CalArts Eye, May Edition

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THE CALARTS EYE a knot forms in my throat and tears trickle down my face as they dance to old school Missy Elliot and sip on their beer. I feel distant and hot and I’m melting again. Inside I am falling apart, inside I am grimy countertops and scratched wooden floors and chipping walls. Inside I am melting. On the outside it is beginning to show. Now it’s mid-august but my summer still has a month to go. The movement is ending, the momentum is at its close, and I only look forward to one thing. There are moments of bliss and infinity when I stop crying and see harmony in the world. It’s getting better I think. I see my favorite band play my favorite song; I move without lethargy, I am happy and inspired and reminded that this is only a season. I remember the day weeks after and wish to relive it. I place it in a special crevice in my heart. It’s early September and it’s almost over. I coin this the worst summer ever because I cried for more than half of its entirety. I’m lazy and unmotivated. I promise never to return for months at end again. I remember how much love I receive, how grateful I should be, I cry because I’m leaving. I cry because the season came to an end but the feelings remain. I cry because I won’t have my mom’s bed to lie on. I sleep it off. I don’t think about it. My playlist replays as we get a ride home, drunk and depressed with glitches of happiness as the cool air touches my face, making sure I don’t melt away. One time we stayed awake until the sunrise, drove home on an empty freeway at 90mph, and I felt the wind blow my sadness away. I was finally exhausted from lack of sleep, I fall asleep in my sisters arms as the day begins. Poem for my mother on her 70th Birthday DREW STRAUS CHARLIE LATAN 10 So, this is you at 70, sitting by the library window. Your tinsel hair, lank and gleaming, sends glowing fish over the surface of the books, all the way to where the canaries lay sleeping, near the stacked flutes. Your hands fold and shift in your lap like tiny bellows. The shelllike room fills with echoes. Let’s walk together, past the garden, where the trees bloomed in violence, to my table tucked between valleys cupped by leaves. How loud does one speak to the dead? Across the table you sit with you hair like stars. Your voice whistles past the house, and rustles a book in the library. After you blow out the candles, I wait for you to speak. Some sounds are found so far from their origin, that the source has long since dried up. It is no surprise to hear your voice now. Lift me to your ear to hear the sound of the sea.
11 Photo credit: Gingy Q A STUDY OF DISSATISFACTION: the prophet. Perception, an extension of privilege. reality. 2 beings. 1 Intrinsic Is it not insecurity who breeds environmental reflection? “Speak, so that I may hear you!” HE, the social being, erased the past So that we could contemplate. THE CALARTS EYE
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Page 7 and 8: 7 Photo credit: Patrick Behnke JONI
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CalArts Eye, May Edition

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