OSU’s Art & Literary Magazine / Fall 2009‘09

OSU’s Art & Literary Magazine

UntitledVahagn Azaryan

Acrylic on Paper,11” x 17”

© Prism MagazineFall 2009Volume 46: 1

Editor in ChiefCarly Scheick

Graphic DesignersDrew Dawson Brenden Schild

Art Editorial BoardNicole Geeting Scarlette Rasmussen Breanna Mead Bianca SmithAshley Nored Christy Turner

Literary Editorial BoardNick Anderson Rose HansenHannah Dahl Michael Stoneberg Sara Gardner Michael Thomas

prism is published three times annually under the authority of Oregon State University and the Student Media Committee policies for student, faculty and staff of the Associated Students of Oregon State University. Prism accepts submissions of literary or artistic nature year round from students enrolled at Oregon State University.

Cover:ExposureKyle S. KlainPhotography: Fully Exposed 35mm

Back Cover: ExposureKyle S. KlainPhotography: Fully Exposed 35mm

Send submissions to:Prism Magazine118 Memorial Union EastOregon State UniversityCorvallis, OR 97331

541-737-2253prism@oregonstate.edu Printed by Precision Graphics Tualatin, Oregon

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Untitled

Trees are good

Lumberjacks are bad

The Art of Holding Conversation in Your Sleep

Shell Shock

WHO are YOU?

Opera House with Tree

Burning Down St. Mary

Sunrise Under Bridge

...and in the choir I saw a sad messiah

On Relative Growings

Practical Applications

The Girl With The Hair

Through It

Pavement Wax

Masterpiece

Two Weird Birds

Does A White Collar Make You Lose Your Dreams?

Father’s Ember was a Firefly in Late October

To Hell

Nightmare

Swamp Doctor

Chaos grenade

Club Feature

Fifteen Second Snapshot

Packaging

cool imagination

Paint upon Rust

De Rumbos, Gavillas y Aleros

Gloved Silence

Valle Vidal

Contributors’ Notes

Contributors’ Notes

Taking Flight

Contents

Vahagn Azaryan: Acrylic on Paper, 11” x 17”

Jonathan Lau: Screen Print

Jonathan Lau: Screen Print

Jonathan Austin Peacock: Poetry

Jessica Varin: Poetry

Christy Turner: Clay Sculpture & Paint

Peter St. George: Digital Photography

Jessica Varin: Poetry

James Martinelli: Photography, Selenium Toned Silver Gelatin Prints

Molly Sedlacek: Digital Photography

Mark Davis: Poetry

Rose Hansen: Essay

Alissa King: Pencil & Charcoal

Alex Davis: Digital Photography

Matt Bradley: Poetry

Pierce Kennedy: Poetry

Amanda Heigel: Intaglio Print, 6” x 9”

James Martinelli, Jessica Marshall, Cory Hartmann: Charcoal & Ink

Jonathan Austin Peacock: Poetry

Matt Bradley: Poetry

Jonathan Lau: Intaglio Print

H.R. Register: Fiction

Talia Filipek: Short Short

208 Design: Physical Media

James Martinelli: Photography, Selenium Toned Gelatin Prints

Laura Warden-Camp: Poetry

Matt Burns: Acrylic & Spray Paint

Breanna Mead: Digital Photography

Michael R. Woods: Essay

Scarlette Rasmussen: Charcoal

Ariel Storch: Digital Photography

Kaitlin Emmerling: Digital Photography

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4 Trees are goodJonathan LauScreen Print

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Lumberjacks are badJonathan LauScreen Print

6 The Art of Holding Conversation in

Your SleepJonathan Austin

PeacockPoetry

I dreamt of treading water in the living room, beside the mantlein the corner where William shot himself and sang Dixie off key. Wehung pictures to disguise the blood-droplet quarter notes, somewith feet, some not. The hall was an inflamed airway with airplanes over-head. Father always insisted my words were gibberish and I swallow too much.

I planted roses in the bedroom since the smell of cancer left little air to breathe. The garden in the window exposed rotten bell peppers and my mother’s alcoholism. Away from the dream were the cherry blossoms, the last sanctuary: The first way tomake tears and smile and fuck with passion and build another dream inside thespace where father insisted my words were gibberish and I swallow too much.

A stranger read Psalm 13 from the Bible I was given at Confirmation. Pasttimes I think I’d throw a tantrum and drown myself in the creek, scream withoutsound, run without moving and ask anyone in the room if I really swallowedmy tongue. The bible was beneath the blossoms, beside the peppers and rosesand blood and burned with feverish delusion. It was a nightmare set ablaze.

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Shell ShockJessica VarinPoetry

an acrostic

Four years of adolescent romance undone by deployment to the desert. She bides her time at the Exchange, staring at discounted detergent and canned ham, remembering a man she used to know.

8 WHO are YOU?Christy TurnerClay Sculpture

& Paint

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Opera House with TreePeter St. George

Digital Photography

10 Perhaps we were reckless with ritualor watered-down wine. On the holiestof days, we struck matches in the rectory,like children in a backyard cathedral.

They were strike anywhere matches;we struck everywhere before lightingthe long waxed wick, setting the rectory aflame in luciferous glory.

Fire danced on stained glass, reflecting off chalice and ciboriaas we committed a Divine arson.

Burning Down St. Mary

Jessica VarinPoetry

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Sunrise Under BridgeJames MartinelliPhotography: Selenium Toned Silver Gelatin Prints

12 ...and in the choir I saw a

sad messiahMolly Sedlacek

Digital Photography

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Thompson was always huntingHunting for a curious cub

Instead of being frightened He hunted for solemn Names

Not for long crack-jaw namesbut Names of true value

We are not going to find an expression for it.Such Names are themselves infinitely small

Things themselves are easyLength of wall, number of bricks

But Thompson differentiatedNames from things

Because of this they all mean the same thing.Some kind of relationship is not explicit

But true value is derivative and implicit A finding process

It is built by the years Implied and thus related

Instead of being frightenedThompson always hunted

Hunted for a curious cubHunted for solemn Names.

On Relative GrowingsMark DavisPoetry

Found poem: culled from pp. 48&49 of Calculus Made Simple, Sivanus P. Thompson F.R.S. and Martin Gardner.

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ook in the mirror. Smile. Study your teeth, the only visible parts of the skeletal system, the only structure in the body aspiring to

outlive human mortality. The other bones must wait patiently inside. These solid inner constructions vary in shape: some are long and narrow and sweep the full length of the shoulders to the elbows. Fragile peninsulas of rib bones protect the liquid structures of organs. Some bones are rounded, protective cases cradling memories and private thoughts beneath a shell of calcium. Thirty-three knobby ridges of vertebrae string together and hold within their parallel dark tunnels the cords of the nervous system, cables that send “sweat now” telegraphs to the hands, or “beat faster” orders to the heart. Phalanges shape the fingers. These narrow bones apply weight onto piano keys, hail taxis, hold another hand. The blood-covered fist of a heart knocks persistently against the door of the sternum, which sits like a plate across the chest. Innocently strong scapulas fan like flat, triangular wings from the upper cuts of the back. And who can forget the clavicle, the long double curved bone serving as the only link between the upper extremity and the axial skeleton, floating like an outstretched ghost between the neck and the shoulder. The hyoid, the only true “floating” bone, is located in the throat and subject to fracture upon strangulation, dedicated to accompanying even the last passing exhale from the lungs into the air.

Practical ApplicationsRose HansenEssay

Once a body returns to the earth, whether by natural or violent death, of course it undergoes decomposition, but the more fascinating part of the process is disarticulation. After the gradual decay of soft organs and tissues like skin and stomach, joints slowly loosen and the body separates into ten or fifteen pieces which scatter across the upper inches of the ground. Deer lay on their sides, ribs protruding up out of organic soil like the upturned roots of a tree. Birds tend to lay flat on their backs, exposing the hollow open cavities of their chests to the rooftop of the world. In birds, clavicles and interclavicles fuse together to form a single Y-shaped bone called the furcula, the bone reserved for children casting wishes.

Bone structure varies according to animal. Human bones are filled with marrow - a soft spongy tissue of red blood cells. Bird bones are hollow, acrobatic in construct, the inner parts fastened with a strong lattice-work of crisscrossing struts and catwalks. Ninety-nine percent of the animals on earth lack bones completely - jellyfish, octopus, microscopic invertebrate. The luckiest of these are fossilized into the physical record of the earth. The rest come and go with nothing but untold stories. Every found bone provides different services depending on the discoverer. A biologist’s discovery of a lost fisherman’s jawbone in a Canadian fox den 700 miles from the nearest coastline revealed an animal use of these silent artifacts. The bone-tips of fingers discovered in a survival suit concluded the story of a man lost at sea, now found. Forensic scientists analyze teeth for skeleton identification, for life style habits: tar stains indicate a smoker, straight teeth decipher investments in the latex gloves of dentists and metal braces. Such subtle pieces reveal the shape of a life.

Ancient ceremonial costumes constructed almost entirely out of bones display the ritualistic applications of bones in prehistoric celebrations. Indigenous peoples use bones for tools, to make jewelry, fashion pens from bones, build instruments from the hollowed casings of bird bones, lift them to their lips to allow exhales passing through the flexing hyoid and the bare bones of their teeth to convert breath and bone into a music that haunts the sky.

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The Girl With The HairAlissa KingPencil & Charcoal

16 Through ItAlex DavisDigital Photography

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The summer tends to callous feet—A thick sheet of wax thatMolds to the drivewayWhen you walk outside to smoke another cigarette.

There’s something soothing aboutWatching wave after wave of headlights wash by While the dried tobacco slithers into ash,Calloused feet filling and refilling the cracks of The pavement with every step.

Pavement WaxMatt BradleyPoetry

18 Give mea (Pencil and Paper).

Horizon line.

Four lines and a door.Circle, line, line, line . . . sun.M bird.

You get the picture.

Make room on the fridge.

MasterpiecePierce Kennedy

Poetry

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Two Weird BirdsAmanda HeigelIntaglio Print, 6”x 9”

20 Does A White Collar Make You Lose Your Dreams?James Martinelli, Jessica Marshall, & Cory HartmannCharcoal & Ink

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You spend the evening watching thunderheads consummatetheir relationships, your face in shadows, coiled plumesof cigarette smoke seeping skyward to graze with raindropsand lightening strikes. And I spend the evening listening

to the screen door’s aching rasp, how it changed over the years,elastic metal springs distorted by a low-pressure life.Heaven is the space outside my bedroom window. The lastfew islands of cloud sing back: there is still so much more.

Father’s Ember was a Firefly in Late OctoberJonathan Austin PeacockPoetry

22 Dante was right—Eating a third bowl of ice creamIs not so different fromGetting blacked-out drunk andWaking up by someone you don’t know.

To HellMatt Bradley

Poetry

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NightmareJonathan Lau

Intaglio Print

24 Swamp DoctorH.R. RegisterFiction

e’d got a call from the Frostproof Medical Center saying that they had a man in there suffering from

a lacerated arm and a crushed left hand. He told them he was on the maintenance staff at St. Harlen’s Retirement Villa and was picking up garbage around the pond when an alligator lunged at him. After walking the length of the little dock we found his half-eaten lunch under the verandah at the end. It was a black plastic box, open with a can of coke that had bees buzzing out of it, half a browning apple in wax paper and a bag of chips.

My partner Ronnie, who looks like an aging prizefighter and talks like a Georgia tobacco farmer said, “This guy had him a pet alligator. Probably feeding ‘em when he came out and grabbed ‘em by the hand and pulled ‘em off the dock. Pond’s shallow enough though that he was able to get free and out up the bank.”

Sure enough, on the manicured lawn running down to the water’s edge we found where the grass had been matted and the mud exposed just like it would be if someone was trying to

claw their way out of the water with a five-foot lizard attached to his arm. It wasn’t hard either to find a trail of blood leading up the lawn and to the parking lot.

“I can’t believe that after that, this dude drove himself out to the hospital - with his hand all mashed up.”

Walking back down the dock we shone our lights out into the gloom at the far edge of the pond. In the fading light two red reflectors gleamed just above the surface of the water.

“Looks to me like . . . five, six inches apart. That makes him what? Six feet? Let’s put some tape up and call Rob. I ’m not doing this at night.”

The following morning we were standing next to our cruiser, stamping our feet and drinking coffee against the cold. A massive white pickup with “Swamp Doctor” painted on the side and blaring Rock 104.5 rolled by on the road, showed us its tail lights, then came backing in fast. It came through the white cement parking lot, past the manicured beds of cedar chips and baby magnolia trees, past the bay window framing the retirees gazing up from their breakfast, past me and Ronnie, up and over the curb and down the lawn where it stopped about ten feet from the edge of the water. A man dressed in a scrub oak camo work suit got out, nodded at us, then leaned back in and turned off the radio.

Trapper Rob is a private, self-employed wildlife handler who we call when the alligators we get called about are over five feet in length. The main reason we call him and don’t take care of it ourselves is due to public relations. While he always does his best to restrain and capture them in a humane way, sometimes, if the animal is

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evading capture or is just too ornery, he has to kill it. With people as sensitive about environmental issues as they are now, we don’t want the image of a wildlife officer blasting away at the wildlife he is mandated to protect out there in the public mind.

By the time we got down to the water, he was up on the bed of the truck tearing clumps off a melted loaf of white foam sweating inside a wrinkled “Jet Puff ” bag and tossing them out into the perfectly circular lake.

“This is a truth,” he said, “there is nothing in the world that an alligator loves more than marshmallows.”

He chucked the last one out. “I do this to see if he is in here, they move around a lot right now because of the drought.”

“If he is,” he said, “these will be irresistible to him.”

“How you been Rob?”

“Pretty good. Lot of work right now. Had to relocate a den of otters out on Marsh Hammock after they shredded up Tim Wilson’s dogs”

“Tim Wilson - the news caster?” Ronnie asked.

“Yup. He’s got a new house out there.”

The marshmallows sat just beyond the reeds, bobbing. A slight breeze was moving them out further to the middle as Rob told us in gory detail what happens to a dog that sniffs into a family of otters. Suddenly, the farthest of the marshmallows disappeared in a splash and hollow clomping sound.

“There he is. It’s good you called me. He’s too big for your little noose trick. No sweat, though. We’ll reel him in.”

He threw down the empty bag and produced a mass of keys he used to open up the box behind the cab. From within it he pulled a coil of plastic rope, a red and white lunch box-sized Koolmate cooler, a large shark hook and a bleach bottle.

“That’ll do it,” he said closing the box.

Six feet up the rope he tied on the bleach bottle. At the end he fastened the hook - a galvanized steel thing with a barb and and a big eye you could put your finger through. The other end of the rope he tied to the trailer hitch of the Swamp Doctor.

“The cooler is not to keep it cool,” he said, reaching through the rear window of the cab to retrieve a crushed box of surgical gloves. “There’s no ice in it. It just acts as another buffer against the smell. These been stewing back here, I think, for about two weeks now.”

The smell overtook us like a shark in a dream.

As he unwrapped the plastic from the beef lungs and began threading them on that massive hook, each one threatened to liquefy - black and viscous - through the fingers of his gloves.

Ronnie went up and locked himself in the cruiser.

Rob smiled and threw the whole rig out as far as he could into the pond. The hook and bait sank but the bleach bottle floated about half

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long stainless steel pole like a pool net but with a loop of cable at the end. He put a roll of silver duct tape in each of the pockets of his work suit and lit a cigarette.

“Wait a minute. Let him swallow it.”

I could see Ronnie still up in the parking lot pretending to fill out paperwork in the cruiser.

“Alright! Alright! Gun it up about 100 yards,” Rob shouted. I closed the door, popped the emergency brake, put it in gear and that monster of a truck heaved itself up the hill without me so

just started throwing up.”“What happened to the kid?”

“Which one?”

“The redhead.”

“We gave him a ticket for molesting the wildlife. But I had to lay it on a bench and tell him to come and get it. I couldn’t hand it to him. You could almost see the smell on him.”

The bleach bottle begin to move around a little bit and Rob told me to get in the truck but to wait. I watched in the rear view as he took out a

submerged and acted as a big bobber. I told Rob that reminded me of a call we went out on up in Crystal River.

“We got there a hour after it happened and I could barely go out on the dock for the smell,” I said.

“During the summer, college students would raft four or five boats together and throw a party.

“On the day the event occurred, manatees had been showing up all day and the boys had been in the water with them. As dusk approached, this big red haired kid, whose dad owned a pretty little Cris Craft in the float, stood on the gunwale - maybe four or five feet of the water - and said he was going to ride one. Right when he said it, a big bull appeared near the boat like some kind of research submarine. It was about fourteen feet long and maybe 1500 pounds – a big one - and just like that, Red jumped off, legs spread, ready to ride that thing as it bucked and tailed around the basin. “Unfortunately, that’s not what happened.

“The boy went right through it. It burst like a 1500-pound blister. Based on what we could find of it, we figure it had been dead floating in the water for about two months - probably hit and concussed by a boat.”

“Man, that’s gross,” Rob said shaking his head at the thought of it.

“Interviewing people at the pool on shore, they said they heard a chorus of screams from the basin and then like someone flipped the puke switch, everyone on the boats and in the water

This is a truth ... there is nothing in the world that an alligator loves more than marshmallows.

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much as touching the gas. He was big. Long and black with little fins running from the top of his head to the end of his tail and his eyes rolling everywhere trying to get a grasp on the situation. In the bewildered seconds as he found himself suddenly extracted from the water and up on the lawn of St. Harlen’s Retirement Villa, Rob was on him. He tried to struggle a little bit when Rob pinned down his mouth, but Rob put all his weight into it and told me to cut the rope as close to the mouth as I could.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “that hook and line will either pass on through or be dissolved by the stomach bile.”

That really wasn’t what I was concerned about as I leaned over to cut him free. After that, Rob noosed his mouth closed with the cable at the end of the pole and went to work on him with the duct tape.

When he was done the animal looked like an insect trapped in a spider web. The legs were taped to the side and the mouth was taped closed. His eyes were staring right at us, though, seething.

“He’ll go into the NASA basin with the twelve-and-over club. If he’s lucky, he won’t become lunch himself.”

The twelve-and-over club referred to the no-motor zone near the Space Shuttle launch site of Cape Canaveral. On trips out there before Rob’d pointed out bulls thirteen feet long raising their head and tails out of the water so that other alligators swimming into their territory could get a look at what they would be dealing with.

“Watch the tail,” he said as we slid him like a

netted up Christmas tree into the bed of the Swamp Doctor. “You gone come out here and help me loose him or you got too much to do?”

I couldn’t then so we went up to fill out the forms Ronnie had finished. The older people were gaping out the bay window as Rob paraded the alligator by with the bed of the truck coming up to the edge of the sill so that it was right under their noses. We filled out the forms, then he pulled out onto the road, turned up the music and took off, leaving a wake of gawkers, echoes of a three song music rock-block and a hint of decaying cow lung.E

28 etween blinks they shine magnificence. Clear as the tiny water beads, stagnant strong in the December storm. Eagerly waiting for them to part, in the backseat on a city street, it is the sweetest relief when one tumbles down the foggy window.

Alone in the dark, you touch it with your fingertip, yet contact illicit through the pane. You imagine its condensed moisture and it makes you thirsty. And it falls, impossible to trace, though you try your best to follow its every move. Trickling through a maze of droplets alike, it manages to sweep by the others, careful to choose which others may join to make it bigger, though it is perfect and delicate reflecting the most beautiful colors in its own. It is a short journey to the bottom of the window and in this moment, at this red light, I wonder why when we stand together I feel as if we are sharing one umbrella.

Chaos grenadeTalia Filipek

Short Short

29Club Feature:208 Design

208 Design is a faculty managed, year-long studio course open to graphic design seniors. Interested students apply through portfolio review and the ten best applicants are chosen. We work collaboratively as a design studio to provide professional graphic design for a nominal fee to both on and off campus organizations.

Welcome tothe Department of ArtPhysical MediaFor the Department of Art, 208 Design created a motion graphic to showcase announcements, as well as the different disciplines taught.

30 Fifteen Second SnapshotJames MartinelliPhotography: Selenium Toned Silver Gelatin Print

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I saw you.With your pigeon-toed walk,your skin like chalk with a blemish or two aroundthe holes in your face.No one understood but me;the truth you’d tell, horrors you’d lived, lessons you’d learned.

Then I knew.I knew like you,the truth was all on CNNnot in the howlinghollow of your smoldering eye.Your life was onemany come to face.You’d learned nothingbut the bitter, bitter herbsof an Israel wailing instead of running to freedom.

I, like Moses, painted your door.I held it open for you to run out.But death passed through, not over you. An ugly ducking with no swan.Would I rather have Mingwith nothing inside?No, you are a rarity -your inside matches out.

PackagingLaura Warden-CampPoetry

32 cool imaginationMatt Burns

Acrylic & Spray Paint

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Paint upon RustBreanna MeadDigital Photography

34 De Rumbos Gavillas y Aleros1

Michael R. WoodsEssay

Quién soy yo? Esta es la pregunta que ella me hace, día tras día a través de sus palabras engañadoras y opresivas. Me la hace con el

fin quizás de desarmar mi identidad, como si ella estuviera tratando de estrellar un rompecabezas recién construido, y programarlo según su gusto. Pero soy más fuerte que ella. No voy a permitir que me domine, ni que me convierta en su esclavo. Yo soy yo, y así siempre seré.

La búsqueda de la identidad consiste en tomar varios rumbos y, a veces, nos salen túmulos que nos hacen cavilar y contemplar la realidad en la cual vivimos. Yo, por ejemplo, pienso en mí mismo como un globo de color blanco, no tan blanco por seguro, y de ojos verdes y cabello moreno, todo pintado por mis antepasados. Soy un globo, que hace unos años me zafé de la que me sostenía, y que no me dejaba pensar ni actuar por mí mismo. Sigo transcendiendo hacia arriba, voy adelante hacia algo mejor que me espera. Voy al norte, al sur, al este, al oeste - hacia todo lugar. Las ráfagas a veces emergen en un romplón3 inesperado, y me llevan a otro rumbo. Muchas veces son los que yo no esperaba, pero los tomo porque así tiene que ser. Hay eventos y circunstancias que no puedo controlar, y lo único que puedo y podré hacer es aprovechar estos caminos por difíciles o

largos que sean, para lograr conocerme a un nivel más hondo, desafiando mis valores y creencias, para así fortalecerlos. Ella trata de impedirme, de cambiarme, pero me rebelo contra ella abriendo un libro, tomando una clase, dialogando con toda persona y buscando la chispa llameante de luz eterna oculta en cada sombra. Dime con quién andas y te diré quién eres...y algo más. Soy un hombre que valora sus amistades; todas. Dentro de cada red social, existen gavillas y aleros. ¿Cuál será la diferencia? Los gavillas son los que inician travesuras, y que nos enseñan vicios mientras a la vez, compartimos algún nexo humano con ellos. Los aleros sirven para educar y guiarnos; nos llevan a alcanzar nuestro máximo potencial. Nos inculcan sus valores, que coinciden con los nuestros. Ella, entonces, es una gavilla.

A ella no le importan mis destrezas ni mi potencial, ni de lo que soy capaz de ser. Ella exige que me quede con la boca cerrada y los oídos tapados. Pero resisto y seguiré resistiendo. No le paro bola4, sino que me burlo de sus intentos fracasados. Escucho y aprendo, veo y actúo. Ella jamás me detendrá. Rumbos inesperados, gavillas y aleros, todos sirven de algo, todos me motivan a aprender y seguir adelante, aprender de lo que yo soy capaz de ser. Optimista yo no siempre era, pero los momentos fatales de mi vida me desafiaron a entender y evolucionar. Y sigo adelante. ¿Me acompañarás en la lucha contra ella?

¿Quién es esta “ella” a quien me refiero? Ella es a veces la sociedad y otras veces puede ser la ignorancia, la oscuridad y la soledad.

_______________ 1 Real Academia Española - Junta de muchas personas y comúnmente de baja calidad. Gavilla de pícaros. Gente de gavilla.. En Honduras, la palabra gavilla se refiere a un amigo de mala influencia. 2Real Academia Española - coloq. El Salv. y Hond. Persona muy allegada, amigo inseparable. El alero es la parte de la ala de los aviones que se levanta para ayudar a disminuir la velocidad cuando el avión está aterrizando. 3 Real Academia Española - loc. adv. coloq. El Salv. y Hond. al improviso.4 Coloq. Hond. Hacerle caso

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Of Paths, Gavillas y Aleros1

ho am I? This is the question she asks me day after day using her oppressive and deceitful words. She asks me this

question with the goal of shattering my identity, as if she were trying to break apart a recently constructed puzzle, and reconstruct it according to her will. But I am stronger than her. I will not allow her to dominate me nor make me her slave. I am me, and this is how it will always be.

The search for identity includes embarking on various paths and, sometimes, we stumble upon obstacles that make us think deeply about and contemplate the reality in which we live. I, for example, think of myself as a white balloon, not too white of course, and of green eyes and brown hair, everything designed by my ancestors. I am a balloon, that some years ago escaped from the clutches of her that held me down, and would not let me think nor act for myself. I continue transcending upwards, and am going towards something better that awaits me.

I am going north, south, east, and west - towards everywhere. Unexpectedly, gusts of wind emerge and they carry me towards a different path. Many times they are not paths I have chosen, but I follow them because that is how it has to be. There are

events and circumstances which I cannot control, and the only thing I can and will be able to do is to take advantage of these opportunities no matter how long or difficult they may be, to better understand myself on a deeper level, challenging my values and beliefs, ultimately strengthening them. She has tried to stop me, to change me, but I rebel against her by opening a book, taking a class, engaging in dialogues with people and looking for the burning spark of eternal light hidden in each shadow.

Dime con quién andas y te diré quién eres...y algo más. I am a man who values deeply his friendships; all of them. Inside of every social network, there exists gavillas and aleros. What is the difference? Los gavillas are ones who play tricks and teach us bad habits, while at the same time we share a human connection with them. Los aleros educate and guide us; they help us reach our maximum potential. They instill in us their values, which coincide with ours. She, then, is a gavilla.

She does not care about my strengths or my potential, or what I am capable of becoming. She demands that I keep my mouth closed and my eyes blindfolded. But I resist and will continue to resist. I do not pay attention to her, but rather laugh at her failed attempts. I listen and I learn, I see and I take action. She will never stop me. Unexpected paths, gavillas and aleros, all have a purpose; all motivate me to learn and continue on, to learn who I am capable of becoming. I was not always optimistic, but fatal moments in my life challenged me to understand and to evolve. And I continue forward. Will you accompany me in this fight against her?

Who is this “she” or “her” to which I refer? Sometimes she is society and other times she is ignorance, darkness and loneliness. _______________

1 In Honduras, the word, gavilla refers to a friend of bad influence. 2In Honduras, the word alero refers to a very close friend of positive influence. Alero in Honduran Spanish also refers to the part of the wing on an aircraft that lifts up to decrease velocity when an aircraft is landing.

36 Gloved SilenceScarlette Rasmussen

Charcoal

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Valle VidalAriel Storch

Digital Photography

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Contributors’ NotesKyle S. KlainSenior, German & Philosophy“Exposure”To me, film is far from dead. The limits of film force a deeper concentration on  composition and exposure. This unforgiving nature will forever keep me attached to the processes of film. Fully exposing a roll of 35mm is a fun experiment for a medium format user—especially when you capture a friend in a beautiful setting. David McClung, Death Valley National Park.

Vahagn AzaryanJunior, New Media Communications & Graphic Design“Untitled”The sketch for this picture was created during one of the too many math classes I took in school. The idea of the picture came from out of nowhere; my hand drew automatically. I usually don’t give titles to my work. That way people analyze the picture themselves, instead of hanging from the title the artist gave.

Jonathan LauSenior, Fine Arts“Trees are good,” “Lumberjacks are bad,” “Nightmare”I do it all for the monies and the hunnies.

Jonathan Austin PeacockMFA, Poetry“The Art of Holding Conversation in Your Sleep,” “Father’s Ember was a Firefly in Late October”“Father’s Ember...” wants to be read as a narrative of a father/son relationship, but it’s not. This poem is only about remaining the  outsider while being shown how to reconstruct the broken Self. The strangeness of being simultaneously aware and unaware of the world  through the subconscious is quite fascinating to me. “The Art...” addresses this.

Jessica VarinSenior, Natural Resources“Shell Shock,” “Burning Down St. Mary”Jessica Varin is a poet, a fact-finding fiend, and an avid explorer. She believes that poetry exists for reasons higher than art. She writes to illuminate and change the world.

Christy TurnerJunior, Fine Arts“WHO are YOU?”My work tends to revolve around characters I find particularly interesting, either due to unique personality or peculiarity of physical form. Lewis Carroll’s Caterpillar has both personality and overall strangeness, so he made a wonderful subject for my sculpture.

Peter St. GeorgeJunior, Animal Science“Opera House with Tree”For me, photography has always been about capturing or producing something beautiful, interesting, or powerful. While I was studying in Sydney it was my goal to capture the iconic Opera House in a non-cliché manner. “Opera House with Tree” is one of my attempts at this feat.

James MartinelliSenior, Fine Arts“Sunrise Under Bridge,” “Fifteen Second Snapshot,” “Does A White Collar Make You Lose Your Dreams?”“Sunrise Under Bridge” was my first photographic experience with the ethereal quality of light at dawn. “Fifteen Second Snapshot” reads more like a fleeting moment than a pose, which is why I find it appealing. “White Collar” was a struggle, but I guess that’s collaboration!

Molly SedlacekSenior, Merchandising & Business

“...and in the choir I saw a sad messiah”Photography is a method of freezing an object’s life for a moment in time. The true beauty is what happens before or after that moment as it defines the story of the picture. Through my photos I hope the viewer enjoys another object’s frozen fraction of life.

Mark DavisJunior, English“On Relative Growings”I want to thank Robin Jordan who taught the Intro. to Poetry class last spring and for introducing me to the concept of the found poem.   I have found that through the imposition of self restrictions the mind often comes up with creative solutions that are as surprising to the poet as they hopefully are to the reader.

Rose HansenSenior, Recreation Resource Management“Practical Applications”I like understanding how things work.  For this piece, I mixed  science with art, fact with fiction.  That NPR report about the  fisherman’s jawbone sparked my fascination with how the absolute  central, physical construct a person always has the potential to become something else entirely.

Alissa KingSophomore, Nutrition Science“The Girl With The Hair”I draw a lot of faces, and my favorite thing about drawing a person’s face is actually drawing their hair. This is my best friend’s sister, whom I always thought had awesome hair, and I had found this picture of her, which I thought was just a great picture anyway, and her hair looked amazing in it. So I drew it.

Alex DavisSenior, Zoology“Through It”

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Unfortunately, this will be my last submission to Prism magazine.  It has always been a treat to read each issue and a real honor being included amongst other great OSU artists. Thanks to all my friends, family and those who support my work, including those on Prism staff. You’ve made a dream come true.

Matt BradleySenior, English/Education“Pavement Wax,” “To Hell”I agree with John Steinbeck, who once said: “Literature is as old as  speech. It grew out of human need for it, and it has not changed  except to become more needed.” I would also like to thank anyone who  took the time to read “To Hell” or “Pavement Wax.”

Pierce KennedySophomore, English“Masterpiece”I think stating what this poem is about would defeat the purpose of  it, therefore I will state what it is not about: watermelons. It is in  no way about watermelons. Or any melons for that matter.

Amanda HeigelJunior, Fine Arts“Two Weird Birds”This print gets its “weirdness” from a former life as a  self-portrait. Starting with one image I burnished and scraped away my face, most of my body and a couch until I had some rather odd  disembodied shapes. Fortunately, my hair was just strange enough to translate into tail feathers.

H.R. Register“Swamp Doctor”This story is stitched together from stories I heard growing up. As far as I know, it is true that a dead manatee (often having been hit  by a speeding motor boat) will sometimes float for days or weeks  before being removed

or sinking. I think it’s true, too, that alligators  love marshmallows. Thankfully, I have never seen either.

Talia FilipekSenior, Recreation Resource Management“Chaos grenade”The moment you exhale with contentment. The complete assurance of  absolute closeness.    Undoubtedly, you are both feeling beautiful,  even through the busy.  Or, this moment could even take place between you and the implicit beauty of the earth, whom continues to persevere  to break open your captive happiness.

Laura Warden-CampSenior, Psychology“Packaging”I sometimes refer to concepts, myself, and other people in the second person in my poetry. This personification makes something  abstract easier to articulate. It also distances me from someone else or  something about myself that may be hard to write about otherwise.  And finally, it makes the language stronger.

Matt BurnsSenior, Fine Arts“cool imagination”“cool imagination” is intended to challenge  the viewer’s perception of beauty.

Breanna MeadSenior, Art History“Paint upon Rust”I tend to find beauty in the ugly. So when I came across this worn  pole, in all its glory of color and texture, I had to capture it. I  saw it during a walk to Los Peligros, a local beach in Santander, Spain.

Michael R. WoodsMA, Contemporary Hispanic Studies“De Rumbos, Gavillas y Aleros”

“De Rumbos, Gavillas y Aleros” is a short viñeta about my own conscientizaciõn through having served in the Peace Corps as well as my graduate studies thus far, and becoming more aware of social/world injustices both domestic and abroad. And not letting society dictate who I am.

Scarlette RasmussenJunior, Studio Art“Gloved Silence”As a shy, yet passionate child, it was my means of expression; as a troubled and overwhelmed adolescent it was my one source of self-esteem. Now as a young adult, much of my work centers around the  human experience, the female experience and to be more specific, my  personal experience. I try to allow my work to speak for me; to articulate things that seem too awkward to say aloud. I try to  convey where I have been, who I hope to be and what I feel now.

Ariel StorchMA, Contemporary Hispanic Studies“Valle Vidal”After much time away, I returned to my small hometown in Northern New Mexico for the summer and was reminded why it is “The Land of Enchantment.” The beauty is not only physical, but also radiates throughout the people and culture that live below the mountains.

Kaitlin EmmerlingSenior, Photography“Taking Flight”Photography gives me a sense of clarity and purpose. I’ve found that over the past couple years that in times of adversity, simply making photos, truly clears my head. My camera has become a way of catharsis and one of my greatest loves.

40 Taking FlightKaitlin EmmerlingDigital Photography

Winter Submission Deadline

Submit Your:

Submission Deadline

Friday, January 29th @ 5pm

118 Snell Hall / prism@oregonstate.edu / oregonstate.edu/prismmagazine

Poetry, Short Fiction, Creative Non-Fiction, Painting, Sculpture, Drawing, Illustration, Photography, Graphic

Design, Prints, and much more.

Open to students only. All majors are welcome to submit work.

Students may submit up to 5 pieces per medium per term.

OSU’s Art & Literary Magazine

Heaven is the space outside my bedroom window. The last / few

islands of clouds sing back; there is still so much more.

“Father’s Ember was a Firefly in Late October”Jonathan Austin Peacock, pg. 21