Reмus Literary .Journal: Volume IV
Remus Volume IV
Remus: Volume IV Editorial Supervisors Elizabeth Geoghegan & Silvia Esposito Editors Michelle Spaulding, Edwina Dennison & Shahnaz Al-Dulaimy Layout & Cover Design Shahnaz Al-Dulaimy Remus Publications Department of Communication & English The American University of Rome Via Pietro Roselli, 4 Rome, Italy 00153 Email: [email protected] www.aur.edu/remus Remus Wolf Logo Kristen Palana Front Cover Photograph Morgan Anderson Printing Arti Grafiche Fracassa srl Remus Thanks The AUR Student Government [B] © 2010 Remus Publications
Contents: Reflections on a Trip to India ................... Alejandra Fabris .................... 7 Narcissus Lives ........................................ Ian Zurzolo .......................... 17 Aracoeli .................................................... Whitney Bishop .................. 19 Galettes .................................................... Michelle Spaulding ............. 21 Building for the Future ............................ Aleksandra Petrov a ............. 27 Gift ........................................................... Claire Tinguely ................... 33 Santorini and the Donkey ......................... Shakira Mongul .................. 35 A Mustard Seed ........................................ Andrew Everett ................... 39 The Death of the Muse ............................. Alessandra Potenza ............ .45 Wounds We Wear ...................................... Anna Mangiardi ................. .49 Morocco ................................................... Claire Tinguely ................... 55 Cycle ........................................................ Sofia Marmorstein .............. 57 The Mother ............................................... Jessicah Fili pas ................... 65 Notes on Contributors ............................................................................... . Artwork by: Alejandra Fabris Astrid Chitou Morgan Anderson Alessandra Potenza Ian Zurzolo Sofia Marmorstein Aleksandra Petrova Shahnaz Al- Dulaimy
.:
This volume of Remus is dedicated to the memory of Professor Terry Kirk August 30, 1961 - October 17, 2009
l
In Search of the Self Outside of Time: Reflections on a Trip to India By Alejandra Fabris My friend's name is nowhere in the registrar of guests. It is midnight and the employees at the New Delhi hotel are suspiciously eager to make this fact clear to me. Just as adamantly, they offer me Chai tea with a nagging insistence though, in carefully enunciated American English, I have also made it clear that I do not wish to ingest caffeine. Not at that hour. Not after a long flight from the south of France. Not when I am exhausted from the apparent dark hole of my life in December of 2001 and what I want, after seven years of not seeing my friend, is to see him -that night in that hotel like we said we would. I am not being unreasonable! I place my hand on my hip assertively and insist on reexamining the registrar. Suddenly, yes, they remember my friend. He is there. They suddenly remember his room number. Not caring whether the miracle was a real or an orchestrated one, ecstatically I run up the stairs, two at a time, to his room-forgetting the weight of the 25-kilo backpack I obdurately brought with me to India in spite of my health problems. If, when I entered the hotel, I had the Nonfiction: Reflections on a Trip to India 7
travel-worn air of a decrepit turtle, I have now become the white hare in Alice in Wonderland. I knock. The door opens. Light brown hair and blue eyes. Moshe stares at me in disbelief through his glasses. We smile at each other for several moments. I sit down to peruse the surprisingly large stack of American and English literature books in his faded orange backpack, delighted with him and with his lovely imports. Moshe was the only tie I had to my university studies in the states after my self-exile. Soon after our initial excited exchange of news, I race downstairs-to the unadulterated dismay of the young Hindu men at the reception-to ask to have my room number changed to his. Before their strict traditions concerning male-female interactions (which they break with foreign women when given the chance) my conscience is clear. I was not about to risk having Moshe disappear from me again. There must have been something to my feelings of foreboding however, for the next day we learn of the terrorist attack-by Islamic militants backed by Pakistan- in the parliament. It had killed nine people the day of my arrival. No, Moshe would not have been nosing around the parliament but even then, we decide that this was our cue to leave New Delhi behind us, in two short days. To our disbelief, there is serious talk of going to war among the locals we speak to in bars and in cafes. I booked the ticket with lastminute.com and came on this trip-the farthest I could go towards the ungraspable horizon and still hope to make it back-because I wanted to find the courage I knew was still mine after being a victim of medical negligence at the hands of a Parisian chiropractor. Before 8 Remus Literary Journal
leaving Toulouse, the "pink city," in southern France where I had hoped to regain my health from having the nerves in my neck and head damaged by that quack, I was quite alone. But I had no death wish. As precautionary measures against disease, I converted to vegetarianism and started taking anti-malaria pills two weeks before I was en route to the Indian capital. I had to make sure I pushed hard though, against the limits of our globe, so I would be forced to find the audacity of self-reliance that would then hurl me forward once I returned to Europe. It was my attempt to defy Zeno's paradox, to reach an unreachable destination in my life in spite of the gaps that opened up before me along my twisting path. I conceived the voyage thus, on a "slingshot" theory of existential drive. I went to India for new "survival momentum," as a way to recharge, and I would find it for the month I was there, at least. Indeed, these memories may have made the crucial difference later on, when the grinding of my life would truly come to a halt and I unwittingly faced the prospect of ending my life. The accident in Paris would ultimately result in six years of incapacitation and not a moment free from blinding physical pain. It was under these absurd circumstances that I found myself a backpacker in India. An iron willpower will go a long way when life throws up its obstacles. This is my first time in the Far East while Moshe, also heeding the call of the nomad, had already been traveling in the Orient for several months after he left his teaching job in Japan. While I feel he is inviting unnecessary liabilities by refusing to take pills against malaria and drinking the tap water, Moshe, Nonfiction: Reflections on a Trip to India 9
1 Q Remus Literary Journal Photography Alejandra Fabris Top Moshe in New Delhi Right Snake Charmer Left Taj Mahal
a photographer, is the perfect traveling companion to explore the dusty streets of New Delhi and beyond. India: shantytowns, thick traffic, unregulated smog, heaps of filth, many colors and colorful strangers, Jain temples, three-hour Bollywood movies, cheap finger foods, sour chutney, snake charmers, luxurious silk saris, street vendors hawking kitchen utensils ... hashish-crazed rickshaw drivers intent on having as many head-on collisions- close calls, but not quite-with the sacred cows that roamed freely, the true parliamentarians of the cities ... India! With a friend at my side, her chaos is a soothing balm against the tight ball of mental strain. Like cold water-or ayurvedic hair oil-on a feverish forehead, exercise of maneuvering in the shuffle and jumble of a third world country is a wake-up call for me out of the sluggish monotony of personal despair. Somehow, I am living again. Years later, I would be told that I resembled a shark after the accident in Paris, the one that pushed me towards the blessed shock of India and to other unexpected places. They say that to be a saint, one must become fully human. India is saintly in its humanness ... while sharks are cold-blooded creatures that do not die as long as they keep moving. I've never been cold-blooded but there is something to be said for the life-giving properties of motion. There I was, caught between reptile-nature and joining the ranks of the beatified. Travel has always had a peculiar effect on me: it warms the core that alone never forgets what it means to be alive. Whatever the myopia instilled by a given situation, travel wipes away the day-to-day curbed perspective on possibility, like suddenly removing a pair of glasses with the wrong prescription. Nonfiction: Reflections on a Trip to India 11
Travel reminds me how small any city in the world and its events are once I leave them to roam outside the confines of city limits and national borders, if only, as it was in the case of India, to briefly suspend personal suffering like laundry set to dry in an open window. For the time I was in that distant country, nothing was clear except the business of moving forward: the practice of living simply, joyfully, with no anguish for the troubles of the next day. This attitude also had a touch of the evangelical. My refusal to drink Chai the night of my arrival stemmed from a hunch of the "don't accept candy from strangers" variety. Nonetheless, when I saw locals drinking this spicy, milky concoction, I let my guard down, respectful of the wisdom behind "when in Rome, do as the Romans do." Though yes, we also hear a warning on the train from an Indian employee against accepting anything from anyone-when we would later travel by night from Mumbai to the southern beaches in Goa. Apparently, a foreigner sometime or another drank something on the train (was it Chai?) and woke up in the middle of a field three days later. Heuristics are heuristics for a reason. Traveling common sense I would call it and I am in full possession of it in a way I would not have been back in France because, while France is not my country, it was, at the time, my home. What is so terrible about home that I become blind when I am there? Wasn't I so blind to have trusted that chiropractor? Somehow, travel uncovers my authentic self, the one that could exist outside of time-a problem-solver in touch with her intuition. Taking a bus to a little town near Goa to find the black fabric for a handmade hammock, I would 12 Remus Literary Journal '
meet a traveler whose journey had also laid bare his essential self: a blue-eyed Israeli who had lost both his arms under mysterious circumstances. (Should I count myself lucky then ... ? Still, a daughter of Hope, I told myself that my situation was not forever.) Disdainful, the Indian ticket seller on the bus gingerly accepted money from the out-stretched metallic hook the Israeli had for hands. My heart went out to him when the young man insisted on being treated with dignity. I could sense his lonely determination, his iron will, finding himself as he did inside this foreign caste-rigid society. His existential vision was lucid-even if there was no one at his side that could wipe the white sand from his eyes. From New Delhi, Moshe and I travel to Agra to see the stupendous (triple) monument of the Taj Mahal, technically a huge Muslim mausoleum constructed in the 17th century by Shah J ahan, the "King of the World" in honor of his (dazzlingly beautiful) wife. Since India is run like a giant mafia when it comes to tourists, as American citizens, we are obliged to pay $20 dollars to see it, while Indians only pay $3-which will be, however, well worth it. We are invited to cut to the front of the very long line as a benefit of our entrance fee and are soon able to enjoy the delicate white marble structures adorned with their extraordinary latticework. Inside the complex, an extended local family asks if they can take a picture with me. Is it because they recognize the real me? Somewhere, thus, in that vast country, I may linger like a heroine as a part of an Indian family portrait. That's a nice way to be remembered. Just days before New Year's and its festivities, we arrive in the province of Rajasthan (Raj means King in Hindu) to visit the cities of Jaipur and Udaipur. Nonfiction: Reflections on a Trip to India 13
Jaipur, another "pink city" because painted pink as a sign of Rajput hospitality in the late 1860s in honor of the Prince of Wales, is memorable for its Palace of Winds. The Palace, the site of a honeycomb-shaped female harem, contains more than 900 miniscule windows that allowed King Jai Singh's imprisoned women a glimpse into the outside world. Like them, I too desire a wider perspective from the stifling comfort of a "home" that is much too small for me. Strolling free in Udaipur, next to the painted elephants lumbering alongside the roads, Moshe and I decide to give a touristy cafe a try. There we discover the traces of another sexist figure: Bond. Yes, Bond. James Bond. It turns out, the 1983 movie Octupussy was filmed in this city. What impresses me about the movie, shown in cafe's main area for the benefit of Westerners, is just how horrible it appears to my adult eyes. Only a child when I first saw it, I now quickly conclude that, by the merits of its misogynist content and racist depictions, it should have been entitled simply: "How the White Man Wins!" Armed with my anti-neo-colonist humor, I ask the employee what he thinks of the movie. He purses his mouth, refusing to answer. I demand again. He says gruffly, "You first." I say, "Frankly, I think it's awful!" He nods his head quietly in agreement. Historically, even during British rule, some of the princely kingdoms in Rajasthan maintained their independence. The majesty of the Rajs is evident in the palaces and their treasures ... and in the people that refuse to be put down. It was there however, listening to the sweet sound of a sitar player while sipping on a yogurt-based drink, the lassi, that I notice for the first time how pale Moshe 14 Remus Literary Journal
looks. We are fighting to resist different things: me, the nerve pain, and he, a broken heart. He travels to lose the memory of losing a girlfriend. In the same 007 cafe another night, we find some much-needed distraction thanks to another lassi called Bhang. This peculiar drink contains an extract of the marijuana plant, legal in that part of India. The eccentric owner of the cafe proudly invites us to share in one of a long line of Bhang lassis he drank that day, along with the text of a "poem," which I record in a notebook for the sake of all of posterity: Full power. Twenty-four hour. No toilet. No shower. And sitting on the clock tower. No look hour. If you look hour: lose your power! IRJ Nonfiction: Reflections on a Trip to India 15
Narcissus Lives By Ian Zurzolo It's in his eyes, changing with the seasons. Sometimes they shift in an instant, revealing his echoing thoughts in that upward gaze. He is always there, facing me after my morning shower. Beads of water drip-drip down our close, yet distant bodies. He stares through me as a lover should, aware of all my hidden imperfections ... and I let him. I let him judge me, conscious of his lust and his disgust, which happens to be a thinner line than it seems. Sometimes when we are alone I stroke my tangled hair, guiding it behind my ear to the nape of my neck, imagining it is his touch. We are forever waiting, waiting, and mad with sweet fever. I see him everywhere, but I'm never sure it's really him. On the other side of cafe windows, in my sister's eyes and especially when it rains. The soaked streets of Rome resurrect him in cobblestone torment, and my world shrinks to the size of a postcard, with only a puddle of rippled water before me. Kneeling down to contemplate my reflection, I see us both hand-in-hand, crippled with poisonous affection. [B] Fiction: Narcissus Lives 1 7
Castel Sant'Angelo Photograph Sofia Marmorstein 18 Remus Literary Journal
Aracoeli Ву Whitney Bishop The floor rises up to him like а silent prayer. The ceiling and walls hang heavy and weary with ornamentation so thick it is dizzying. Huge, rectangular slabs of marЫe appear light, slippery. Не treads on а patchwork of raw materials and time, and loses the balance in his step, teetering over deep crevices. lt is broken in places not meant to Ье broken. Short of breath, he sits on а stone step, bone against cold bone. Не watches others wоЬЫе in front of him on the soft, buttery marЫe, dim light hindering his vision. Melting into the dark, whispered setting, he studies visitors sliding on the surfaces sheltering the dead. They never look down at the lightness under their feet, lost in the elaborate chaos above. Не winces and shifts on the step, feeling the dampness against his body and in his breath. The glow and halo of candles the color of dirty honey, glint against the wall, casting shadows of make-believe life. The smell of hot wax floods the atmosphere, warms him. The candles flicker, seducing his gaze with а manic, melancholy dance. (В] Poetry: Aracoeli 19
20 Remus Literary Journal Desperate Housewife lllustration Astrid Chitou
Galettes Ву Michelle Spaulding "Galettes". 1 used to feel so fancy as that French word rolled off my tongue on the playground. So much so that I would often picture myself in а beret and Ыасk and white striped shirt - what I thought then was а typical French girl, but now I know I was dreaming of dressing like а mime. "Му Daddy made us French food last night ... my Daddy speaks French." This sentence was both true and false. Му Dad had taken French in high school, but wouldn't Ье аЫе to hold а conversation unless it ended shortly after 'Bonjour' or involved the lyrics to "Lady Marmalade". But in а small Michigan farm town, knowing three words in French and eating anything besides hamburgers and hot dogs was insanely exotic, and I took pride in the fact that someone on that playground just had to Ье jealous of me. 1 was seven years old the first time my palate was introduced to Galettes. Му Dad had bought frozen bread dough the night before and stuck it in the refrigerator. 1 woke up the next morning, after he had gone to work, and found the dough sitting in а yellow ceramic bowl on the counter, covered in plastic wrap. Nonfiction: Galettes 21
"What is that?" 1 asked my sister, pointing to the gooey, grayish lump. "Dinner," she replied Ыuntly and shrugged. 1 spent the entire day at school dreading corning home; there was no way I was going to eat that. Ву the time the school bus stopped in front of my house, 1 had everything planned out. 1 would pretend to have had а stomachache all day, surely my Dad would suggest that I lie down and skip his torturous meal. If that didn 't work, 1 would run to the bathroom and pretend to throw up. 1 walked into the house and found the dough oozing over the side of the bowl. lt had even popped а hole in the plastic wrap, а golf-ball-sized knot resting on top. 1 dropped my backpack and stared at the dough, eyebrows fuпowed. lt grew. Му Dad walked in behind me and asked if I wanted to help him make dinner. "Daddy, that is totally gross," 1 scoffed. Не laughed and peeled the plastic from the dish, which released а strong, yeasty smell, both sour and warm. Not the most pleasant smell, but for some reason my mouth watered. Му dad turned to the pantry and pulled а large bottle of oil from one of the shelves. Не unscrewed the сар and poured some into а small bowl: "Give me your hands." 1 hesitantly put my hands in front of him; he dipped them into the oil. lt was warm and made my hands feel like I had eaten а pound of McDonald's french fries. "Now punch it." Не said, gesturing to the dough. "What?" 1 looked up at him, hands dripping oil onto the countertop. "You have to let the air out. Punch it. Gently," he urged. 1 raised my fist above the dough and pressed it down fiпnly. More of the smell rushed into my nostrils as the top of the dough deflated. 1 srniled. Не said, "Now you have to knead the dough- keep pressing your fists into it." 1 poked, prodded, 22 Remus Litemry Journal
and pulled the dough, giggling as some of it stuck to my fingers. When I finished, it wasn 't much larger than when I had seen it frozen. "Now what?" 1 asked, pulling rernnants of dough from ту oil-slicked hands. "Now we wait, in а couple hours we do it all over again and then we cook," he said. 1 didn't want to wait. When it was time to cook the dough I sat оп one of the kitchen stools and watched as my Dad cut the dough into small strips, а pan of oil beginning to sizzle on the stove. Не laid the strips flat on а cookie sheet, and then picked them up two at а time, overlapping and crossing them until they looked like small braids. Не dropped them into the oil and I watched them change color from dismal gray to а light, buttery, crispy tan. Не scooped them from the oil with а slotted spoon and dropped them onto а plate covered in paper towel. They smelled delicious, sweet and savory, hot and rich. 1 couldn't wait to eat one. Не took out three plates and aпanged а few on each one and put them on the tаЫе. Не walked to the refrigerator and got the butter and maple syrup. This was а pleasant surprise. 1 scraped а glob of butter from the container and spread it over the Galettes, it melted on contact and so did 1. 1 poured а generous amount of syrup on them and dug in. Syrup dripped from my fork as I rushed the first bite into my mouth. lts crust was light and flaky, but not crunchy. It had а moist, doughy, sweet centeI - that bordered on being sour. lt just tasted French - buttery and sour. 1 quickly cleared my plate and loaded it up with three more, my mouth watering. Galettes quickly became one of my favorite foods, and I dieamed of moving to Paris so 1 could have а constant supply of these simply sweet creations. Nonfiction: Galettes 23
What I hadn't realized then vvas that our farnily wasn't eating French food because vve were suave or distinguished, we were eating Galettes because bread dough was cheap and we were broke. Му Dad didn't want my sister and me to know or to wопу, so once а week he would fry up some dough and we would eat like Parisians. 1 think, that deep down, 1 knew, because though I would brag to my friends оп the playground, whenever they asked to come over for dinner оп Galette night, 1 would come up with an excuse: "Му Dad didn't get enough dough," or "it's too short notice," or, my personal favorite, "1 don't know if you could handle French food." The real fact was that if you could handle bread you could handle Galettes. But also, sharing these delicate pastries with anyone other than farnily would have taken the magic out of them. They were ours and по one else's and I liked it that way. When I was fourteen I visited Europe with а student group. 1 hadn't enjoyed а Galette for three or four years. 1 was in Paris, but refused to try an authentic one - to me, Galettes should Ье made Ьу my Dad and covered with globs of butter and maple syrup. They looked different in Paris, not like the fried dough I grew to love as а child; they were more sophisticated and aпogant in Paris, almost as if they wanted to boss me around. lt was in that moment that 1 realized I had never actually eaten а Galette. Му Dad had fried up some dough and given it а French name; dressing it up to hide the truth. 1 couldn't brag about eating fried bread dough, but I could brag about eating а Galette. Visiting my Dad while on vacation from University in Rome, 1 was now twenty-two and had almost forgotten about the joy of Galettes. Our farnily was 24 Remus Literary Journal
no longer in financial turmoil and to prove it, we no longer ate them. But sitting on the deck of our new house one afternoon, with the sun warming my skin and oldies playing softly in the background, my Dad turned to me and asked: "What do you want for dinner tonight, Kiddo?" 1 turned, squinted my eyes against the sun, smiled and said "Galettes?" That night the two of us sat together cooking and devouring cinnamon-raisin Galettes, the sweetly sour smell filled the house. 1 knew I was home. [В] Nonfiction: Galettes 25
Nothing to Fear Photograph Aleksandra Petrova 26 Remus Literary Joumal
Building for the Future Ву Aleksandra Petrova Kychuk Parij or "the little Paris" is а neighborhood which emerged at the end of the nineteenth century, when Macedonian immigrants settled on the outer side of the railway line, which used to mark the end of Plovdiv. The area has а unique atmosphere, having preserved its century-old Macedonian immigrants' houses, with their descendants still living where their ancestors first put stone on stone. Both boulevards and narrow side streets are covered in dark cobЫestone, baking under the harsh summer sun and small one-story houses with lush gardens which keep their inhaЬitants cool. Plovdiv has а reputation for being obscenely laid-back. lt is true that the city's jargon features а big variety of words to describe the same state of unspoiled relaxation and value а good drink with hearty company more than anything else in the world. The summer day in this city of nonchalance is spent best outdoors, under the shade of а pavilion or an oak tree, sitting in one of the Nonfiction: Building fог tlze Futuгe 27
numerous cafes downtown or оп а friend's balcony, with an ice-cold nesfrappe. And it's а pleasuraЬ!e existence: the sky is Ыuе and heavy, undimrned Ьу clouds, the cobЬ!estones shimrner from the sun and while the city is gasping for breath, under the shade it's always соо!. That is how I remembered this unpretentious neighborhood until I last visited it in the sumrner. 1 was surprised to find the spilling concrete of new constructions creeping over every free patch of land. Since Bulgaria's acceptance into the European Union in 2007, new apartments, office buildings and shopping centers have begun to рор out from nowhere, however, somehow I never pictured that this process would reach the lazy streets of Kychuk Parij. The reconstruction of the city's face is getting to те. 1 was shocked to walk over to an old friend's house and to find that in place of the small one story houses, which used to neighbor her home, there was а huge new apartment building. The massive peach-colored concrete pile was embracing Vicky's house from all sides like а giant puzzle piece. 1 stood in awe, unaЬ!e to believe that the charming little houses with their vegetaЬ!e gardens, flowers and small hen-houses were gone forever. The new building was still empty for the most part and towered over the ninety-year-old house, in which Vicky's family had lived ever since it was built Ьу her great-grandfather. 1 couldn't help but think that such а tight embrace around the small, two-story building and its garden was not an affectionate one. 28 Remus Literary Journal
1 1 walked through the permanent shade which the tall building cast on the yard and shivered from the difference in temperature. Vicky opened the door and I entered the small house, immediately recognizing the faint smell of old lace curtains and moist wooden beams. Vicky ran up the naпo,v wooden staircase, jumping up the steps in the same way she had always done. 1 followed suit and was surprised that the sound of the creaking wood had not changed over the past ten years. Midway through our climb, between the floors was а small door, which led to а tiny balcony. Before, its only purpose was to hold two chairs for coffee drinkers, who'd enjoy а beautiful view of nearby houses' red rooftops and the shimmering leaves of the grape-vines that covered the yards like natural pavilions. However, that was before these small houses disappeared and the new apartment building grew in their place. Sadly, 1 noticed that the balcony was now used only for the storage of jars of preserved vegetaЫes and drying fruits. 1 entered the second floor through а low frame and Vicky opened а heavy wooden door to а cool rectangular guest room. lts thick carpet, darkened Ьу time, emitted а cool tinge of moisture underneath my socks, which was mostly welcomed after the scorching heat outside. This reception room was furnished in а typically Bulgarian fashion - crowded with furniture, creating loads of sitting space for а much larger amount of people than а room that size would normally hold. There was а big round tаЫе made of polished wood, covered in an oilcloth (courtesy of the mistress of the house, who in а typically Bulgarian manner would Nonfiction: Building for t/1e Future 29
hate cleaning) with а lace taЫecloth thrown over it. Multiple chairs were jammed around it, and in the comer there was а huge tile stove. А thick Ыanket covered its plate, creating а therrnal bench to sit on during the winter. Two couches had а cold, velvety texture, which immediately cooled me down. Further crowding the room were two tall glass cases that featured everything from Russian crystal glasses, decorated with gold to little plastic toys. А fake crystal chandelier dangled from the ceiling, but we preferred the cool semi-darkness, so it was left off. Vicky returned from the kitchen with а salver. I stared at the walls of the room, which wei-e covered in handmade tapestry. I asked her if "the old goЫin" on the wall was her grandfather. Му friend burst out laughing and corrected my wording. "It's called goЫet," she said as she poured fi-uit juice in my glass. She sat down next to me and chewed on the nuts she had bi-ought. I followed suit and lounged back into the thick pillows of the couch. I thought that everything in that old house was dark and cold, but it felt incrediЬly homey and familiar. "I am sorry about the fig tree," I said. "Oh, don't even get me started on that," she said, and she continued to reminisce about her favorite tree, the times when we had climbed on it, the delicious jam her grandmother pi-epared from the figs, and the wonderful shade it created in the yard. "They i-eally want to buy the house," Vicky told me, "But we are not selling it ! If my motheI sells it, I will shoot myself." 30 Remus Literary Journal
1 asked her why the construction company would want to buy her house, and my friend explained that according to plan, her house was supposed to Ье knocked down as well, so that an inner yard could Ье built for the new apartment building. The company had offered her family an apartment in exchange for their land. They refused to move. "Му great-grandfather built it. lt holds the last tangiЫe part of his spirit for те," she said. "1 will never sell it." Vicky proposed coffee and I agreed. She accompanied the sour Turkish infusion with а serving of the delicious fig jam, which her grandmother had prepared the year before. The figs were small and green, candied with а delicate taste of orange added Ьу а slice of orange peel in their core. We enjoyed them and 1 ended up going home with one of those jars, feeling truly sad that it was the last one l'd get from Vicky's grandmother. mJ Nonfiction: Building fог tl1e Futuгe 31
Untitled Photograph Sofia Marmorstein 32 Remus Liteгar y Jouгnal
. ; Gift Ву Claire Тinguely 1 once caught my grandfather, hands in soil, singing to some strawbeпies in his garden. 1 stood silent in the wet grass behind him, afraid to startle the small creature of his voice. The cottonwood tree sighed in the summerripe wind. Powdered Ыuе plums Ьlushed red through their low grazing branches as the dusk-veiled sun retired. "This is the heart," he said, placing the marЫe into my palm, slick with fish Ыооd. Cleaning trout, his arthritic hands turned confident . Curiosity flickered across his face like light on fish scales. Gold and Ыuе, the landscape was framed in his eyes, sun soaring to the brow of his cheek. ) Waking at dawn, he was ready to give days meaning. А motor's hum followed his activity like а dragonfly along the banks of his pond. And 1, as sawdust settled into the windowpanes of his workshop and cupboard spiders made tracks on jars of tea, waited quietlyfeet in the water, casting and reeling. lRI Poetry: Gift 3 3
ТоВе David Photograph Morgan Anderson 34 Remus Literary Journal
Santorini and the Donkey Ву Shakira Mongul The mid-size fепу comes to а stop, causing the fierce, yet cornforting warm wind to cease to lift and tousle her hair as it has for the past hour. She and her family exit the fепу, one Ьу one, with the help of an older sun-kissed gentleman who stands at the edge of the dock. For а few Ыissful moments she stands alone where the land emerges from the regal Ыuе sea. While enjoying the gentle waves that tickle her toes, she takes in the view of the island from the base of the mountain. On top, sits а serene collection of pristine white buildings with Ыuе accents that bring а smile of awe and appreciation to her face. А few more moments pass and her loving father calls to her, while bearing his famous grin. Behind him stand three large donkeys all saddled up and prepared to climb the hundreds of stairs to the top of the mountain. The sight of the smelly beasts with fiies circling their ears and tails forces the girl 's nerves to kick in, causing а cold rush through her ten-year-old body. She has never ridden а beast of burden before and is far from excited to have her first Fiction: Santoгini and t/1e Donkey 35
donkey experience take place on the side of а cliff. "What about Мот?" she asks her father; secretly hoping her mother could find another way up. "She won't ride а donkey!" she's already taking the funicular. Соте on, let's beat her to the top!" Нег seven-year-old brother, who sports the same goofy grin as his father is already perched a-top the large animal and ready to ride. At just ten years old she has sadly developed the terriЫe fear of falling that her younger brother has yet to know. Though she is terrified of being bucked off the creature, she doesn't want to give her brother and father teasing privileges for years to соте. So she takes а deep breath and approaches her designated donkey. Just as she gets close to him, he begins kicking his hooves, jiving to an inaudiЫe beat, and shaking his head violently in attempts to free himself of his muzzle; causing her heart to flutter rapidly in her chest. Нег father notices the fear behind his daughter's eyes and coaxes her onto her animal. As soon as she grasps the reins, the man who facilitates the donkey rides screams "Yalla!" while cracking а whip on her donkey's rear. The animal takes off at а running start. As the staircase narrows and ,vinds, her wayward beast slows his gallop. She exhales, unclenches her jaw, relaxes her shoulders and stomach muscles, and allows her heart rate to stabilize. She is finally аЫе to lift her eyes from the edge of the cliff and take in the scenery. Reunited with the soothing wind, she is happy again. 36 Remus Literary Journal
The enchanting and all encompassing nature of the scenery sweeps through her and carries her away farther than any donkey ever could. Where land meets sea, where magic meets reality is where. she finds herself. Regretfully, а mere five rninutes later, she is at the end of her journey. She and her donkey part ways, and in the moments she has left to herself before her brother and father rejoin her, she quietly and thankfully adrnires the view from the tор. (В] Fiction: Santoгini and the Donkey 3 7
Friends Photograph Morgan Anderson 38 Remus Literary Journal
А Mustard Seed Ву Andrew Everett ... is the least of all seeds: but when it is grown, it is the greatest among herbs -Matthew 13:31-2 А part of те was curious. Му parents brought те up Catholic and the irony that my mother sent те here seemed all too comical. Yet I wasn't laughing. Her usual duplicitous motives have always made те wary and today seemed like по exception. 1 didn't ask questions. This appointment got те out of school and 1 would have taken any excuse to skip algebra. The fresh, whitewashed sign that read Palm Веас/1 Baptist Cliurch gave identity to an ambiguous building stretched оп an obscurely manicured landscape that could have easily passed for а child's daycare. 1 entered the property and pulled in next to the only car parked in the empty car lot- а 2000 Ford Taurus. The apparent aura of mediocrity was upsetting. 1 walked up to the main door and was struck with а sickening apprehension. Coral. The entire building was painted in а nauseating shade of coral. The fa�ade. The door. The doorframe. The windows. Even the mailbox, which was placed at the entrance as if to give this eerie place а homey appearance, was painted in that repugnant color. Nonfiction: А Mustard Seed 39
"What's wrong with these people?" 1 thought to myself. 1 reached in my pocket and pulled out the yellow sticky note my mom stuck on ту door the night before: 12.30-Palm Beach Baptist Church. Pastor Jay. 1 looked at my watch. 12:35. Five rninutes late but something tells me these people wait. 1 took а deep breath and walked inside. А young woman, рrоЬаЫу twenty or so, was hiding behind the front desk. She looked up at me perturbed. Нег hair was carelessly tied up from behind and she had bags under eyes, which, for such а young girl gave her а farniliarity of Jodie Foster in Taxi Driver. Нег cheap, polyester Ыouse seemed new and the creases made it evident it still hadn't been washed. She kept staring at me then looked over to her left-then her right. This could have lasted а while so I just decided to ask. "l'm looking for Pas-" Just then someone else entered the room; а man in his rnid-forties with salt and pepper hair and an uninspired srnile. Не wasn't ugly nor too attractive and carried а rather prosaic disposition. Even his voice seemed intentionally undistinguished, as if to conceal his deeper, darker ... condition. "You must Ье Andrew. l'm Pastor Jay." His voice was soft and patronizing. 1 srniled, shook his hand, and acted accordingly. Не talked briefly about his parish while I pretended to саге. We made our way into а back room which was unfurnished with the exception of а long serving tаЫе placed up against the wall and three metal folding chairs unfolded in 40 Remus Literary Journal
the center of the room. А bright ftorescent light hung from the ceiling. Just then а young, handsome man walked in. Не was tall and slender with broad shoulders. Не gave me а look of ambivalent affection. Pastor Jay introduced him as Chris, а new rninister at the parish. 1 was trying to pretend I didn't know where this was going but the indications were too evident. They were ех gays. Pastor Jay disclosed how he spoke to ту mother and how this parish has been successful in turning gays away from the temptations of sin. Му resentments quickly sharpened and images of Christian anti-gay articles ftooded my rnind; articles my mother persistently placed on my bed ever since last month. The themes were always the same-How to save your son from the perversions of homosexuality- though the topics often changed. Sometimes I got articles Ыarning the father for his lack of masculine inftuence. Poor dad. Other times I would get articles on reparative therapy and conversion camps. Chris and Pastor Jay began to go in-depth with their personal homosexual experiences. They talked about prostitution, drugs, and а life of rnisery. 1 was beginning to question ту interest in this conversation when suddenly they did it. They attacked me. 1 became the target of personal aggression in which Jesus was their weapon. They began condemning me to а life of sin, solitude, and selfdestruction; а life that I myself have chosen. Where there is а life ofHomosexuality there is no hope for happiness. Hell is my final destination. 1 was outraged yet words would not escape ту mouth. 1 vvas defeated Ьу а lesser humanity yet I could not find the courage to fight. 1 sat there and I took it; with all my dignity and self-confidence I took it-- and it hurt. 1 was suffocating Nonfiction: А Mustaгd Seed 41
in а fog of false affirrnations. These men have painted themselves in а coat of repudiation and the feeling was as vile as the coral fa<;ade. 1 left speechless. 1 left angry. 1 was angry with my mother, angry with these men, angry at ту own inability to defend my self-worth. 1 couldn't help but think about printmaking. Last semester, а close friend of rnine took а printmaking course. As а talented, spirited artist she pursued the course passionately. Every class she created а new print, each time better than before. Every student envied her work and it seemed she was more skilled than most professionals. When it came time for final grading the teacher gave her а 'В'. As it turned out, as brilliant of an artist as she was, she did not produce the necessary number of prints. She was so busy creating that she forgot to print multiples. Personally offended Ьу her professor's actions and the acadernic mark she left the office feeling discomfited and discouraged. 1 felt more than discouraged. In а life, in which I felt I excelled, 1 was not even given а passing grade. 1 got in my car and locked the doors. 1 fooled the men but I could not deny myself the emotions inside me. Tears of shame and hurniliation swelled in my eyes and at once all that felt good in my life escaped. Pride and contentment left те in liquid form-soaking my shirt and burning ту flesh like acid ... or holy water. 1 drove to Nikki's. Lately, thanks to her and the support of her grandparents, it was the only р!асе in which I felt truly at home. 1 could go to their house and Ье me. 1 needed а place to Ье те. 1 rushed in their house and ran down the hall that led to Nikki's "wing". She was there waiting for те. She always was. 42 Remus Liteгaгy Joumal
I_ After crying, then talking, then both crying, we decided to take cornfort in the best way possiЫe-sushi. On the way out she went to go talk to her grandparents as I waited in the car. I was too emotional to face them, and knowing Nikki would tel1 them what happened made making an appearance all the more difficult. We returned shortly after; Nikki hyped up on Thai tea and myself in better spirits. We were talking in her room when grandma called her cell. This was the most convenient mode of communication in this house, which saved grandma а walk to the back and gave her more time in her study for reading or playing on her Game Воу with Dr. Mario. She asked to see me. I got to her room and she was sitting up оп the side of her bed. She asked me to sit next to her and I did. Grandma was one of those compassionate intellectuals who was too advanced for her conservative times. Once you knew her you could not help to love and respect her. She looked at me sympathetically with unyielding eyes. She would not have had to say anything for just having me in the room said it all. Yet she did. She hugged me, tighter than usual, and said, "You are so beautiful for being you and I never wish you to change that. More so, every experience lends you room to grow stronger and just know that in the end you will always have people who love you for who you are and whomever you grow to become." Му artist friend later informed me the 'В' became nothing to her. Those five months in the studio could not Ье summed up with an alphabetical letter. She spent months passionately pursuing something only she herself could give value to. She would tel1 те, "I learned how to print-I learned who I was. That was enough for me." IR] Nonfiction: А Mustaгd Seed 43
DJFunk lllustration Astrid
The Death of the Muse: The Myth of Orpheus Retold Ву Alessandra Potenza А bottle of whiskey and а dozen pills thrown randomly on the nighttaЫe. This is his end. A.J. stares at his precious means of salvation with absent eyes. He's alone on his bed, alone with himself and his confused thoughts. Не can't think straight anymore. Not even his poems are willing to help him. The words flee his mind, leaving а Ыank spot behind them, leaving foggy thoughts and memories. Не knows he is losing his head, even though he can still see the moon shining through the clouds. Even though he can see the stars. Не can no longer listen to the words they whisper through the thin air. There is no longeI а meaning. And he knows why: his Muse is dead. A.J. closes his absent eyes for а few seconds. Не remembeis her soft, white skin. Her lips always left half-open, as if they aie about to reveal an unspeakaЫe truth. Нег piercing eyes, eager to look and discover. Не remembeis her laugh, deep and contagious. А laugh that can trespass the insurmountaЫe gates of darkness and bring light wherever it's gone. Fiction: Т11е Deat/1 o.ftlie Muse 45
His repressed memories соте back to life, по matter how hard he has tried to put them away, по matter how often his father has told him to move оп. Arianna walks slowly оп his right. Her red lips curl into an amused grimace as she listens to A.J. reciting one of his poems. Не has picked his best one because he wants to impress her. The роет is about love and the loneliness of humanity. lt's about the universe and chance. Arianna laughs lightly. She doesn't believe in destiny. She knows everything is the result and consequence of something else. A.J. doesn't understand what she's talking about, but he nods and can't avoid staring at her white skin and lively eyes. When she stops, she looks at him and understands he has fallen in love. When he kisses her, his heart beats furiously into his chest. His stomach contorts like а dry leaf fallen from а tree in September. The movement of her soft wet lips makes him fly above the shiny clouds. A.J. suddenly opens his eyes. He's panting. Не can't breath. The memories, the memories ... Не сап по longer think and remember. Не wants to lift that unbearaЫe weight crushing his chest. Не wants to Ье over. Не wants to reach her, wherever she has gone. A.J. grabs the whiskey bottle. His hands are tremЫing. His heart noisily pumps Ыооd into his veins, as if it wants to cry its hymn to life and survival. Не swallows and swallows and swallows liquid and pills, liquid and pills. His body asks him to stop, and, finally, its request is met. Darkness. Thick, раlраЫе, Ыасk. No noise. No sound. No smells. Where is Arianna? Where is his Muse? Не can't see, but he сап feel she's close. Не tries 46 Remus Literary Journal
to stretch his arm. Не wants to touch her. Where is Arianna? Darkness. Thick, раlраЫе, Ыасk. Thud. "Соте on, соте on! One more time, one more time!" Thud. A.J. can hear voices shouting all around him. They fill his ears. But he wants silence. Не needs that silence. "He's back! He's back! Соте on, Ьоу! Open your eyes! Open your eyes!" Why are they shouting? What are they saying? Where is Arianna? Не knows she must Ье there. She must Ье. А. J. faintly opens his eyes. The light is strong and unbearaЫe. Everything is confused and Ыurred. And who are all those people hurrying around him? Не needs the darkness. Не has asked for the darkness. "You're alive. Don't worry about anything, now." [В] Fiction: Tlie Deat/1 oftlie Muse 47
Portrait of а Young Lady Drawing Alessandra Potenza 48 Remus Liteгaг y Joumal