almost see steam coming out of her
ears. She was horrified. I had left her perfectly maintained home for
this life of dirty carpets, empty bottles on the kitchen counters, and,
God forbid, shoes in the house.
I finally felt free. I was living life on my own terms. Blake and I stayed
up late, making jewelry and drawing on the walls. This was the
life of an artist, I told myself. I didn’t care how poor we were, my
happiness was priceless. We struggled to make ends meet, but we
always made it. I got a great job as a cake decorator, making use
of my creative energy. Home had never been better. I reinvented
myself. My experiences in that drafty, dilapidated loft have shaped
me into who I am today. There were no more white carpets, barren
Tidepools 2011

walls, or fake body parts. Color was everywhere. We hung our own
artwork. Incense could be smelled on the breeze in the parking lot
below our window. We cooked real homemade meals together.
Every Wednesday we would go to the farmer’s market, picking out
fresh fruits and vegetables. Crunchy lettuce and crispy apples. I
gave up meat and found a taste for healthier foods, although my
addiction to chocolate chip cookies remained.
I never wanted to leave, but this bliss wouldn’t last forever. It was
an early morning in September when a sheriff knocked on our door.
We were served an eviction notice. The roommate whom we sublet
from hadn’t paid rent in four months. This was a much unexpected
surprise. Only a few days later and he was gone, vanished, we
didn’t see or hear from him again. Blake and I were devastated.
This life, this home that we had built together, was ripped out from
under us. Someone might as well have lit the place on fi re, we
couldn’t stay. After much house hunting, and stressful packing, we
found another apartment, but things couldn’t be the same. This
new place was not home. The effort we had put into the loft was
not present. Things started to change.
I never imagined that I would miss my mother’s home. I started
spending the night, arriving unannounced. I missed the smell of
freshly laundered linens. I missed having my own room, not shared
with a man. I missed my mom.
After about a year in the new apartment that wasn’t quite home,
Blake and I decided it might be best if I move back in with my
mother. It had been four years since I had lived with her. I was less
than thrilled.
Returning to my mother’s home brings a sense of failure. It feels as
if I am not equipped to make it on my own. I fought tooth and nail
to leave that house, I feel like a coward for returning to it. I don’t
Tidepools 2011 15

16
fit in to her world of cookie-cutter track homes, SUVs, and people
who grow up to be doctors, lawyers, and real estate agents. When
I drive through this gated community that my mother lives in,
neighbors eye me suspiciously in my beat up little car. When I walk
down the street, parents keep their children close and I imagine
them whispering to them I’m an example of what not to become.
I don’t even have my own room anymore. I am living in her
guestroom, my room having been converted into a workout room
shortly after my departure. My belongings are now divided in two
places, neither of them my home. Half of my life remains in that little
apartment with Blake, the other half in my mother’s guest room.
This sudden change scares me, but at the same time something
about it feels right. I am lucky to have a mother who will take me
back. Even though the arguing has already resumed, her door is
always open to me. A new world of opportunity is beginning to
emerge. She is helping me pay for school, which I have neglected
for so long. With an education supporting me, I will be able to take
care of myself and eventually find my own home. For now, though,
home is not exactly anywhere. I’m starting from scratch.
Tidepools 2011

SARAH
MYERS
I. Chicken Little:
NUCLEAR SOLUTIONS to
SQUIRT GUN PROBLEMS
The sky is falling. Shards of crystallized clouds have somehow lodged
themselves in amongst screaming slits of bone marrow. I haven’t
a stomach left to bother dry-heaving over; an empty ribcage
reverberates hollowly where my heart ought to beat.
A fl ight attendant grazes my arm with manicured fi ngertips, “You
okay, honey?” I nod in response—yet another in a long line of lies.
As we climb in altitude over the periphery of the east coast, the
roar of twin engines seems only a soft echo in exchange for the
hardened shriek of hurt beneath my skin. I am fl esh on fi re. I am
dying. I am being born.
Tidepools 2011 17

18
“West” is an expanse that reaches out across the landscape of my
mind. Every synapse is riddled with the aftermath of battle. It has left
me torn open, hollow: I can barely think, speak—and yet attempt
to write. The pen squiggles on its own, has its own form of aphasic
convulsions. They tell me this is my best shot. They’ve told me many
things.
The stewardess comes back, kneels in the aisle as if in prayer; I
am stretched out, strung out, across her pew. I pay five dollars
for a drink. With any luck, she’ll assume I’m just a hopeless drunk.
Instead, what I am is too frightening to put words to while pint-sized
packages of peanuts are being served—crack head, junkie, liar,
felon, monster, lost cause, nightmare, whore. That’s simply too much
to take in with your in-flight movie.
I sling down $5 in half a gulp. There is no warm sensation, no respite
from the alternating waves of fever and chill—the fuel of withdrawal
as it cycles through my limbs. The drugs don’t work. The drink does
nothing. I can taste the remnants of rum on my tongue like threads
of meat from a leftover meal. That is all it allows me.
It is my last drink.
I lied to get into rehab. Not equipped to handle detoxing addicts,
the lie was my one chance in. I am a career liar, but perhaps
terrible at the profession.
I arrive wet with the slushy perspiration of fever, hands pruned from
the clasping of convulsions and ripe with the aroma of acid and
bile. My forearms are fresh with tentacles of track marks, every
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stretch of fl esh is pallid and spongy as a corpse. Slash lines fl ow
rhythmically across the nape of my neck and the meat of my left
shoulder blade—I abdicated my four-inch serrated blade at the
airport security checkpoint.
Time is surely out of joint. I can’t seem to keep track of days at fi rst,
and yet hours slither from me in an ebb and fl ow un-uniform in their
undulations. I haven’t gone more than an hour without a drink or a
drug in years, and I am experiencing the raw panic of sunlight—of
breath, of clarity of mind.
No one hears me when my thoughts scream out. Pain is palpable
and seems to hang in between air molecules as they move over
scorched skin. Kicking heroin, cocaine, alcohol—leaving behind
these friends of pain I have spent years cultivating—has left me in
the throws of a solitude so desolate, so static, that I simply stay quiet
in the mask of cooperation. I have thirty days inside to fi nd God,
before I’ll beat my way back to the devil.
The southern Californian facility is so stark a contrast to the hellhole
of my rock-bottom in New York, that I pad around for days
as though struck by lightning. There is food I am trained to eat as
the symptoms of withdrawal edge into passing. The smell of clean
linens is alien and uncomfortable—sheets free from the urine, sweat,
blood and bile I’m used to.
I am hard and cold—few in words and weighted in quiet for hours
on end. All I want is to go home—and yet, I haven’t had a concept
of that in years. I have made the notion such an abstraction that it
beats its wings against my brain with volumes of empty fear.
Tidepools 2011 19

20
I am searching for God the way one might search for a lost sock—its
brother in hand, angrily misplacing blame.
There is group therapy, there is massage, there is yoga, there are
meetings. The acupuncturist asks is I’m afraid of needles. I give her
a long, sarcastic stare—it is my first attempt at humor. She laughs,
shortly, but only for my benefit.
II. Translating Emotion into Ink:
The subterranean world of bewildering addiction, of despairingly
creative forms of self-destruction, is a frozen Hell. Few make it out—
make it through—with body and soul intact. I found threads of mine
had made it to the shore, drifted past glaciers though a Danteesque
sea of faces—a piece of me had fallen into the sky, another,
lodged beneath the crust of the earth. My hours, days, and now
years, in recovery are a perpetual search for the pieces I’ve lost,
stitching old parts with new, rolling moldy boulders aside to discover
what lies beneath. Maybe one day, moments before death, I’ll be
whole.
The harsh hiss of a surreptitious crack-pipe, the slick serpentine slice
of a syringe, the trigger of a loaded bottle pointed at my temple—
these didn’t make aims to murder me. I have always been able to
achieve that all by myself. I am my own worst enemy, and my own
only hope for a certain kind of miracle.
Tidepools 2011

Delores
Loedel
Half Dome at Dusk
Tidepools 2011 21

Vision
Tidepools 2011

24
Marta
capdevila
Haiku 1
Tidepools 2011
Bright sky, shining sun
Softly drawing the mountains;
Shapes against the light.
Haiku 2
Look around you
And paint a quick brushstroke
Haiku is the beauty of the brief.

Becky
Kessab
Fanning Frond
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26
Shauna
Schuette
Home
I step out onto the pavement as if I just entered my own world. I
take a deep breath and inhale what I think is a mixture of salt and
sweat, and hold it like it is the last breath I will ever be taking. As
I cross the threshold of what is destined to be a mass amount of
vehicles all determined to kill me, I think how great it is to be back.
Back to reality, where everything seems to make sense. I wait
patiently for my chariot to take me away, and barely save myself
from the craziness of what is the San Diego Airport. People are
everywhere, trying to get into their own realities, and I realize we all
share the same state of mind. We just arrived here, and chances
are it is better than where we came from.
Once my chariot takes me to my car, I tip the shuttle driver and
anxiously get into my own vehicle, where I feel somewhat closer to
being home. I know how lucky I am to be doing the things that I am
doing, but most of the time I just want to be home. What seems like
forever passes, in which I pay my parking fees, attempt to extract
myself from the demons of the airport traffic, and finally I am setting
sail on the I-5 home.
I turn up the radio, and roll down the windows so I can smell the
distinctiveness of where I am. It does not smell this way anywhere
else in this country, as far as I have seen. For a moment that passes
Tidepools 2011

I think about how odd it is that this is my home now, and how much
of a transition I have made. It is odd to me that this place has now
become my norm, and I am no longer in a place where I don’t
belong. I have become accustomed to everything around me,
from the palm trees, to the ocean, and from the rolling hills, to the
deserts. It is nothing like the fl atlands, snow, forests, or lakes of where
" "
It’s as if I have missed the
transition, and wonder
when exactly it happened.
I came from. It is a far cry from my fi rst life.
As I listen to the radio, and think about the life I am living now, it
dawns on me that I am now an adult, and I try to realize when it
happened. I feel like I should be at home with my mother, getting
tucked into bed. It’s as if I have missed the transition, and wonder
when exactly it happened. When did I become the woman who
moved across the country without her family, and fi nally made a
life for herself in a new world? When did I get so used to it that I
forgot how it was that I got here. I can no longer imagine going
home to a place without the ocean, or the palm trees, and I may
be naive enough to think it won’t ever go away.
Its funny how something completely opposite of your life one day
can become somewhat of a staple the next. I ponder what it
would be like to move elsewhere, and if it would take three years
to do the same transition. Can all places be home to someone
eventually, or does it have to be in your heart? I don’t assume that
I will stay here forever, although for this period of time I cannot
imagine being anyplace else.
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28
TereSa
GonzaleZ Lee
Sembrando... el
jardin nuevo
Voy esparciendo semillas
en un jardín nuevo
quiero cultivar plantas de un verde claro
con flora resistente al azote del calor
quiero caminar entre diminutas flores
que valientes se atrevan que recto miren al ojo del sol.
Oh cactus agaves aloes
sueño en ver brotar vuestro pálido verdor
Ay agua preciosa eres en la aridez de California
Ay Pachamama Ay Madre Tierra fecunda quieres ser
en los suelos del desierto o del vergel.
Me entrego a tu reto a tu voz que es desafío
“del verde verde que te quiero verde”
cuando estás hambrienta de frescor.
Y entonces entre tus abiertas bocas entre tus grietas
derramo escatimando gota a gota
el líquido precioso dentro de tí
que apague el incendio de tu sed
que ponga fin al desierto despertando al jardín de pálido verdor.
Tidepools 2011

Sowing... The
New Garden
translation
I go spreading seeds
In a new garden
I want to grow light green plants
with a fl ora able to tolerate the intense heat lashes
I want to walk amidst minute fearless
fl owers daring to look right into the sun’s eye
Oh cacti agaves aloes
I dream to see your light greenness spring up.
Oh water you’re precious in the dryness of the Lower California land
Ay Pachamama Ay Mother Earth
you want to be fecund even in the desert fl oor as in the blooming garden
and when you’re famished for freshness
I surrender to your challenge to your voice that’s a defi ance
“Green green how I love you green”.
Then over your crevices your opened mouths
I water drop by drop scantily
the precious liquid inside you
able to contain the fi re of your thirst
able to put an end to the desert able to awaken the light green garden.
Tidepools 2011 29

30
Marta
Capdevila
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California Sand

A new palette of colors,
The sun falls on the shining brown sand,
Under this mask of shadows
I can see the same blue sky.
I would paint this sea and these mountains
Just with a grey swatch;
Then this could be Barcelona,
This could be the other side of the world.
Without shapes and without colors
We are all under the same sky,
Without shapes and without colors
We are neither black nor white.
Without colors there are no fl ats,
Without colors there is no race,
Without colors…
I could be lying in the same sand.
Tidepools 2011 31

Challenge
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34
allison
mousevi
Requiem for the Future
Evanescent clouds
perched on earths horizon,
filter the prayers that rise
from a lost generation
With laughter-ingrained
reveries splashed by storms,
we trek instead of frolic
Guided forward by embers
of a perished star,
We search for the magnet
stolen from our moral
compass
Like hungry beggars
reaching for bread, we
seek opportunities from
ungenerous employers,
Greeted by the task of
collecting dust with our
diplomas, we meander,
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Ravenous for the
wisdom of archaic
philosophies,
To wear as thimbles as
we sew our providence
Using crumbling pastels
which we were gifted,
we smear opaque lines
on the blank canvas of
our futures:
Aspiring to replace
the white fog with an
incandescent scenery,
To create lives best
described by modest
fairytales

Joanne
Carrubba
Chevy
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36
VA
We use our long stares for the buffed brown tile,
so unlike earth, the immaculate green walls,
so unlike trees, the heroic photographs
everywhere
Iwo Jima, Omaha Beach, Bastogne
mythic places none of us has ever been
in our counted days of edgeless jungle,
unspecified sand
How have we come
to be here
on these plastic sheeted couches,
when only moments ago
we moved like rain
through a tangle of dangers,
surviving only by some reckless
undeserved grace
Grunts, jarheads, swabees, flyboys
hoarding day old cookies
from the hospitality cart,
sucking down tin-flavored coffee
because it’s free
and we’re entitled
We wait and stare,
making wind-like noises
in our thunderous slowing,
yet clinging to the fierce,
private urges we depend
upon so surely to endure
all our self-inflicted wounds
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Which of these lovely brown nurses
mispronouncing our names
so reverently
truly understands
what savagery once lived
in our free blood
So we grow our chests
and follow them
through the strictly coded doors,
trying to roll on our hips
like young men.
These unspoiled doctors
so awfully kind
in their probings
past the expected thumps and gurgling,
yet always striking
the same shadow-less blank
How little their small knives
hurt us
or reveal
andrew
Freedman
Tidepools 2011 37

38
joan
Gerstein
Cold Spaghetti
In the hour before dawn when night seems coldest and darkest,
Becky rises from bed, puts on her robe and slippers and walks to
the kitchen. Last night she envisioned this moment when she could
taste the delectable leftovers. She takes the pot of spaghetti with
rich meat sauce from the refrigerator knowing that no eyes will see
her eat the cold spaghetti directly from the pot. From years and
years of performing this stealthy ritual, Becky knows how to eat just
enough so that the loss will not be noticed.
Becky does not recall when she began this custom but remembers
only doing it forever. Growing up chubby, what and how much
she ate was always a subject of interest and discussion, especially
by her mother. Because her mother made such an issue about her
weight, Becky developed this pattern of sneaking food. Most of
the time it was early in the morning when no one else was awake
or might hear her milling around in the kitchen. There were also
nights when her mother had the girls over for Mahjongg and bought
a fresh bakery cake and made a pot of coffee for the event. On
those occasions, Becky would be more brazen though no less
sneaky. Knowing her father would inevitably have a piece of cake,
she would quietly enter the kitchen and take a small slice, so that
when he cut his, the absence of both their pieces would be blamed
on him.
Tidepools 2011

Rarely was snack food in the house except when company was
expected. Her mother could put nuts and candies in cut glass
bowls and place them around the living room. There was always
opportunity to quickly eat several pieces of each while her mother
was preparing food or getting herself ready for guests. At other
times, when she came home from school and her mother was not
there, Becky would hunt around in closets and cabinets until she
found her mother’s hidden and coveted cookies, Mallomars. Her
mother bought Oreos for her and her sister, but treated herself
to the Mallomars. Sometimes, Becky would steal coins from her
mother’s penny jar to buy a candy bar at the corner store. It
would have to be eaten entirely while walking home, the wrapper
discarded behind someone’s hedge. Before she entered her home,
she would pop gum in her mouth to mask the smell of chocolate.
Becky retrieves the fork, sinks and twists it deep in the pasta and
lifts it to her mouth. A piece of spaghetti splashes across her
chin leaving a red itchy blotch of tomato sauce. The fi rst forkful,
devoured in haste, releases the taste of garlic and sausage. The
next follows quickly but it only feels like a congealed, hard mass.
In the moment between that and the third bite, Becky sees the
absurdity of her behavior. She is no longer living in her mother’s
house but is married to a man who doesn’t care about her eating
habits. She smiles at the thought and suddenly doesn’t want to eat
cold spaghetti anymore.
Tidepools 2011 39

40
Tidepools 2011
Laura
Bender
Dusting is Such a Bore

A woman cleaning
is a woman with a temper,
and to be feared.
Opening the empty jar
not knowing anything would
wince out, and here,
a great evil puddling
blithely down the bookshelves.
When the red-mouthed jinn
offers three wishes
he will only give you one,
the one you didn’t have time
to question, but will have
plenty of time to regret
in your half-house
which is half-made of holes
and giant moths seeping in,
their gnarled legs crumpling
the curtains with blood. Waiting
for anyone’s mother to come clean
the mess, because you don’t
want to be the one
picking up the paper towel
to protect while you serve.
Tidepools 2011 41

42
curry mitchell
A homeless woman stands holding a cardboard sign just outside the
car window Says:
Tidepools 2011
Dad says like Footprints
and Hume Beans
Anything Helps!
Unemployed
Mother, Wife, Human Being.
The handwriting is thick (she definitely used a Sharpie), but there’s
something careful in the letters. The “e’s” and the “n’s” and that
one capital “A” end in curls, and everything slants, like she wants it
to look like, I don’t know, a nonchalant doodle maybe: something
like the notes a wife-slash-mom would put in her kid’s lunch. That
rather than some desperate cry for money, I mean.
The “Human Being” part’s good though. I’d even say she’s got a
decent sense of humor, judgin’ her sign; except the look on her
face, that please-give-me-money look with her mouth all straight
lined and her eyes hard-staring, makes me think she’s just good at
advertising what she needs. She could be pretty: skin, tanned and
freckled and chapped red around her cheeks; big green eyes and
beer-bottle brown hair that loops up, unbrushed, on top. But she’s
also got some serious creases on her forehead and around her
mouth (probably a smoker).
There’s no way I can really look at her though. If she catches me,
I either have to look away like an asshole or wave a $5 out the
window. S’why I brake the car just on the other side a street sign
that blocks much of her upper body and especially her face. This
way I can read her little message and not attract her attention.

I wonder if she’s really a wife. Mother I can buy, and “Unemployed
human being”, sure. There’s always some of those hangin’ around
this ramp. But wife. That and standing out here for all of us off
the freeway to look at and…I guess what I can’t imagine is her
husband.
“Hey, who’s that lady?” Kennedy, the fi ve year old, asks-slashdemands
from the back seat. The child-seat she’s in leans
cock-eyed with her thin body into the middle of the bench
as she tries to fi nd my eyes in the rear-view mirror. Bob, my
almost-two year old son sitting next to her, who normally grabs a
handful of her hair at this opportunity, doesn’t notice. He’s looking
past her at the woman outside.
“The sign says she’s a mommy and a ‘human being’,” I tell her.
Kennedy scrunches up her nose and begins to straight-arm shove
off the seat cushion to bounce herself upright again.
“What’s a hume bean?”
“It’s her,” I point, “right there?”
“Do you eat it?”
“Probably.” I let the car roll forward a little so that the sign blocks the
kids from seeing as well. The last thing I’d want (if I had sent my wife
out to beg off the freeway) is a car-load of kids ogling her. (What
if Kennedy turns out like that, beggin’ off the road?) In the mirror,
Kennedy and Bob both stretch their heads back and up to hold
their view of the woman and then settle back down and forward
again once she’s gone behind the sign.
I shouldn’t ‘a said anything. Now Kennedy’s gonna blabber on and
on about “the hume-bean” in the grocery line, which ought’a be
completely horrifying.
“Dad?” asks Kennedy.
“What Little?”
Tidepools 2011 43

44
“I made a footprint person today in school.”
“Oh yeah? Did it respect your decision to create life? Or did he
automatically reject you as his creator and try to take-over the
classroom?”
She’s a pretty random kid.
“No Dad!” she yells. I laugh and look at Bob in the mirror. Kennedy
finishes, “We made them with paint and ac-a-ronni.”
“Un…Daddy?” chimes in Bob, “I…un…ac-ronni, shoo!” He waves
his hands like he wants to clap but doesn’t let them touch. He looks
to me, then to Kennedy.
“No Bob!” yells Kennedy, “I’m talking.”
“No!…Shoo!…Kendy!” says Bob.
“Alright,” I say. Bob lets his waving hands finally connect and he
laughs. Then he looks out his window to find trees. Kennedy ignores
us both and keeps talking, straining again to see past the sign.
“We put paint on our feet and stepped on paper,” she says. “Then
the ac-a-ronni was for eyes and ears and noses. I tried to make
Bob, but my footprint person just looked stupid.”
“Honey,” I say, “we don’t say stupid. And we don’t use our feet to
paint Bob. He’s much too complex. Right, Bob?”
“Uh!…My un Dadda,” he says.
The light turns green, and we go. I cast a last look at the woman in
my side mirror.
She’s lookin’ at me, smiling. All teeth and wide eyes, like she knows
something: like she’s set me up for a practical joke that I haven’t
caught on to yet.
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Creepy. No doubt she’s crazy. Or just plain cracked out of her mind.
“Kennedy?”
“What?”
“Don’t ever do drugs.”
Listen. No, me! We’re fl ying the kite-bed ‘round clouds and glass
stingrays when Dad has to slow down for some stupid reason. A lady
outside with a book and we stop right in front and she looks up and
then down at me. Her face is an apple. She sees me. She’s looking.
She’s wants to cry even but angels have kissed her. Kissed her red
face and made dots on her cheekers and nose but which dad says
should make everyone happy. But not her, she wants blue ones,
that’s why. She sees Bob when she’s looking. I know ‘cause she
smiles, and everyone does that looking at Bob.
She likes Bob and not angels.
She eats Bob just like angels.
Don’t worry ‘it’s a story’ Dad says, sometimes to me.
She wiggles her fi ngers that hold the brown book up. They’re
wrinkles. No jewelry but pink cutelels. Like Mommy. She opens her
mouth up to say but says no words but’cept ones all quiet outside.
Her teeth are brown worm circles. Her hair is the stuff that’s all stuck
and pulled out in the hairbrush back home. Little nests.
She gets closer to me. Her hand wrinkles wiggle and peek-ee-boo
up goes the book. I can’t see her but dirt on her shirt that looks like a
shoe. Germs, Dad would say and she should go wash it. And closer
she gets again closer to me. The book drops and she’s got two
white eyes the biggest, and waves up’derneath her germy gross
hair. Her hand wrinkles moves and up Peek-ee the book goes. Up
again closer she gets up to me and fl ashes her eye waves and sticks
out her kissies and up close she gets to the door up to me and Dad
knows I see his mirr’r eyes in the window with sky and the road and I
have to say:
Tidepools 2011 45

46
“Hey, who’s that lady?” I fall over asking.
“The sign says she’s a mommy and a hume bean,” Dad says. But
that’s stupid. Outside, she’s not close. She opens her peek-ee-boo
lips where she was. Not close to the door getting in but a mommy
but a dirt angel kissed footprint bean person too.
Not a bean though.
“What’s a hume bean?” I and try to get back up asking. I’m not
s‘pposed to fall over. I look at her make kissy lips and don’t like her.
Dad says, “It’s her there.” I maybe she’s chewing it not making lips.
“Do you eat it?”
“Probly,” Dad says, and the bean’s in her mouth. Beans are gross.
Footprint person bean mommy’s are too.
We’re moving again.
The bean mommy plays peek-ee-boo closer to eat Bob and but
something plays peek-ee-boo back and she’s gone. I can’t see her
but only the tops of her pants and the window and back again over
at Bob and his stupid fat head.
Mombeans and wrenches. Bobgels and food. Footprints and
persons and school.
“Dad?”
“What Little?” Dad calls me that but to tease. He knows I’m not little
but BIG.
It’s ok. I don’t mind.
“I made a footprint person today in school.”
“Did he spect your sisson life? Or did he maticly ject you as critter
and try to take the room?” Dad says. Dad teases my story, and I
hate Dad teasing sometimes for that.
“No Dad! With paint and ac-a-ronni.”
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“Un…Daddy?” Bob talks on my story. “I…un…ac-ronni shoo!” And
sometimes I hate when Bob talks on my say. Even but Bob’s just a
baby and fat makes me smile and Dad says I should not s‘pposed
to say hate.
I “No Bob! I’m talking,” at Bob and look at him.
Bob “No!…Shoo!…Kendy!” back looks back to me.
“Alright guys,” Dad says. Dad hushes us down with his eyes in the
mirr’r. I don’t care. And Bob laughs. I breathe grumpy inside and
look for the mombean but can’t see her again.
“We put paint on our feet and stepped on paper.” I look at Bob to
make sure he won’t talk on my story. He looks at his buckle not over
at me.
“Then the ac-a-ronni was for eyes and ears and noses. I tried to
make Bob but my footprint person just looked stupid.”
“Honey,” Dad says, “we don’t say stupid. And we don’t use our
feet to paint Bob. He’s much too plex. Right, Bob?”
“Uh!…My un Dadda.” Bob smiles at Dad and then me.
Daddy’s teasing me and I don’t care at him.
I look out for something to say for a story but only I say it all quiet
inside. The kite-bed starts fl ying and stingrays beside us and Dad
says something, so I say to him:
“What?”
Un Dadda drive shoo. Un Kendy drive shoo. An Bob do ‘t side.
Seat….shoo. Ot-sigh an see…
Ot-sigh un see waaa….Ot-sigh un see birds…un see no-mommy…
an ights…tees…an…
…Dadda eyes! Ah-laa! An day Dadda mou say a-me ‘morny a’
me…Morny me! Dadda say. An he mou kiss a-me eyes an say ahlah!...
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48
…Bob! Ahl-ah!...
…ah!…ah!...ah! Ah-la!
An Kendy see shoo un she ook an see-eee…no-mommy…an tees.
Un Daddy an Kendy drive shoo an see sigh…an see bu-kul…an otsigh
see sky…
...an seat a-me see…Kendy…an…….no-mommy shoo.
No-mommy ook a-me………………an boo………….
No-mommy teef an wave…………an boo…………..
Hiiieee a-me……boo………an Kendy.
Hiiieee a-me……boo………an Kendy…....................……………………..
An…no.
Kendy no-say un no fash a-me ook. No-mommy cry …no cry
a-me…kissy ah boo…….Bob do ‘t shoo……hiiieee no-mommy….un
kiss a-me.
Hiiieeee…no-mommy…un ahl-ah she home.
An no-mommy…hiiieeee an yips an me see….an
see…………………………………
………….……seat an me bu-kul an wave.
Kendy say Dadda say shoo…ahl-ah ah.
Hannies move buk-ul an seat. ‘Buk-ul a-me’ Kendy say. Bob do ’t
shoo. Dadda say waaa an a-me kiss a-me eyes. Ah! An say ahl-ah!
Ah say Kendy say Bob do’t shoo……acroni ah no! An say shoo!
An no shoo an a-me, Kendy! Ah!……an Dadda eyes! Ah! See un
Dadda see me!
Ahl-ah! Un see-ee me! Dadda me. Ahl-ah!...
…ah!…ah!...ah! Ah-la!
Tidepools 2011

Lindsay
Unterseher
Innocence
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50
Alex
Minevich
Tidepools 2011
positive feelings
are crushed by reality
and make squishy sounds
growth is learning that
caffeine will keep you
awake but won’t stop time
do normal people
feel ecstatic simply from
looking at numbers
checking blackboard is the
most dependable way
to induce panic
four month
relationship
with
english 201

Allison Mousevi
Modest Fairytale
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52
Tidepools 2011
Joan
Gerstein
Dear Seurat
Dear Seurat,
Did I know you at 14
in Algebra class
when I drew millions of circles
to stave off boredom?
Surely, I knew you at 25, but did I
think of you, even consider
your influence, when again,
to ward off something,
this time depression, so deep
I sat for hours and hours,
for days, weeks, months,
drawing circles.
No social engagement
nor entertainment wooed me
from these orbs. Only the circular
motion soothed my troubled soul.
You showed colors as they really were,
juxtaposed to create a harmony eluding
me except for the serenity of circles.

My dark period passed.
I emerged from my cocoon
to a cacophony of sounds, sights, society
still intact, eager to join life
except when I picked up pen
I could no longer linger over circles.
What was the point?
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54
Scott
Hicks
Tidepools 2011
My Last Dance
Barry was my pal in high school. He drove his grandma’s
tan ’57 Chevy to school every day from Rancho Santa
Fe, and we used it to double-date and to cruise to
football games and to go drinking and the like.
Somehow in our senior year Barry heard about something
called Spanish Fly. He informed me that it made girls fall
in love with boys right away after they swallowed it, and
that they would tear their own clothes off and demand
that their boyfriends screw them immediately. Barry
managed to get some of the stuff from a Mexican kid in
gym class; we were thereby assured of a fine adventure
the next week after the Homecoming Dance.
I began asking around among my other pals about this
miracle drug that would make girls want me. The guys
would smirk and roll their eyes and make animal sounds
just as if they had personally enjoyed its effects; the lusty
stories they had heard, they insisted, came upon the
strength of good authority.

I asked Janet to the dance, a girl from the drama club
who had never shown a dim fl icker of interest in me. I
wanted her to like me because she was a free-spirit
type, sort of a junior hippie chick; I thought she might
turn out to be a fun companion. Barry invited his regular
girlfriend, Chrissie, and he told me that with her he
probably wouldn’t have to sneak the stuff into her drink
as was usually done, but that she would likely agree to
take it on her own since they had been getting ready
to go all the way anyhow. Barry sold me a little foldedup
paper package about the size of a matchbook
with some dirty-looking powder in it. I asked him if I
should give Janet all of it; he said he didn’t care. The
plan was to get the girls to drink it with the punch at the
dance so they would be hot to trot when the dance
was over and we were ready to get in the Chevy and
go park somewhere. Before we picked the girls up at
their homes, Barry and I stopped by an abandoned
greenhouse to drink a bottle of Wild Turkey, and we
ran around the greenhouse a couple of times because
Barry said it would make our systems absorb the alcohol
quicker.
The dancing was fun even though I didn’t know how
to do them very well. I just sort of hopped around like
a skinny dork. But Janet liked to dance, whirling like a
joyful sprite. However, she would not drink the punch.
She said it had too much white sugar in it and instead
took occasional sips from the water fountain in the gym.
During a break in the dancing I asked her if she had
ever heard of Spanish Fly, and had she ever tried it. The
question wiped the smile off her face instantly, and she
threw me a hard, calculating look that made her look
like a grown-up, and she asked why I wanted to know.
I said for no reason, that I had heard some guys talking
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56
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about it and was just curious, was all. She changed the
subject, and we enjoyed a few more dances, laughed
with some of her girlfriends about the guys’ long necks
and high-water pants, and then the dance was over,
and we all piled into the parking lot behind the gym.
I hadn’t noticed during the dance that Barry and
Chrissie had been dancing much. They mostly sat in the
bleachers cuddling and kissing and knocking back the
punch. After the dance, as we were climbing into his car,
Barry looked at me and raised his eyebrows a couple of
times, which I took for confirmation that Chrissie had, one
way or another, taken her medicine.
While we waited for the traffic in the lot to thin out, we
all talked about what to do next. Janet wanted to go to
the beach and run around. Chrissie, frowning a little, said
she didn’t really feel like doing that but would go along
with the rest of us, whatever. She was sitting slouched
down across from Barry with her head back and her eyes
closed. Barry said, “Let’s go down to Moonlight Beach
"
"He was gasping and blowing;
his fancy ruffled shirt was torn
across his chest, and his face
showed bright dots of red.
and see whether the tide has gone out.” We all said,
“Sure, yeah,” and Barry started up the Chevy and we
went.
It took us about fifteen minutes to get to the ocean, and
we had just turned into the lot at Moonlight Beach when
Chrissie said, “God man, I think I’m gonna be sick.” Janet
said, “What’s the matter?” and Chrissie said that her guts

were churning and maybe she ought to go home. Barry
said, “C’mon, let’s just stay and watch the waves a while,
it’s probably nothing,” but she said in a tight voice that
she was sorry, but she was serious and really wanted to
go home. So we took off again.
By the time we got about a block from Chrissie’s house
she was crying and holding her stomach and making
little gruk-gruk noises in her throat. Barry pulled up in
front of her house and then helped her get out of the car
saying, “Shh, shh, c’mon, c’mon,” and they managed to
get about halfway across the lawn when Chrissie hit her
knees and began throwing up, and then the front screen
door banged open and her parents came charging
down into the yard. They were all four hollering at once
and hopping around and waving their arms. After a
couple minutes of that, Chrissie’s dad turned in a little
circle with his hands over his face and then jumped like a
big spider up on Barry, and when they hit the ground the
old man started laying into him with both fi sts. Chrissie’s
mom helped her daughter to the porch, and they put
their arms around each other and went into the house.
Then the old guy popped to his feet and came running
toward me and Janet sitting silent and transfi xed in the
back seat of the Chevy. He jerked open the door and
hauled me out by the lapels of my rented tuxedo jacket,
right across Janet’s satin lap. I could feel his knuckles
jammed up under my collarbones as he slammed me
against the car, and I could smell his breath and felt
it puff against the skin of my face as he shouted, “Did
you give it to her? Did you give it to her?” I didn’t know
which ‘her’ he was referring to, but I told him no, that I
didn’t give nothing to nobody, and I felt a little unwell
myself because I was suddenly conscious of the drug
packet pressing through my watch pocket against my
belly. I was afraid he would search me and fi nd it, and
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58
Tidepools 2011
then I would be all crumpled up and twitching like Barry.
He shoved me hard against the Chevy again and then
stood back a step, still close enough to punch me if
he took the notion. He was blowing hard through his
nostrils like a horse. He said, “What is wrong with you
sorry sons-of-bitches?” I had heard similar questions in
the past from my own dad, and I knew that there was
never a right answer to them, like when he would ask me,
“Who do you think you are?” so I kept my mouth shut
and watched his eyes and his hands. He was angry as
hell, but he also looked a little confused, as if the turn of
events and their genesis and significance were beyond
his reckoning. Then he said, “Get that son-of-a-bitch out
of my yard,” and he walked into his house. Barry got up
and staggered down the slope to his car, and when he
got there he tripped over the curb and, with his hands on
the front fender, vomited a big blast of red punch into
the gutter. It splashed onto his shiny shoes and the front
tire. He was gasping and blowing; his fancy ruffled shirt
was torn across his chest, and his face showed bright dots
of red.
Maybe we weren’t such good pals after all because we
sort of stopped hanging out together after that. Janet
wanted to know if I had had it in my mind to poison her
like Barry did Chrissie. I told her no, thinking she might still
be able to like me a little, but she never did, and Chrissie
gave me a dirty look every time she saw me from then
on. I didn’t get it. I’d been roughed up and was shorter
by three friends, but I hadn’t done nothing to nobody.
Maybe I just needed to learn to be a better dancer. Or
something, for sure.

Joanne
Carrubba
St. Petersburg Series No. 1:
MUSHROOMS
Tidepools 2011 59

Achievement
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62
I can remember countless times receiving this advice from my
grandparents, parents, mentors and like-minded friends – “to whom
much is given, much is required” – you must pay your D.U.E.S.! For
the most part, I understood this to mean, work hard and be patient.
This admonishment was often shared during some type of major
challenge where a need, want, or desire was delayed according
to my limited point of view. I had grown weary of waiting for my
“just rewards.” My grandmother would offer words of comfort and
wisdom, using such proverbs as, “You will understand it better, by
and by.” Have you paid your D.U.E.S.? You know the ones everyone
says you must pay before your ascent to greatness. No matter the
mentoring advice or the success books, you read one piece of
wisdom that acts as a consistent thread through each voice, the
necessity of paying your D.U.E.S. Most concur that hard work over
time is a part of every worthy achievement. But, why was the dream
taking so long to materialize?
Tidepools 2011
p.s.
perkins
Have you paid your
D.U.E.S.?
“All great achievements require time.”
Maya Angelou
Sound familiar? How many times have you arrived at a juncture
in your journey where feelings of impatience, discouragement,
and doubt encouraged you to turn back from your dream? At
that moment, you were convinced it was a waste of time; just not
worth it; a cruel hoax designed especially for you by the alwaysdemanding,
never-giving universe. You arrived once again at the
crossroads of turn back or keep on keeping on, though your feet
felt encased by concrete. Then fear cries out, “What if it is just a

game; a waiting game with no guarantees that I’ll win?”
Often, you start to feel isolated as if no one could possibly
understand the suffering you are going through. There must
be something terribly wrong with you or the formula, right? It
just cannot be this hard!
"
Before success comes in any man's life,
he's sure to meet with much temporary
defeat and, perhaps some failures. When
defeat overtakes a man, the easiest and
the most logical thing to do is to
quit. That's exactly what the
majority of men do.
Napoleon Hill
"
Yes, you have arrived, as so many before you, at the defi ning
moment of your destiny. And while we all arrive at this juncture
along the road of life, more than a few turn back. What about
you, right now, right at this moment? Is this a paying your D.U.E.S.
moment in your journey? Encarta Dictionary recognizes the
phrase “pay your dues” and defi nes it as “to gain a privilege or
position through hard work or pain.” Athletes can especially relate
to this “no pain, no gain” philosophy of life. We greatly admire
and respect the well-defi ned bodies and precision we witness in
competitive sports. We quickly acknowledge the hard work that
goes into becoming a top athlete. Why should our passions be any
different, require any less diligence, drive, or time?
What about this thing called time? It appears that time and paying
your D.U.E.S. is inextricably connected. Most have heard and come
to understand “time” as an illusion of the material world. Many
discipline themselves to stay in the present moment so that they
will not give into the illusion of time. But as aware as me may be,
the minutes tick by into days, the days into months, the months
into years and time often takes its toll. The waiting game becomes
solidifi ed by our ever-demanding desires. But why shouldn’t we
expect quick results in a society that urges us to expect immediate
gratifi cation of our “good” deeds (not the “bad” ones of course).
Never mind the poor decisions, the mishaps, or the detours taken
that often stretch out the road before us. Growing up, we are told
that there are tools essential to success. We spend the time building
our dreams following the “manuals” of life with the tools life offers.
We read the books, follow the dogmas, take the classes, acquire
Tidepools 2011 63

64
the degrees, and engage in the apprenticeships all in our quests to
achieve our “just rewards.” These processes appear to go on for a
lifetime and THEN we wait!
"
Tidepools 2011
“He that can have patience can have what he will.”
Benjamin Franklin
Have you noticed that no one is immune from this conditional
law of success? What sometimes appears as “instant success” is
usually a lack of clear insight into what went on behind the scenes
of victory. We just witnessed the amazing accomplishment of
24-year-old Olympic champion Michael Phelps. Phelps won eight
gold-medals at the 2008 Beijing Olympics and holds seven world
records in swimming! But he’s so young! Surely, he had to be the
luckiest person on the planet or born with a “silver spoon” in his
mouth affording him all the best life had to offer. Well, let’s take a
closer look. Michael was diagnosed at an early age with attention
deficit/hyperactivity disorder. He began to swim at age seven as
a way to engage this energy and join his sisters in their passion. His
parents divorced when he was nine years old. His coaches share
that he trained daily for nine years straight in order to prepare as
an Olympic athlete. Nine years, everyday – holidays, birthdays,
EVERYDAY! Yes, he paid his D.U.E.S.
"
I've failed over and over and over again
in my life and that is why I succeed.
Michael JordAn
Examine the political and life struggles of President Abraham
Lincoln; the multitude of times Moses exhorted Pharaoh to let his
people go; the determination of Harriett Tubman to free slaves
through the Underground Railroad; and the drive of Tiger Woods
to become the greatest golfer in world history! They are more than
their stories. They are the ones that stayed the course through the
illusion of time and failure. They all paid their D.U.E.S. Greatness, true
freedom, and real genius requires it of everyone desiring to travel
the road of self-discovery to his or her destiny.
“I have just three things to teach: simplicity, patience, compassion.
These three are your greatest treasures.”
Lao Tzu

Maybe it is time for you and me to reexamine the resistance
we often feel and express when it comes to paying our D.U.E.S.
Maybe its time to embrace the lessons, the wisdom, and the
glory that comes with time, patience, and endurance. No
matter the goal, the desire, the dream, or the passion, be ready
to Discover Understanding Essential to Success! Your genius is
waiting to happen, but it is a journey of discovery. It is a journey
into understanding. It is a journey essential to your success! So go
ahead, have the courage, the determination, and the faith to pay
your D.U.E.S.!
Progress
Allison
Mousevi
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66
Sarah
LopezPh.D.
It will Grow, Never Doubt It
As I was pondering the word ‘grow’ I realized that it’s far easier to
describe the process in nature than in human nature. Yes, we sense
when someone grows physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually,
but to really say when or how it happened, is often mysterious.
Learning to sing is much the same. As with many skills that involve
the coordination of body, mind and spirit, the process of growth
through music can teach us much about ourselves and others.
Learning to sing depends completely on one thing: desire. Deep
inside us is a craving, a reflex (á la Julie Andrews singing, “The hills
are alive…”). Even the slightest inclination to open up and let go
can spark “The Voice”. Over the years I’ve learned to recognize
and appeal to the potential within that exists in everyone. There’s
a song from the musical The Secret Garden, composed by Lucy
Simon (Carly’s sister), where the gardener describes how a plant
that seems dead has enough life-force hiding dormant inside it, it
has “wick.”
Tidepools 2011
When a thing is wick it has a light around it
maybe not a light that you can see
but hiding down below a spark’s asleep inside it
just waiting for the right time to be seen.

This semester my voice class and I had a treat. This class had a
good crop of students. Many were talented, some experienced…
and all seemed motivated. Most had that burning fl ame of desire
to sing, a spark that if fanned, would bring the voice out in the
open, just as each one imagined. As we began the process of
improving our voices, little did we know that the classmate who
would inspire us most had never even sung a note or a melody.
Sitting in the back row under a wide brimmed safari hat was
Andreas, a ghetto man, slouching shyly, with a soft smile and
sparkling eyes that said, “I’d like to learn.”
I’d taught many students like him – those who can only sing one or
two notes. In their past, a nun, sibling or parent might have glared,
insulted or poked, leaving frozen voices afraid to offend. Yet the
desire to make music with their voices lingered, and as adults now
they came, pleading, “Please help me…I’m stuck…I’m afraid… to
sing.”
Andreas had never even tried to sing. Growing up, his family never
listened to music, except for gospel music in church. His father
forbade him to listen to “devil” music like Hip Hop and Rap. So,
Andreas’ hunger for music lay dormant. When I asked him what
music he listens to now, he chimed, “Anything I can get my ears
around.” He wrote in his fi rst journal entry:
“As far as concepts that inspire me, I'm new to this, so all of it is new and
interesting to me. I'm not used to this side of music. I grew up not being
allowed to listen to the music that I wanted to listen to, and the music that
my parents wanted me to listen to, I wouldn't. So that was that. And now I'm
inspired by it all.”
Each semester I begin my college voice class with a description
of the ear as the antenna for sound and balance. “Your body is
your instrument and your voice knows how to sing,” I tell the class.
Most students have never thought about the ear as an organ for
controlling the voice. They listen intently. I describe how posture
dictates how well you sing and that the evolution of the ear from
reptiles to humans refl ects the orientation of our bodies. “Reptiles
have the vestibular part of the ear, controlling body and balance.
It processes the low frequencies we feel in our bodies. That’s why
Tidepools 2011 67

68
they’re on the ground, so they can feel the vibrations with their
bodies. The addition of a single cochlea allows birds to get off
the ground through their ability to see and chirp. Mammals and
humans are able to orient upright in space because of their threedimensional
cochlea, allowing them to move and communicate
through sound waves we cannot see but can hear.”
Sound processing has made us stand up and listen. “We call out
to someone, and they answer.” Teasingly I said to the class, “only
reptiles and rappers have to feel the ground (bass) to know where
they are.” Worried I might have offended some of the rappers’
choice of music, I look at Andreas. He smiles. Little did I know
this new awareness of the importance of the ear and its direct
relationship to posture for singing would send him searching for the
truth of my statements, and in the one place he’d avoided as a
teenager: his parent’s music. Andreas’ Journal:
Since I have started school I already feel like I'm listening better than I have
been before. I'm listening to music and trying to see if the beats and the
tone of the song match the singer or rapper speaking the lyrics. I also look
at the posture of the men or women that sing, some that I haven't heard
before and I've gone back to people that I like and I look at how they are
in relation to what I'm learning now. I'm even giving music a chance that I
wouldn't have given a second thought to before.
He’d never raised his voice or expressed emotion through his
voice. In fact, when I asked him to yell, he couldn’t. He said he
was reprimanded in the army for not being able to yell. Now it was
my challenge to help this young man grow to his full capacity, to
realize his dream of singing. A martial artist, he’d conditioned and
disciplined himself to the point that he had no feeling in his forearms
or quads. Open and trusting to my guidance, he began to follow
my instruction. “Can you lift your ribs?” He couldn’t. I had never
met anyone with such disconnect in the torso. For singing, the
torso is the resonant center of pitch and emotion – the heart. I tried
again. “You go to the gym. Can you contract your lats and pecs?”
He did, a little sheepishly. “OK, that’s a start.” He needed support,
Tidepools 2011

so I asked a fellow classmate to sing with a low voice into his right
ear.
I coached: ‘higher, higher.’ Let “The Voice” go while you descend
deeper, like roots in the ground grow. Hunker down and let
bellow while ribs stay afl oat. “Voilá -magic!” Can you believe?
You’resinging a note!
Together we worked, fi rst one note, then two, and fi nally last week,
a phrase of the song: “Come Ready and See Me…No matter how
late,” a song about longing for the return of a loved one. Could
he have subconsciously chosen a song that expressed his hope
for the return of his lost voice? “Now sing straight ahead,” and to
everyone’s surprise he was singing the song! The class erupted in
applause. Not only in appreciation for his success, his courage and
his concerted effort, but also in recognition that his triumph was
theirs as well.
“That was weird,” said Andreas softly, amazed at the sound.“That
sounded awful!” “Oh no!” cried the class, on their feet with
excitement. “It was awesome, quite something. You’re singing at
last.” “But I heard such a screech, rattles, crinkles and pops.”
“I’ll explain how it works: That’s the sound of the overtones as they
ring out the top! When breath gets compressed, with a small stream
of air, it vibrates the sound ringing right through your hair! Like being
in an engine room the sounds that you hear
are not heard by the audience’s ear.”
Andreas refl ected, “OK, I guess I’ll trust… “The Voice”… it feels
good. I’ll stop listening inside and project out ahead, to the sound,
that resonates the whole room instead.”
Through the semester I continued to encourage him and when he
fell short of the note he’d try again. With the partner singing in his
right ear (it gets to the brain fi rst); I described the direction where
his attention should go, often opposite of where the voice will end
up. I am in awe of the students who don’t know they know and
try to make a connection. Is that growth? The journey’s the lesson
and the reward. The voice: the teacher. I always say, I am a mere
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70
jester, stimulating activity that will “lead you to trust and support
your voice.”
As the gardener said in “Wick:”
*You clear away the dead parts so the tender buds can form
loosen up the earth and let the roots get warm. When a thing is
wick it has a way of knowing when it’s safe to grow again you’ll see.
When there’s sun and water sweet enough to feed it, it will climb up
through the earth a pale new green…
It’s funny how one’s perception of growing or developing a skill is
often counter-intuitive. To sing, one must separate one’s self from
the voice. (It’s the process not the goal.) The voice is already up
there, while you stay down below. “Don’t follow the pitch. Grow
roots down instead.” Andreas’ voice turned out to be quite big
even though he’d never raised his chest to find out. Now he’s
writing and singing his own songs (with melodies) in styles ranging
from blues and folk to pop, as a music major.
Underneath his slouch and mild demeanor, I could see
Andreas had “wick.” No one would suspect he had a deep voice
that could sing. ‘Chest up! Tuck the tail!’ He let out a roar, singing
“Come Ready and See Me,” filling timber to floor.
*When a thing is wick and someone cares about it,
And comes each day to work the earth below,
It will live it will and you must never doubt it.
For all through the darkest night-time, it’s waiting for the right time.
When a thing is wick it will grow.
Tidepools 2011
*****
*Norman, Marsha and Lucy Simon. 1991. The Secret Garden.
ABCDE Publishing LTD and Calougie Music, WB Music Corp.

Reaching for the Sky
Becky
Kessab
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72
JENNIFER
west
Tidepools 2011
Betty's Part Time Job

I get gigs through a guy named John Smith. It’s okay. I had the
clown outfi t from a fundraiser I did way back when the kids were
in elementary school. And it’s paid under the table, so I don’t
hafta pay taxes on the income. I like being around kids—so, I
fi gure, why not? At fi rst I was worried, because well, you know—
“under the table” is against the law. But, ya know?—I’ve been a
law abiding tax payer for alotta years now and what has it gotten
me? It got me, Betty Truhan, laid off after 20 years of faithful service
to the city. A clerk, that’s all I ever wanted to do, I didn’t bother
anybody, just did my job—and then, all of a sudden— Whack! I’m
let go. Me and my honesty aren’t good enough anymore. So, you
know what? Screw 'em. Screw 'em all. This world is run by thugs
anyway. Politicians are just dressed up criminals. Us regular Joes
and Josephines will never get ahead, cuz they won’t let us. I see
so many people break the rules—cheatin’— and gettin’ away
with it. So why not me? . . . Yeah, why not me? Anyways, so I put
on my clown suit and go to the interview in the parking lot of the
Arby’s. There are a couple dozen of us. It’s kinda fun, cuz nobody
can tell who you are under the costume; we’re free to act like,
well—clowns. A man named John Smith from Springfi eld is holdin’
the interviews, which turn out to be more like auditions. He hires four
of us—all ladies in our 60's, outta work and single. We've already
raised our kids and we all love the thought of being around kid's
parties again. So—John brings us each a soda and we sign some
papers. Then he gives us these little black bags. The bags are for
handing out the weekly assignments, and other things John says
might come up.
It's been fun. I've been to about two parties a week for the past six
months. The pay's great! And sometimes the party hostess gives
us a tip too—on top of our pay! The hostesses are so sweet and old
fashioned—they always send John a beautiful wrapped thank you
gift—for sending me to them. (Chuckle) Some of the clients love
me so much that they have me come back again and again—for
their nieces, nephews, grandchildren, neighbor kids. They just love
Tidepools 2011 73

74
clowning around, I guess. (Chuckle) Sorry, but I do love this job. All
of the clients have been so generous and kind. It makes me feel
real good. I'm still kinda nervous about being paid under the table
though. The only time I've broken the law is when I got a speeding
ticket back in '75, when my nephew Sammy was born. But, how
else can I survive, really? Nobody seems to want to hire old people
anymore—not with so many younger people with college degrees
and that hi-tech knowledge. And, of course, everyone likes having
the energy of youth around—and the pretty faces that go with it.
That's one thing about my clown gig—nobody can see my face.
That's pretty nifty.
We four part time clown ladies meet John at different locations
every week. That John, he certainly is a busy man. His different
companies are all over the county, and he never knows when he’ll
be where, so he calls us on these re-fillable cell phones he got for
us at the Walmart. He’s just so considerate that way. He doesn’t
want us to run up our own phone bills, so he provides them for us.
Hmm. I think John does very well for himself, his clothes are high
quality and he drives real nice cars. So, like I was saying, we all meet
once a week—at the different places in North County. We give
John the black bags with his little gifts from the clients—he empties
the bags into his trunk and fills them with our pay and a list of gigs
for the next week. We ladies decided to tie different colored bows
on our bags, so we didn’t get ‘em mixed up. Mine’s turquoise,
Joann has magenta, Susan is chartreuse and Cindy is golden. John
calls mine green. That’s so cute. He must be a little color blind. My
husband was color blind too. John thinks that the color coding idea
is industrious and he calls us ‘sweet old dolls’. He teases us by saying
that if we get any smarter he’ll have to get other jobs for us to do.
I imagine a person could climb his corporate ladder, the same as
any other. I wonder if the pay would be legitimate then? Hmm . . .
That might be better.
Anyway, last week the hostess on Meyer Road gives me a wrapped
gift for John, like usual, and then another woman at the party give
me a gift for John that’s not wrapped. I want to ask her about it,
but she puts it in my bag and shoves me out the door. She’s not
Tidepools 2011

very nice about it, but maybe it’s a secret or a surprise . . . maybe
she didn’t want the hostess to know about it. Like, when Joann
tips at lunch, I always put down more money, because I know she
doesn’t tip well. But—I don’t want to embarrass Joann—so I do it
on the sly. Well, this particular gift is an old fashioned embossed
tin of powder. You know, the kind with a powder puff inside? My
mom and grandma used to use ‘em. I’ve not seen one in years. I
don’t think it’ll bother anyone, so I pull it open and take a sniff. But,
either they changed the fragrance formula, or my nose is on the
blink. What little scent it has reminds me of a doctor’s offi ce. What
a disappointment. I must tell John to be sure and not give this to
anyone he likes, because this is poor quality talc. Maybe I should
stop by the Walmart and get some nicer smelling stuff. I don’t think I
have time though.
My, my, this package is so pretty . . . prettier than I remember it
being. In fact, the golden colors seem to shimmer so brightly now.
This is the most beautiful little container! I wonder why I had not
noticed it before? Maybe people buy it just for the pretty box.
You know, this little box is so exquisite, it would be a good jewelry
box—for your most precious pieces. This box is a beauty. In fact,
everything is better today—the world seems happier and brighter. I
think I must be having one of those enlightened states of mind that
my therapist told me about. This is magnifi cent! The steering wheel
is an excellent invention—and my little car is going so fast! I feel like
I did when I was in high school! Pleasant, happy, special . . . these
"
That's one thing
about my clown
gig nobody can
"
see my face.
Tidepools 2011 75

76
words are not big enough for how good I feel! Must be the ocean
air recharging me today. Ah . . . I wish I could feel this way more
often. Life is good!
When we meet with John I tell him about the unwrapped gift and
that I sniffed it. I tell him about how sorry I am that I intruded on his
stuff, but that I’m sure he won’t mind, considering my nostalgia and
all. He gives me this big ol' smile, pulls me close to him and gives
me a bear hug. He tells me that he don’t mind at all. He says I’m his
special girl and that I should wait after we’re finished with business
today cuz he wants to talk to me when the others have gone . . .
that he has something special for me.
Oh—my—goodness! Maybe he’s got other jobs for me—the special
jobs! I’m so excited. This part time clown gig is really going places.
Tidepools 2011

Standing Tall
Kathleen
Brickner
Tidepools 2011 77

78
Tidepools 2011
chad
TSUYUKI
THE NORTH AMERICAN
TWINKie CHALLENGE

Fuko Miyamoto held two Twinkies in the air. The crowd roared. “We
love you, Fuko!” Even the judges smiled. She shoved both of the
cream-fi lled snacks into her mouth, packing each cheek, before
taking a drink and swallowing #276. She was one step closer to
becoming the fi rst woman to win the North American Twinkie
Challenge.
All her training—the water intake drills, the gastronomy research, the
intense breathing exercises designed to relax the stomach—all of it
was paying off, and Fuko could hear it from the crowd, those loyal
fans who came from all corners to watch the Japanese woman
from Osaka eat Twinkies.
One of the judges rang the two-minute bell. Big Jim Thompson,
Fuko’s fi erce rival from Dallas, panicked. He went for a three-pack
and began to choke. The crowd gasped. Fuko leaned over and
saw Jim’s hands clutched around his throat.
Well ahead, she walked over to Big Jim and shook her head like a
disappointed mother. She took the remaining Twinkies on his plate
and stunned the crowd with an unprecedented four-pack. While
testing the limits of the human cheek, Fuko began the Heimlich. She
was not even half the size of Big Jim, but her arms were long and
her experience was clear. As the bell sounded, Big Jim coughed up
the yellow wad and Fuko swallowed the four-pack, the python-like
lump inching down her throat.
The old rival grabbed her wrist, held it up to the sky, and screamed,
“Fuko!” Then he began to cry. He fell to his knees and took both of
her hands.
“Please,” he said, “Please, teach me. Teach me how to eat like
you.” The crowd was silent. No one, not even his wife, Big Sally, had
ever seen him in this light.
Fuko looked down at this Viking of a man, this American whose belly
inspired stories of buffet records and BBQ legends.
“I can learn,” Big Jim said. “It would be a great honor to learn from
you.”
Fuko smiled, placed a Twinkie in Big Jim’s hand, and said nothing.
Tidepools 2011 79

Clarity
Tidepools 2011

82
Clifton
King
Tidepools 2011
Wanting Her
We did not change as we grew older;
we just became more clearly ourselves.
Lynn Hall
Sometimes, when my heart aches,
I climb that bluff along
Coast Highway, watch the sea,
in whatever mood she might be,
toss waves against shore, white
foam spread across the sand
like frosting on a cake.
This morning her waters inky
gray mirror clouds dark enough
to pass as an Oregon sky.
And always the gulls,
their incessant pleading.
True, there was another that held
my heart, and, dare I say soul,
in the mechanical clatter
of pistons and valves; under
the spell of two wheels balanced
between exhilaration and disaster.

At night I dreamt of the speed,
blind corners on forest roads,
the last few feet of an unconquered
hillside. But those were days
of a young man unconcerned,
oblivious to his own mortality.
I cannot recall what happened,
which paramour I chased so long
before that time.
But now,
nearing my seventh decade,
all I want is the sea
and
a woman of poetry.
Tidepools 2011 83

84
Joanne
D'Amato
The Planting of Trees
My father honored the birth of each of his children
with the planting of a tree. I, the eldest, a green apple,
grew on a rise to the far side of the yard where soft
breezes unwrapped tall grass from heaven’s clouds.
I grew from a bud to bloom, whisper of pink, a turn
to fruit, still too tart. Is this the year I will taste sweet?
These things take time, Dad would say . . .
Be patient the rest will follow.
With the arrival of my first brother came a maple,
planted some distance away. On a hot summer day
he would shade the slate patio. He grew fast,
his shadows long, limbs sturdy but not from the storm
that split him in two. Branches broken, shattered glass
came to rest on the kitchen floor. I watched as my father
used a thick black liquid to graft his trunk. Will he live?
Dad’s reply: With care, the rest will follow.
An imposing snowy day welcomed my second brother.
That spring a Chinese crab apple was sown into the lawn,
its leaves the color of purple plums. We moved before
the last of my brothers could grow with us. He would stand
on his own, a white birch in new ground, a decade apart.
I looked on as my father smoothed the rich earth around
the tender young roots. That day I understood his wisdom,
his own private ceremony, in the planting of trees.
Tidepools 2011

Kathleen
Brickner
Flourish
Tidepools 2011 85

86
Jennifer
West
The Tall Man
The tall man at the bar is wearing a green suit, the Army dress
greens, I guess you call them. He towers over the room; must be
6’5” or so. The bartender is pouring him Wild Turkey, straight up.
He's surveying the room as he sucks down the smoke from his
Camel; every inch of the bar carefully observed. He looks calm and
confident. Confident? - Maybe it’s more than confident – there’s a
strange intimidating sort of look hiding behind his easy smile – like
maybe he knows something I don’t.
He moseys across the room and joins the others at the television,
cheering the football game. Beneath his cocky wit is a good
knowledge of the game, and he is not shy telling others why his
team will win. As the brightness on the television changes I can see
that he has light brown hair, (some might call it dirty blond), worn
in military fashion, and light eyes surrounded by dark lashes and
brows. His skin is tanned and smooth. Edgy jokes are flowing from
him like the smoke from his cigarette. He skillfully banters with his
new acquaintances, his laughter is pleasant and from the belly.
I order another martini and notice that the decibel level at the bar
is rising. I was comfortably eavesdropping from my corner booth,
but now I'm straining to recognize words through this roar. Someone
Tidepools 2011

is yelling about George Bush; I hear a buzz of words – Iraq,
Afghanistan, Iran. There is a handful of Army guys in the bar, and a
dozen or so people in civilian clothes. The mood grows angrier until
the tall man yells something that quiets some of the voices; enough
for me to realize that he is telling them about the war in Iraq – about
what he saw there. There are still a few grumblers and hecklers, but
most folks are listening to him now. Even the people in the booths
and tables have turned to watch; the bartenders are wiping their
bar ware as they stare expectantly at the storyteller. Somebody
turns off the television.
The bar is silent now, except for him. He is describing the body of
his best friend, his buddy and partner for 18 months, after being
blown up by a roadside bomb. The details are gruesome and
someone begins to cry, someone else tells the tall man to stop.
But, he doesn’t stop. He has set his jaw and his eyes are glassy; it
looks to me as if he cannot stop. He stands, his torso expanding
and contracting dramatically as he throws his voice deeply – from
the gut. The dark tones enhance the tragedy of his words. The
other servicemen in the bar have gathered near him in support.
His knowledge and rational intelligence are brilliant as he argues
his points; righteous anger fi lls the room and some of the crowd
shrinks away. As he fi nishes speaking, his presence begins to shrink;
he leans against a bar stool, his posture droops, head bows to the
left, eyes glaze. The crowd begins its murmur again, when a chubby
sweaty man sitting at a table near me chuckles and lightheartedly
asks him, “So, did you get to shoot anybody?" The tall man raises his
head and breathes a heavy sigh. He lights another cigarette and
takes a drag before standing. As he crosses the room towards the
sweaty man's table I see heartache in his eyes. I expect him to go
into a tirade, or hit the guy. He leans across the sweaty man's table
and quietly tells him – "You're a horse's ass".
Tidepools 2011 87

88
Clifton
King
Healing Waters
Adversity proceeds growth.
Rosemarie Rossetti
We sit in the shade of a gnarled coastal pine
this summer look-alike November day.
A line of pelicans stitch clouds to sky
above these sea scarred bluffs of Del Mar.
The bite of rotting kelp, sweetness of sunscreen,
and ocean mist memories fill our afternoon.
Evening catches me at my desk, a trained rat
trapped in the maze, where I stumble upon
my divorce decree, still not filed away after
seven years. I toss it aside, this now inoffensive
missive, the stench of consequence
Tidepools 2011
washed away by the river of time.

Nick
Pourfard
Teenage Angst
Tidepools 2011 89

90
Clifton
King
Tidepools 2011

We Were There
It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.
e.e. cummings
We were there in The Haight, fl owers in our hair, beads
around our neck, doe-eyed girls bared their breasts,
brandished bras; boys, not yet men, burned draft cards,
numbers in the devil’s lottery, political punishment
for being born.
We were there when napalm obliterated human decency,
burned babies in their mother’s arms, denied innocence
to those still in the womb.
We were there to see the oxidized eyes of dead come home
in boxes draped in broken promises; to hear dirges sung
like lullabies, lyrics that languished, lost graveside,
names resurrected decades later, etched on the headstone
of history.
We were there, but turned away from that pile of bones,
left our failures to rot in rice paddies,
in undefeated jungles.
We were there that Friday in Dallas, heard the shots,
saw everything, saw nothing, watched a nation’s dreams
explode, puddle on the hot pavement.
We were there when chants rose like prayers
into the Memphis air, black and white brothers at last,
brothers at last, then the angry retort of smoke and lead.
Martin dead.
We were there at Kent State. Protest, Nixon, Cambodia,
open fi re, fi ght back with your books.
We were there. We survived.
Today, we think the same thoughts of the soul.
Tidepools 2011 91

Transition
Tidepools 2011

94
anne marye
Risher
dytewski
Tidepools 2011

The Window Box
Another spring and mother plants fl owers in the window box.
She plants pansies every year, and always the same colors;
burgundy, purple, and yellow.
Mother buys planters, not seeds.
You don’t have to wait to enjoy them, she says.
My job is to water daily and not to spill when I tilt the container.
I pinch the brown petals, and look for unwelcome visitors like
insects.
The fl owers are like pets, but not as much trouble.
I am careful when opening the window since the couch rests
against the ledge.
Mother says that’s why I’m in charge because I’m small enough
to kneel on the sofa, and tall enough to balance the watering can.
Every morning, I wake up to see beautiful fl owers waiting for
me like baby birds in a nest.
Sometimes, I feed the pansies which help them grow.
When it rains they drink the drops.
When summer comes, I say goodbye to my friends.
I know next spring I’ll make new ones, but I’m still sad.
It’s like when my granddad dies. Mother says, fl owers are
not like people when they go away because they come back.
I can’t wait until next year.
Maybe winter won’t last long
Tidepools 2011 95

96
Tidepools 2011
Delores
Loedel
colossal

closing rectifi cation
After you were gone, I began to follow people
with beautiful mouths.
A janitor with lips opening and closing
like a dark moth jerking into the light.
A woman with mauve lipstick, eating a corndog
by the lavender and Ferris wheel.
A toucan at the zoo, clucking as it slid
down the bars, the heaviness of its head
twisting its body upside down.
I would fi nd you
by fi nding the most detestable thing about you
in other people.
I never had the attention span to hear your stories.
Never had the patience to love you like you wanted.
This is normal.
Other people come out of relationships unloved too.
Other people die unsatisfi ed,
leaving everyone around them
feeling guilty.
When you died, I spent a long time telling people
that we weren’t meant for each other.
I spent a long time writing
stories of unrequited love,
from your point of view.
The ending a splatter of teeth and light.
laura
bender
Tidepools 2011 97

98
Robin Galen
Kilrain
Bittersweet
Pat’s cream cheese brownies were still slightly warm when she
surged through the back door into our house with them. The smell
was irresistible. At first bite, the swirled treat definitely seemed worth
the risk of sneaking seconds. So, before I followed Pat from the
kitchen, I snagged another.
Remaining on the counter next to the pan, her recipe promised a
sweet future. But presumed promises can be broken; perceptions
and tastes, altered. Even those thought absolute can change form.
Like melting chocolate.
Melt together 4 ounces Baker’s Sweet Baking Chocolate; 3
tablespoons butter.
As the physical therapist treating my mother’s multiple sclerosis, Pat
Stevens made weekly Tuesday evening house calls. I dug hanging
out with her. She treated me, just turning twelve that summer, like
a grown-up. She even let me help with the exercises: As Mom lay
on the bed, I’d hold one of her legs down straight while Pat bent
the other knee. Come 7:30, though, I’d show my age by racing into
Tidepools 2011
"
. . . But presumed promises
"
can be broken . . .

the den to watch The Monkees TV show. Even the fun of hanging
out with Pat couldn’t keep me from drooling over that pre-Fab Four
as they performed their silliness and songs. Pat would have had to
hold down my own legs to keep me from catching their antics each
week.
Cream remaining 2 tablespoons butter; 3 ounces cream cheese.
Add ¼ cup sugar. Stir in 1 egg; 1 tablespoon unsifted fl our; ½
teaspoon vanilla.
I looked up to Pat. In her twenties, she was cool, independent. She
rode a motorcycle. I didn’t care what kind; that didn’t matter. What
did matter was that she took me for a ride once, down to where our
road came to a dead end, and back again. A trip that was over
much too soon. One evening, while Pat and I put my mom through
her paces, a neighbor boy decided he’d take her bike for a ride
too, “hiding” it in his driveway—directly across from our house—
when he had fi nished his forbidden fun. Pat laughed it off and
didn’t call the cops. Cool.
Pat was also an animal lover. She had a small dog, and she raised
rabbits. Soon after she had offered me a bunny, little Bundy took
over our screened porch. Except for the white blaze on his nose,
my new pet’s fur was a deep, warm brown. Much the color of
Baker’s chocolate. And of Pat’s wavy hair, which came down to
her shoulders when she tugged off her helmet. And of Bundy’s and
Pat’s eyes, hers behind rather thick glasses.
In a separate bowl, beat remaining 2 eggs. Add ¾ cup sugar.
Fold in ½ teaspoon baking powder; ¼ teaspoon salt; ½ cup fl our.
Blend in cooled chocolate mixture. Stir in ½ cup chopped nuts;
¼ teaspoon almond extract; 1 teaspoon vanilla. Measure 1 cup
chocolate batter.
Tidepools 2011 99

100
One Tuesday, Pat excitedly described plans for an upcoming
weekend camping trip.
On Sunday, I heard more details about that outing—while watching
the little television in the kitchen with my parents. Someone on the
local news somberly reported that Pat, her fiancé, and her dog had
drowned. So far, they had found only her fiancé.
Set aside.
They had been canoeing. The weather had changed suddenly.
Their boat capsized.
Set aside.
Set aside.
Impossible! Pat was athletic and a strong swimmer. “It must be
another Pat Stevens” was all I could say, all my young mind, blown
by the news, could come up with. Certainly on Tuesday night, in
this very room, our Pat would tell us she was sorry we’d worried for
nothing. Then, she’d . . .
Set aside.
Set aside.
Set aside.
My parents didn’t share my fantasy that Pat would, as always, arrive
that week. And they didn’t want us to be caught waiting—and
thinking about why. Even though it was before the days of TiVo and
VCRs, as 7:30 Tuesday night came and went, I was actually glad
to be at a restaurant rather than in the den while my favorite show
aired.
Ready or not . . .
Tidepools 2011

Pat’s body was recovered a few days later. They never found her
dog, a spaniel I think.
I’d been pushed one giant step closer to being the grown-up Pat
had treated me as.
Spread remaining batter into greased 9-inch cake pan. Pour
cheese mixture over batter. Drop tablespoons of reserved
chocolate batter on top. Swirl together to marble (memories, both
bitter and sweet). Bake 35 minutes, 350 degrees. Let cool.
I still keep Pat’s recipe, but it remains unmade, set aside. Decades
older and wiser than on that summer evening I became intrigued
by the baked-in swirls, I have yet to fully acquire a taste for things
bittersweet—such as the oxymora of sweet baking chocolate and a
guaranteed future.
Tidepools 2011 101

102
Tidepools 2011
No. 3715
Joanne
CarrubBa

Sara JOY
Kriesel
Wings
It started as small dahlias
of pain blooming
at each point
of bone
from the scapula's center
unfurled a fi re
genesis unknown
worsening with every
passing moon
red welts showed themselves
and shied from touch
she knew, she knew
what was coming
did not slink
away like a dog
to die.
Head against the
wall - palm
tripping over
the shoulder blades
fi ssure as the
fi re's fl ames engulfed her
no angel came
to oversee
if she could
survive it.
Awakened by their
sound
fl utter like the doves
back on Saint Mark's Place
the plumage white
well-suited to her
unclothed, curled on the tile
the absence of
pain, the quiet
sound as she tried out
the new feathers.
" "
. . . no angel came . . .
Tidepools 2011 103

104
Tidepools 2011
Becky
Kessab
Roses in bloom

Index of
Contributors
Laura Bender 40, 97
Laura lives with her fiancé and his family and has
begun to submit and publish in small presses this
year. She was recently nominated for a Pushcart
prize, but is sure not to win, at least not this year.
Kathleen Brickner 77, 85
Kathleen is a student at MiraCosta College
Marta Capdevila 24, 30
I’m an 18 year old student from Barcelona, Spain
who came to California to study English and enjoy
this completely different and wonderful place. I
attended high school in Barcelona and took the
humanities way. Now I’m studying at MiraCosta
Community College to pursue a degree in
journalism.
Joanne Carrubba 35, 59, 102
Joanne has been a photographer most of her life.
She has been teaching Art History at MiraCosta on
and off for the past five years, and has recently
begun experimenting with photographic methods
and media.
Joanne D Amato 84
Writing poetry and fiction, drawing with simple
graphite, growing sweet basil……Isn’t life grand!
Anne Marye Risher Dytewski 94
I’m a late bloomer. The spark was my son, who
asked a question. I responded in poetry. The
seed is my mother and grandmother, who wrote
poetry. The support is from my husband, who is my
inspiration.
Tidepools 2011 105

106
Andrew Freedman 36
Andrew is an associate faculty member at
MiraCosta College.
Jenai R. Frison 7
I am Jenai Rakail Frison and I am still trying to figure
out what exactly that means. I have just recently
moved to Carlsbad, all for a change of scenery. I
am in school for Business, and according to my ten
year plan; I will have a successful restaurant built
from the ground up…by me!
Joan Gerstein 38, 52
Joni Gerstein, currently a student in Victoria
Featherstone’s Creative Writing class, is a retired
special education teacher, program specialist and
principal. She is also an artist, working mostly with
mosaics and fabrics.
Teresa Gonzalez Lee 28
Teresa and her poetry were born in Chile. Her
bilingual poetry is now being used in Spanish classes
in the USA and abroad. She writes what she calls
“Accessible Poetry”. This means a poetry that is
published on-line at www.miracosta.edu/poesia.
Here, voice sounds, text in Spanish with English
translations alternate. This permits any student to
glide and enter into her world of poetry.
Hicks worked for ten years at MiraCosta College as
an English/ESL tutor. Currently he carves wood and
does ceramic sculpture in Encinitas.
Tidepools 2011
Scott Hicks 54

Becky Kessab 25, 71, 104
Becky has worked at MiraCosta College since
December 2004. She is currently an instructional
division secretary at the San Elijo Campus.
She likes creating artwork and taking photos
in her spare time.
Robin Galen Kilrain 98
Kilrain likes the term wordsmith, especially when it
applies to her. Among her favorite word-related
hats are the two she wears at MiraCosta:
grammar tablarian at the Writing Center and
copy editor for Reflections.
Clifton King 82, 88, 90
I am a widely published California poet. My work
has appeared in anthologies, literary journals and
online. I live and surf in Carlsbad.
Sara Joy Kriesel 103
Sara Kriesel was born and raised in Minneapolis, MN.
She came to live in San Diego in 2002. She enjoys
cooking, reading, and spending time with her two
dogs at the beach. She is currently pursuing a BA in
art history.
Delores Loedel 21, 96
Delores is an Associate Faculty member at
MiraCosta College.
Sarah Lopez, Ph.D . 66
Dr. Sarah Lopez has taught Voice at MiraCosta
since 1986. She received her Bachelor’s and
Master’s degrees from USC in Voice Performance,
and her Ph.D. from UCSD. Dr. Lopez combines
modern techniques with classical Bel Canto training,
adapting “secrets” and wisdom of the past to
technological demands of today’s singers.
Tidepools 2011 107

108
Kia is a student at MiraCosta College. She enjoys
painting in her free time.
Kia Magnani 12
Alex Minevich 50
Alex is an artist currently living in San Francisco. His
current favorite food is cucumber.
Curry Mitchell 42
Curry Mitchell is a husband, father, teacher, reader,
gamer, and part time social disturbance enthusiast.
Allison Mousevi 11, 34, 51, 65
I am a 19 year old 2nd year MiraCosta College
student about to transfer to a four-year university
in the fall.
Sarah Myers grew up on the east coast. She now
lives in Encinitas and works in Cardiff. She has had
previous publications in the Sunken Garden Poetry
Festival, the Magee Park Poetry Anthology, and her
first novel, “The Ripping Sequence”
(Diskus Publishing).
Sarah Myers 17
Natalie Nutman 4
I am currently living in Solana Beach. I work at a
noodle restaurant to support my creative endeavors.
We’ll see what happens next.
Tidepools 2011

P.S. Perkins is an associate faculty member of
the MiraCosta Communications Department. A
published author, she enjoys writing short stories,
poetry, articles and books on a variety of themes.
Most prevalent in her work is her focus on how
communication is the key to realizing the power and
passion we all possess!
P.S. Perkins 62
Nick Pourfard 89
I find photography to be quite enjoyable.
Shauna Schuette 26
Shauna is a 26 year old female, from Green Bay,
Wisconsin. She has been living in Oceanside for
6 years now. She attends and works at MiraCosta
College.
Chad teaches English at MiraCosta College and
is the Founding Editor of Like Water Burning (www.
likewaterburning.com). Previous work has appeared
or is forthcoming in RipRap, Issues, The District
Weekly, Pearl, and Beside the City of Angels: An
Anthology of Long Beach Poetry.
Chad Tsuyuki 78
Lindsay Unterseher 49
This is a photo I took of my boyfriend’s niece and
nephew. I felt that this showed how fast time passes
and how children grow right before our eyes;
they slowly lose their innocence.
Jennifer West 72, 86
I am a transfer student. My husband and I live with
a llama, a dozen chickens, two old pound puppies
and an ancient cat who likes yogurt and
sleeping in the bathtub.
Tidepools 2011 109

110
Tidepools 2011
Entry
Guidelines
for
Tidepools
2012
About Tidepools
Tidepools publishes original art, poetry, fiction and essays
from MiraCosta College students, staff, and faculty, and
awards cash prizes to students in each category.
Please observe the following submission guidelines:
The entry deadline for submissions is December 9, 2011.
You may submit a maximum of 3 entries (or 4 entries in a
combination of art and literature).
There is no entry fee.
Art: B&W Drawings, prints, paintings, CAD design: 11” x 14”
maximum. Photographs 5” x 7” or 8” x 10” preferred. Please
note that color art is generally limited to the cover only.
Poetry: 1000-word limit, single spaced.
Fiction & Essays: 1800-word limit, double-spaced.
Manuscripts written in a language other than English must
be accompanied by an English translation.
Deadline:

Instructions for All Entries
Do not put your name on your entries. Instead, attach a
cover sheet to each entry. Cover sheets are available on the
Tidepools page at:
http://www.miracosta.edu/instruction/english/tidepools.html
For written entries: Send an electronic copy of your work
to Tidepools at: tidepools@miracosta.edu. Include your
name and the title of the work in the subject line. In addition,
send four (4) hard copies of each entry with one cover sheet
to:
Tidepools 2012
c/o Dana Ledet
MiraCosta College
1 Barnard Drive, m/s 2
Oceanside, CA 92056
For art and photo entries: Send one hard copy of your
entry to the above mentioned address or hand carry them
to Dana Ledet at OC 3125. Affi x a cover sheet to the back
of your entry. Also send an electronic copy to tidepools@
miracosta.edu. Include your name and the title of your work
in the subject line.
If you have questions about submissions, please contact
Dana Ledet at (760) 795-6871.
Work published in Tidepools is copyright-protected in both
printed and online versions. Tidepools retains the copyright
for the Spring 2012 edition and reserves the right to republish
any submitted work for promotion and advertising, for
the next Retrospective, or for educational purposes. All
other publication rights belong to the author or artist. We
appreciate you mentioning Tidepools if you republish your
work.
Artwork submitted through the MiraCosta College Art or
MAT Department will be returned to the department for pick
up. All other artwork should be accompanied by a selfaddressed,
stamped envelope large enough to contain it.
December 9, 2011
Tidepools 2011 111