SUR ZINE // ISSUE 5 // wish you could've been there

SUR ZINE // ISSUE 5 // wish you could've been there


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Life is a series of moments,<br />

touchstones, and memories.<br />

We record these in our mind,<br />

in photographs, stories, music<br />

and artwork. Everything<br />

creative that we put out into<br />

the world is a celebration of<br />

life, its dynamics, and growth.<br />

<strong>SUR</strong> is platform to share these<br />

experiences and creations.<br />

+ California based and inspired<br />

Contributors:<br />

+ Issue 5 >> wish you could’ve been there<br />

Wil Deas<br />

Sierra Evans<br />

Christian Moses<br />

Samuel Barker<br />

Evan Burkin<br />

Editor:<br />

Daniella Islas

Christian Moses

Jan 30, ‘18<br />

L.A.<br />

the day is almost over and this trip comes to<br />

an end. I am going to miss L.A.. The city has<br />

been nice to me. It has been a learning<br />

experience.<br />

Tripping on my state of independence, I see a<br />

man pushing a Dollie with approximately 10<br />

large crates up an incline. The stack taller<br />

than her. I just walked out of a Starbucks, $20<br />

in my bank account, wondering how I am<br />

going to get home.<br />

Did you know there are new volcanic islands<br />

that are 10 years old. Lizards fight for their<br />

right to see the next day there. Everyday they<br />

run across a pit of snakes who work together<br />

to fuck them up.<br />

My first morning in L.A. I walked around<br />

Chinatown in search of a market. I found one<br />

but before I did I saw a man with his<br />

shopping cart on the corner. The heat dried up<br />

his sweat, and dirt hung onto his face. He<br />

gave me a nod as to say hello, and without<br />

hesitation, bottoms up. A decently sized bottle<br />

of gin slid down his throat.<br />

Bad egg alert. Chino hills. Peaceful parking<br />

lot. I was slappy-ing a red curb, we don’t<br />

have those shits back home. Bored and<br />

somewhat sketched out by these two young<br />

aimless men, I returned to where my people<br />

were sitting. They were all standing now and<br />

one filled me in on some drama.<br />

So a kid ran out of a shell gas station with a<br />

12 pack of modelo — I saw that blue box two<br />

meters from where the kid lay, back to an<br />

officer’s knee, face in the dirt. He didn’t pay<br />

for it, and some hometown hero saw it as his<br />

duty to hop out of his car and throw the teen<br />

into a headlock, till backup arrived.

Santa Barbara<br />

Samuel Barker<br />

I remember eating burgers<br />

And I remember eating tacos<br />

And I remember eating scallops<br />

And I remember some random place in the street that was<br />

Just too far<br />

Away from you and<br />

Away from where we were<br />

Away from it all and<br />

I couldnt go that far<br />

Or be that far<br />

Without a promise of some sort<br />

So I waited until my parents were ready and we went and<br />

ate bad food and I drank bad beer but it<br />

Wasn't too far<br />

Away from you.

A Garage Sale<br />

Sierra Evans<br />

I resented the fact that my parents wanted me to go through all of<br />

their junk. I had told them time and time again that I had contained all of<br />

my belongings to two boxes in the garage. But, when I walked down the<br />

cement path to my driveway, I realized that wasn’t true. Plenty of my stuff<br />

was muddled in with theirs and I was going to need to go through it before<br />

the garage sale.<br />

It was mid-January and in a very New Year’s resolutionary kind of<br />

tone, my parents had told me that they were finally getting a divorce. This<br />

came three years after an initial announcement of this nature and, though<br />

the sunny California winter seemed optimistic, I had somewhat of a cynical<br />

“I’ll believe it when I see it” attitude. And what a bizarre thing – being so<br />

hopeful that your parents’ relationship would finally end.<br />

I’m insanely sentimental, which is kind of ironic I guess, and Jesus,<br />

did I love to hold on to things. I had middle school movie stubs and every<br />

stuffed animal that I’d ever owned, dried out corsages, mixed cds, and<br />

handwritten notes from my grandmother. We rifled through Playbills and<br />

Dodgers memorabilia and sorted most things into the sale or trash piles,<br />

with an occasional memento being saved. My high school best friend and I<br />

were on the lookout for affordable apartments and, while this harsh sort of<br />

purge was pretty inevitable, it was probably for the best.<br />

I kept milling around the driveway with car keys in hand and<br />

sunglasses on. My plan was to look at the boxes that they had set aside for

me and leave to run some errands, but Kodak envelopes and photo negatives<br />

seemed to come out of every folder and binder that I picked up. Bits of my<br />

childhood were strewn across the concrete and all of the neighbors and their<br />

dogs were staring as they walked past. Leaving it up to my parents to decide<br />

what was important just seemed wrong.<br />

When I got to my elementary school photos, I knew exactly which<br />

picture I would find. I knew which grocery store he worked at, which bar he<br />

walked to with our friends, and it was only a matter of time before I ran into<br />

Tommy. After over twenty years of platonic friendship, we had decided to<br />

date and it had been two months since he decided that we should stop. I only<br />

had to flip through a few in the stack before I was holding on to an image of<br />

our preschool class. He was sitting in a tiny chair and I was standing right<br />

behind him. There was no trace of the beard that he’d grow after college, but<br />

I couldn’t help thinking that his hands looked almost exactly the same. We<br />

were four, maybe three, and I thought that it would be a lot harder to see him.<br />

I smiled as I glanced at the picture. I even sort of laughed, “God, what a<br />

mess.” The front yard came back in to focus and I saw all the pieces that my<br />

parents had collected - bicycles and kitchen appliances, Christmas<br />

decorations and hallway prints. I thought about how there was so much of it<br />

that I didn’t recognize. There were art pieces that had never hung in my<br />

house and furniture I had never seen - indicative of some earlier life or the<br />

townhouse we lived in ‘till I was two. I didn’t get why they had hung on to<br />

all of it. I guess, sometimes, you just sort of end up with stuff.<br />

I handed my mom some ceramic piggy banks and vacation key chains<br />

and she tossed them into a couple different piles. She walked toward a big<br />

moving box near the back of the garage and opened it up. “I know it might be<br />

brutal...these are your dolls….” She kept talking, but it was sort of this<br />

mumbling- as if she was thinking and processing quicker than she could<br />

speak. We looked into the box and though it contained six mismatched,<br />

unremarkable dolls, I knew we both really saw my grandmother. Her mother,<br />

Betty Jean, had sewn all of their clothes, fixed all of their hair, and sat with<br />

me as I gave them their names. As soon as she arrived for each visit to our<br />

house, I would take Gram’s hand and lead her to my bedroom, where I<br />

quickly shut the door and we picked up where we’d left off. Baby II, Amelia,

Sophie, Ashley, Caitlin, and Molly were a mismatched family. They went<br />

on vacations and sang in talent shows and their world was bigger than any<br />

that existed outside of my head. Gram gave them each voices, as she taught<br />

them to sing and sat with me for hours, only stopping to peek out at the<br />

news on the television. Thoughts started darting through my brain, like my<br />

conscience was on fast forward - Why are they making me do this? How do<br />

they expect me to get rid of this stuff? Why did I think that this would be<br />

easy? Before either of us took our eyes away from the content of the box,<br />

my mother’s mumbling turned firm. “We can’t. I don’t know what I’m<br />

thinking--,” I hadn’t even realized that I was crying, until she looked at me<br />

and put the box down. “--I’m not even going to entertain the idea. I’ll just<br />

tell your dad ‘no.” The pit at the bottom of my stomach seemed to fill and<br />

she took hold of the side of my arm. “We’re not going to.” The conversation<br />

couldn’t have lasted more than ten seconds, but I could have stayed there<br />

with her for hours. She walked back upstairs, without saying anything else,<br />

and went inside.<br />

I sat down on the cracked pavement of the dusty driveway and<br />

looked at all of our junk. In a week, there would be a garage sale. We’d have<br />

to see what we could get for everything, and the rest we would throw away.<br />

When my mom came back downstairs, I had just found this cheesy portrait<br />

of the three of us from a vacation in Las Vegas. She put down a long plastic<br />

container and grabbed the stack of preschool photos and other knick-knacks<br />

that I’d saved. She put the three tiny piles into the transparent box. “This<br />

will be yours,” she didn’t mumble this time, “--wherever you end up, you’ll<br />

take it with you.” I looked up at her, as her eyes landed on the portrait in my<br />

hand. “So for now, it’s just deciding what you’re going to take.”

Awake, Spaceman<br />

William Deas

A Light Picnic<br />

Evan Burkin<br />

Seeds of sunflower light—the road<br />

a flutter—dandelion winds<br />

hold promissory notes<br />

a sandwich shared<br />

over a blanket of moss<br />

between open lips<br />

full on the crisp air<br />

Her lover’s mouth<br />

holds feelings<br />

that bridge from the eyes.<br />

They spot the sponge of mulch<br />

holding the blue of her vein.<br />

In the dandelion winds<br />

feet can’t carry<br />

the pace of growth<br />

Eternities are spent<br />

under a young child’s foot.<br />

Its light crash<br />

carried away.

+ surcreate.com

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