<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?><rss xmlns:dc="http://purl.org/dc/elements/1.1/" xmlns:content="http://purl.org/rss/1.0/modules/content/" xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom" version="2.0" xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/"><channel><title><![CDATA[Symposeum Magazine]]></title><description><![CDATA[A quarterly publication of The Dial community, Symposeum concentrates convictions that human goodness and ingenuity are most keen where they are most threatened.]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/</link><image><url>https://symposeum.us/favicon.png</url><title>Symposeum Magazine</title><link>https://symposeum.us/</link></image><generator>Ghost 2.9</generator><lastBuildDate>Tue, 15 Aug 2023 20:23:32 GMT</lastBuildDate><atom:link href="https://symposeum.us/rss/" rel="self" type="application/rss+xml"/><ttl>60</ttl><item><title><![CDATA[Heads/Tails]]></title><description><![CDATA[At around midnight on a random weekday in 2007, I wandered downstairs from my
bedroom to the kitchen. I found my father with a pencil, a quarter, and a piece
of paper covered in hundreds of letters: “H T H T T” on one line, then “T T H T
H” on the next, and dozens more lines like this with combinations of “T” and
“H.” I was in seventh grade and should have been asleep, but like most middle
schoolers, I had been procrastinating my homework.
“Hey dad. What are you doing?”
“Oh, you know, just was]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/heads-tails/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__63efe753d2476a173dc58864</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 5 - Attention]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Meredith Paige]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Fri, 24 Mar 2023 20:53:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>At around midnight on a random weekday in 2007, I wandered downstairs from my bedroom to the kitchen. I found my father with a pencil, a quarter, and a piece of paper covered in hundreds of letters: “H T H T T” on one line, then “T T H T H” on the next, and dozens more lines like this with combinations of “T” and “H.” I was in seventh grade and should have been asleep, but like most middle schoolers, I had been procrastinating my homework.</p><p>“Hey dad. What are you doing?”</p><p>“Oh, you know, just wasting time, procrastinating doing taxes.” He explained that he was thinking about probability (his work had to do vaguely with statistics, so this made sense), and decided to flip a coin five times to see what combination of heads-tails-heads-tails he got. Then, he did that 5-flip-series again several more times to see what proportion of different combinations resulted. </p><p>This particular behavior was wholly unsurprising and on-brand. Maybe it was a little odd, but obviously, this kind of thing is not idiosyncratic to my dad: even at 13, I knew adulthood meant tasks that felt so painfully dull you’d rather spend hours flipping coins. At the time, I had no idea what “doing taxes” entailed, but it sounded like medieval torture. <em>Maybe middle school isn’t that bad.</em><br/></p><p>***<br/></p><p>We were taught how to write in cursive in third grade. I remember the day clearly because it was the same day Ryan said he’d give me a dollar if I ate ants off a log on the playground. I did it–he did not give me a dollar.<br/></p><p>To my teacher’s delight (I’m sure), I tried to learn cursive in class with my left hand, despite knowing I was right-handed. I desperately wanted to be ambidextrous. <br/></p><p>Of course, my left-handed handwriting was terrible. It was boxy, slow, and illegible, and practicing with my left hand instead of my right meant I wasn’t learning to write correctly with my dominant hand. I was therefore constantly reprimanded. (It was all moot anyway; I don’t think I’ve written in cursive since third grade). But I was determined. I was eight years old. My brain was at peak malleability, so I better learn a real impressive skill, lest grow up to be boring—or worse, have to learn a skill as an adult, god forbid. This was my one shot at being ambidextrous (an objectively interesting trait, obviously), and I wasn’t going to let some arbitrary pedagogical structure ruin it for me. </p><p>Ultimately, I gave up. I realized I couldn’t pay attention to developing both hands’ writing skills—it was impossible. I hated failing at something, even something as dumb as forced ambidexterity. </p><p>***</p><p>My time was running out to develop a cool skill. By seventh grade, the anxiety of choosing <em>something</em>—any niche, anything!—was becoming overwhelming. I gave things up almost as soon as I started them: guitar (fingers hurt), violin (neck hurt), soccer (the girls were mean), learning to code (the boys were mean). I needed a fix, something to soothe my budding identity crisis. </p><p>Figure skating was really popular in my hometown. We were situated near a big rink, the one where the Jersey Devils practiced. I decided to give skating a shot. I loved it instantly. At the rink, I could finally breathe. On the ice, I was lighter than the pressure of fixing my future, faster than my fears of stagnancy, on a different plane than the graveyard of failed hobbies littered all over my bedroom. Biting cold air, reddened cheeks, a few inches off the ground, floating. <br/></p><p>I was okay at it—good enough for local competitions, then Sectionals, and eventually Nationals. I dedicated so much time to the ice, waking up at 5 AM on weekends for practice and zigzagging across the country and internationally for competitions. Naturally, there were thousands of people who were way better than me, but I genuinely didn’t care. <br/></p><p>My skating obsession wasn’t at all unique or special, but my perspective had softened. Really, nothing felt important in those moments except whether my outside edge was deep enough or whether I landed my Salchow without breaking my neck. I was able to pay attention to something ultimately meaningless—who cares if some run-of-the-mill skater like myself has an under-rotated Axel?—and the rest was all details. I was good enough to feel at home on the ice; the other stuff just melted away. <br/></p><p>***</p><p>Being in your twenties in 2022 often feels like a frantic battle to keep up. Frenetically splitting your attention between apps, scrolling endlessly until the space behind your eyes feels like jelly. It’s a fair trade: I feed the apps my most sensitive personal data and in return it lobotomizes me for a blissful couple of hours. Most of it nowadays is ads. I <em>scroll scroll scroll</em> past an ad for a mail-order pill to “heal your gut.” <em>Scroll scroll scroll</em>. An ad for a virtual therapy service. <em>Scroll scroll scroll. </em>An ad for an article about how you’re wearing clothes wrong and aging wrong and using sunscreen wrong and eating wrong and are <em>missing out</em> on your “best life” because of all these horrid wrongs. <em>Scroll scroll scroll.</em> An ad taunts: “Are you procrastinating right now? Download this app to heal your attention span naturally!” </p><p>Attention is a finite resource. The places we direct our attention–even if we didn’t mean to land on them–are constantly picked apart and pathologized. I haven’t skated in over seven years. Somehow, I stopped paying attention to this thing that was my whole being for most of pre-adulthood life. Is that wrong? Is that <em>normal</em>? Is that the rhythm of growing up? <br/></p><p>***<br/></p><p>I spent a lot of my late teens and early twenties obsessing over decisions, terrified I’d make the wrong ones. Ultimately, I’d make de facto choices by <em>not</em> picking. The uncertainty of <em>what if I choose wrong and this is the one butterfly effect choice that ruins my life</em> became so pathologically torturous that I’d stew and stew until my indecision made a choice for me. Usually, this choice left me feeling stagnant, regretful, and empty. </p><p>The mess of potential decisions, the opportunity to entertain every possible outcome, always felt more enticing than the present moment. I was always elsewhere, never <em>here</em>. Because what if elsewhere was better?<em> </em>The worry that I was one choice away from an entirely different life always felt far more pressing than the soft carpet under my toes, the sound of my roommates chatting in the next room, the scorch of hot tea touching my lips. Questions with no answers were ticker tape behind my eyes. <em>What am I doing wrong?</em><br/></p><p>***<br/></p><p>My all-encompassing obsession with making the perfectly right choices for the optimized life<em> </em>and ritualizing any possible means to prevent failure, as it turns out, was a symptom of OCD. It’s a sneaky disorder for which I’ve since gotten treatment. </p><p>However, “worrying about the future” is about as broad as anxiety gets. Even after I put my most potent OCD symptoms behind me, I figured I could benefit from an additional push towards groundedness. </p><p>So, in my early twenties, I began attending a weekly mindfulness class. If this class had been graded, I would have earned a D or lower. The first couple weeks were excruciatingly, I’d-rather-sew-my-face-to-the-carpet boring. I think I would have had more fun at an actuarial exam. To my dismay, I learned around week 6 that this was the point: to become acquainted with, and ultimately befriend, boredom. To pay gentle attention to it, to reframe it as an opportunity to feel the full range of your physical experience in every moment of life “without judgment.” It was exhausting.</p><p>Around week 10, the instructor finally said something reasonable: “I want you to give 70% effort at most. Stop trying to give 100%. Stop forcing yourself to focus on everything at once. Mindfulness isn’t a destination or a goal, it’s a state of awareness of the moment you happen to be in. You can’t be aware of yourself if you’re obsessing over <em>how</em> <em>best</em> to be aware. Give it 70%. You’re not missing out by not giving 100%. Take the pressure off.” </p><p><em>Oh.</em> My ability to create an <em>elsewhere</em> so elaborate, so much better than <em>here</em>, had outshined even my efforts to heal this very problem. I had become hyper-aware of how I was doing mindfulness “wrong,” immobilizing myself with these judgments, which were so constant I couldn’t tell where they started and ended. Instead of finding the “present moment” with ease, I was breathing through molasses and then questioning why I was left gasping for air. </p><p>“Drink your morning coffee with awareness. Stop putting toothpaste into it and then complaining that it tastes bad,” the mindfulness instructor then told us. <em>But maybe I like my coffee minty and my toothpaste tube half-empty!</em> Maybe I like things one-foot-in-one-foot-out, obsessing over little meaningless details just to stay occupied, splitting time, splitting attention, splitting hairs. </p><p><em>Bullshit. </em>I know, I know. I know that <em>enjoying</em> the torture of indecision is not real, that the rituals to attempt to force a sense of certainty in an uncertain world are just distractions from reality. Reality is that the universe is indifferent to my little choices—or rather, they’re value-neutral. There’s no moral bent to choosing to play soccer or learn guitar, no valence to choosing ice skating over painting. Ambidexterity might be neat, sure, but it isn’t objectively “better.” </p><p>At its worst, if my indecision was ketamine I could have anesthetized an army. But if I’m going to pick soup over salad, it doesn’t matter how long I thought about it or the winding road I took to get to the restaurant—either way, I’m still eating soup. Sure, most decisions feel better when meticulously planned and ritualistically attended to. But in the end, they could just as readily be chosen by the flip of a coin. </p><p>I think of the ice. There isn’t a much more unforgiving place to be jumping around. In that environment, you’re constantly just one fall away from a life-altering concussion. Did I spend every practice considering new ways to avoid a fall? Or did I just skate? <br/></p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Photography by Nimue Hastings]]></title><description><![CDATA[
Artist’s Note
When I think of Attention, I am reminded of something Sam Harris once said —
"How we pay attention to the present moment largely determines the character of
our experience and, therefore, the quality of our lives [...] Our minds—and
lives—are largely shaped by how we use them." The things that hold my attention
give meaning to my life, and so I create. I allow my attention to unfold in the
making of an image, a reflection of myself and how I am oriented in the world at
tha]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/photography-by-nimue-hastings/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__63efecfad2476a173dc588a2</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 5 - Attention]]></category><category><![CDATA[Photography]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Nimue Hastings]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Fri, 17 Mar 2023 21:18:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p/><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/SCAN0931.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><p/><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/img256-2.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>When I think of Attention, I am reminded of something Sam Harris once said — "How we pay attention to the present moment largely determines the character of our experience and, therefore, the quality of our lives [...] Our minds—and lives—are largely shaped by how we use them." The things that hold my attention give meaning to my life, and so I create. I allow my attention to unfold in the making of an image, a reflection of myself and how I am oriented in the world at that moment. This process gives pause, and in Attention, so I become. <br><br>
</br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Unframed Picture]]></title><description><![CDATA[“I want to reach that state of condensation
of sensations which constitutes a picture.”
— Henri Matisse
Oil Painting by Victoria Juharyan. Photo by Elina Akselrud, NYC 2010“Close your
eyes. Relax. Picture the moment you were being born,” the therapist posited.
“Whom would you like to hold you first?” People started wandering through my
mind; my brain felt overcrowded and indecisive. Hardly could I relax. Suddenly
it hit me. “Nobody!” I replied with a surprising fulmination. The astringent but]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/poetry-by-victoria-juharyan/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__640f3b75785534685db922b6</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 5 - Attention]]></category><category><![CDATA[Artwork]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Victoria Juharyan]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 14 Mar 2023 21:34:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><em>“I want to reach that state of condensation</em></p><p><em>of sensations which constitutes a picture.”</em></p><p> — Henri Matisse</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/955DA8AB-5B60-455F-ACCA-5B1FB179F40B.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Oil Painting by Victoria Juharyan. Photo by Elina Akselrud, NYC 2010</figcaption></img></figure><p>“Close your eyes. Relax. Picture the moment you were being born,” the therapist posited. “Whom would you like to hold you first?” People started wandering through my mind; my brain felt overcrowded and indecisive. Hardly could I relax. Suddenly it hit me. “Nobody!” I replied with a surprising fulmination. The astringent but accommodating woman looked at me as if I were a puzzling and pixilated anomaly. “Nobody? Mother? Father? Boyfriend, for God’s sake!” “Nobody.”</p><p>As a child I liked drawing. I was quite good at it. So good that my family, having decided I was gifted, started pushing on me to develop my talent. I threw away my painting stuff and refused drawing. Family is like a framed canvas, in which you get a square to paint. You can be creative, you can fight to widen your square or even change its shape, but already there is a frame – you cannot change the frame.</p><p>Coming back to my empty apartment from the psychotherapy, I felt I would die if I had not drawn something. In an hour, three unframed eccentric pictures appeared on my window sills, fitting quite well into the whole place. They stood there unframed for many years. But once, cuddled on my sofa, I looked at them and remembered the lady who inspired me to paint. I smiled slightly, having just decided to look for some frames for my paintings.</p><p><br>2007</br></p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/D8DD29BE-596C-48BB-824C-5935CD8B0331.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Photo by Elina Akselrud, NYC 2010</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/CC7E8D69-9F52-426F-BBD8-1EA8F14A4FDB.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Mixed media: oil painting, dried flowers and leaves</figcaption></img></figure>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Cover Art]]></title><description><![CDATA[ ]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/cover-art-attention/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__63eff03cd2476a173dc588f0</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 5 - Attention]]></category><category><![CDATA[Artwork]]></category><category><![CDATA[home-page-3]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Courtney W. Brothers]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 07 Mar 2023 23:14:00 GMT</pubDate><media:content url="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/IMG_2345.jpg" medium="image"/><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/IMG_2345.jpg" class="kg-image" alt="Cover Art"/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/IMG_2608.jpg" class="kg-image" alt="Cover Art"/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/IMG_2610.jpg" class="kg-image" alt="Cover Art"/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/IMG_2611.jpg" class="kg-image" alt="Cover Art"/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/IMG_2612.jpg" class="kg-image" alt="Cover Art"/></figure>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Photography by Kyla Fleming]]></title><description><![CDATA["comand light" a digitized watercolor painting of a hummingbird with digital
overlays."channeling connection" A Poloraid photograph edited with digital
overlays
Artist’s Note
There’s a uniquely delightful dance between the natural world and what’s beyond
our sight. The intersection of science and spirituality spark inspiration and
highlight the relationship of what exists around us and what we choose to see.
Combining these two elements forms a language around what lives without words,
pure ]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/photography-by-kyla-fleming/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__63efec67d2476a173dc5888c</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 5 - Attention]]></category><category><![CDATA[Photography]]></category><category><![CDATA[home-page-0]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Kyla Fleming]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 07 Mar 2023 23:13:00 GMT</pubDate><media:content url="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/E5701586-7065-4C8E-B6F7-0E598D4F97A5.jpg" medium="image"/><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/E5701586-7065-4C8E-B6F7-0E598D4F97A5.jpg" class="kg-image" alt="Photography by Kyla Fleming"><figcaption>"comand light" a digitized watercolor painting of a hummingbird with digital overlays.</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/IMG_2219.jpg" class="kg-image" alt="Photography by Kyla Fleming"><figcaption>"channeling connection" A Poloraid photograph edited with digital overlays</figcaption></img></figure><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/E5701586-7065-4C8E-B6F7-0E598D4F97A5.jpg" alt="Photography by Kyla Fleming"/><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>There’s a uniquely delightful dance between the natural world and what’s beyond our sight. The intersection of science and spirituality spark inspiration and highlight the relationship of what exists around us and what we choose to see. Combining these two elements forms a language around what lives without words, pure essence.
<br>
<br>
The focal point of pure essence is oneness. In these pieces the viewer is invited to take a first-person perspective of oneness outside of their physical limits. By intentionally directing the attention of the viewer to be both on their oneness and outside of themselves, they’re exploring a unique and personal landscape. Kyla’s pieces connect with wonder to what is just beyond the reach of reality on the edge of imaginative exploration.
<br><br>
</br></br></br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p/>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Art by Rebekah Danae]]></title><description><![CDATA[RelaxPublic UnveilingDiverse CoalitionsTornado cookies Artist’s Note
As a whimsical femininist from the vermilion Texas desert, my worldview hasn't
shattered, but surrealized. There are volumes to paint on the modern American
Western Progressive Experience - on streetwear and western wear, racism and
christianity, social media threads and community organizing meetings, and the
people who live it each day. Impossible to portray in their totality, I offer my
painted and sewn perspective as a pr]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/art-by-rebekah-campbell-mcllwain/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__6405f500785534685db92124</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 5 - Attention]]></category><category><![CDATA[Artwork]]></category><category><![CDATA[home-page-2]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Rebekah Danae]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 07 Mar 2023 23:13:00 GMT</pubDate><media:content url="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/IMG_5005.jpg" medium="image"/><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/IMG_5005.jpg" class="kg-image" alt="Art by Rebekah Danae"><figcaption>Relax</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/IMG_5006.jpg" class="kg-image" alt="Art by Rebekah Danae"><figcaption>Public Unveiling</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/IMG_5007.jpg" class="kg-image" alt="Art by Rebekah Danae"><figcaption>Diverse Coalitions</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/IMG_5008.jpg" class="kg-image" alt="Art by Rebekah Danae"><figcaption>Tornado cookies</figcaption></img></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>As a whimsical femininist from the vermilion Texas desert, my worldview hasn't shattered, but surrealized. There are volumes to paint on the modern American Western Progressive Experience - on streetwear and western wear, racism and christianity, social media threads and community organizing meetings, and the people who live it each day. Impossible to portray in their totality, I offer my painted and sewn perspective as a provocation.
<br>
<br>
Reckoning with the dark truths of our heritage and employing a childlike futurism, my work is for the new world from the old world about the world in between.
<br>
<br>
Through her work, Rebekah Danae employs comic self-portraiture and wearable art objects as commentary on 1) the normalcy afforded by white privilege during societal collapse and 2) the niche underground of futuristic Oklahoma country kids fighting for liberation through healing cultural creation. <br><br>
</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Poetry by James Berry]]></title><description><![CDATA[I can’t eat sweet potatoes anymore
Without thinking about you.
You and that garage apartment,
Spartan with your art and mattress.
It was a lie
Trapped in the other’s eyes.
Twirling through art museums.
Reveling in the innocence of the strange new girl
Wearing monsters on her skin.
~~~~~~~~~
Has she found you yet?
Does she make you sweat apple wine,
And stretch sober nights
Into punch drunk mornings.
Tell me, do you soak in the grandeur
Of the empty mirrored frame;
Acanthus leaves]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/poems-by-james-berry/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__6407a326785534685db92212</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 5 - Attention]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[James Berry]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 07 Mar 2023 23:13:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><em>I can’t eat sweet potatoes anymore</em></p><p><em>Without thinking about you.</em></p><p><em>You and that garage apartment,</em></p><p><em>Spartan with your art and mattress.</em></p><p><em>It was a lie</em></p><p><em>Trapped in the other’s eyes.</em></p><p><em>Twirling through art museums.</em></p><p><em>Reveling in the innocence of the strange new girl</em></p><p><em>Wearing monsters on her skin.</em></p><p><em>~~~~~~~~~</em></p><p><em>Has she found you yet?</em></p><p><em>Does she make you sweat apple wine,</em></p><p><em>And stretch sober nights</em></p><p><em>Into punch drunk mornings.</em></p><p><em>Tell me, do you soak in the grandeur</em></p><p><em>Of the empty mirrored frame;</em></p><p><em>Acanthus leaves and a porcelain sink.</em></p><p><em>Have you wondered</em></p><p><em>At the generations of straightblades</em></p><p><em>Tipped between the walls.</em></p><p><em>Or has she moved?</em></p><p><em>Transfigured the memories back into someone else’s.</em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>These works are born of an attempt to balance flash fiction and poetry, and tell a full story pared down in as few words as could be let go. I carved this piece down in a reminder of how brightly the little memories shine when you’re entranced in the freshness of someone new, or the pain of someone gone. Isn’t it crazy, the sharp way everything comes into focus at the beginning and at the end?<br><br>
</br></br></br></div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><p/><p><em>He only wanted Hemingway</em></p><p><em>When his eyes were swollen shut.</em></p><p><em>Terse words of bullfights,</em></p><p><em>Wars and women.</em></p><p><em>People would go around and say:</em></p><p><em>“He didn’t have a good momma.”</em></p><p><em>Before he’d learned the difference</em></p><p><em>Between “I’ll marry you”</em></p><p><em>And “I’ll marry you tomorrow.”</em></p><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>
I enjoy these shorter works; it allows enough space to fit a story while still giving room for all those things that can be felt instead of said.
<br>
<br>
Attention is a funny thing. The sacrifices that you will make to achieve it or the lengths that you can go to avoid it. Seems it can turn on a dime. <br><br>
</br></br></br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Poetry by Marilyn Kallet]]></title><description><![CDATA[
Elegy for My Fuji X-20
You were with me in Auvillar,
when Christophe showed me
what my eyes are for,
pointed them at a trio
of elders,
village “personnages,”
white-haired dudes. Now
I’m la viellle, l’ancienne,
senior cit, as we say
in the New World.
No grey. Aveda
takes care of that.
My Fuji, my baby,
none will give me
second sight
the way you
used to.
“Nothing lasts forever,
or even for very long,”
Marcus Aurelius said.
Son of a Bitch, what did
he know of zooming
out or]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/two-poems-by-marilyn-kallet/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__6405f31e785534685db92110</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 5 - Attention]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Marilyn Kallet]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 07 Mar 2023 23:13:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p/><p><strong>Elegy for My Fuji X-20</strong></p><p>You were with me in Auvillar,</p><p>when Christophe showed me</p><p>what my eyes are for,</p><p>pointed them at a trio</p><p>of elders,</p><p>village “<em>personnages</em>,”</p><p>white-haired dudes. Now</p><p>I’m <em>la viellle, l’ancienne</em>,</p><p>senior cit, as we say</p><p>in the New World.</p><p>No grey. Aveda</p><p>takes care of that.</p><p>My Fuji, my baby,</p><p>none will give me</p><p>second sight</p><p>the way you</p><p>used to.</p><p>“Nothing lasts forever,</p><p>or even for very long,”</p><p>Marcus Aurelius said.</p><p>Son of a Bitch, what did</p><p>he know of zooming</p><p>out or in?</p><p>He covered mortality,</p><p>we’ll give him that.</p><p>Soon enough, Marcus, I’ll</p><p>shoot the breeze</p><p>with you.</p><p>What will my</p><p>view</p><p>find</p><p>then?</p><p/><p><strong>Alert, After Baudelaire</strong></p><p>I am the queen of a rainy country</p><p>whose king has gone dark.</p><p>He’s a speechless river,</p><p>but I have not stopped listening.</p><p>The king left his voice somewhere else,</p><p>holds his cruelty close.</p><p>I have not stopped listening––</p><p>thunder, roar of the rising river.</p><p>More wall. His cruelty</p><p>huge and other-worldly.</p><p>The swollen river breaches the banks.</p><p>Indifferent gaze</p><p>behind the weather.</p><p>He is the sullen king of elsewhere.</p><p>I am queen where his wall is gathering.</p><p/><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>
In "Elegy for My Fuji X-20," I expressed sadness at the demise of my favorite camera. The little Fuji X-20 traveled with me everywhere, especially in France. It allowed me see doubly, with my eyes and with the lens. One focuses attention with a camera, literally, and then later, as memories are brought home with the photos. Rereading my poem, I can picture myself at the promontory in Auvillar, studying at the elders seated on a bench, and looking out at the ancient countryside beyond us, beyond aging. Poetry has that power, too, to let us see up close, and to help us remember more than we knew at first.
<br>
"Alert" is a riff off a line from "Spleen" by Charles Baudelaire, that begins, "*Je suis le roi d'un pays pluvieux*..." The poem is found in *Les Fleurs du Mal*, 1857. Baudelaire's line translates to "I am the king of a rainy country." I shifted the poem toward my feminine perspective. Baudelaire was the first poet I ever fell in love with, in Madame Pradal's French Poetry class, Tufts University. Reading and hearing Baudelaire converted me to poetry, moving my attention from the ordinary to the lyrical and surprising. Poetry teaches us to pay attention to detail, to sound, rhythm and imagery. I have had great teachers and I keep learning from poetry, always <br><br>
</br></br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[The Sounds of Summer (Baseball Cards)]]></title><description><![CDATA[Somebody told somebody that everybody told
Neil Armstrong to not even bother stepping foot
on the Negro side of the moon. June, August
and July, three segregated summertime sisters
agreed, weather-wise. The year of our lord, 1969
was a color-line shaped like no shape at all.
It occurs to me now that before I left home,
hitchhiking, at age 16, I did not know
that some things continue to go missing long after
they are found, and I didn’t realize that the physic]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/untitled-2/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__63fce654785534685db92095</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 5 - Attention]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Earl S. Braggs]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 07 Mar 2023 23:13:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>Somebody told somebody that everybody told</p><p>Neil Armstrong to not even bother stepping foot</p><p>on the Negro side of the moon. June, August</p><p>and July, three segregated summertime sisters</p><p>agreed, weather-wise. The year of our lord, 1969</p><p>was a color-line shaped like no shape at all.</p><p>It occurs to me now that before I left home,</p><p>hitchhiking, at age 16, I did not know</p><p>that some things continue to go missing long after</p><p>they are found, and I didn’t realize that the physics</p><p>of throwing a baseball explains every ounce of</p><p>racial tension in America. But I won’t talk about that</p><p>now. Now, I want to talk about love. As a kid, I fell</p><p>in love with the sounds of</p><p>the names of baseball players:</p><p>Henry Louis “Hank” Aaron, Roger Eugene Maris,</p><p>Edward Charles “Whitey” Ford, Willie Mays, Willie</p><p>McCovey, Maury Wills, Billy Williams, Ernie Banks</p><p>and Stanley Frank Musical, the St. Louis music man.</p><p>And I can still hear the names, baseball games</p><p>between the Temptations, the Supremes, the 4 Tops,</p><p>Motown songs on Grandmama’s transistor radio.</p><p>“Crack,” the sound of a baseball kissing the sweet spot</p><p>of a baseball bat. “That ball’s outta here,” the always white</p><p>announcer would yell towards the Colored sport section</p><p>of my yellowed newspaper wallpapered room. And what</p><p>about the other pages in the other yellowed corners of</p><p>my unheard short radio story? And what about</p><p>that white boy, classmate in every class that year?</p><p>He’d never seen a “stolen base” like me. I didn’t know</p><p>I was supposed to knock him out. I didn’t know</p><p>I was a nigger until he called me “Nigger”</p><p>deep in the very bottom of the 9<sup>th.</sup> Me at the plate,</p><p>“crack,” a walk off (case closed) home run, dead center,</p><p>solid between the hazel-blue color of two blue eyes.</p><p>The Pender County Board of Education didn’t see it</p><p>that way in base-hit terminology. Me, expelled completely</p><p>from the school system for life for being the “nigger”</p><p>I did not know I was until…</p><p>Still, so be it, anyway and yes, I know I was</p><p>raised in a small, white town of three white Jesuses,</p><p>Baptist, Presbyterian and Methodist,</p><p>neither of which I liked much or loved the way I</p><p>loved potato salad, fried chicken and collard greens,</p><p>picnic-style-served after Negro church services</p><p>on Sunday, summer afternoons in the yard of</p><p>a church without a denomination. But the choir could</p><p>sing a stairway to Heaven and part way back if you</p><p>decided to get off along the way. Each of</p><p>the three white Jesuses had nice white churches with</p><p>tall steeples and summer league baseball teams,</p><p>but I never asked to pray or play. Perhaps</p><p>I knew way back then, if water could be segregated,</p><p>“strike zones” could be tailor made not to fit</p><p>a Black baseball boy growing up in White Town.</p><p>Grandmama must’ve thrown my baseball cards</p><p>in the trash the day I left, the day the Board of</p><p>Pender Country Education decided I didn’t need any</p><p>more education. Years</p><p>later, Grandmama couldn’t remember, but I still</p><p>remember the magic. Yes, even now on some lazy</p><p>weather summer days, I’m eleven years old again,</p><p>listening lightly, my voice opening a pack of</p><p>baseball cards, the sounds of summer. Me, side-</p><p>stepping up and down a dirt country road,</p><p>almost swallowing the afternoon, the chew of</p><p>stale, hard baseball card chewing gum</p><p>stuck to the bottom of somebody else’s shoes, my</p><p>clean-up-batter blues.</p><p>And then, somehow, I find what I never did lose,</p><p>piano music playing clouds across a Carolina blue</p><p>sky, reminding me quite beautifully</p><p>as I call out the sounds of the names I loved:</p><p>Rico Petrocelli, Jose Santiago,</p><p>Louis Aparicio,</p><p>Bill Mazeroski, Dizzy Dean and Dizzy Trout,</p><p>Roberto Clemente and Tony Conigliaro.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[An Invitation of Attention]]></title><description><![CDATA[I have a confession to make: I’ve become a grumpy, easily irritated person when
I’m out in the street. If someone walks too slowly in front of me when I’m in a
hurry (usually I am), I get impatient and mentally will them to a side; to the
person standing still with their face buried in their phone, blocking the
entrance at the post office, I launch anathemas: ‘Don’t they realise other
people exist too?’. Then it hits me. At such moments these very people are, to
me too, nothing but an interferen]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/an-invitation-of-attention/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__63fce5e0785534685db92082</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 5 - Attention]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Silvia Caprioglio Panizza]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 07 Mar 2023 23:13:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>I have a confession to make: I’ve become a grumpy, easily irritated person when I’m out in the street. If someone walks too slowly in front of me when I’m in a hurry (usually I am), I get impatient and mentally will them to a side; to the person standing still with their face buried in their phone, blocking the entrance at the post office, I launch anathemas: ‘Don’t they realise other people exist <em>too</em>?’. Then it hits me. At such moments these very people are, to me too, nothing but an interference to my purposes. Our shared problem is inattentiveness.</p><p>Of course I see these people – in a sense, I see them all too well. But just as there’s looking without seeing, there is seeing without paying attention. I see their bodies, the mass that occupies the street. I also see some of their desires, for ease, for space, for entertainment. But, clearly, I do not see people. I see parts. I see functions and impediments. My irritation turns to sadness because I realise that, in this way, I have locked myself into my own little world, a sorry solipsistic space where my own desires and goals, the same drives which locked me in it, wither meaninglessly without air.</p><p>To realise that something other than oneself is real, wrote the philosopher and novelist Iris Murdoch, is extremely difficult. She called this realisation love. Love (understood as <em>eros</em>: love for reality) fuels attention. Attention is what gives us vision beyond seeing, knowledge beyond the immediately visible.</p><p>When I am overcome by irritation at the people blocking my way, I fail to see something which is there, and obvious: that other people have interests like me, goals like me. Maybe they’re tired and hence walk slowly, maybe they’re anxious and hence walk unpredictably, or maybe they are just as blind as I am to what surrounds them. Their attention, like mine, is exhausted, under-trained, perhaps painful, and difficult to sustain. </p><p>In the novel <em>Blindness</em>, Jose Saramago describes an epidemic where people start losing their sight,, without apparent cause. Saramago wrote the book in 1995, some time before we became so completely used to the technologies that, many now worry, are making it even easier for us not to see. Or, rather, technologies that enable us to see only what we choose to see at that moment, each hit and swipe determining what will satisfy our desires and curiosity in the next minute or hour. Or, again, to see what someone else has decided will make us better consumers, more targeted buyers, or, yet more chillingly, more polarised voters. Welcome, as Tim Wu has argued, to the attention economy. </p><p>Inattentiveness, manipulated attention, instrumentalized focus, are so, so easy. To attend, forcing ourselves out of the dream world we keep creating, is both wonder and toil. Attention, as French mystic and philosopher Simone Weil wrote, is nothing short of a miracle. Not just because truly, fully attending is hard, going against our natural tendencies for self-gratification and ease. But, more interestingly, because attention can reveal the reality of things, that which we rarely see because it requires a keen, devoted, passionate, disinterested, unhurried gaze - and when we see it (whether it’s a leaf, the face of a friend, the paw of a cat, a rock, a painting by Miró), we’re transformed. </p><p>This may simultaneously sound mystical and perfectly ordinary . That’s the kind of mysticism I like. And I bet any of you has experienced that kind of keen, devoted, passionate, disinterested, unhurried gaze – that attention – perhaps without realising, because here’s another beautiful thing about attention: it’s not about you. When we are immersed in whatever we are attending to, we forget ourselves. And strangely enough for creatures whose primary goals seems to be for self-preservation and self-gratification, there are few things as wonderful as forgetting ourselves. That’s why attention is so difficult and yet so worthwhile.</p><p>Attention is what connects us to the world outside of ourselves: There is a peculiar ignorance about attention, an ignorance of the best kind. To attend is to admit the reality outside ourselves, our own limits, and the bridge between us. To remain in that moment of unknowing and taking it for what it is allows for a revelation, or perception if you prefer, of what we couldn’t invent or make up. </p><p>Attention has a special relationship not only to self and knowledge, but also to time. Weil writes that attention is a form of waiting (the French word <em>attendre</em> translates both as ‘to attend’ and ‘to wait’). Here’s another thing I don’t do very much – waiting. In my actions and thoughts, my schedule and filling my ignorance , I seek and grasp, and then the world whizzes by while I take in little of what is important. I don’t know what this is all for. Is it merely a blind submissiveness to the way one is supposed to live these days? Whatever the reason for it, it leaves me desperately empty. And having this awareness, knowing that I’m missing most of what the world around me offers in impatient inattentiveness only makes it more bitter. In the past months, I have often travelled by train for an hour from Prague to Pardubice, in the Czech Republic. Never once have I looked at the landscape. Mostly I work. Sometimes I read. Sometimes I let my gaze wander outside, preoccupied with some thought, and really see nothing. I couldn’t tell you whether the houses have red brick roofs, nor whether there are animals grazing in the fields, or whether the landscape is dry or full of trees. You will say, I attended to something else. Something I chose to attend to, for the sake of productivity, accomplishment, or ticking boxes in my diary. But getting things done is not driven by the patient attentiveness that Weil was talking about, if we take her word as I think we have reason to. And always choosing one’s objects of attention leaves one bereft, once again, of the vast reality that one has not chosen but is there and, much like that Czech landscape, one doesn’t even know what it is and what it looks like.</p><p>Unlike choosing, wanting, controlling, attention is being suspended. When we attend, we have not yet arrived anywhere. But we have already departed a little from ourselves. We have left our comfortable boredom and, perhaps gingerly, taken a step forward – picture a rope stretched out from rock to rock. It’s exhilarating and frightening. So we may wish to step back, into the habitual, controlled space from which our attention somehow emerged. Attention can be, for many of us, very uncomfortable: the suspension of our mind, the emptiness of our knowledge, the impotence of our agency. For if you take seriously the fact that we attend to what we do not yet know or understand, then it becomes clear that the objects of our attention are irreducibly other to us, and in being other, they are beyond our control. We may manipulate them, capture them, consume them, but what they are – that which attention can reveal – is not, not at all, can never be, up to us.<br/></p><p>But if we stay – if we accept this state, the discomfort that many of us may feel, and resist the natural urge of running back, snapping out of attention – we truly enter the state of attention, where we forget that we are attending, and we enter a new time, not that of waiting, but of timelessness. Then attention becomes effortless, and what it reveals is revealed continuously, in a flux that feels obvious, as if nothing else made sense. Attention makes us forget we are attending, forget ourselves as the ones attending, and then, too, forget the time in which we are attending, the before and the after. Full attention is a room with no walls, doors, or windows. </p><p>As a connector between me and you, between me or you and the rest of the world, attention is the capacity to dissolve the familiar dichotomies that, in this very formulation, return. Me and you, me and the world, here and there, active and passive, inside and outside. When, in attending, we enter the third space, the space between, we are not really between, but somewhere else entirely. All it took was to step outside ourselves and move towards the world, but now we do not see the good old self growing smaller behind us, nor the vast astonishing world coming into shape ahead of us. We are in both, and in neither. In the space of attention, we are the self and the world at once.</p><p>If we think about it this way, we will no longer be surprised that a single moment of attention can move people to any action. It can move us to leave our job, marry someone, save a life, hug a friend. Nor will we be surprised that a moment of attention can move us to tears, because for the first time we see a flower, a place, a fly, or a cup.</p><p>If I am right that attention, as I have been describing it, does not often come easily to us, then we may need teachers. Some of the best teachers of attention, I believe, are non-human animals. Often, when I walk down the street, I meet the gazes of dogs, completely present, while their human companions are absorbed elsewhere. But the dogs are <em>there</em>, and when we see each other, there is no need for understanding, for we are both in that space, at that time, recognising the life in the other. </p><p>My main teacher, however, is a cat. Charles Bukowski concluded the poem ‘My Cats’ with the line ‘they are my teachers’ and I bet attention is at least one of the subjects that his cats instructed him in. My teacher is called Jean, and whenever I walk past the room where she’s sitting, she calls me in for a cuddle. Sometimes I think I don’t have time. At others, I stop and pet her briefly, immersed in thoughts of what I should do next, or rehearsing another conversation or another argument in my mind. If I accept the invitation, but find myself being only physically present, I scold myself for wasting that time we have together. Then I try to be there attentively, and become impatient because I fail again and again. But when I just walk in, and by some miracle I put my reflexivity to rest, and my attention is awakened by Jean, silencing my constant chattering, then my hand glides over her smooth black and white fur, her purring vibrates under my flesh and I vibrate with her, her enjoyment becomes my own, I am not filled with delight, I become delight. And I wonder what was so hard that I resisted it. Jean probably wonders that too, but she is far more forgiving than I am.</p><p>All of this may sound obviously true or completely mad to you, depending how you’ve experienced what I am writing about – yet I am sure you have experienced it. Talking about attention is difficult because in or after its presence all talk and writing may seem forced, superficial, or pointless. Of course, writing can occasion attention too, especially poetry, and be itself an act of attention. I wish I could give you that; instead, I’m giving you what I can: An assemblage of pointers. An invitation. An attempt at describing what it’s like and more importantly why it’s so vital that we use our attention, that we cherish it, grow it, and stay with it.</p><p>So now, let’s just try it. Find an object of attention. Anything, really anything. Something simple, like a leaf, may be easier and more surprising. Just stay with it. Be aware that, really, you don’t know this leaf. You may know a lot about it, but there’s so much you don’t know. You don’t know what this leaf is, right now: the existence of this leaf. Maybe that green never struck your eyes that way before. What made this leaf possible? What runs in its veins? Can you picture the water, nutrients, trace gasses? What’s the role of the leaf in the plant, in the house, in your life? Perhaps its shape is delicate yet irregular or broken. Whatever the leaf is like, there’s so much to discover, and you can take so much time. It’s just you and the leaf for now. That leaf is there. Really, can you see it? That leaf is there. That’s where it all begins.<br/></p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Art by Evgeny Solodky]]></title><description><![CDATA["Falcon, piercing the head""receding into memories""Fragrance of Remote
Happiness""Good morning"
Artist’s Note
Evgeny's paintings are based on the classical school of oil painting with the
addition of author's know-how-glazing with transparent paints on metal, the use
of special ink, and the principles of icon painting "I return your fantasies to
you” is the basis of Evgeny's artistic language.]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/art-by/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__6405f5a9785534685db9213d</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 5 - Attention]]></category><category><![CDATA[Artwork]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Evgeny Solodky]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 07 Mar 2023 23:12:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Falcon--piercing-the-head.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>"Falcon, piercing the head"</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Receding-into-Memories.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>"receding into memories"</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/20230111_232946.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>"Fragrance of Remote Happiness"</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/20230119_142354.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>"Good morning"</figcaption></img></figure><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>Evgeny's paintings are based on the classical school of oil painting with the addition of author's know-how-glazing with transparent paints on metal, the use of special ink, and the principles of icon painting "I return your fantasies to you” is the basis of Evgeny's artistic language. <br><br>
</br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Art by Primrose Coke]]></title><description><![CDATA['Cardinal Flower’, oil on canvas, 16”x20”, 2022‘Bare Lie’, oil on canvas,24”X
36”, 2022‘Shoelaces’, oil on canvas, 18”x24”, 2022
Artist’s Note
First a shaky drawing is made and then lost in a thick daubing of oil paint in
the darkest hues. Next a rag is dipped in a jar of Gamsol and I watch it
greedily try to uncover the original drawing beneath. Then I watch the painting
emerge. The trees (once luscious) are now only the bare bones of winter past.
Under a dirty sky, tarry black water ejects]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/art-by-primrose-coke/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__6405f803785534685db92162</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 5 - Attention]]></category><category><![CDATA[Artwork]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Primrose Coke]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 07 Mar 2023 23:12:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/1--Cardinal-Flower.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>'Cardinal Flower’, oil on canvas, 16”x20”, 2022</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/2.-Bare-Lie.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>‘Bare Lie’, oil on canvas,24”X 36”, 2022</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/3--Shoelaces.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>‘Shoelaces’, oil on canvas, 18”x24”, 2022</figcaption></img></figure><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>First a shaky drawing is made and then lost in a thick daubing of oil paint in the darkest hues. Next a rag is dipped in a jar of Gamsol and I watch it greedily try to uncover the original drawing beneath. Then I watch the painting emerge. The trees (once luscious) are now only the bare bones of winter past. Under a dirty sky, tarry black water ejects bodies and places them in a landscape that is part folk horror part climate catastrophe. There is always an underlying lack of control to my artwork. A point where the medium takes over. No matter how much I want to express my sadness about a dying planet or unhappy marriage, the work takes hold and will draw your attention to what it wants to. My hope is that the viewer can hold their attention long enough to brave the feelings of melancholy (with a dash of bitter hope) that my work hopes to evoke. <br><br>
</br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Currents Behind the Scenes]]></title><description><![CDATA["Currents Behind the Scenes" acrylic on canvas
Artist’s Note
I was eight years deep into an art hiatus when I discovered the artist Katie
Over (@katieesstudio) on Instagram. The moment something captures our attention,
a process of a million steps begins, and ends, in an imperceptible blip of time.
Perception, whether it be from the rods and cones in our eyes or the hair cells
in our ears, requires a relay of messages through our neurons to the brain, and
once there, a full party of neuro]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/currents-behind-the-scenes/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__6405f983785534685db92193</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 5 - Attention]]></category><category><![CDATA[Artwork]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Michelle Huang]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 07 Mar 2023 23:11:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/IMG_6487.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>"Currents Behind the Scenes" acrylic on canvas</figcaption></img></figure><p/><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br> I was eight years deep into an art hiatus when I discovered the artist Katie Over (@katieesstudio) on Instagram. The moment something captures our attention, a process of a million steps begins, and ends, in an imperceptible blip of time.
<br>
<br>
Perception, whether it be from the rods and cones in our eyes or the hair cells in our ears, requires a relay of messages through our neurons to the brain, and once there, a full party of neuron activity to process the information. All the while, a concurrent system of traveling blood keeps the whole operation afloat, allowing receptors to continue receiving, and the brain to continue processing. It is astounding that our bodies sustain this process in the background at all times, with no conscious effort.
<br>
<br>
In this painting, I hope to evoke the essence of this marvel of biology. The color palette I chose represents the flow of blood, from the heart to the brain, and back to the heart. The key to the vascular system's function is the transfer of oxygen, and by tradition, oxygenated blood is shown as red, and deoxygenated blood as blue. The underlying white through which the colors weave through and intertwine with represents the blank slate of consciousness that is transformed by the item of our attention and the burst of movement it has spurred. The wonder of the messages being passed in this process can be seen in the shining silvery streaks that cut through the many streams.
<br>
<br>
In the brain, it all swirls around, and a simple tree that we spot in the distance can be the start of our next idea, feeling, memory.
<br>
<br>
When I discovered the artist Katie Over on Instagram, she would post videos of herself doing colorful, abstract, swirly paintings paired with gentle music. I found these so relaxing and mesmerizing to watch, and the end products were beautiful! Each slow brushstroke was placed with care, and yet with no deliberate purpose, due to the formless and abstract nature of her paintings. After following her work for months, I finally developed the courage to purchase canvases and painting supplies, and step into the role of an artist again. I wanted to learn to paint like Katie, to paint in a way that I had never attempted before, and experience that relaxing and whimsical feeling her videos evoked. My first several paintings look quite rough, as I slowly tried to teach myself this new style. Even though the end product of these first attempts were "bad," I had such a great time in the process. The freedom of painting without having to strive towards creating an accurate representation of some tangible "thing" felt so light and wonderful, and allowed me to experience the joy of painting without much of the self-judgment and anxiety that had once come with it.
<br>
<br>
After working and experimenting to learn and form my own version of Katie's style, Currents Behind the Scenes is my first painting in this style that I am happy to show the world.
<br><br>
</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Excerpt from Skyside: Notes from a Studio by Stéphanie Ferrat]]></title><description><![CDATA[Painting constructs itself from the trickle of time, just as puddles dry, hay gilds, the day erodes, repeats, sinks into the earth and the air scraping ground.]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/excerpt-from-skyside-notes-from-a-studio-by-stephanie-ferrat/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__63efef12d2476a173dc588c8</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 5 - Attention]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Marissa Davis]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 07 Mar 2023 23:11:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p/><p>Painting constructs itself from the trickle</p><p>of time, just as puddles dry, hay gilds,</p><p>the day erodes, repeats, sinks into the earth</p><p>and the air scraping ground.<br/></p><p>On paper, on the nerve’s outskirts, the execution</p><p>will remain. No dust on the gash’s level.</p><p>The cat, the lizard, its blood, the canvas.</p><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Translator’s Note </h2>
<br>This "poem" is less a poem in its own right than a brief excerpt of a much longer--book length--work by French poet and painter Stéphanie Ferrat. As hinted at by the subtitle, the work consists of a series of roaming observations and meditations on both the physical goings-on within an artist's studio and the interior creative process. Ferrat's writing tends toward the associative, at times even leaning on the surreal — the French word "gestes" appears frequently in the text, and the language itself often performs an act of "gesturing" at ideas rather than stating things narratively or concretely. The work's grounding force is the natural world that makes its way inside the studio: the caterpillars; the flies; the wasps, which the speaker alternately cherishes and battles. The matrix for these small dramas, though, are Ferrat's magnificent reflections and epiphanies on the immense labor, responsibility, and ecstasy of artistic creation. <br><br>
</br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[second empire]]></title><description><![CDATA[
i am the breaking
of small things — sheets
try covering fractures
along my skin.
i lie too still
on this bed.
you stare, nervously,
with a tainted expression
walking circles,
accusing me of having caused
sickness & plagues
to hatch, to grow —
i knew what festered,
observing fear:
miniature bombs
exploding in your veins
shockwaves beating
against your heart. i watched
the heave from your chest —
breathing was complicated —
you would always smell me,
& everything society
no longer wanted you ]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/second-empire/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__6405f8fd785534685db92181</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 5 - Attention]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[John Compton]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 07 Mar 2023 23:11:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><br>i am the breaking<br>of small things — sheets<br>try covering fractures<br>along my skin.<br>i lie too still<br>on this bed.<br><br>you stare, nervously,<br>with a tainted expression<br>walking circles,<br>accusing me of having caused<br>sickness & plagues<br>to hatch, to grow — <br><br>i knew what festered, <br>observing fear:<br>miniature bombs<br>exploding in your veins<br>shockwaves beating<br>against your heart. i watched<br>the heave from your chest —<br>breathing was complicated —<br>you would always smell me,<br>& everything society<br>no longer wanted you to love.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>The interpretation of the theme ‘attention’ in my poem surfaces through paying attention to small details and their surroundings. In “Second Empire” (the title comes from Richie Hoffman’s first book), a relationship is broken as the fear about the speaker’s homosexuality grows in the person opposite. The occasion of the poem emerges with the speaker suppressing their anxieties as they consider the minutiae of the face of the person who has noticed them – and who associates their sexuality with destructive and frightening stereotypes. These fears manifest in precise body responses: the way the other breathes and the way their blood feels in their veins. All at once, they become horrible and disturbing. <br><br>
</br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[On Paying Attention]]></title><description><![CDATA[Juhi
September ‘21
Boston, MA
Red and blue and green strobe lights swooped across the stadium. Old Rihanna
played from the speakers amongst the squeals, interrupted conversations, and
laughter. From Juhi’s seat, the stage looked compact, the size of four podiums
squished together. Swaths of people, all dressed in bright pants, iridescent
glasses, and feather boas, swarmed its base, clamoring for the concert to begin.
Juhi gazed at two girls at the edge of the crowd. They were dressed simply,]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/on-paying-attention/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__63fd2ca4785534685db92100</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 5 - Attention]]></category><category><![CDATA[Short Story]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Mallika Chennupaty]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 07 Mar 2023 23:11:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><strong>Juhi</strong></p><p><strong>September ‘21</strong></p><p><strong>Boston, MA</strong></p><p>Red and blue and green strobe lights swooped across the stadium. Old Rihanna played from the speakers amongst the squeals, interrupted conversations, and laughter. From Juhi’s seat, the stage looked compact, the size of four podiums squished together. Swaths of people, all dressed in bright pants, iridescent glasses, and feather boas, swarmed its base, clamoring for the concert to begin.</p><p>Juhi gazed at two girls at the edge of the crowd. They were dressed simply, brown pants and matching white shirts. The girl to the left, hair bright pink, started bobbing her head up and down to the music. The other girl, hair braided, watched for a moment before swinging her arms back and forth in rhythm. The pink-haired girl started jumping, clapping her hands in sync. The other girl kicked her heels out, her braids swinging out and back in. They both started spinning in circles, first alone, then together holding hands and then holding each other. All too soon, they stopped, dizzy and laughing. Juhi laughed too. The crowd screamed as the lights dimmed, but the girls only looked at each other. Juhi stared at them even when it was too dark to see. She imagined Hansa’s hair, long and curly, spinning in circles, though she had never seen her dance.</p><p>They only met last April in a pottery class after randomly sitting next to each other. Every following Wednesday of that month, Juhi’s stomach would be twisted in knots, more of excitement than anything else, before class, and filled with bubbles, of joy or nerves she didn’t bother to differentiate, after class. A month later, when Hansa moved to San Francisco, they were barely friends. Juhi couldn’t believe that they had kept texting and calling. She could still picture Hansa’s hair from that first class, long and curly and bouncy as she leaned over the wheel. <br/></p><p><strong>Hansa</strong></p><p><strong>October ‘21</strong></p><p><strong>San Francisco, CA</strong></p><p>At 5pm on a random Thursday, the bus was quiet and dark save the blue lights in the overhead bin space. Outside the window, Hansa saw vague outlines of downtown San Francisco. The building lights reflected on the darkening water, shimmering as it rippled. She settled deeper into her chair, closing her eyes. A man began murmuring into his phone near her. Hansa couldn’t hear specific words, but his gentle tone said the listener was someone close to him. She smiled, reminded of a conversation from sometime in May.</p><p>“People are so clueless when someone has a crush on them. I don’t get it,” she whispered into her phone, late one night. Juhi remained quiet.</p><p>“Are you clueless?” Hansa prodded again.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Are you sure?” A pause. She listened close, but all she could hear were Juhi’s soft breaths. If only she could see her face, a twitch in her brows, or a smirk, something more to go off of.</p><p>“Well, I believe nothing and question everything.”</p><p>Hansa’s heart started beating louder. Blood rushed to her cheeks as she pushed her phone into her ear.</p><p>“Nothing?”</p><p>Another pause. This one lasted a beat longer than before. Hansa glared at her phone screen. She imagined Juhi’s face, mouth slightly downturned, eyes questioning.</p><p>“Yes. Nothing.”</p><p>Juhi’s voice was resolute, so Hansa didn’t back down.</p><p>“Believe more.”</p><p>Juhi took a breath, sharp through the speaker.</p><p>The bus rolled to a stop as Hansa rolled out of her daydream. She smiled, almost squirming, at their careful optimism, the gentle treading around conversations about couples, the emphasis placed on words like “friend” or “heart” or “break”, the attention to a change in texting patterns or response time. It all felt so unnecessary now, considering how glaringly obvious they both had been. <br/></p><p><strong>Juhi</strong></p><p><strong>November ‘21</strong></p><p><strong>Boston, MA</strong></p><p>Peaches? Oranges? Apricots? What were those earrings she wore? Juhi leaned closer to her phone to get a better look. Usually, Facetimes with Hansa entailed a series of questions, from topic to topic, in circles and without a moment’s break. But Hansa was quiet today. Her hair was freshly washed. Juhi knew because the curls weighed against her shoulders, instead twining tightly towards the nape of her neck. The dark brown of her hair quite nicely complimented the maroon walls of her dining room. She sat at the dining table, eyes half-closed, instead of lying in bed or on the couch. She looked tired, staring at something in front of her, something that Juhi couldn’t see.</p><p>Hansa brushed some hair behind her ear, giving Juhi a better view of the indistinguishable fruits. She now saw little green leaves dangling from the stems. They must be either peaches or oranges. Juhi sat back in her seat. Hansa’s bottom lip was moving in and out slightly as it did when she was focused. She considered making conversation, but Hansa had the kind of face where she didn’t want to talk. Light from the dining table highlighted the glitter covering her cheeks. Her makeup was heavier than usual. She wore three necklaces instead of her regular two. Maybe she had gone to work or out with friends. Six months ago, they had just been acquaintances. Now, Juhi recognized how Hansa’s eyebrows crinkled when she was lying. She knew the kinds of responses, usually extremely vague, that could prod Hansa to extreme frustration. She could ask her questions that made her rethink even the strongest of her convictions. And Hansa knew Juhi, her temperaments, favorite conversation topics, clothes, food, and everything in between, all through a phone screen.</p><p>Hansa turned her head to the right, giving Juhi a better view of her earrings. They were too orange to be peaches. Oranges it is, she decided. Juhi stared a bit longer. She wore hoops, made of gold and with tiny little diamonds dotted across them, in a different piercing, higher up on her ear. The hoops glittered quite satisfyingly in the lamp light. Then, right next to her ear, at the base of her cheek, something new caught her eye: a mole. It was small like an ink blot from a thin pen. Dark, but not dark enough to be immediately noticeable. Juhi imagined tracing the mole with her fingertips.<br><br/></br></p><p><strong>Hansa</strong></p><p><strong>December ‘21</strong></p><p><strong>San Francisco, CA</strong></p><p>Hansa sat in the arrivals section of an airport. To her left was a small child, wearing blue jeans and a long-sleeve white top. His hands grasped popsicle sticks that held up a bright yellow and orange construction paper sign. Behind him stood his father, typing on his phone. His younger brother zoomed around on a bright orange suitcase, using his feet to propel him forward. His eyes focused on weaving a path around the surrounding people and suitcases. The older brother remained still, holding up the sign and staring only at the arrivals section. Suddenly, he started jumping.</p><p>“She’s here! She’s here! She’s here!” he yelled, over and over and over again.</p><p>The other two boys snapped up, eyes alert. The dad moved to stand to the right of the younger brother. The younger brother skated over on his suitcase to the left of the older brother. Their attention merged as a woman, with long hair and full lips, joined them. Hansa smiled as they jumped into a group hug. The construction paper sign, etched with “Welcome Home” in crayon, was left on the ground in front of them, the orange suitcase tossed to the side, and the phone tucked away.</p><p>“Hello,”</p><p>Hansa whirled around to see Juhi standing right next to her, shuffling her feet. Her hair was shorter, blown out and swept back from her face. She wore a new necklace, large and beaded. Her eyes widened, nervously dancing back and forth, meeting her own gaze before quickly looking away. Hansa’s stomach bubbled as if it was brimming with fizzy soda. She pictured this moment many times over the last week, of them jumping into a hug or them awkwardly laughing or them tentatively reaching for each other’s hands. Now that it was here, she was stuck, lost in thought and frozen in action.</p><p>Hansa considered a hug, but from the side or from the front? Would her hands go around her neck or her waist? What about no hug? By the time she considered everything, Juhi’s arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her close.<br/></p><p><strong>Juhi</strong></p><p><strong>January ‘22</strong></p><p><strong>San Francisco, CA</strong></p><p>The Sunday morning sun soaked into Juhi’s scalp like warm water. Hansa sat next to her, doodling on a spare napkin. From their spot near the top of the hill, she could see everyone mulling about the park. A red-haired mother rocked a baby wrapped up in a bright blue blanket. A skinny kid danced, knees wobbling back and forth, for his parents. A couple napped in the sun, legs entangled, hand in hand, hair mingling hair.</p><p>Hansa’s doodling, swirls and stars, almost filled the napkin by now. She wore a green sweater, hair pulled back into little French braids. A variety of rings, a green stone, a flower, a thick spiral, circled up her fingers. She had spent most weekends at home this past month, instead of going out for drinks or picnics or meeting friends. Juhi asked if anything was wrong yesterday, but Hansa was adamant that nothing was. So adamant that she decided they would spend the day at Mission Dolores. Juhi was skeptical, but she didn’t want to push Hansa. At least they had gotten out of the apartment.</p><p>Suddenly, Hansa elbowed Juhi, motioning her head towards the right. Nearby, a pair of twins rolled down a hill together, squealing. Hansa’s eyes, delicately lined with black, gleamed before looking towards Juhi’s lips. She leaned forward, and Juhi could smell the morning’s coffee on her breath. Juhi leaned in. As her eyes drifted shut, Hansa’s body tensed. She leapt up, smirking, before shoving Juhi off-balance and tumbling down the slope. Juhi scrambled to follow.</p><p>Together, the two of them raced down the hill, rolling after one another. Juhi after Hansa, curling tighter into a ball to speed past her, then Hansa following Juhi, laughing uncontrollably. All Juhi could register was the soft grass, the world spinning, and Hansa’s laughter, moving farther and farther away from her. <br><br/></br></p><p><strong>Hansa</strong></p><p><strong>February ‘22</strong></p><p><strong>San Francisco, CA</strong></p><p>Light, from late dusk or early dawn, Hansa didn't know, streamed through the gaps in the window blinds. Juhi slept soundly, face soft, chest slowly rising and falling. Hansa stared at the ceiling for hours.</p><p>She turned to the right, adjusting the pillow underneath her head. Her neck was propped at a weird angle. She turned to the left, gently moving around Juhi’s body. She laid on her back, eyes wide open before tiptoeing to her bookshelf. Resting her chin on her knees, she stared at Ganesha, then Sai Baba, then Rama, all lined up neatly against the bottom shelf.</p><p>At least the deities had remained the same.</p><p>Everything else, her friends, work, even the bedroom, felt slightly off with Juhi here. They had been living together for two months now. The move had gone well. Juhi had fallen into step with Hansa’s friends, going out for coffee and brunch with them even on her own. She hung out with her co-workers and went to volunteer events, even joining a dance class. But something about their joint life felt forced to Hansa, like she was trying to fit two pieces, one square and one round, together.</p><p>Suddenly, she felt a hand on her shoulder.</p><p>“Are you okay?”</p><p>Juhi’s voice was hoarse from sleep.</p><p>“I’m good.” Juhi’s eyes widended, and Hansa knew she had been too abrupt. Juhi stepped back only to crouch down, now eye-level with Hansa.</p><p>“Are..you sure?” Her voice was filled with hesitance. Hansa bit her lip.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>Juhi sat next to Hansa, leaving a few inches of space. Hansa’s eyes began to droop, a heaviness overcoming her. She laid her head on Juhi’s shoulder, slipping into sleep.<br/></p><p><strong>Juhi</strong></p><p><strong>March ‘22</strong></p><p><strong>San Francisco, CA</strong></p><p>Juhi pulled Hansa’s hands into her own. The bus drove over a few bumps, bouncing their entangled hands. She stared at Hansa’s fingers, outlining her slender nails, covered in dark green polish, and the lines across her palm. Hansa watched her, but nerves kept Juhi from meeting her gaze. She guided her own hands across Hansa’s rings. Her fingertips traced over the rose-colored stone, the green one next to it, before landing on the band of lilies. Juhi pulled this ring off. She pushed one of her own rings, a silver circle, onto Hansa’s finger. Hansa wiggled her fingers, but the arragement looked awkward.</p><p>Juhi looked up at Hansa. Her eyes, green but warm, were underlined with dark circles. She seemed tired, her usual playful punching and chatter had died down. Juhi didn’t know to ask if something was wrong or if she was okay or if she needed space. Instead, she shuffled a few more rings around, stacking the green stone on top of the silver band and moving the rose-gold stone to her ring finger. Juhi couldn't figure out what wasn't working. She set out to shuffle them again, but Hansa pulled her hand away, turning to look out the window. <br><br><br><br/></br></br></br></p><p><strong>Hansa</strong></p><p><strong>April ‘22</strong></p><p><strong>San Francisco, CA</strong></p><p>Hansa stared at the pantry. The container of flour was in the wrong place, cap covered in fingerprints. The box of Lucky Charms was left half-open and half-crumpled, shoved into a corner. Cans of beans, black and pinto and garbanzo, were haphazardly stacked. Juhi stared out the window, sprawled on the couch. Hansa closed the pantry door louder than necessary.</p><p>“What are you thinking?” Juhi smiled innocently, dimples showing.</p><p>“Nothing.” Hansa turned towards the stove. Crumbs of burnt garlic, dried coriander, and now-hardened pasta lined the burners.</p><p>“Are you sure?” Worry tinged Juhi’s voice.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Are you lying?”</p><p>Juhi now stood a few feet away, only the countertop separating them. Plates and pans, covered in dried sauce from dinner, were piled in the sink.</p><p>“Yes.” She opened the dishwasher only to find it full of clean dishes. Her jaw tightened.</p><p>“Please tell me.” Juhi’s voice was higher now, filled with worry or anxiety or uncertainty, Hansa couldn’t tell.</p><p>“Did you unload the dishwasher?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“I reminded you.” Hansa told her multiple times, both about the dishwasher and the pantry. Juhi, as per usual, was too busy with her own thoughts to notice much else.</p><p>“I know, I’m sorry. Why won’t you tell me?” Juhi came over to her side of the countertop. She grabbed Hansa’s hands into her own, squeezing them tightly.</p><p>“You forget.”</p><p>“I won’t. Please tell me.”</p><p>Juhi’s eyes were open and welcoming, almost too eager. Hansa considered telling Juhi how she couldn’t remember the last time she had a full night’s sleep. How she didn’t want to remind Juhi everyday. Couldn’t she notice more? Need to be told less? How would they last like this? But she just shook her head, eyes turned down. Juhi lifted Hansa’s head up, searched her eyes for something Hansa wouldn’t show. Squeezing Hansa’s hands once again, Juhi walked into the bedroom. Hansa, fists tight and jaw still taut, began unloading the dishwasher.</p><p><strong>Juhi</strong></p><p><strong>May ‘22</strong></p><p><strong>San Francisco, CA</strong></p><p>Juhi found herself back in the kitchen. A steel bowl, full of gunky brownie mixture, sat in front of her. Maybe she added too much flour. The whisk kept getting stuck mid-stir. In another bowl, she cracked open an egg. The yolk was dark, dark enough that the yellow could be mistaken for orange. The whites curled around the edges of the bowl. She pierced the yolk with her whisk, flicking her wrist. Her stomach rolled in unison with each circle. All she could think about was Hansa’s eyes from last night, somehow defeated and angry at the same time. The yolk turned, back and forth and over and around. The white turned into an opaque froth, slowly combining with the yellow. Juhi couldn’t ever be sure of Hansa’s thoughts. She was tired of guessing. The pit in her stomach grew as shame and yearning filled her. She wished Hansa would just talk to her, even if it was vague. What bothered her? What was she thinking? Whenever she asked, Hansa changed the subject or got up to make coffee or left for work. Juhi kept whisking, as frustration pooled in her gut. The faster she whisked, the more it grew, winding her up in tighter and tighter spirals. <br><br><br><br/></br></br></br></p><p><strong>Hansa</strong></p><p><strong>June ‘22</strong></p><p><strong>San Francisco, CA</strong></p><p>Hansa sat across from Juhi. Her face turned towards a scrunched up straw wrapper that she was playing with.</p><p>“Do you think this is going to last?”</p><p>Hansa stayed silent. Juhi’s hands moved to the necklace, a silver chain with an opal crescent, sitting at the base of her neck. Hansa gazed at her eyes, brown and misguidedly innocent. In fact, Juhi was extremely skeptical, the opposite of gullible. It took multiple conversations, often filled with carefully crafted questions and long pauses that required large amounts of patience from Hansa, to convince Juhi of anything. But her eyes were brown. They were wide and sincere. The ends of her eyelashes, at the outer corner of her eyes, lifted up like natural eyeliner. When she cried, her eyes glossed over and her mouth turned down, puffing out. She would quietly turn away, hiding the tears streaming down her face. She wiped them away, usually laughing because they were replaced soon after. When she laughed, Juhi’s eyes became small, squished up by her full cheeks. Two dimples, at the corners of her mouth, would appear. Her smile, outlined by curves from her nose to the edges of her lips, revealed a neat row of white teeth, disrupted only by the slightly turned front two.</p><p>But today, Juhi’s eyes melted with uncertainty. They contradicted her usual calm, giving way to the pulsing vulnerability that she worked hard to hide. Hansa still hadn’t answered the question. She looked, not at anything in particular, just at Juhi. She knew that Juhi wanted her to say something that she wouldn’t be able to say. So, she sighed before saying the only thing she really could say.</p><p>“I don’t know.”<br><br><br/></br></br></p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Poetry by Jeff Hardin]]></title><description><![CDATA[
STANDING FIRM
How raucous the crows are, blaspheming the fields.
Why be surprised, though, since the same can be
heard on town square, in diners, around tables
at family gatherings. Truth, if it survives, will
need to stay wordless for at least a generation.
Acorns slide the barn roof, settle in dust. We live
upwind of Thoreau now, our stench too much
for him. He moves deeper into our mind’s recesses,
a man we might have known but can’t remember.
If we change one word, the story veer]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/untitled-3/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__63fce961785534685db920df</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 5 - Attention]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Jeff Hardin]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 07 Mar 2023 23:11:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p/><p><strong>STANDING FIRM</strong></p><p>How raucous the crows are, blaspheming the fields.</p><p>Why be surprised, though, since the same can be</p><p>heard on town square, in diners, around tables</p><p>at family gatherings. Truth, if it survives, will</p><p>need to stay wordless for at least a generation.</p><p>Acorns slide the barn roof, settle in dust. We live</p><p>upwind of Thoreau now, our stench too much</p><p>for him. He moves deeper into our mind’s recesses,</p><p>a man we might have known but can’t remember.</p><p>If we change one word, the story veers irreparably.</p><p>There will be, one day, a final example of joy</p><p>or forgiveness, of empathy or tenderness, but</p><p>who will notice it, too busy wrestling others</p><p>for morsels, unaware a feast has been prepared.</p><p>At a time to be determined, all will be determined.</p><p>Who we are is a matter of choosing, not choosing,</p><p>of being chosen or not chosen. A force of wind</p><p>might move upon a reed, but the mind can be an</p><p>equal force, can hold it still while all others bow.</p><p/><p><strong>AN INCARNATION</strong></p><p>What I believe gets smaller and smaller</p><p>and may one day recede to a leaf letting</p><p>go of its stem. I began as a quiet that</p><p>got louder, thinking of how I used to</p><p>crawl through caves, how I tossed stones</p><p>into beech hollows, how I placed cicada</p><p>husks on a neighbor’s fence. Between me</p><p>and the future self I’ll be, I’ll be ten thousand</p><p>incarnations of a moment that has already</p><p>magnified the one before it and the one</p><p>after it and recombined them into longings</p><p>and lovingkindnesses and perfections</p><p>the mind is too imperfect to comprehend.</p><p>I must be looking for a world that is other</p><p>than the one it claims or tries to be, one</p><p>that lets me pick blueberries in the rain</p><p>because what else are blueberries for, and</p><p>how long might I have stood there otherwise.</p><p>I might have long ago left myself behind,</p><p>beginning—like a ripple on a pond—to form</p><p>a widening embracing my own disappearing.</p><p/>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[A Poem by Sonya Marx]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Poet’s Note
No writer works in a vacuum. I wish to acknowledge the work of two poets for
providing inspiration and creative fuel as I worried on this piece. The two
stanzas ending in question marks are heavily influenced by the curious and
childlike voice of Peter Handke’s poem Song of Childhood, which I was introduced
to via Wim Wenders’ beautiful film Wings of Desire, and have loved ever since.
My brief fascination with the color green near the end of the poem is in part
due to Philip Lark]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/untitled-poem-by-sonya-marx/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__63efee90d2476a173dc588be</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 5 - Attention]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Sonya Marx]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 07 Mar 2023 23:10:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Screen-Shot-2023-03-11-at-10.17.07-AM.png" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Screen-Shot-2023-03-11-at-10.17.15-AM.png" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>No writer works in a vacuum. I wish to acknowledge the work of two poets for providing inspiration and creative fuel as I worried on this piece. The two stanzas ending in question marks are heavily influenced by the curious and childlike voice of Peter Handke’s poem Song of Childhood, which I was introduced to via Wim Wenders’ beautiful film Wings of Desire, and have loved ever since. My brief fascination with the color green near the end of the poem is in part due to Philip Larkin’s poem The Trees, which I read and re-read while working on this piece. <br><br>
</br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Poetry by Andrew Najberg]]></title><description><![CDATA[
The Ladybug
It’s hard to drink
the poisons
despite how often
they brim and bubble
at our lips
the world is
designed to turn
our heads sideways
and our ankles
around
and make us
the moths to every
unimportant
light
which is why
I fight so hard
to watch my son
sitting on a branch
fretting around
a ladybug in January
that isn’t
actually there
Compass with a Thousand Needles
The thing about the road
to the future
is that from where we stand
it is as wide as a thousan]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/poetry/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__63efee2ad2476a173dc588ae</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 5 - Attention]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Andrew Najberg]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 07 Mar 2023 23:10:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p/><p><strong>The Ladybug</strong></p><p>It’s hard to drink</p><p>the poisons</p><p>despite how often</p><p>they brim and bubble</p><p>at our lips</p><p>the world is</p><p>designed to turn</p><p>our heads sideways</p><p>and our ankles</p><p>around</p><p>and make us</p><p>the moths to every</p><p>unimportant</p><p>light</p><p>which is why</p><p>I fight so hard</p><p>to watch my son</p><p>sitting on a branch</p><p>fretting around</p><p>a ladybug in January</p><p>that isn’t</p><p>actually there</p><p/><p/><p><a><strong>Compass with a Thousand Needles</strong></a></p><p>The thing about the road</p><p>to the future</p><p>is that from where we stand</p><p>it is as wide as a thousand</p><p>Roman avenues</p><p>and has as many possible directions</p><p>as a compass with a thousand</p><p>cardinal points</p><p>but when we look back down the road</p><p>no matter how long we walked,</p><p>no matter where or how</p><p>often the bends</p><p>and the buckles,</p><p>a thousand choices made</p><p>left it nothing but needle thin.</p><p/><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>In many ways, poetry as a whole is about attention. We talk about the ‘eye’ of the poem, the ‘lens’ it presents, the ‘focus’ of the piece. The poet narrows down the world into a set and sequence of images that convey their particular slice of it – the thing that arrested them. Both my poems here consider directly the way in which we define and constrain our attention. In “Compass”, the poem considers how we define ourselves in the timeline of our own lives. We easily feel inconsequential when we consider our own impact on a nebulous future – so much so that we forget that if we consider the path that brought us to our present moment, no other sequence of choices could have created this result. “Ladybug” too considers that we must remind ourselves to look to the small things in the world. They define the moment itself. You can only focus on one thing at a time, and so it really matters where we cast our gaze. <br><br>
</br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Of Grass & Roots]]></title><description><![CDATA[There are 11,400 known kinds of grass. That is more than a human would ever be able to encounter in a lifetime. I find this fact wondrous. ]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/of-grass/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__63efeff5d2476a173dc588e4</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 5 - Attention]]></category><category><![CDATA[home-page-1]]></category><category><![CDATA[Necessary]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Cayla Bleoaja]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 07 Mar 2023 23:10:00 GMT</pubDate><media:content url="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/roots.jpg" medium="image"/><content:encoded><![CDATA[<img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/roots.jpg" alt="Of Grass & Roots"/><p>i. There are 11,400 known kinds of grass. That is more than a human would ever be able to encounter in a lifetime. I find this fact wondrous. Such small a thing as grass, so “insignificant” a species, and I will never be able to exhaust it.<br/></p><p>ii. The only place I could go to during lockdown was my garden, so I went there every day. I became friends with the willows and the nettles, with the flowering valerian and meadowsweet, water mint and gipsywort. I think of it now as my rewilding. Then, it was a desperate attempt for contact. <br/></p><p>iii. For a year, the flora in that garden saw me more than any person. Day after day, they bore witness to me, in every state; they were with me when no other human being could be. I wrote a stray line of poetry in my journal: ‘I do not know the earth by all her names but she knows me by all of mine.’ On one of those days, I plucked a single blade of grass and a voice inside of me said, <em>let it love you.</em> I could not do it. I did not know how. I tried to talk to it, to listen to it, to carry it with me. It became a practice, picking a piece of grass and trying to teach myself to be loved by it.<br/></p><p>iv. “Complete attention,” says Simone Weil, “is like unconsciousness.” It is not an action or stance, but a kind of reception: beholding, witnessing, allowing something to penetrate you, to enter your world. Attention is a kind of vision that is more than just seeing; it is a willingness to permit oneself to be seen. Implicated is a presence that demands your vulnerability and wholeness, because it is also a way of facing the reality of who you are, a kind of returning to the realest part of you. It is a way of knowing ourselves, by knowing others and letting ourselves be known by them.<br/></p><p>v. I am a being not a doing. In the smallness of a garden, I encountered the enormity of these words.<br/></p><p>vi. In her essay, “Against Dryness”, Iris Murdoch calls for a new vocabulary of attention. What I think of is Robin Wall Kimmerer’s grammar of animacy, which recognizes the sacredness of all life forms. This perspective is encoded in the structure of the indigenous Potawatomi language. The Potawatomi’s intimate relationship with the earth permeates into their vocabulary and conjugations, which render the natural world as alive and interbeing as an organism. Words like water, tree, and grass are verbs rather than nouns, removing the barrier that comes between us and other sentient things when we call them ‘it.’ There are only nine fluent speakers of Potawatomi left. Their displacement and forced removal permeates their vocabulary and conjugations. We are losing our language for life, and with it, our sense of the reality of the world. It is in our vocabulary that we must make room for the imaginative recognition of otherness, or as Murdoch put it, the ”difficult realization that something other than oneself is real.”<br/></p><p>vii. The Weberian account of disenchantment captures a universalized tendency of modernity to redefine reality through rationalistic terms. Weber referred to the secularization of society, but nature too has been stripped of its mystery and magic. Scientific explanation can dispel the wild of its wonder, reducing it to the empirical and the quantifiable. The mechanistic model of the universe, for instance, represents the living world around us as devoid of meaning, purpose, and agency. Water is no longer a force of spirit; it is a lacuna that can be filled with garbage and oil. Trees are no longer creatures; they are materials that can be razed and burned. Cows are no longer living entities; they are burgers. We have separated ourselves from the nonhuman world and been left alone in it. The loss of our capacity to <em>see </em>the world has deprived us also of our ability to relate with it. The new natural forces are our extensions of power and self-interest: it is easy to exploit what is passive, inert matter, what has only functional value—it is ours for the taking. This "de-magic-ation" of our natural environment, which dissolved our instinctual relations with earth, has left us alienated in the world. <br/></p><p>viii. Grasses make up nearly 30% of the plant life on earth. They are the world's single most important food source. By taking root in soil, they anchor the loose surface of the earth and keep it from eroding away. The health of the earth's ecosystem depends on grass for food security, nutrients, irrigation, habitats, carbon storage, pollination, cooling, and biodiversity. Our future depends on our grass. If we are what we eat, we are walking grass.<br/></p><p>ix. Hannah Arendt’s discussion of loneliness, alienation, and superfluousness in <em>The Origins of Totalitarianism</em> identifies the ideal condition for the emergence of totalitarian regimes: “homelessness on an unprecedented scale, rootlessness to an unprecedented depth.” In a world where we live as “isolated individuals in an atomized society,” she argues, we are still looking for home and will seek it out at any cost, even to destructive ends. This recognition of detachment’s harms harmonizes with Weil’s enumeration of vital human needs, which rests on rootedness, “perhaps the most important and least recognized need of the human soul.” Arendt defines rootedness as having a “place in the world, recognized and guaranteed by others,” and Weil echoes in describing it as a “real, active and natural participation in the life of a community which preserves in living shape certain particular treasures of the past and certain particular expectations of the future.” We can think of re-enchantment as a restoration of rootedness, a re-anchoring in time, place, and spirit. It is a reversal of the narrative that severed nature as something external to humanity and a returning of it to a place of relationship, inextricably linked to us. It is a retelling of our stories with attention to the magic, mystery, and meaning in the world. The enchanted life is not fantasy or escapism. It is deeply human, and it requires those things which are innate in us: wonder, wildness, imagination, curiosity, playfulness, creativity, meaning-making, intuition. Re-enchantment is not something we <em>do</em>. It is something we allow ourselves to <em>be</em> again, perhaps by wandering into the gardens inside each of us in search of the ineffable.<br/></p><p>x. How do we live in an enchanted world? I wonder if the problem is not a rational one but a relational one, if reenchantment with the world is in fact a product of our orientation to her. <em>Love what is in front of you and let it love you. </em>This is what the grass taught me. Reenchantment requires attention to reality. We ourselves must be reenchanted, and re-enchantment beings with relearning to see. I must sit with the grass and not on it. I must look at this plant being until I see in it the force of life that has decided to take so fragile and fleeting a form. I must allow reality to penetrate my interior world, my own inmost depths. For Weil, attention is a “negative effort,” one that requires being rather than doing, standing still opposed to leaning in. Attention to the real depends on receptiveness, turning our being toward accompanying, attending to. The world is asking us to move beyond our self to be part of the landscape of life as it really is. Weil, Murdoch, and Arendt’s projects point a way forward: to venerate our pasts, to steward our futures, and to participate in our communities of being, human and nonhuman. “If we surrendered to earth’s intelligence,” Rilke wrote, “we could rise up rooted, like trees.” <br/></p><p>When I forget, I go back to the grass: my only job, while I am here and whatever I am doing, is to love what is in front of me and let myself be loved by it. Until you see the face of God in a blade of grass, you will not be able to see it in anything else.<br/></p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Love]]></title><description><![CDATA[Ten days til Autumn. Three til Veda Lou. Today I’m making her a Barbie house and Zelma Vesce is making a story that involves the world from fifty thousand feet.]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/love/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__63efebaad2476a173dc5887f</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 5 - Attention]]></category><category><![CDATA[Short Story]]></category><category><![CDATA[21]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Emily Meffert]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 07 Mar 2023 23:10:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>From my kitchen window I scan the bird of paradise, a pair of yellow striped folding chairs, the Walburns’ A/C unit, the Walburns’ empty kiddy pool below their A/C unit, and distant pines that loom like guardians, dreading nothing. Nothing here is wet.</p><p>Ten days til Autumn. Three til Veda Lou. Today I’m making her a Barbie house and Zelma Vesce is making a story that involves the world from fifty thousand feet. The world is grainy and mechanical. A coiled, psychedelic bruise churns the ocean and one mild enveloped eye spies America and nothing’s wet</p><p>yet. The wallpaper is floral; the carpet is green. The glue gun is warm in my hand. In three days Veda Lou, in twenty her fourth, in twenty days cone hats and Duncan Hines. If I hadn’t done ninety-two on the nine-oh-six last month there would have been a DreamHouse. Memory sure panics like a lead foot though! You don’t want to be with your mind too long between the coast and Half Hell. So no DreamHouse. Hence the cardboard, carpet samples, scraps of wallpaper snagged from Rooms-to-Go, vistas of magnolias and lives Oaks and Spanish moss snipped from <em>Southern Living</em> that I’ll hang on walls beneath pink chiffon, like windows. </p><p>I keep worrying I’m not ready but Sister Wanda believes I am. Believes it thoroughly. I done the twelve steps and I got Duncan Hines. I got a bank account, gumption, Junie B. Jones. I got this place all by myself no man no nothing and a room just for Veda for sleepovers, crushes, angst, college apps. I keep reminding myself. I think I’m ready. I go back and forth — god, it’s terrifying! Sister Wanda says come back to the feeling of whatever’s in my hand. The glue gun. The grip is warm. My hand is sweaty on the plastic. Today I’m making a Barbie house. Greer says Veda loves Barbie. She’s got three plus a Ken doll plus an airplane with an ice machine and fifty tiny beads of ice that hide in the carpet like </p><p>Greer. <br/></p><p>Drop-offs. Pick-ups. Pick-ups. Drop-offs. Suddenly all these chances for me to prove he was right to high-tail? It’s daunting! Because how much can you say about the weather? Zelma Vesce says weather’s a pattern of destructive coincidences. If this one hits I’ll say <em>This rain? Crazy! </em>and he’ll say <em>Can you believe it? Cats and dogs!</em> or something like that, then both kind of shake our heads, then wave, all amicable, before he disappears into the possibilities of his Honda and then back to Wrightsville and out of my life. It’s important for Veda to see how men and women can be amicable. If it spirals south I’ll say <em>How was she, did she behave</em>, etc. No What-if’s, no Remember When’s, no Shoulda-Coulda-Woulda’s. No asking which cheap thing he’s sleeping with this week. That’s no interest of mine. They call them cyclones in India, which I used to confuse with the one-eyed monster from those stories. Which, like, how shitty would that be? I cover my left eye with my left hand. In my right hand the glue gun is as far as the kitchen window is as close as the pines. The pines are leaning. Lolling. Lulling? Sister Wanda’s got myopia, says light focuses before it touches her eyeballs. So she can see close stuff clear but everything else is a blur. That seems not so bad honestly, like the world’s in portrait mode and you only have to look at one thing at a time and not the whole trainwreck hurtling around it? </p><p>Am I right?<br/></p><p>The carpet is dark green. Kind of serious like something you’d find in an office, but with white polka dots, which I think says <em>have fun, take risks!</em> The wallpaper’s floral. Huge blushing peonies and little puckered berry things. Vines. The Walburns’ kiddy pool is scuttling across the gravel toward the Gainsbroughs’ Tacoma. All the things he’ll say to our friends if I do something dumb. His. His friends. All the things he’s said. But we all got seasons, right? I got Duncan Hines. I got Trix and two percent. But what if she asks me about stuff? There’s so much in this life that you can’t<em> get</em> until you <em>get it</em>. You know? Zelma Vesce reminds me of an actor but I can’t put my finger on it. If Florence is real why the hell is all this make-up involved? Yesterday his thumbs danced across a kalimba like they used to. It was similar to the dream where I’m brushing my teeth before work and it feels so real because it’s possible, like theoretically. Cheekbones teasing my cheekbones, eyelashes feathering sun, fingernails branding the grooves of my spine Stop it. When I woke up the windchimes were going like mad next door. Pixelated turmoil glitching on the brink of land, infinitely approaching. Always the awe and terror of the thing and never the thing. (Almost always, almost never.) Attention, obsession, what’s the difference? All these modes of homecoming. Zelma Vesce says reconciling pressure’s a balancing act; before you know it you’re naming something you can’t control. </p><p>Veda Lou. My Veda. </p><p>One day we’ll have a house just like this: the carpet and the wallpaper exactly what we choose, windows and moss and a garage and a laundry chute. The scary thing — I mean the really scary thing — is that you have to do it day in and day out forever. Even on the bad days. And there are so many ways to fail a person.</p><p>Today I am making a little house. This involves glueing currants to the inside of an Amazon box. The glue is hot and stringy. Each time I touch it I have to hold my throbbing finger beneath the tap for ages while the lukewarm water becomes slightly cool. Right now I’m pressing my hand against the wall and moving it around, smoothing air bubbles. Beside me on the kitchen table are two pieces of chiffon that I’ll hang above the picture from the magazine. One for each side to be tied with a Wonder Bread twisty. The pines lean and sway. Makes you dizzy to look at. </p><p>I’m thinking of rain. </p><p>When I was Veda’s age Riley took us to Topsail. We ate ice cream sandwiches and walked on the pier at night. Seeing the surf thrash between the cracks in the boards from that height terrified me. Riley said be vigilant or I’d slip right through. This is my first memory. I don’t know if he said <em>vigilant</em>, but I know how it felt. He made my heart manic in my ribs; it was never an accident. A few years later the only traces of that pier were a couple of barnacle-scabbed pilings on a leveled dune. They named that one Fran. It is not raining. It is just the clatter of chairs and the tantrum of chimes and that kiddy pool drifting like a Hardee’s bag. But it feels like it’s raining because my heart’s doing that thing that it does when everything’s wet. </p><p>The chiffon is soft. The gun is warm. Soft, warm. Soft </p><p>I’ve thought of writing him. Greer. Like old-fashioned gesture of affection via USPS. Like, not as the mother of our child but from the tender needy spot that blisters without warning. I think of it often. But I don’t know. The issue is that my whole being hovers in the ink and coils and mysterious mechanics of my pen, and if I make one bad move it’ll all come out. Sometimes I become so overwhelmed imagining the letter that I don’t get a single word on the page. Like how sometimes he’d get so scared imagining love that he couldn’t plunge even an ankle. Water reminded him of violence; the past sprawled malignantly from his toes to his hips each time he got close. But you can’t ruin a page you don’t touch. In fact you can’t do anything with it. The long defense of absence will eat you alive.</p><p>I keep reminding myself this isn’t new. I’ve seen it before. The sky boils; the wind tortures flags and clotheslines; the Atlantic dismantles gas stations and rocking chairs. It will change everything, or certain things will be spared in certain ways. Catastrophe is always coming for you somewhere. You have to build a little room to keep that shit at bay. Four sturdy walls, a reliable foundation, a roof that won’t sag in the middle. No one tells you when you’re a kid and then when a storm comes you go right out with it. How could you not? With no walls, nothing? Chaos without is chaos within. Trying to figure where your self ends and calamity begins would be absurd. You<em> are</em> the disaster. </p><p>Today I am building this house for Veda Lou so she is not the disaster and so her heart won’t bust of conniption when everything’s wet. It’s not really about timing — there will be days when the weather’s calm; there will be startling days when I’ll fight the instinct to scrutinize what came before or to count all the ways a fire can start. It’s a decision made over and over again, a commitment to return to this room. To feel the air in the wallpaper, to finger beads in the carpet, to hold Veda on her fourth without spoiling from shame because I didn’t hold her on her third or fearing a future in which I’ll lose her. Just holding her, just cone hats and Duncan Hines, making a home of this house like the enveloped eye where clarity lives: not lucky but dogged, elastic.<br/></p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[GHOSTLY HILLS]]></title><description><![CDATA[When journalists came up to Nikolai Rinovsky for an interview, his hands would
tremble. He looked at them, stroked his front teeth with his tongue and said
nothing.
Nobody had a clue why one of the most famous acrobats of the southern capital
had never given a single interview. Rumors said that Nikolai Rinovsky could not
understand the southern language or was actually born mute. Some people thought
he was simply stupid. But despite all that, journalists kept approaching him
with their question]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/ghostly-hills/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__63fce6ad785534685db920a2</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 5 - Attention]]></category><category><![CDATA[Short Story]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Amangeldy Rakhmetov]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 07 Mar 2023 23:10:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>When journalists came up to Nikolai Rinovsky for an interview, his hands would tremble. He looked at them, stroked his front teeth with his tongue and said nothing.</p><p>Nobody had a clue why one of the most famous acrobats of the southern capital had never given a single interview. Rumors said that Nikolai Rinovsky could not understand the southern language or was actually born mute. Some people thought he was simply stupid. But despite all that, journalists kept approaching him with their questions.</p><p>One day though, between his performances, he answered a couple of questions for the guy whose microphone was covered with an orange cap.</p><p>“How do you manage to do such difficult tricks and not sweat?” the journalist asked.</p><p>”I cried a lot when I was a child,” Nikolai answered, his hands trembling like tree leaves in the wind.</p><p>“Is it true that you are not afraid of death, like a crocodile, and always perform without a safety rope?” the journalist continued, staring at Nikolai’s hands.</p><p>“No, I am not afraid of death. Because death is a dream where we don’t have a sense of smell, but see ghostly hills.”</p><p>“What hills?” the journalist wondered.</p><p>“The ghostly ones,” answered Nikolai and left for the stage.</p><p>After the first trick, his hands slipped from the rope, he fell on the ground, broke his neck and died instantly.</p><p/><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Author’s Note </h2>
<br>There are two reasons why I wrote this story. First is the memory. When I was a child I had a friend who died in a car accident. The road was slippery and the driver lost control. Second is the images. Brodsky's hills are the life, Rinovsky's hills are the life where death is always somewhere around. <br><br>
</br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Translator’s Note </h2>
<br>I liked this story because it reminded me of the short absurd stories of Daniil Kharms, an early Russian avant-guardist, absurdist poet and writer. The story is concise as an old traveling circus poster and simple as an ordinary now-you-see-it-no-you-don't magic trick while suggesting to think about such serious things like life and death.
<br><br>
</br></br></br></div><!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Moral Certainty at 120 mph]]></title><description><![CDATA[“Yeah, I’m all right, don’t worry, I’m all right, fortunately the ground broke
my fall.” - Night Shift (1982)
Whether you’ll turn out to be the hero of this story, or whether the villain, in
this case, gravity must show.
Because you’re falling.
How did you end up in this position? The fright has wiped your memory clean. All
you’re certain of is the truth of the matter.
And so, once again, you are falling.
Falling.
Now, thanks to your cultural education, you have learned that antagonists dr]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/untitled-4/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__63fd2b56785534685db920f0</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 5 - Attention]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Andrew Farkas]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 07 Mar 2023 23:10:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><em>“Yeah, I’m all right, don’t worry, I’m all right, fortunately the ground broke my fall.” </em>- <em>Night Shift</em> (1982)</p><p>Whether you’ll turn out to be the hero of this story, or whether the villain, in this case, gravity must show.</p><p>Because you’re falling.</p><p>How did you end up in this position? The fright has wiped your memory clean. All you’re certain of is the truth of the matter.</p><p>And so, once again, you are falling.</p><p>Falling.</p><p>Now, thanks to your cultural education, you have learned that antagonists drop out of the sky as if they were aerodynamically designed to do so, engineers having labored morning, noon, and night to streamline their constructions, eliminating all drag, refusing to sleep until they brought their projects to completion, <em>no, we’re going to get this right</em>, while protagonists, whereas they might not float down like so many feathers, are still somehow granted a more viscous atmosphere (the writers, the directors, the producers be praised!), or a supernaturally reinforced body, so that even if they crash to the ground, the worst that can happen is, sure, they might appear worse for wear, bloodied, bruised, but the physical trauma sustained immediately increases, by several orders of magnitude, their epic stature.</p><p>Since you’ve learned this lesson, the question of whether you are a hero or a villain is of the utmost importance, seeing as how the answer will determine whether you live or die.</p><p>But then how can you tell? On the fly, as it were, you’ll have to make up a test.</p><p>Here goes:</p><p><u>The Villain Test</u></p><p>Have you ever put a severed head onto a pike to display it before the populace at large? If so, how did you feel about yourself afterwards?</p><p>Scoring: Only a villain, at the end of a long day, could prepare themselves for bed, reflecting that earlier they had put a head onto a pike and think, “That was absolutely the right thing to do.” Even more absurd would be to imagine a nonvillain reflecting that earlier they had put many heads onto many pikes, had then called their friends and inquired about the morality of their actions, receiving the unanimous response: “Yes, indeed, you had the opportunity to put heads on pikes, and, as you ought to’ve, you took this golden opportunity.”</p><p>However, does the scoring become trickier if the head or heads in question had originally been attached to villains themselves? No, it really doesn’t. Because if, seeing no other way to deal with them, you slew these villains (in extremely rare circumstances, a just decision), you then looked upon their corpses wondering what … oh, well, sure, I <em>could</em> … but, like, is that what I <em>should</em> … yes, oh, yes, that’s exactly what I’ll … and so you finally settled upon, though it didn’t seem right at first, the idea gaining a sort of momentum as you got going, meaning you finally settled upon removing their heads and then, you know, they’re dead anyhow, certainly <em>they</em> don’t care, and then placed those heads onto pikes, perhaps surrounding your domicile with them, thus allowing the populace at large the opportunity to not only see what you’d done (slew the villains), but also allowing the populace at large to see what you did afterwards (decorated your yard with fresh decapitations ensconced on finely wrought skewers, as if to celebrate the violence of the deed for as long as the remnants held up), yes, no matter the moral depravity of those punished, by making this selection, you’ve fully embraced your inner villain.</p><p>How you felt afterwards doesn’t really matter.</p><p>But having never put a head onto a pike, perhaps you notice an uptick in your mood, thinking you’re closer to the rank of hero than villain, meaning you will certainly survive your fall. However, you must now take The Hero Test.</p><p><u>The Hero Test</u></p><p>Have you ever saved a child from getting run over by a car? If you have not, have you ever had the opportunity? If you have, how many times?</p><p>Scoring: Without a doubt, if you save one child from getting run over by a car, that act is heroic, but it could also be passed off as luck. There are perhaps legions of others who would happily save a child from getting run over by a car, but they haven’t had the chance. (Oh, those poor, unfortunate souls who never witness an automobile bearing down upon a youngster, doomed forever to the margins of history!) If, however, you save two children from getting run over by cars, then absolutely, you must be considered a hero, luck having been abolished. Three? Congratulations! You are not only heroic, you have reached legendary stature. No one will question it. And after you bounce on a trampoline-like awning, after your descent is inexplicably slowed to a safe speed by tree branches, after you emerge from a strategically placed swimming pool (the water somehow negating your 120 mile per hour drop), or after you smash directly into the ground, bruised, bloodied, but somehow A-OK (are you fucking kidding me?), we will sing your praises for the rest of time.</p><p>After three, however, an interesting thing occurs, proving once again how difficult it is to be a hero. For each child beyond the third, your grand stature actually diminishes. Even if you’re a crossing guard. Why? Because your record starts to get more and more suspicious. How is it that you’re so frequently around children imperiled by automobiles? Are you putting them in danger so you can subsequently rescue them? Have you hired a fleet of alcoholics to go barreling around the neighborhood right before school begins, or right after it lets out in order to add extra feats of valor to your tally sheet? Are you keeping a tally sheet? Heroes are not accountants. You don’t think they are, anyway.</p><p>Having never saved a child from automotive disaster, having never even had the chance, perhaps your spirits have fallen, seeing as you will likely smash into the ground, or be impaled on a line of impossibly sharp fence posts, or be electrocuted by a nest of live wires, or crash into a railroad crossing and get run over by a convoy of semis and then a train. A really, really long train.</p><p>So, what are you left with? You haven’t put any heads onto pikes, nor have you saved any children. Granted, this is an incomplete test. An utterly insufficient, laughably constructed test, even. In your current situation, how could it be anything but? The problem, however, is you’re still left not knowing what to think of yourself.</p><p>Which brings us back to the original question: Why are you falling?</p><p>Perhaps, thanks in part to the seemingly omnipotent moral ambiguity of the world, you wish your cultural education were right, so you could separate people, all people, including yourself, into two groups: on one side, those meticulously arranging heads on pikes in their gardens, afterwards enjoying a fine wine, as the gore from the collected necks slides down exquisitely wrought skewers, the vacant eyes staring into nothingness, the wind blowing handsomely through their eccentric, villainous outfits, and, on the other side, those rescuing the appropriate number of children from being run over by cars, the sun shining from behind them just at the right moment, as they look up and to the right, heroes without a doubt, but since you cannot use these classifications, since again and again each group you’ve been taught to believe in appears to be a null set, or damned close, leaving you with ambiguity, and because critiquing the cultural education that bestowed upon you this yearning only leads to despair and confusion, you decided to do the one thing that would dispel your not-knowing, you devised a foolproof test, and thus you leapt into the air, the open air that will flay off the dross, will strip away the superfluities, will at long last give you the answer you crave, a univocal judgment that has been approaching at 120 miles per hour, and has now, finally, arrived.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Issue 4 Contributors & Extended Bios]]></title><description><![CDATA[Adam Syty lives and works in the Lehigh Valley area of Pennsylvania. He teaches
high school English and coaches track and field.
Alex Quinlan’s poetry, nonfiction and reviews have appeared in the Beloit Poetry
Journal, Tampa Review, and the Birmingham Poetry Review. He has received awards
and fellowships from the AWP Intro Journals Project, the Academy of American
Poets, the Bucknell Seminar for Younger Poets, and the Vermont Studio Center,
among others. He has served as editor-in-chief of The]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/issue-4-contributors-and-bios/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62e65bfc76bc3a4e0ae603d0</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[The Editors]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 07 Mar 2023 23:09:12 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><strong>Adam Syty </strong>lives and works in the Lehigh Valley area of Pennsylvania. He teaches high school English and coaches track and field.</p><p><strong>Alex Quinlan</strong>’s poetry, nonfiction and reviews have appeared in the <em>Beloit Poetry Journal, Tampa Review</em>, and the <em>Birmingham Poetry Review</em>. He has received awards and fellowships from the AWP Intro Journals Project, the Academy of American Poets, the Bucknell Seminar for Younger Poets, and the Vermont Studio Center, among others. He has served as editor-in-chief of <em>The Southeast Review</em>, as well as a contributing editor at <em>Tusculum Review, </em>and a staff reviewer for <em>Scout: Poetry in Review</em>. </p><p><strong>Ali Kinsella</strong>, a former Peace Corps volunteer, has been translating from Ukrainian for ten years. Her latest work, <em>Love in Defiance of Pain: Ukrainian Stories</em>, an anthology in support of Ukrainians today, is soon out from Deep Vellum Press. Dzvinia Orlowsky and Ali Kinsella’s translations of Natalka Bilotserkivets’s poems from the Ukrainian, <em>Eccentric Days of Hope and Sorrow</em>, was published by Lost Horse Press in 2021 and has been shortlisted for the 2022 International Griffin Poetry Prize.</p><p><strong>Alina Zubkovych </strong>holds a PhD in social science and is the director of Nordic Ukraine Forum, Sweden. She was working on the non-fiction book aimed at reflecting life in Ukraine based on her individual experience, but her plans were cut short by the war she encountered in Kharkiv, Ukraine on February 24.<a href="https://alinazubkovych.nu/"> https://alinazubkovych.nu/</a></p><p><strong>Andrew Najberg</strong> is the author of <em>The Goats Have Taken Over the Barracks </em>(Finishing Line Press, 2021) and <em>Easy to Lose</em> (Finishing Line Press, 2007). His poetry and prose has appeared in dozens of magazines including <em>North American Review, Good River Review, Asheville Poetry Review, Cimarron, </em>and <em>Another Chicago Magazine.</em></p><p><strong>Bari Bossis </strong>is a publicity assistant at Lydia Liebman Promotions, a boutique jazz publicity agency based in New York City. She is a graduate of Bard College with a degree in American Studies and a focus in Literature. Bari grew up in South Florida and is currently Brooklyn-based. In addition to her work in public relations, Bari is a freelance food writer. Several of her recipes were recently published by the nationally recognized nutritionist, Dr. Janet Bond Brill.</p><p><strong>Bryce Cobbs</strong> is a 25-year-old artist from Roanoke, Virginia. He specializes in portrait work using mediums such as oil paint, pencil, graphite, and digital illustration software such as Photoshop and Procreate.</p><p><strong>Brooke Bourgeois </strong>is an artist and educator living in Cambridge, United Kingdom.</p><p><strong>Brynna Hall </strong>- updating</p><p><strong>Cayla Bleoaja</strong><em> </em>talks to trees and studies political sociology at Oxford. She is a creative and curator of beauty.</p><p><strong>Chet Weise’</strong>s poems and stories have appeared and been anthologized in publications such as <em>Apocalypse Now: Poems and Prose from the End of Days</em>, <em>Constant Stranger: After Frank Stanford</em>, <em>Copper Nickel</em>, <em>Peach Mag</em>, and <em>We Never Learn: The Gunk Punk Undergut, 1988–2001</em>. Weise currently lives in Nashville, Tennessee, where he is Editor-in-Chief at Third Man Books and plays guitar and records with Kings of the F**King Sea (named after a book of poems).</p><p><strong>Christian J. Collier</strong><em> </em>is a Black, Southern writer, arts organizer, and teaching artist who resides in Chattanooga, Tennessee. He is the author of the chapbook <em>The Gleaming of the Blade</em> from Bull City Press. His works have appeared in <em>December</em>, <em>North American Review,</em> <em>Hayden's Ferry Review, The Michigan Quarterly Review</em>, and elsewhere.</p><p><strong>Courtney Brothers</strong> is a Cloud Network Engineer living in Virginia.</p><p><strong>Dana Kanafina</strong> is a writer from Almaty, Kazakhstan. She is an alumna of Between The Lines (BTL) of the International Writing Program in 2019, a graduate of the prose faculty of Open Literary School of Almaty and was the ambassador for Almaty Writing Residency in 2021, the first creative writing residency in the country.</p><p><strong>Danny Young</strong> is a musician and director based in NYC.</p><p><strong>Dzvinia Orlowsky</strong>, a Pushcart prize poet, award-winning translator, and a founding editor of Four Way Books, is the author of six poetry collections including <em>Bad Harvest</em>, named a 2019 Massachusetts Book Awards “Must Read” in Poetry. Dzvinia Orlowsky and Ali Kinsella’s translations of Natalka Bilotserkivets’s poems from the Ukrainian, <em>Eccentric Days of Hope and Sorrow</em>, was published by Lost Horse Press in 2021 and has been shortlisted for the 2022 International Griffin Poetry Prize.</p><p><strong>Emily Meffert </strong>is a story-teller. She lives in Oklahoma.</p><p><strong>Isabella Bruzzese</strong> is a writer and illustrator from Albuquerque, New Mexico. She lives and bartends in Nashville, Tennessee.</p><p><strong>Jessie Janeshek'</strong>s full-length poetry collections are <em>NO PLACE FOR DAMES</em>, <em>MADCAP</em>, <em>The Shaky Phase </em>(Stalking Horse Press, 2017), and <em>Invisible Mink</em>. Her chapbooks include <em>Spanish Donkey/Pear of Anguish</em>, <em>Rah-Rah Nostalgia</em>, <em>Supernoir</em>, <em>Auto-Harlow</em>, <em>Channel U</em>, and <em>Hardscape</em>. Self-reflection during the past few years has led her toward a transition from her career as a college professor and administrator into a second service career as a licensed Funeral Director. Read more at <a href="http://jessiejaneshek.net/" rel="noopener noreferrer">jessiejaneshek.net</a>.</p><p><strong>Kathleen Driskell</strong> is the author of four poetry collections, including <em>Next Door to the Dead</em>, winner of the Judy Gaines Young Book Award. Her poems have been published in <em>Shenandoah</em>, <em>Southern Review</em>, <em>Rattle </em>and other literary magazines. She is professor of creative writing and chair of the Naslund-Mann Graduate School of Writing at Spalding University in Louisville, Kentucky. Currently, she serves as chair of the board of directors to the Association of Writers and Writing Programs, the largest organization of creative writers and creative writing programs in North America. </p><p><strong>Kyla Fleming </strong>is an artist who works in community development and grew up in Murphy, Texas.</p><p><strong>Lena Mazel</strong> is a journalist and aerial performer. She lives in Nashville, Tennessee with her partner and their three rescue parrots.</p><p><strong>Lisa McCarty</strong> is an artist, curator, and writer based in Dallas, Texas where she is Assistant Professor of Photography at Southern Methodist University.</p><p><strong>Lucy DK </strong>(<a href="https://www.instagram.com/lucyydk/">@lucyydk</a>) is a RnB/pop artist and writer based in London. You can find most of her work on a music streaming service near you.</p><p><strong>Matt Urmy</strong><em> </em>received his undergraduate from UT Knoxville and his MFA from Spalding University. He has published two collections of poetry, <em>Ghosts In A House </em>(Finishing Line Press, 2007) and <em>The Rain In The Bell </em>(Iris press, 2015). He is the co-founder and CEO of Artist Growth, a software company that serves the creative media industry. He lives and works in Nashville, Tennessee.</p><p><strong>Natalka Bilotserkivets</strong><em>, </em>known for her lyricism and the quiet power of despair, became a hallmark of Ukraine’s literary life of the 1980s, especially her poem, “We’ll Not Die in Paris,” which was the hymn of the post-Chornobyl generation of young Ukrainians that helped topple the Soviet Union.</p><p><strong>Nimue Hastings </strong>is a film photographer located in the Pacific Northwest. Her focus is on the body — human and earth — to capture the sacred intimacy of being. She primarily shoots landscape and nude portraiture, utilizing the unpredictable nature of expired film to enhance the dreamlike aura of her work.</p><p><strong>Olena Jennings</strong> is the author of the poetry collection <em>Songs from an Apartment</em> (2017) and the chapbook <em>Memory Project </em>(2018). Her novel <em>Temporary Shelter</em> was released in 2021 from Cervena Barva Press. Her translation from Ukrainian of Vasyl Makhno’s collection <em>Paper Bridge </em>is forthcoming from Plamen Press. She is the founder and curator of the Poets of Queens reading series.</p><p><strong>Phillip Christian Swafford </strong>is a painter and songwriter who hails from Chattanooga and resides in Chicago. Swafford painted in his teenage years, before giving it up to focus on composing and producing music. In his 20s, he moved to Chicago where he was a founding member of the Young Camelot art collective and where he resumed painting. He only takes advice from his painting teacher, whose works he actively dislikes. </p><p><strong>Richard Jackson</strong><em> </em>is the author of 17 books of poems and numerous editions, anthologies, translations and critical books. A winner of Guggenheim, NEH, NEA, Fulbright Grants, and the Slovene Honor of Freedom Award, his poems have been translated into 18 languages.</p><p><strong>Sebastian Matthews</strong> is a writer and artist living in Asheville, North Carolina.</p><p><strong>Travis Payne</strong><em> </em>is a graphic and comic artist living in Knoxville, Tennessee who works in both digital and traditional mediums. He received his BFA in art from the University of Tennessee at Knoxville and is currently drafting a graphic novel.</p><p><strong>V. G. Anderson</strong> is an author and freelance editor who spends all year chasing 70 degrees with a taco butler. Explore her work at <a href="https://www.vganderson.com/">VGAnderson.com.</a></p><p><strong>Victoria Juharyan </strong>is a Visiting Assistant Professor in the Department of German and Russian at UC Davis. Victoria completed her PhD in the Department of Slavic Languages and Literatures at Princeton University in 2018 with a dissertation on Tolstoy’s philosophy of love titled <em>The Cognitive Value of Love in Tolstoy: A Study in Aesthetics</em>. She also holds an MA in Comparative Literature from Dartmouth Colleague and a BA in Literary Editing from St. Petersburg State University in Russia. Victoria is an avid traveler, and, in addition to teaching philosophy and literature, practices photography, painting, translation, and creative writing.</p><p><strong>Vivian Saxon </strong>is a masters student at Duke Divinity School studying theology, art, and the environment. Right now she is very interested in the history of the beatific vision and what it means to live well on a dying earth.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[describing blood]]></title><description><![CDATA[Thank you for making space for me. Getting in my car at the very last minute
because life feels a bit too hectic is nothing new for me. Staying with
strangers is scarcely strange. Entering into a town you do not know and somehow
feeling known, that is something I am less familiar with. I don’t really know
you, but you are familiar. Possibly serendipitous. Most likely ordained. Anyway,
thank you.
-A letter from Lubbock
Dallas, Texas
He sat on the end of the bed and tugged his hoodie over each a]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/describing-blood/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__63fce779785534685db920bc</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 5 - Attention]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Alexis Petri]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 07 Mar 2023 23:09:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><em>Thank you for making space for me. Getting in my car at the very last minute because life feels a bit too hectic is nothing new for me. </em>Staying<em> with strangers is scarcely strange. Entering into a town you do not know and somehow feeling known, that is something I am less familiar with. I don’t really know you, but you are familiar. Possibly serendipitous. Most likely ordained. Anyway, thank you.</em></p><p><em>-A letter from Lubbock</em></p><h3 id="dallas-texas">Dallas, Texas</h3><p>He sat on the end of the bed and tugged his hoodie over each arm, right, left, then languidly over his bowed head. I rose to my knees from my curled-up position amongst the sheets and kissed his back before he could pull the fabric farther. He let his head drop and sighed serenely. “Thank you,” he breathed. It had become a wordless conversation between us that took place most mornings, only this one would be the last. He put on one sock at a time, each shoe, his beanie, the gold chain that invariably adorned his neck and would fall lopsided on the pillow beside my head when he forgot to remove it. He gathered his things, kissed me, kissed me again, then looked around at the messy space, aimlessly. “I feel like I’m forgetting something,” he said to himself as if he was alone, puzzled as to how he got there. I looked at the memorized profile while he searched, every one of his things cradled in his arms, wondering if he would ever find it. We ended up back in bed. This was common for us, sharing skin when we had nothing left to offer.</p><p>“What was your first impression of me?” I twisted my body from under the wrinkled white sheets, enmeshing myself into his side as I waited for a response.</p><p>“Well,” he looked up at the ceiling as if his answer was hiding there, “first, I thought you were beautiful. Then, I thought, hmm…she has a story too. And then you slowly unraveled it.”</p><p>And we slowly unraveled too, just as my story demands.</p><h3 id="lubbock-texas">Lubbock, Texas</h3><p>Lubbock is at the center of South Plains, Texas, nearly a straight shot west from Dallas. The summers are long and blistering, and the winters are short, but just as severe. I drove there in March, my back seat full of coats and books I might read. Seven hours gets lonely after the third hour, but I refused to make a phone call. I could have been punishing myself. Road trips were more familiar to me than a lot of things. From five years old on, and more times that I could call to mind, I’d been in the backseat of a car eating spiced peanuts, listening to the same three albums on loop and watching the road roll under us. The twenty-four-hour drive from Texas to Michigan (to see my maternal side of the family) was split into two full days, a stale hotel room in Memphis marking our halfway point. I’d will myself to not pee, not get out of the car if I didn’t need to, so that I could stay stationary in some trance-like state until we’d reached what we set out to find. By forcing myself into lethargy, I was dodging the ramifications of presence. Of time. The awareness of how far we still had to go (which, as a child, was always too large and unknown to make peace with).</p><p>He opened the door and hugged me. He told me I’d be sleeping in his bed, him on the couch, and we would drive to the grocery store in his truck to get ingredients for whatever I decided to cook. I offered food as compensation. In the wine aisle, I was reading stories off the back of the bottles ornately. I’m always looking for story. Sometimes I’m not sure anyone else pays attention to it. Older men and teenagers were passing me with rigid unamused expressions on their faces. He had already meandered between aisles three and four, and I was left there. Reading. He eventually recognized I wasn't with him, or came back to gather me, and we agreed on a bottle of cabernet sauvignon. The tasting notes included hints of tobacco leaf and cedar. A silky finish. Once his large truck had settled into the sooty driveway, I walked inside to start making pomodoro sauce. He boiled rigatone next to me as I crushed the wet tomatoes in my palms like I’ve been doing beside my mother for years. After finishing the bottle, we were familiar. Comfortable. He said, “Let’s play darts in the garage,” and we both proved to be pretty terrible at it, hitting the pasty white wall more than the board. “Eyes closed!” he yelled in a final attempt before we would move on to something else, then struck the bullseye instantaneously. We wouldn’t stop telling that story for a long time. My high pitched laughter reached a new decibel and his roommate cracked the door violently to berate us in a tired voice. I tried to ride his skateboard to the park across the street and he caught me as I was cascading off (the fall wasn't hard to foresee). We chain smoked cigarettes at the base of a yellow slide until we ran out. On the two couches catty corner to each other in the living room, we fell asleep talking. That night was perfect, I thought. My lips were still wine stained when I woke up. <br/></p><p> ***<br/></p><p>His friend Sophia was at the house in the morning. She was young. That was the first thing I observed. She was sitting in the living room chair, one of those old rocking ones, wide and doughy. Around four years younger than me, which, in your twenties, feels like a decade. We’re all young, but we are especially young now. </p><p>She was funny and airy, her presence a light thing to lift. It was hard for me to talk to her, not because she wasn’t interesting, but because most commentary was taking place between her and him, and all of it was inside jokes. Quotes from videos I’d never seen. Musical terms I didn’t understand. He was taking photos of her and they were everywhere. That pushed me all the way back to Dallas. Outside of our shared space that didn’t feel shared at all. When I write about it, I think, <em>what on Earth was I doing there?</em> Even the memory is out of place. Strange to recall. Lubbock grew dry and empty to me, a dissolved version of what I expected. </p><p>“Did you say one time that you don’t like watching TV?” he asked as he put the TV on.</p><p>I’ve had this conversation with everyone I’ve ever met. I’m tired of this conversation. </p><p>“I just don’t watch it very often. I would rather talk to people. And I feel like, when I’m with someone, I want presence. TV is distracting.”</p><p>“Can we watch a Disney movie?” Sophia asked. </p><p>“Hmm,” he said while thumbing the remote, “What is your love language?” </p><p>We’d talked about this before, too. </p><p>“Quality time.”</p><p>“Interesting. I find it fascinating how that can mean something different to everyone.”</p><p>“How so?” I asked. </p><p>“Quality time is my love language too. But to me, that means having someone around. I don’t really need to be interacting with them.”</p><p> ***</p><p>Sophia was already there, waiting, everywhere we went. Aging me. Obscuring me. And I couldn’t even be mad at her, they were tethered. I was merely adjacent.</p><p>In the emptied chill of his bedroom, I wadded up the last of my high waisted jeans and blazers into my suede bag and wrote him a letter. Setting it on the desk underneath his pin-pegged wall of notes and sketches, I hoped it would move him, ossify a connection. </p><p>My great flaw as a writer is believing words can mend what has been ruptured, when they can only describe the blood. Or lie about its severity. </p><h3 id="dallas-texas-1">Dallas, Texas</h3><p>These nights feel made up sometimes. Smudges. Their spectral truth is scarcely a film.</p><p>I can recall every evening that started and ended similarly, but no words can be made out. Soundtracks. Cigarettes. Touch we dare not define. Every evening we were in the same apartment repeating the same series of delicate iniquities.</p><p>In the weakly lit kitchen, I sat on the counter and waited for a vape to be placed in my hand, drinking whatever was made for me, always a little crossed and pensive. And then he would pass the threshold of the kitchen, spotting me on the cold granite, and squeeze the tender muscle above my knee, snarling, “What did you just say, mister?” I squealed hilariously and wriggled from his grip while everyone else was cuddling on the couch, watching music videos. He made fun of my dancing, my enthusiasm. I laughed that off too, I thought it was charming. Then I would feel him wrap his arms around me from behind and say, “Oof, I’ve missed you, A.”</p><p>Like a mood ring, temperature, even time, could change his coloring. But it was this duality that thrilled me, the strangest dichotomy I’d ever known. I’ve still never met a person who was as tender and harsh. Who was as opposed to being fully either.</p><p>By the end of the night, I knew I could find him slouched on the cement of the balcony. I melted down beside him to ask what he was thinking about. I should have known he would talk about the box again. He always talked about the box. This dreamed up depository where he would put pictures of all of us in our polaroid youth. Letters. Records spinning up familiar voices. Paper proof that we’d lived this bohemian life together. And he told me about it again, each time fresh like the first. “Forever,” we would say to each other, and he’d surely have the word written on one of those boxed pieces of paper. </p><p>“I want to be able to give that to my kids one day,” he whispered.</p><p>“I know.” </p><p>“This is family.”</p><p>“I know.” </p><p>“This is home.”</p><p>“I know…when do you go back to Lubbock?”</p><p>“Early tomorrow.”</p><p>“I wish you could stay longer.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><h3 id="catoosa-oklahoma">Catoosa, Oklahoma</h3><p>The verdure of Catoosa, Oklahoma in October was prolific. Bright trees for miles, baldcypress and black walnuts. But the wedding day itself was reticent, withholding something from each of us. We didn’t get the sun we expected. It wasn't supposed to rain but it did, wetting the grass and misting the chairs we had set up behind the house for the ceremony. It had been almost three weeks since my last period and I was too scared to take a pregnancy test. The groom, my best friend at the time, was the only one who knew. I was in the room with him most of the day, putting his watch on, his gold necklace, steaming his jacket. When I changed and walked downstairs, I saw that our friend Mina was also in a suit, something neither of us had spoken about or planned (even though we drove those four hours together). I took us both in, dark peg leg pants, soft white fabric covering our torsos and squeezing our dainty little necks. </p><p>The rain did ultimately clear with enough time for us to set the long rectangular tables with black plates and candles, and the ceremony to conclude. They wanted each of their closest friends to say something about their love. To bless them with our memories. I remember crying hard for the first time in weeks, sputtering my tribute in tight little gasps. I’ve never been a coherent cryer.</p><p>When I sat back down in the front row. I felt a wave of nausea. A grip and then a release. I went to the bathroom to find a dot of pink blood on my white lace thong. <em>Thank god.</em></p><p>The night was promptly swallowed in opaque, humid darkness from the rain and I was already drunk off some sweet liquor I found in the kitchen, softening the whetted edges of my feeling. Throughout the trip, I was suffering that tiny stab of loneliness that I hate myself for. When all the male attention is dispersed, and there is none to spare for me. I would never admit it, never dare to look so grossly (and stereotypically) girlish. <em>I could grow out of it,</em> I think. The night before, at a steak restaurant, my chair felt like it was miles from everyone else’s, a quiet hush between each of their conversations and my listening ears. When I looked over to catch a glimpse of him, he was halfway out of his seat into Mina’s, conjoined like one sweatshirt clad body. Whispering secrets, so many secrets, things I couldn't possibly laugh as ardently at as she could. I murmured some regrets to the salad before placing a leaf in my mouth. It is important to note (or maybe it isn’t) that most of them are a bit younger than me. But I felt ages older, a hoary pull to fit myself somewhere in the middle of this tightly wound assemblage of artists. With their vapes and their Polaroid cameras and their cool disregard for the generations preceding them, I wanted to bathe myself in them and wear their approval like a sticky residue. </p><p>When we returned, we were all watching <em>New Girl</em>, sprawled across couches and futons, slipping closer to each other while it rang in the background. Mina and I were on either side of him, his arms under each of our heads, our legs all tangled like seaweed. After minutes of drowsy embraces and half-sleep conversations, he rolled entirely over, giving her both arms and leaving me to the cold corner of the couch we were draped across. I got up unnoticed, taking barefoot steps up the stairs. I drunkenly tossed and turned into a torpid state until the morning light burned my eyes open.</p><p> ***</p><p>“I need to tell you something.” Mina said to me. We were in a pretentious (but beautiful) coffee shop, where plants hang ethereally from the ceiling and baristas wait to condemn your requests for any variation of sweetener.</p><p>“Me and…well you know, we made out last night.”</p><p>I simulated surprise.</p><p>“I just don't know what it will do to our friendship,” she wrung her hands apprehensively, reaching for her coffee again and again. Against my will, I felt incredible compassion for her.</p><p>“We just don’t want to ruin our friendship.”</p><p>She said it then I said it.</p><p><em>Friendship</em>.</p><p>This magical word we would recite like a chant, praying it would hold us together despite the fact that it too has limits, ledges for us to dangle ourselves over.</p><p>I assured her they would navigate it, figure it all out just fine, even though I didn’t imagine it would progress the way it did. No one could have.</p><p>At every gathering and every trip he made to visit after, they were more wrapped around each other than the last. An attachment that denied their intentions. Everyone in the group pretended as if it wasn't happening while they caressed and giggled and fastened themselves to each other like one entity. And as things intensified then dwindled, the way secrets do, the way things we don't understand unfold in the quiet, we all came to our own conclusions apart from them, retelling stories that never belonged to us, until things eventually evaporated and we ran out of stories to tell. </p><h3 id="dallas-texas-2">Dallas, Texas</h3><p>After over a year of what you could maybe call friendship, our precarious half-existence, we made plans for just the two of us. Finally. He had lived in Dallas, now, for awhile, but my attempts at an interaction were evaded. “I’d really like to hang out with you,” he texted after I returned from a week in Tulum. I held little expectation at this point, it was fading from me, but I said yes anyway, a slave to my hopefullness.</p><p>We went to the grocery store, and I made us dinner. I let him read some of my writing for the first time and he paused now and again to think things he did not tell me, and I did not ask about (but would ponder later on).</p><p>“Can we do this next week?” he said while twirling the last forkful of mushroom and fettuccine around the near empty white bowl on the counter. </p><p>So the next week we got a pizza and smoked a cigarette on the roof and got so high we fell asleep on my bed. We were laying there, his left arm heavy on my waist, nose nuzzled into my shoulder, and at some point in the middle of the night we both rustled and shifted to some semblance of awareness. His lips grazed my neck then pressed into it more and more, until kisses were fully formed. I looked over at him slowly. A question. An inquiry I didn’t want to have to answer, and apparently neither did he, because we kissed anyway, wordlessly. He let muffled moans slip through our affixed faces, then abruptly reached up to hold my chin with a shaking hand, and just…looked at me. With his deeply set eyes, lashes casting a shadow over his glance, he looked at me. So I said, “Are you ok with this?” and he said exactly what I didn’t want to hear.</p><p>“It just feels a lot like what happened with Mina. And I don’t want to ruin our friendship.”</p><p>I felt like a placeholder, but I wanted him just then, at that moment, so I was careful to make no sudden moves. I was silent. I held the place, our limbs tangled like seaweed, thinking about matching suits and deliciously blurred lines and <em>friendship</em>.</p><p>“Being friends with benefits is something that I’ve wanted,” He said while rearranging his body around mine. “Me too,” I said, holding a fistful of soft tee-shirt, looking back at that shadowy stare until we fell asleep intertwined. I dreamt about it all being endearing instead of capricious. </p><p> ***</p><p>This began our pattern. A late evening. Hands pinned behind my back. Perpetually high. My place was closer to work for him, so he stayed the night. “I miss you,” texted an hour after he left, my bed still warm. A canceled evening plan here and there. An illusion.</p><h3 id="san-antonio-texas">San Antonio, Texas</h3><p>The same car. Another road trip. Somewhere around seventy degrees outside my windows. I was alone this time, but he was trailing close behind on I-35, probably making a playlist for us to have sex to. </p><p>The company I was working for at the time opened a San Antonio location and I was visiting for a few days to train the manager.</p><p>“Could I come with you?” he asked. “We could stay in the bnb together and I’ll take photos while you're working.”</p><p>“I love that idea,” I told him, because it would mean I got him for more than a night. </p><p>“But I’ll take my own car. I need the space and some alone time.”</p><p>The small things I looked forward to were always the threads he pulled loose, irreverently. As if they didn’t make up the whole of us. A tapestry of microscopic intimacies that he would either grant or deny me. </p><p>“Ok.” I said in as upbeat of a tone as I could strangle from myself. </p><p>Ok.</p><p> ***</p><p>The driveway was all rocks, a small backhouse sitting at the end, aged. It was dark by the time we both pulled in, and there was only one light over the door. A white bed in the corner across from the kitchen. A row of windows. A claw foot tub in the bathroom. </p><p>“This is why I chose the place,” I said, pointing. </p><p>“I can’t wait to spend most of the time in that bath with you.” He said in his soft voice, then kissed me, and I kissed him back tremendously. A dense embrace. Our touch suspended us above our terminology. “Friends with benefits,” but we were actually nameless. We were us. </p><p>When I was at work the next day, he got our wine, the one we drank in Lubbock, little candles, and charcuterie items. We got high and went to the store in search of bubble bath, giggling our way aimlessly through each aisle. He slapped my butt hard when we walked in and I ran, laughing, from him. Eventually an employee spotted us in the home goods department and yelled, “Are you guys the ones looking for bubble bath?!”</p><p>We were hilarious. Unquietable. </p><p>I wish I had written down all the jokes we made at night, but I probably wouldn't think they were funny now. </p><p>He lit the candles, poured the wine, then started the playlist I knew he’d been working on. There was music for every place we had sex. He was organizing our moments. After the bottle of bubble bath was emptied into the balmy water, I slid in after him, floating between his legs. </p><p>“I’m so turned on right now,” he said into my ear while he moved my hair from its clip. </p><p>“I know.”</p><p>When we got out and I rolled onto the bed, he said, “Wait,” and pulled out his Polaroid camera, capturing me with one hand up, covering my face, the towel just barely obscuring my naked back. I had long, red nails then, and the snake tattoo crawling up my wrist was partially washed out. </p><p>The last thing I saw before falling asleep was our mess, all of it, out on the floor. The counters.</p><p>The only thing he forgot was flowers. </p><p> ***<br>I would return, months later, to the exact spot with a friend. We drove together in my car. Bought candles and wine and bubble bath. I got flowers, too, and spilled them into the old porcelain sink. She took a Polaroid of it before we left. They looked naked like me in the paleness of the photo. In a place they didn’t belong.</br></p><p> ***<br>In every exchange outside of our mercurial cocoon, I lied. I wasn’t being honest about how much I cared. How much I hated myself for caring. In the dark we were ours; it was the only place we existed. Until I could craft a story there wasn’t one.</br></p><p>“I don’t want you to think I’m just coming over for sex, I want to see you,” he said. “I love you,” he said.</p><p>Even though we were friends with benefits. Even though that’s what friends with benefits are.</p><p>“I know,” I said. “I love you too,” I said.</p><p>“Promise?” he asked.</p><p>“Pinky.” I vowed.</p><p>And then our fingers locked, forging an agreement we’d already broken.</p><h3 id="dallas-texas-3">Dallas, Texas</h3><p>“My stomach hurts,” he said, even though his stomach was always hurting. Between the weed and nicotine, lack of any real diet, and blistering anxiety, I don’t know how he ever felt fine. I don’t think he did. </p><p>“Have you eaten yet?” I asked.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“I have a frozen pizza, I’ll make it for you.”</p><p>I used up a lot of our time feeding him. </p><p>“Thank you sweet girl.” He said it like a prayer, knowing he could never repay the favor.</p><p>I was wearing a blue and white striped button down that barely reached the middle of my thigh, with nothing underneath. After I placed the pizza on the oven rack and set a timer he was pressing his full lips into mine. A thank you. His intimacy was surprising to me, even though it was frequent. With how moody he was most of the time, I could never tell if he would want to devour me or be alone. Before I really realized what was happening, he was inside me, turning me around to face the counter and biting my shoulder blade. He reached out, squeezing my dainty little neck, and I said, “Harder.” The fact that I didn't know it was coming made it savory. I had difficulty with the concept of consent within a relationship because when I trusted someone, I didn’t want to be asked for intimacy, I wanted to be told. For him, it was easier that way too. We were both turned on by hunger. Taking without sanction. So he took from me there, and on the couch, until the timer went off and I handed him a plate, watching as he ate his pizza in my bed. Well, my pizza, technically.</p><p> ***</p><p>My floor creaking proverbially under his midnight steps became our ritual. I saw him at the ends and the beginnings of his days, blocks of time that bookmarked our realities.</p><p>“I’m close,” he would say when his car turned from Main to Elm so I could retrieve him from the parking garage, or into my throbbing ear, holding our hands above my head like a sacrifice. </p><p>The torrents of intensity easily caused me to forget that we didn’t form a whole life, only a broken series of moments lived together. And I learned—through the discrepancies in the narratives we told ourselves—that there is a difference.</p><p> ***</p><p>It’s pitiable to admit, but I don’t remember a lot of conversations shared. We were high most of the time, having sex, or I was trying to soothe his anxieties, worried he’d be too worn to work. To love me. He would let me buy his meals or pet his head, then swat my solace away like cigarette smoke.</p><p>But the crackling instance I first felt rage toward him, well, that conversation I do distinctly recall.</p><p>“Hey mister! You look cute.” he said as I stepped into the passenger side of his car.</p><p>The bar he drove us to didn’t open for another fifteen minutes (which naturally distressed him), so we shared a cigarette on the bench outside.</p><p>“What are you thinking about?” I asked.</p><p>“I’ve been so stressed with this move, everything that goes into it. I am supposed to be looking at apartments tomorrow, but I just don't want to. I did talk to Blake, though, the other day about it. She was saying that I could move in with her to save money, and I think that is going to be my best option.”</p><p>My teeth clenched and every level of empathy and adoration drained from my body and dripped onto the pavement.</p><p>Blake is Sophia. Blake is Mina. Blake is the shadow of every friend who always surpassed me, always loomed a little louder, a little nearer. <em>Friend</em>. He was regularly with her before he was with me, my apartment being the last stop on his agenda, and that was if he didn’t fall asleep at her place first, leaving me waiting on the edge of my bed like a stupid girl who knew better.</p><p>“She’s basically my sister,” he reassuringly cooed when talking about her. But of course, that was so delightfully us. We were best friends with whoever we wanted to be. You could find us in a pile of drunken hugs and hand holding, one blur of dopamine and tenuous boundaries.</p><p>It all felt comforting until it didn't.</p><p>It was this friendship, the way we all imbricated, that held us intimately to each other, and tore us raggedly apart.</p><p>For the remainder of the night, I had no smiles or reassuring chirps to add to conversation. We finished the night at a diner, two porcelain plates of hash browns and fried eggs across from each other, more noise coming from our forks than our mouths.</p><p>“Have you started your period yet, by the way?” he looked up from his half-eaten pancake to inquire.</p><p>“No.” I wasn't going to tell him that (because it would certainly be his fault if I was), but of course he would ask me as I was elegantly gliding toward fury.</p><p>He widened his eyes and sighed with his whole body. So much sighing all the time.<br>“I’m just late. Besides, whatever ends up being the case, I have it handled.” I snapped before he could rub his temples rigidly or say anything else.</br></p><p>I ended up paying the check. He didn't feel up to driving anymore, so I drove us back in his car to essentially drop myself off at my own apartment. “I can’t come up, I really am so tired and need to go home.” he said, and I merely nodded and stiffly unbuckled my seatbelt. “Wait,” He leaned in to kiss me and my lips barely moved. Nothing in me could arouse itself. No desire, no longing, not even basic need.</p><p>He rested his head on my shoulder and I felt a tear soak through my thinly knit sweater.</p><p>Reaching up to put my hand on his face was all I could muster, leaving us just sitting there like that for lingering minutes. Broken pieces attempting to assemble, just jagged edges embracing in the front seat of his car.</p><p>***</p><p>November eventually came and I stopped eating breakfast. My appetite abandoned me, and my stomach clung to itself. </p><p>I dreaded breaks of time when I wasn't needed at work. Silence. A subterrane in which to recognize myself. Space made me feel more fragile. Gradually I saw less of him and Blake saw more, until we all knew what was becoming of it. He stayed fewer nights and gave me fewer words, but never actually told me what was happening. </p><p>On one of the last nights I saw him, I kissed his fingers. I kissed his chin. His tension dissolved under my touch, and nothing felt better than when we had removed all physical space that separated us. We bridged the gaps between our minds with our bodies, and that was the only time I didn’t feel like he was leaving me. That was the only time he was fully mine. To clarify, I don’t mean leaving me for someone else (though that would come later), but in the emotional sense. He kept his head where I couldn’t reach it, and every day I believe he thought a little less of me. He left me in all the refined ways I could feel but never see. Hairline fractures. And just like us, whatever we were, invisible to the naked eye. Impossible to notice or name. When I eventually ended it, I was simply saying what he wouldn’t. I was always saying what he wouldn’t.</p><p> ***</p><p>Four months after moving to New York, I returned to Dallas for a bridal shower. It was hotter than it should have been, a Texas fall. Many people asked me the same thing: “Does it feel like home?”</p><p>“What do you mean?” I questioned.</p><p>“Being back, here.”</p><p>I shared my friend’s queen mattress with her again, the one that had been passed between bodies over the past few years, and I flanked the cusp of lucid dreaming and violent restlessness each night. Do you think beds preserve memories? Can they haunt you like every other sheet-cloaked apparition? Each night. Every night, recollections of him were the prelude to my first dips into shallow sleep. His body behind mine when I rolled onto my side in the first slivers of morning, kissing my neck and softly thrusting us awake. Or laying on top of me, underneath me, inside of me, turned away from me, indefinitely unaware of and outside of me. </p><p>I heard a song in a coffee shop that I had only heard one time before, two years ago, with him. I saw someone who knew me that I’d never met. I drove swiftly past buildings that I recognized but had never entered. </p><p><em>Does it feel like home?</em></p><p>“No,” I said, “it just feels familiar.”</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[birdspeak]]></title><description><![CDATA[
in the park, he tells me a few patient scientists are learning
the language of birds. they’re writing out steps, they’re procedurizing,
they’re making a formula of the air between our ears. they’re
cracking it. you can do it too, he says, i mean anyone
can. you have to start by finding a pair, they say, he says. you need
to be still, you need to wait, you need to return again and again
even when you don’t want it. listen to the way they word-dance
with one another, listen to their harmo]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/birdspeak/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__63efeb61d2476a173dc58875</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 5 - Attention]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><category><![CDATA[home-page-3]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Cleo Rohn]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 07 Mar 2023 23:09:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p/><p>in the park, he tells me a few patient scientists are learning</p><p>the language of birds. they’re writing out steps, they’re procedurizing,</p><p>they’re making a formula of the air between our ears. they’re</p><p>cracking it. you can do it too, he says, i mean anyone</p><p>can. you have to start by finding a pair, they say, he says. you need</p><p>to be still, you need to wait, you need to return again and again</p><p>even when you don’t want it. listen to the way they word-dance</p><p>with one another, listen to their harmonies of need. unless of course,</p><p>he says, they’re not in love but at war, you know, not literal war,</p><p>but animosity. a battle cry can sound so much like wanting.</p><p>a confession and a caution just a quarter-note apart. with the males, he says,</p><p>you can tell they’ve found a mate by how much they sing. he doesn’t tell me</p><p>whether love is quieter or louder than survival, and i’ve never known</p><p>the difference. a cloud blows in, and his eyes are the air after a bomb.</p><p>above us, crows move in arrhythmia. below us, the ground is a cemetery</p><p>of words a man has told a woman. in the grass by his wrist, a robin</p><p>approaches, inspects, flies away screaming. a greeting, i say.</p><p>a warning, he says. and we kiss - or break something, i don’t remember -</p><p>and the breeze around us stings the way only words can</p><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br> The idea of deciphering birdsong into digestible phrases is something that has fascinated me since I first heard of it. To me, it speaks to the way we long to understand every conceivable part of the world, even the parts of it that - arguably - we were never supposed to understand in the first place. There is, maybe, a desperate ornithologist in all of us, bending over backwards searching for meaning. The speaker of “birdspeak” has not yet learned to pay close attention to what matters - she experiences her stories secondhand and listens uncritically - but she is determined to make it all mean something. That need makes her give too much weight to the wrong things, and not enough to the right ones. The world demands that our attention be everywhere at once, and in exchange, we demand that meaning be everywhere at once. Maybe, just maybe, neither of these demands needs to be entirely met. Maybe some things, after all, are better left undeciphered.<br><br>
</br></br></br></div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br/></p><p/><p><br><br/></br></p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Chiles Rellenos]]></title><description><![CDATA[Bread lessens sorrows. -Mexican Proverb
When she last made chiles rellenos, Victor had been alive.
He had started coming over to their house when her son Manuel was in junior
high, afterschool and on weekends at first, then birthdays and holidays when his
mother got stuck working late shifts at the diner. He helped Manuel with
homework because he loved math and was good at it, and because Manuel was his
only friend. In high school Victor earned a little money tutoring, and she had
tried to pay]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/chiles-rellenos/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__63fce716785534685db920af</guid><category><![CDATA[Short Story]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 5 - Attention]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Veronica Castro]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 07 Mar 2023 23:09:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><em>Bread lessens sorrows. -Mexican Proverb</em></p><p>When she last made <em>chiles rellenos</em>, Victor had been alive.</p><p>He had started coming over to their house when her son Manuel was in junior high, afterschool and on weekends at first, then birthdays and holidays when his mother got stuck working late shifts at the diner. He helped Manuel with homework because he loved math and was good at it, and because Manuel was his only friend. In high school Victor earned a little money tutoring, and she had tried to pay him, knowing that those wingtip shoes he wanted were not cheap. He always refused, saying that she, Mrs. Gonzales, had already done so much for him. She had made <em>chiles rellenos en nogadas</em>, the kind with walnut sauce, and one week later, a Sunday morning in late October 1963, he was found dead among the cattails in the marshy ditch of a nearby lake.</p><p>She put cinnamon pieces in the <em>molcajete</em>, pounded them with the pestle, the porous rock warm and smooth in her hands. She added a few cloves and peppercorns, pounded again, scraped stone against stone. Manuel came in gave her a quick hug and kiss on the cheek. Looking around at all the pots, pans, and bowls covering every kitchen surface, he asked, “What’s all this?”</p><p>The bright yellow lemon-shaped clock read three-fifteen. She had not expected him so soon. There was still so much to do before she could stuff and fry the <em>poblanos</em>. She looked at her son, his dark hair stiff with pomade, shirt and slacks still clean and crisp after a full day of school (he insisted on extra starch in the laundry). “<em>Chiles rellenos</em>,” she answered.</p><p>“I know, but why--is someone coming over?”</p><p>It was true that, while <em>rellenos</em> were Manuel’s favorite, she saved them for guests or special occasions because they took time. She had been planning this meal for days. Her employer, Mrs. Cohagen, agreed to let her leave work early because she would be taking her own children to a symphony matinee and could do without a nanny for the afternoon. She, Mrs. Gonzales, had roasted pork the night before and had made rice this morning, getting up half an hour earlier, moving about the kitchen in a quick but quiet way, careful not to slam the cabinet doors or knock pots against each other.</p><p>She did not tell Manuel that his math teacher had called last week, concerned about missing homework and low test scores, failing grades and summer school. She told Mr. McKenzie that summer school was out of the question. They would be up north, Michigan or Wisconsin, following the cherries, blackberries and apricots. Then peaches. On the way back down: cucumbers, tomatoes, and squash. How could Manuel, only fifteen years old, stay in San Antonio by himself?</p><p>She had planned to sit down with her son and talk to him about why he must try harder, do better at math because he might fail the class, and they could not afford to miss the busiest picking season of the year for summer school. Good food, she hoped, would make it easier. “It’s just us,” she said, smiling as if to say there needn’t be a reason to cook his favorite food.</p><p>Manuel shrugged, went to change out to change out of his school clothes.</p><p>She moved to the white porcelain stove and stirred the onions until they became translucent ghosts of themselves. If it were spring, she would go to the vacant lot next door to collect purslane or <em>quintoniles</em> for a fresh salad. But in February the lot could only offer dry, brown grass, a dead insect wing fluttering on a spiderweb, and the matted leaves of mesquite trees. The only green would be the clumps of <em>chili de espino</em>, which Mrs. Cohagen called mistletoe, and which Manuel’s elementary teacher said was poisonous. Even though the last three generations of Gonzales had eaten the reddish-white fruits without dying, she supposed the teacher knew best, and no longer brought it in the house, instead using the plastic sprigs bought at Woolworth’s after Christmas. Now that he was in high school, Manuel only talked about his teachers if she asked.</p><p>Manuel returned wearing a white t-shirt and jeans, which she would not let him wear to school, even if some of the other kids, still wanting to look like James Dean, wore them. He plopped a heavy textbook on the table and took a seat.</p><p>She slid the cutting board underneath the bowl of peppers, cleared away the jars of whole cloves and cinnamon sticks to give him more space to work. “No basketball today?” she asked, scooping up onion peels with her hands.</p><p>“No,” he said. “Gotta catch up on some homework.” He took out a fresh sheet of paper, copied the first problem neatly on his page. Wrote a few numbers, erased, re-read the examples, tried again.</p><p>She scraped the spices into a pan, mixed in the pork, and added almonds, raisins, and <em>acitrón</em>. Manuel turned to the back of his book to check his answer. Erased again. She opened a can of stewed tomatoes, and tilted the contents into the <em>molcajete</em>, the peeled red spheres staring at her like monstrous eyeballs. Manuel tapped his pencil rhythmically on the table. Rubbed his eyes. Sighed. “What are you working on?” she asked.</p><p>“Theorems,” he replied, voice heavy with the dread of the work that lay before him. She squashed the tomatoes against the stone, worried that they would squirt juice across the table, splatter his homework in red. She rocked the <em>tejolote</em> in small, quick circular movements. “Theorems,” she repeated in a low voice, testing out the sound of this new word and feeling ignorant. Although she could arrange shapes into elaborate symmetrical patterns on a quilt and calculate sums in her head, this type of math was beyond her understanding.</p><p>“Victor was good at proofs,” he said without meeting her eye, focusing instead on the large green Tupperware bowl on the table. “The best.” Manuel closed his eyes and pinched the space between his brows, as if he had a headache.</p><p>She sliced open the long poblano pepper, extracting the seed pods with a paring knife, It felt like she was cutting into her son’s heart, into her own heart, because of the painful stabbing of sorrow in her chest, which she knew Manuel must be feeling as well.</p><p>“I wish,” Manuel began.</p><p>She held a poblano gently in the palm of hand like a delicate bird, a dove perhaps, and spooned the relleno into it.</p><p>“I wish he had just told me,” Manuel continued. “I would’ve taken care of it.”</p><p>She knew Manuel had “taken care of things” for Victor before. Victor had told Manuel about this neighbor who had been calling him faggot, who threw rocks and empty cans at him. Manuel had warned that S.O.B. to leave Victor alone. Then one afternoon, the boy said that word—<em>joto</em>—right in front of Manuel, and said it like Victor was the worst kind of person, less than trash. Victor said neighbor was nothing but a big mouth and maybe they should let it go. But Manuel let the <em>osicone</em> have it. He took that hate, crumbled it up in his fist like a piece of paper, and gave it right back to that kid, along with a bloody nose.</p><p>She didn’t like him fighting but had said nothing when Manuel came home that day asking if blood would stain his shirt and telling her what had happened. She felt proud that her son had stood up for his friend, who, it was true, was one of <em>los otros,</em> those other type of men. So what if he did not like girls? People were how the Lord made them, and we were all sinners besides.</p><p>“If I ever find out who they were…” Manuel said, pounding his fist on the table so hard the empty bowls rattled. She wiped her hands on her apron, and reached across the small round table, taking his hands into her own.</p><p>“Now you listen to me,” she said, looking him straight in the eye. “I don’t want you going up to Woodlawn anymore. You know how they are.” Woodlawn Lake, the scene of the crime, was within walking distance of their home on the westside of town, but it was on the other side of a large boulevard that delineated the white neighborhood of Jefferson Heights. <em>Mexicanos</em> could go shopping at the Winn’s Five and Dime or Fabric World during the day, but at night, people called the cops.</p><p>Victor pulled his hands away, as if burned. “That’s not why they….”</p><p>“No,” she said, sighing. They had not beaten Victor because his skin was brown (though maybe that was part of it), but for being who he was. Beat him for liking other boys. Beat him and dumped him in the lake to drown.</p><p>The news of Victor’s death was overshadowed by Cuban missile crisis in the papers. At school, on the bus, at home, the possibility of nuclear war was all anyone could talk about. She knew now that she should have paid more attention, should have talked to him about it, should talk to him about it. She went back to the egg batter, tried to think of what she could say. For a moment there was nothing but swishing sound of gears gliding past each other as she turned the crank of the beater.</p><p>“Why did he have to go without me? I would have…,” Manuel said, eyes filling with tears. “I could have…”</p><p>On that night last fall, Manuel had played in a basketball game that ran into overtime. Would those men (or boys?) have jumped Victor if Manuel had been there? If they had seen the gleam of his knife in the streetlight? (He thought she didn’t know about the switchblade hidden in the back of his sock drawer next to his savings). She sat down again but did not reach for his hands. “Mi’jo,” she began. “I want you to listen to me very carefully. You didn’t go with Victor that night because you weren’t meant to. Your game-- do you think that was an accident?” She reached out and put her hand on his shoulder. “I believe, from the very bottom of my heart, that Our Lord in Heaven has spared you.”</p><p>“Me, but not Victor?” He looked at her, dark eyes ablaze, face twisted in a knot of anger, sorrow and guilt. She did not have an answer to his question. Why God called some and not others was a mystery she had pondered often, too much, before she saw the futility in trying to understand His ways. Her father, two of her babies, her husband—all taken from this life too soon. She had been seventeen when her father died, not much older than Manuel, but it seemed that her son was much too young to bear the weight of his friend’s death alone.</p><p>“This is hopeless,” Manuel said, throwing down his pencil. He closed his textbook with a sharp clap, pushed away from the table, the legs of his chair squeaking against the linoleum floor. “I’m going for a walk.”</p><p>“Manuel,” she said to his receding figure. “Wait. We should ask Father John.” She heard the sharp crack of the screen door slamming in response. Manuel’s homework page fluttered to ground. It was spotted with the grey smudges of erasing. She smoothed it and placed it under his math book. He would have to try again later. Or tomorrow or the day after. It was a problem they would have figure out together.</p><p>She picked up a <em>poblano</em> by the stem, dipped it in the egg batter, dropped it into the sizzling oil. After a minute, she grabbed the stem and turned it over in a quick, gentle motion. It burned a little, her fingertips had been toughened by years of turning tortillas on a hot <em>comal</em>, by the borax in the laundry, by the inevitable pin pricks that came with sewing.</p><p>She dipped one more in the batter, set it to fry, watched the batter expand and turn golden brown. She wished that she could encase her son in something like the protective pod of this chile, with its tough outer skin and inner membranes imbued with fire. But she could only wrap him in her arms and offer him love, even if that shield proved to be as fragile and delicate as a batter made of egg whites and flour.</p><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Author’s Note </h2>
<br>In this story, a mother gives her son long-overdue attention by making him his favorite dinner of chiles rellenos, a traditional Mexican dish that is time-consuming and demanding of the cook’s attention up to the very end of the preparation. On a broader scale, “Chiles Rellenos” is about how our attention can be shifted away from the personal to larger geo-political events, and the potential consequences of that shift. <br><br>
</br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><h1/>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Bound By Will]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Artist’s Note
These two pieces signify trace in the way of discovering, investigating and
developing a perspective of self outside of what’s “real” to our physical
senses. I wanted to focus on the message encompassing pieces of our being we
trace back to identity (love, belief, legacy, path-creating/journeying).
I draw inspiration from finding the grayscale between two seemingly opposite
ideas. My piece connects to the theme of trace “to discover by investigation”
and to “take a particular p]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/bound-by-will/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62f941a9d2476a173dc5881e</guid><category><![CDATA[Artwork]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Kyla Fleming]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sun, 14 Aug 2022 18:44:02 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Kyla-Fleming-1-.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Kyla-Fleming-2.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-art">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>These two pieces signify trace in the way of discovering, investigating and developing a perspective of self outside of what’s “real” to our physical senses. I wanted to focus on the message encompassing pieces of our being we trace back to identity (love, belief, legacy, path-creating/journeying).
I draw inspiration from finding the grayscale between two seemingly opposite ideas. My piece connects to the theme of trace “to discover by investigation” and to “take a particular path or route.” In my pieces, I set out explore the spectrum of gray as we discover ourselves. My work embodies this by recognizing the hope that exists in the world, and the multitude of paths that are available to create a world we of positive change.<Br><br>
</br></Br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p/>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Grave Tracing]]></title><description><![CDATA[ We are all collectors of nothing. Taking pictures of things we’ll likely never
spend much time looking at, and never spending enough time on a single object to
ever truly experience much of it.
Every kid I grew up with came home with a strangely drawn work of art they’d
made which exhibited a new skill, boasting of their newfound talent with a
pencil. Having just discovered tracing paper, we all thought we had cracked the
secret to make great art. For many, this is the extent of their relation]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/grave-tracing/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62dad54a2ef03d047722e43c</guid><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Danny Young]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Fri, 12 Aug 2022 17:00:08 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">W</span>
e are all collectors of nothing. Taking pictures of things we’ll likely never spend much time looking at, and never spending enough time on a single object to ever truly experience much of it.
</p> <!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Every kid I grew up with came home with a strangely drawn work of art they’d made which exhibited a new skill, boasting of their newfound talent with a pencil. Having just discovered tracing paper, we all thought we had cracked the secret to make great art. For many, this is the extent of their relationship with this skillset, but for some, tracing finds a way to stay through adulthood. My grandmother and grandfather were two such people who would trace.</p><p>Growing up in my grandmother’s house, I often faced strange objects. I was the sixth generation to live in my family’s house, in it there were heirlooms of incredible specificity. My great grandfather’s middle school report cards, century old letters from my grandmother to her sister, my great great great grandmother’s painting of her flowers which still bloom in the yard. Oars from long interred boats owned by my great grandfather hang on a wall and sailing knots tied by his son hang next to them. The lineage of my family is confusing and tangled. The roots in this family home are palpable and intricate even to the most oblivious observer.</p><p>On top of the oddities of a more familial nature, my grandparents were collectors of strange looking things themselves. When my grandmother passed away, we found a 40-lb hunk of industrial glass that was once used in the fibreglass factory my grandfather had worked in. We found a pistol which only took hand-forged bullets, and a book of pictures from the 1800s of unknown ancestors, that still to this day, I know nothing about. Knowing my grandparents, they could very easily be someone else’s ancestors but the album was picked up at a yard sale.</p><p>Even when faced with objects that had no personal meaning to them, my grandparents were the kind of people who took great pains to preserve the history of their world. Nothing would make my grandmother cringe more than throwing away something she thought should be preserved. “It’s all because she grew up in the great depression,” the adults around me would say. But the older I got, the less I believed that. She was actually just the kind of person for whom objects were the way into one’s soul. I have the impression that this is a family trait and not unique to her. Once the next generation takes on the mantle though, it sure becomes a difficult job to sift through it all.</p><p>Although it may seem like we’ve ambled quite far from the topic I teased you with in the start (I fear I may need to jog your memory and remind you that it was about tracing paper), in actuality I think a love for tracing paper is actually an expression of this deeper need to preserve. You see, on the walls of her house, my grandmother had something called grave rubbings.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/grave-tracing-resized.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>photos from the author about grave tracing relics mentioned in the article</figcaption></img></figure><p>They fell quite steeply out of style in the 20th century with the death of the last Victorians and the advent of photography. Basically, all that’s involved in the practice of grave rubbing is taking tracing paper to a gravestone in order to replicate the art carved into the stone. It was quite popular among religious pilgrims who wanted to take home a piece of a holy site without damaging the reliefs. In my grandmother’s case, we had some grave rubbings of some beautiful carvings of medieval European knights and monks. They are in the photos accompanying this piece.</p><p>These tracings are, I think, a perfect representation of the philosophy that created them. They are new and old at the same time. Reincarnation for the soul of an object. Not a facsimile and not purporting to be the same kind of thing, but preserving the heart of the object nonetheless.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/grave2.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>photos from the author about grave tracing relics mentioned in the article</figcaption></img></figure><p>I believe we have cheapened something with the proliferation of photos. In the case of grave rubbing, time was taken by a person to lovingly trace the soul of the carving. When we take a picture of the same thing on our phone cameras, it takes barely a second and we are onto the next thing almost immediately.</p><p>With the grave rubbing, there is a piece of art that is created in the image of another piece of art. Traced by one hand from the work of another. There is a line. A <em>human</em> line.</p><p/>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Driving]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Poet’s Note
The only thing I know about poetry is that if I go into a poem assuming I know
what it’s about, I’m going to be proven wrong if I stick with it long enough.
That and the language is only alive if it is an expression of the body as well
as the mind. “A poem is a walk,” that’s what A.R. Ammons says, and of course
he’s right. Wordsworth knew this better than most, and it’s from “Tintern Abbey”
that I first learned that “an eye made quiet by the power / Of Harmony, and the
deep power]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/driving/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62dd8cb62ef03d047722edf4</guid><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Alex Quinlan]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Fri, 12 Aug 2022 13:56:17 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/screencapture-api-symposeum-us-ghost-2022-08-25-09_16_05.png" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>The only thing I know about poetry is that if I go into a poem assuming I know what it’s about, I’m going to be proven wrong if I stick with it long enough. That and the language is only alive if it is an expression of the body as well as the mind. “A poem is a walk,” that’s what A.R. Ammons says, and of course he’s right. Wordsworth knew this better than most, and it’s from “Tintern Abbey” that I first learned that “an eye made quiet by the power / Of Harmony, and the deep power of joy, / [may] see into the life of things.” For reasons that are as obscure as they are profound, somehow the walk, the drive, the journey that is its own destination—especially one that traverses well-known terrain—is just the thing one needs to quiet the Wordsworthian eye. I find it striking that the creator of a breakthrough technique for treating posttraumatic stress, Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR), was inspired by a walk in the park: she found the biological rhythms of the walk, particularly the back-and-forth movement of her eyes as they scanned the path ahead, brought her a sense of tranquility that even her most troubling memories, when she conjured them up for consideration, were unable to break. So hop in, the poem says, let’s go for a drive. Who knows where we’ll wind up from there?<br/>
</br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Lineage]]></title><description><![CDATA[Lineage (2022) | graphite & colored pencil | 11 x 14 inchesProtector (2022) |
oil on canvas | 16 x 20 inchesThe Blues (2022) | digital
Artist’s Note
While working on this piece, I wanted to explore the idea of the theme “trace”
and what it means to me on a personal level. I decided to make the connection
between “trace” and “legacy” and tie it directly to my relationship with my
family. Painting my father, brother, and myself, I felt it was a good way to
express that idea of lineage. The dis]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/lineage/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62daeb7b2ef03d047722e628</guid><category><![CDATA[Artwork]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Bryce Cobbs]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Fri, 12 Aug 2022 13:56:02 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/bryce1.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Lineage (2022) | graphite & colored pencil | 11 x 14 inches</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/bryce2.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Protector (2022) | oil on canvas | 16 x 20 inches</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/bryce3.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>The Blues (2022) | digital</figcaption></img></figure><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-art">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>While working on this piece, I wanted to explore the idea of the theme “trace” and what it means to me on a personal level. I decided to make the connection between “trace” and “legacy” and tie it directly to my relationship with my family. Painting my father, brother, and myself, I felt it was a good way to express that idea of lineage. The distinct posing of each of the subjects in the drawing is meant to evoke the feeling of strength but also vulnerability in each of our gazes, but ultimately showing our relationship between father and sons. I tend to draw inspiration from life around me and my own community and environment. While a lot of my work is in black and white using pencils and other graphite tools, and I can easily find inspiration in the relationships between colors. I also appreciate good photography. I think seeing a picture that captures a beautiful moment can inspire me to do the same with my artwork. <Br><br>
I feel my technical applications done in this piece really echo the meaning I wanted to instill as well. I approached this work with an idea of subtlety and wanted to evoke a feeling of calmness, however juxtaposed with the feeling of strength and focus. With the light source providing well lit areas on the face and upper torso, it allowed me to show certain details and draw attention to certain features that help promote those feelings of subtlety. Not to sound cliché, but I would like to think my audience consists of anyone who appreciates art. While my subject matter tends to be a bit personal in meaning and reference material, I like for my work to invite those of all different backgrounds to stop and take a closer look. I feel anyone can relate to my work on one level or another because of its heavy inspiration and reliance on the human form, and my intent to provide a sense of narrative with each subject I paint or draw.
</br></Br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Sunset]]></title><description><![CDATA[Some evenings just before
Sunset you see thousands
Of birds, black dots against
Sky, raving around each other,
Draw a line in blood,
Or smoke, or hope,
You won’t be able to
Map it all the way.
Somewhere in black dark
We know we originate,
A whisper in our bodies,
The story of intersecting lines.
Night on the spine of
Highway, cone-glow
Headlights stretching
Into nowhere–
Hitch-hiking off the
shoulder of consciousness,
Swarming, songs stranded,
Indecipherable lines in chaos,
Push the pedal d]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/sunset/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62dc1b1e2ef03d047722ecf6</guid><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Matt Urmy]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Fri, 12 Aug 2022 13:55:46 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>Some evenings just before<br>Sunset you see thousands<br>Of birds, black dots against<br>Sky, raving around each other,</br></br></br></p><p>Draw a line in blood,<br>Or smoke, or hope,<br>You won’t be able to<br>Map it all the way.</br></br></br></p><p>Somewhere in black dark<br>We know we originate,<br>A whisper in our bodies,<br>The story of intersecting lines.</br></br></br></p><p>Night on the spine of<br>Highway, cone-glow<br>Headlights stretching<br>Into nowhere–</br></br></br></p><p>Hitch-hiking off the<br>shoulder of consciousness,<br>Swarming, songs stranded,<br>Indecipherable lines in chaos,</br></br></br></p><p>Push the pedal down,<br>Lean into the speed of<br>Embracing blank space,<br>Inhaling cold air.</br></br></br></p><p>Push the pedal,<br>Flip down the lights,<br>Fly by dust, swirled<br>In starlight,</br></br></br></p><p>Push the pedal</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div>
Down
</div>
<div>
down
</div>
<div>
into
</div>
<div>
the
</div>
<div>
tree-root
</div>
<div>
lines
</div>
<div>
that</div>
<div>
trace</div>
<div> us</div>
<div> into</div>
<div>
history's
</div>
<div>
open
</div>
<div> depths</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>I approach poetry as a conversation between my consciousness and the living field of energy in the universe that we cannot see. Imagery born from fragments of the seen world, threaded together by leaping associations, gives consciousness the opportunity to approach the experience of life (in all its forms), ultimately, from a space of celebration and gratitude. <br><br>
</br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Resurrection]]></title><description><![CDATA[And perhaps someday my own ashes
will be scattered through the meadows
of tickseed, carrot weed, and drooping dog
hobble, Kentucky wildflowers that I love.
A speck of me might be caught in the wind
and dropped like a flea into the cupped hand
of a bellflower, falling upon a beetle that has slipped
away and has fallen asleep within that blossom.
When later the beetle is eaten by the finch
I might be swooped through the blue air of summer,
riding as high as any of the orthodox resurr]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/resurrection/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62dc1a902ef03d047722ece9</guid><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Kathleen Driskell]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Fri, 12 Aug 2022 13:55:23 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>And perhaps someday my own ashes</p><p>will be scattered through the meadows</p><p>of tickseed, carrot weed, and drooping dog</p><p>hobble, Kentucky wildflowers that I love.</p><p/><p>A speck of me might be caught in the wind</p><p>and dropped like a flea into the cupped hand</p><p>of a bellflower, falling upon a beetle that has slipped</p><p>away and has fallen asleep within that blossom.</p><p/><p>When later the beetle is eaten by the finch</p><p>I might be swooped through the blue air of summer,</p><p>riding as high as any of the orthodox resurrected.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>"Resurrection" is from <i>The Vine Temple,</i> my chapbook forthcoming from Carnegie Mellon University Press in February 2023. To my surprise, I’ve come to primarily think of myself as a poet of place, though my place isn’t a region; rather my place is within the circumference of a few miles of my home that I’ve made with my family in an old country church built before the American Civil War and which sets next to a humble graveyard. What I’ve learned is that this place stirs my imagination so completely with ideas of faith, death, the supernatural, nature, fairness, memory, and history that I can write about whatever I’d like even while staying within what I suppose many would consider tight boundaries. <br><br>
</br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Synonyms]]></title><description><![CDATA[Though used interchangeably, as with most
synonyms there is a denotative
as well as a connotative difference
between a graveyard and a cemetery.
A graveyard rests beside a church: one
wanders from the pews and pulpit to visit
the still members of his congregation.
But one usually enters a cemetery
under a vine-covered arch, or sometimes
between pillars of brick and mortar
with carriage lights atop each.
There are gardens and religious
monuments, statues of saints, perhaps
a loose philosopher ]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/synonyms/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62dc194f2ef03d047722ecce</guid><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Kathleen Driskell]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Fri, 12 Aug 2022 13:55:07 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>Though used interchangeably, as with most<br>synonyms there is a denotative<br>as well as a connotative difference<br>between a <em>graveyard</em> and a <em>cemetery</em>.</br></br></br></p><p>A graveyard rests beside a church: one<br>wanders from the pews and pulpit to visit<br>the still members of his congregation.</br></br></p><p>But one usually enters a cemetery<br>under a vine-covered arch, or sometimes<br>between pillars of brick and mortar<br>with carriage lights atop each.</br></br></br></p><p>There are gardens and religious<br>monuments, statues of saints, perhaps<br>a loose philosopher behind an old cedar,<br>and reflecting pools and winding paths<br>to be walked while introspecting.</br></br></br></br></p><p>Headstones mark the graves<br>of those laid to rest next to another with<br>whom they’ve likely never had a conversation,<br>much less an argument about Jesus,<br>and never will henceforth. Heaven.</br></br></br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>"Synonyms" is from <i>The Vine Temple,</i> my chapbook forthcoming from Carnegie Mellon University Press in February 2023. To my surprise, I’ve come to primarily think of myself as a poet of place, though my place isn’t a region; rather my place is within the circumference of a few miles of my home that I’ve made with my family in an old country church built before the American Civil War and which sets next to a humble graveyard. What I’ve learned is that this place stirs my imagination so completely with ideas of faith, death, the supernatural, nature, fairness, memory, and history that I can write about whatever I’d like even while staying within what I suppose many would consider tight boundaries. <br><br>
</br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Cara Cara]]></title><description><![CDATA[1. They Would Have to Build a Town
They would have to build a town, stat. Bill Bird watched a stroke of sand drift
from his fingers. Gulls squalled over the barren beach. Marram grass,
salt-crusted and limp with humidity, nodded in the hot wind like barflies on
Sunday morning.
Besides Oswaldo Fudge, Bill hadn’t seen another person on the island. Bill hated
Oswaldo. He tried to remember if he had actually hated someone before. Maybe
when he was a kid. He wished Oswaldo nothing but the worst. Li]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/cara-cara/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62dadab82ef03d047722e4a9</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><category><![CDATA[Short Story]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Emily Meffert]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Fri, 12 Aug 2022 13:54:41 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><strong>1. They Would Have to Build a Town</strong></p><p>They would have to build a town, stat. Bill Bird watched a stroke of sand drift from his fingers. Gulls squalled over the barren beach. Marram grass, salt-crusted and limp with humidity, nodded in the hot wind like barflies on Sunday morning.</p><p>Besides Oswaldo Fudge, Bill hadn’t seen another person on the island. Bill hated Oswaldo. He tried to remember if he had actually hated someone before. Maybe when he was a kid. He wished Oswaldo nothing but the worst. Like, if they didn’t need to build a town here he would absolutely take that dinghy back to the coast and leave Oswaldo marooned forever like they did in stories. He’d do that in a heartbeat.</p><p>They’d driven as far east as they could go and then they’d had to drive back to Holly Ridge to lift a dinghy off of one of the town’s twenty-seven residents. Strapping a dinghy to the roof of Oswaldo’s Roadmaster had been a comedy of errors. And then they’d driven as far east as they could go, again.</p><p>Oswaldo probably slept with his mother. He was just<em> so</em> anxious to be tenured. He was just <em>unequivocally certain</em> that they could trust the coastal map they’d unearthed from the viscera of the University library. They’d never even heard of the cartographers!</p><p>Grateful that none of their colleagues were there to see it, they’d managed to steer the little boat to the last piece of land between their bootsoles and Casablanca. That’s where they found nobody and, for that reason, would have to build a town. Like, stat. Which made Bill wonder, how did one go about doing that? Building a town?</p><p>It seemed like a lot of work.</p><p>For a moment, it had been like a dream. There was talk of Bill being appointed as an Assistant Professor. Which was big. He was still riding the high of his success when he received a letter from some Hugh Francis and some Nikki Argus, who were threatening litigation. Why? Because Bill’s map unquestionably plagiarized the map they—Francis and Argus—had published several years earlier. Unquestionably how? Drive to Fraus, their letter instructed, and see what you find there. (Could Bill carefully repair the envelope and Return to Sender?) Hence the dinghy and hence Oswaldo Fudge pacing desolate beach like true asshole and hence sad sand fleeting through Bill’s fingers. Oh no, oh no, says Oswaldo, we’re really fucked now, we should have taken the extra month, driven the extra miles, boo hoo, now we are really truly fucked, bla bla bla, what are we going to do?</p><p>What they did was: tactfully, thoroughly deplete their reserves of influence to steer the University, in partnership with the United States Navy, to just the most perfect island where the United States Navy, in partnership with the University, could establish a permanent home for their guided missile development program well outside of the public eye and even throw up a bridge and a handful of human-made structures in the process, on which Bill Bird and Oswaldo Fudge might hang a sign or two declaring the town’s irreplicable name as it had always, unmistakably been: Fraus. And then some Hue Franwhatever and some Nick Argyle, amateur mapmakers whose names would be—already had been!—lost to the sands of time, could suck Bill’s big fat—</p><p/><p><strong>2. The Operation Concluded</strong></p><p>The Operation concluded in 1948; the launch pads were repurposed as a motel patio and a roller rink. The first guests—newly-weds and families from Wilmington to Winston-Salem—buried the lean years behind them in nightly rounds of Sidecars and shrimp cocktails and fruit cocktails and Singapore Slings. Bill moved his twin sister into a simple but expansive cottage on the head of the island, where the Intracoastal Waterway touched the Atlantic Ocean and glittered.</p><p>Matilda Bird was kookie. She was curious. Never felt home anywhere, didn’t want a husband, floated on the fringes. Reborn in those untamed maritime forests and long blank stretches of beach. Immediately she began. She began without an outcome in mind. She would transform her home into something that, decades later, would become a kind of unconventional art museum. Under Matilda’s brush the clapboards became a mosaic. Ingrid Bergman greeted the sea—a true cubist icon. She didn’t even realize cubism was passé. She wouldn’t have even cared if someone had told her that cubism was passé. She painted four toilets to resemble Victorian parlor chairs and arranged them around her kitchen table. She put fake telephones on the wall beside the real telephone, assembled false appliances and interspersed them with their functional counterparts. Visitors—there were some—had trouble finding where to wash their hands or turn on a light. Besides guarding access to secret knowledge, Matilda liked nothing so much as feeling disoriented in places that had become too familiar. Her home offered a continuous reminder that anything could be anything else.</p><p>On her seventieth birthday Matilda sold her cottage to the City of Fraus and moved to Raleigh to live with her brother. She would never return to the coast. She began taking trips to the western part of the state, admiring the blue ridges and telling tourists that she had hiked there from Maine. Had they heard of the Appalachian Trail? She liked people’s faces, their big eyes, twining them around her finger. </p><p/><p><strong>3. He Wasn’t Laughing</strong></p><p>He wasn’t laughing. Damn. She regretted saying it and scrutinized the buttons on her Sony Walkman for seven whole dings. On the eighth floor they paused at the crazy lady’s apartment. She didn’t read the headlines on the <em>News & Observer</em>; he didn’t make loud squeaking sounds with his Doc Martens to drive Crazy Lady’s dog into a fit of primordial rage. No paper today, no Docs. No dice. Just two pairs of shoes on Crazy Lady’s Dachsund-shaped welcome mat: some old hiking boots with red laces and a couple of crummy Nikes. Green swooshes. They stood there looking. They could take them, she thought.</p><p>“We could take them,” he said.</p><p>In his apartment she opened a beer and kicked off her heels. He tossed his jacket on the floor. The sky pouted in the windows and he fumbled with the lampswitch until the room’s fuzzy shapes turned hard. She liked him in a suit. Did she feel guilty about that? She did not feel guilty about that. Her position was, thinking about sex during a funeral wasn’t less moral than trying to imagine how some distant relation had taken their coffee or influenced waste management legislation or how she might’ve felt if she’d met them in springtime or heard them play that set at Sloppy Lager back in the good old days. In the midst of death, life? Right? And sex, being one of the good things in life, was an eminently acceptable place for one’s mind to wander during their partner’s step-uncle’s funeral, AKA celebration of life, right? Sure. Sure it was. The main thing, as a general principle, was to cover your losses. And if you’d already lost, say, anything, the main thing was to make something or take something to plug up the holes when they gaped.</p><p>“What do we do now?” She said.</p><p>He shrugged. “We can’t wear them around.” He was loosening the lip of his oxford.</p><p>“Why did we take them?”</p><p>“We?”</p><p>“We both took them.” Hadn’t they? The oxford popped. He wiggled his toes in taco patterned socks.</p><p>“Well, we can’t wear them around.” He picked up one of the Nikes and curled his toes and in they went. “A little big,” he said, fingering the space behind his heel. “Not bad, though.”</p><p>“Let’s go away for a minute,” she said. She’d finished her beer fast and she felt glitter in the roots of her hair. “You’ve already called out for the rest of the week. It’d be good for you to get away.” </p><p/><p><strong>4. The Coast was Sleepy</strong></p><p>The coast was sleepy. Crossing the Sound felt like crossing into Narnia or something. Just something totally separate. He used to have this dream where he’d run into his parents’ bedroom and into their office and into their closet and then he’d slip between the checkered button-downs and behind them he’d enter the kitchen of this fish sandwich joint with yellow Slippery Floor signs and through the swinging doors a renaissance gallery with gold accents and oil paintings and then he’d rush to the room’s far edge and out onto the balcony where he’d kneel on a velvet banquette to overlook the universe, like a periscope extending out of the moon with stars scattered in the blank dark on every side of him.</p><p>He wondered why “sound” meant both noise and water. Which word came first? Noise seemed more fundamental than water, because the Big Bang had to have been pretty loud, but then wouldn’t you have to have humans to perceive vibrations in order for there to be sound sound, like noise? So probably water came first. Janice was saying something.</p><p>“Carl? Hey? Hello? Can you please do something about this static.” Janice had been smacking the tuner like the captain of a quick recall team and they’d skidded in and out of static since at least Holly Ridge. Carl liked the ambiguity, though. He pressed the power button and rolled down their windows.</p><p>“We’re just about here.”</p><p>The island reminded him of an appendix—something that had had a purpose, he guessed, at some point, and then had just kind of hung around, taking up space. He imagined it rusting comprehensively, becoming unmoored, becoming smaller and smaller as it floated toward the rising sun. Their cottage was cozy and Janice was surprised by how well the boots fit, like a blind date that clicks despite the odds. Dirt flaked from the laces as she spun red loops into knots. She hopped-skipped around the kitchen doing these little poses. God, he loved Janice. Her blunt bangs and her black bob and the way she flicked her fingers beneath the tap water to gauge its temperature and the way she flicked her tongue around a glass’s circumfrence before taking a sip. She made a face. He took the glass from her hand and set it on the linoleum countertop. He was tugging her shirt tail out from her jeans when somebody knocked.</p><p>“Goddammit,” she said.</p><p>He squeezed, pressing his thumbs into her tummy. “It’s fine. It’s fine.” </p><p/><p><strong>5. At the Door He Hesitated</strong></p><p>At the door he hesitated. He looked at her as though for confirmation that he was doing this right. They knocked again. He twisted the knob.</p><p>The woman wore an orange t-shirt embroidered with a pair of flip flops. <em>Life is Good</em>, its sun-colored letters insisted. She looked overbaked, as though emerging from some equatorial summer, though it was May and domestic as Pepsi around here. Her blonde ponytail spurted from a scrunchie that crowned her like a wreath. She couldn’t have been much older than her, Janice thought. But there were wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.</p><p>“I lost my son. Have you seen him?”</p><p>“Uh,” Carl started. “We just got here. We. We haven’t seen him.”</p><p>The woman’s eyes moved between the people in the doorway. She flattened her palm on the air beside her breast. “He’s this tall. Looks just like me.”</p><p>He shook his head. “We haven’t seen, uh.”</p><p>The woman’s throat bobbed. Time dilated and loudly pulsed.</p><p>“I’m Amber,” she said. “Like the color.” She dangled her hand like something that might be slapped away.</p><p>Carl shook it. “Carl.”</p><p>Janice shook it. “Melanie.”</p><p>Carl looked at her. Janice picked at a piece of lint on her sleeve.</p><p>“We could get your number,” said Carl. “You know, in case.” He walked into the kitchen and started opening drawers.</p><p>Amber stepped inside. She smelled like smoke. Janice wondered if she should act hospitable. If Carl didn’t say something in the next fifteen seconds she would say—what? Something. One mississippi. Two. She would say something in twenty seconds. One mississippi.</p><p>Carl ripped a sheet out of the yellow pages. He brought Amber a pen. Don’t forget your area code, he said.</p><p>Amber scribbled something in the margin.</p><p>“Good luck with, um, everything.”</p><p>Then she left.</p><p>Carl locked the door and looked at Janice. He gave her his incredulous-but-amused face. “Um, what?”</p><p>Janice rolled her eyes. “What difference does it make?” Because, honestly, what difference did it make?</p><p>“I don’t get you sometimes.”</p><p>“What’s there to get? I did something you didn’t expect. <em>I</em> didn’t expect it. But there must have been a reason, because I did it.” </p><p/><p><strong>6. Morning</strong></p><p>They went to the grill. They sat at the bar, ate fried eggs and onion rings. Autographed photos of fish and men littered the wall opposite them. Janice was studying Dale Gooch holding a 113-pound Wahoo in July of 1951 when the man next to her pointed his fork at the picture below it and swallowed whatever he’d been chewing and said “that’s my daddy there.” He looked at Janice like an old friend. “He caught that Spanish Mackerel the summer my baby brother was born, if you can believe it. Seven point one pounds, fought like hell.”</p><p>Carl leaned in. “The fish or your brother?” He smelled like Speed Stick.</p><p>“Uh huh,” said the man. Janice poked at the bulging yolk on her plate.</p><p>“You know, it’s funny—”</p><p>Bells tinkled behind them. The man perked up and looked over his shoulder.</p><p>“That’s a real sad thing,” he said, as though continuing a conversation that he’d set down elsewhere. He nodded toward the woman approaching the host stand. “Lost her daughter yesterday. Poof.”</p><p>Janice glanced at the deeply tanned woman with a straw-colored ponytail and frowned. Carl looked concerned.</p><p>“Anyhow, you know kids. Always some mischief.” The man was pushing a heap of hash browns around the rim of his plate. “I’m sure she’ll turn up after she’s got her kicks.”</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>After breakfast they became acquainted with all of the souvenirs that could be shaped like a starfish. Treasure Island Gift Shoppe sold muted pastel t-shirts, Reagan-Bush ‘84 koozies, packets of Big League Chew that expired in 1981. Janice maintained that the sea urchin charm was the most compelling, though Carl liked the shark-wearing-a-coconut-bra charm best. In the streets of Delhi they’d touched at least a thousand trinkets, debating the aesthetic merits of a string of mala beads or a figurine depicting Vishnu on a bed of snakes. She’d laughed until mango lassi came out of her nose while he explained how this thin, phallic buddha statue was a replica of those 108 that Siddhartha himself had commissioned, which he had railed like fence posts into the ground to form a circle around his bodhi tree. Janice had been hesitant when Carl suggested Dharamshala as the destination for their first trip together. She trusted him, but what if they snapped under the stresses of traveling and unraveled on the opposite side of the world?</p><p>But he’d convinced her. He’d wanted to meet the Dalai Lama and she became curious to see traces of a country that was daily paling into myth. She’d admired his spontaneity and optimism; he’d admired her attention to detail and pursuit of context. They’d stay the night in the Capital before flying north the next morning; their rickshaw, commissioned to bring them to a hotel—any hotel—cruised every street in the city before depositing them at a travel agency. <em>A national holiday—an election—an important event—every room booked or closed</em>. The agent, one of those people who tries to get close fast, had offered them tea and then hash. His Hawaiian shirt had commanded the dingy fluorescent room.</p><p>While Carl strummed the cheap blue guitar he’d bought that afternoon the map spun off the wall beside Janice, swirling around and pinning her to that folding chair like a tilt-a-whirl where the floor drops out. A phone cord wrapped the agent’s finger while he rang the airport. <em>Snow in the mountains—flights canceled for a week, at least—twenty thousand rupees for a jeep ride through the night</em>. Carl was a picture of sentiment and gratitude. Which alarmed Janice. Like in <em>the Wizard of Oz </em>when the world shrieks into color then everyone showers in asbestos. She gripped the cold metal seat as though it would stop the roads and the rivers and the Lines of Control and Actual Control from streaming around her, choking her delicate frame. <em>No, no, no</em>, she’d shouted. <em>I don’t believe. I—. We have to leave.</em></p><p/><p><strong>7. Afternoon</strong></p><p>Carl spread a towel on the beach. Janice stretched out in a tide pool. She tunneled her feet into the sand until they vanished, fingering the laces on the boots beside her. “That woman yesterday,” she said. Carl tilted his head toward her. She couldn’t tell if his eyes were opened or closed under his sunglasses.</p><p>“Yeah?” He said. “Wasn’t that her in the grill this morning?”</p><p>Janice nodded. “Didn’t she tell us she’d lost her son?”</p><p>“I think so.” He combed his fingers through the sand. “I think that guy got the details mixed up.”</p><p>“That’s a pretty significant detail to mess up.”</p><p>Carl shrugged. “I saw some kind of fun house when I went walking this morning. At the end of the island. Did you hear that NASA released the first photo from Hubble yesterday?”</p><p>“Do you not find it strange?”</p><p>“What, space? I saw it in the paper. Didn’t look like much.”</p><p>“That’s not what I meant.”</p><p>“One star kind of resembled a dot and the other kind of resembled a snowman abandoned without a head.”</p><p>Janice glared at him.</p><p>Carl rolled his eyes. Then he filled his cheeks with air and exhaled slowly, forcefully. “Who are you accusing, Janice?” </p><p/><p><strong>8. Evening</strong></p><p>The museum had been disappointing. It was a house—she tried to remember how it went—but in any case it was like a pyramid now, with a central room nested in a slightly larger room that was nested in another and so on and so forth. The center room was triangular, no wider than your arm span. Each wall was covered in fire alarms. They looked identical except some were all red and some were all gray. And all super retro, like they were yanked off the walls of that high school in <em>Grease</em>. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to the distribution. If you pulled any of them, Janice learned, the door would close and the floor would begin lowering and plastic citrus fruits would come pouring in, like a ball pit. Janice and Carl had clung to each other as they’d gone down. When the lemons were up to their waists the floor stopped. Then a little compartment had opened beside them and the balls drained out and then the floor went back up. In the throne room a toilet had been made to look like an old fashioned chair. Janice thought that was gross.</p><p>After dinner the last artifacts of light withered over the ocean. Janice flopped into a rocking chair on the porch and opened a collection of short stories she’d recently received from a college friend. The accompanying piece of stationary fluttered out and she leaned down to retrieve it. <em>Facts are not everything</em>, the loose cursive alleged.</p><p>Carl rocked beside her and played around with her Walkman. Then he cracked the knuckles in all of his fingers and all of his toes and then he paced. Janice had read the same line a dozen times now. But she was not going to snap. She would not snap. Would she come with Carl to the local bar? She would not. Five minutes later, he asked again. Ten minutes later, he slid into his Nikes. Would she join him later, if she changed her mind? Yeah, yes, okay.</p><p>Alone, she felt relieved. The tide was falling; the beach deepened like the blank dome of someone’s head beneath a receding hairline. It was as though he closed doors simply by existing in her proximity. She couldn’t point to any particular thing he did or said—but <em>he</em> wasn’t even closing doors. <em>She </em>was closing doors when he came close enough. Gradually she’d forgotten that she was cramped, out in that narrow hallway where sunlight leaked in for forty minutes every day and now and then she touched a doorknob wistfully. Where did doubt germinate? What infinitely subtle tension at the corners of his eyes, what split-second oscillation in his tone had done this to her? One wanted to preserve one’s self, after all. One could never be sure how much the other was giving, or how much they would take if they had the chance. </p><p/><p><strong>9. Human Behavior</strong></p><p>Except for the Silent Generation, marine life, and the fundamental drivers of human behavior, the bar was older than anything on the island. Operation Rumblebee redeemed a retired observation tower where they’d traced missiles as they shot off the continent in the wake of World War Two. Inside it was cramped. The single room measured somewhere between a dive bar and a linen closet. The air, like the postwar-themed cocktails, tasted salty and laborious. The bartender grew up in the same small town as Carl, who was drinking Berlin Airlifts and wiggling his toes in the empty place in his shoes. Carl watched the bartender slide ice cube trays beneath the faucet, then observed that the ice in his own drink had dwindled into pebbles. He attempted to stir them using one of the American flag toothpicks that were stacked beside the limes.</p><p>The first thing was pleasure. It preceded his perception of pressure, which preceded the knowledge that something was rubbing against him. Everyone was touching. People were like squares on a Rubix cube—people were like the universe, really—moving, but where? But there was a kind of sustained pressure now, and it pleased him, and he was not yet conscious of the woman who wanted him, who had been watching him and wanting him very badly and who now was very close.</p><p>“Where ya from?” The woman faced him. The pressure subsided. It felt like losing something precious. He was suddenly, confoundingly sad.</p><p>“I’m Cara,” she said. “People call me Cara Cara. You know, like the orange.” Her skin was orange and slick. Carl had read an article about <em>orange</em>. There wasn’t even a word for the color until the Moors brought the fruit to Spain. Before someone had dethroned someone else (Who had dethroned whom? He couldn’t remember.), a dab of sun on the world’s rim had merely loitered in the hinterland between red and yellow. Perhaps they’d called it <em>flame vine</em> or <em>monarch</em> or <em>denoument</em>. She ran her fingers through her damp yellow hair until they snagged. For a moment she tried to force them through a knot and Carl found this painful to watch.</p><p>“Hi Cara.” He tried to focus on the scrunchie on her wrist.</p><p>She extended her hand. It hung loosely in the air. Carl grasped it and kind of moved it around.</p><p>“What’s your name?”</p><p>“Cara,” he said. “I mean, Carl. Like, um, Marx.”</p><p>Cara giggled. She touched his arm. “Are you hot? You want to go upstairs?”</p><p>Carl had thought that they <em>were</em> upstairs. Was he hot? He tried to feel. He guessed he felt hot; he couldn’t say with any certainty. He was moving toward the exit, it seemed, without volition, as though lofted by the will of—what? Some spirit? Some god? Some fate divined in clumps of space dust? He could never tell. The room was an organism; it spit him out.</p><p/><p><strong>10. On the Roof She Was Expansive</strong></p><p>On the roof she was expansive. The moon draped her arms like fabric, like the ocean. It was impossible to say what the moon was like against her arms—it changed each time he looked. Somewhere a radio played an old Drifters song. He remembered his mom teaching him to shag dance when he was a kid. Behind the roller rink the tide had roared and surged beneath Ben King’s magic voice. <em>Triple step, triple step, rock step. Triple step, triple step, </em>she’d guided him, twirling him around.</p><p>“I love this song,” Cara whispered. She whisked her hair into a fountainous ponytail and her dress shifted over the contours of her body. He tried not to look at her breasts. “Under the boardwalk, by the seeeeaaa, yeah-uh yeah-uh,” she crooned. She smelled like Black & Milds and too-ripe fruit.</p><p>Recently, in the waiting room of his dentist’s office, Carl had watched a Discovery Channel program on voles—those rodents from the Midwest. Prairie voles, the little empaths, associated pleasure with the smell of a single lady-vole—he imagined a family of bonnet-clad, hamster-esque creatures delivering a covered wagon across the earnest Cimarron—while meadow voles fucked indiscriminately. Something about receptors and oxytocin. He felt vaguely confident that the program’s narrator had intended to develop an analogy for human behavior but for the life of him he couldn’t remember the conclusion. She kissed him. When he noticed the scattered stars he felt ashamed, like he was a character in a parable whose vanity, the story went, would fuel his sorry attempt to dodge the cosmic judiciary. His mouth burned. He imagined firing rockets into the void, escalating toward some situation that could not be taken back. Red tails flaming through the weird unfathomable night.</p><p>“Carl?”</p><p>Carl felt like someone had wrenched his head out of a swimming pool. Janice.</p><p>“Janice?”</p><p>Yes.</p><p/><p><strong>11. First and Enduring Regret</strong></p><p>Janice’s first and enduring regret, when the crazy lady stepped into the elevator on the second floor on Sunday evening, was wearing her boots in the ocean. They were dark with damp and crusted with sand. A strand of seaweed poked out from one twisted, currant-colored lace. “Bill,” Crazy Lady said. “Come on, Bill.”</p><p>Bill entered the elevator tongue-first, dragging his hind legs and scratching his belly on the tile. Crazy Lady wore hot pink ASICS. She turned toward Janice.</p><p>“My brother’s name is Bill, funny enough. He retired on Friday.”</p><p><em>DING!</em></p><p>“Oh, good for him,” Janice said. Then she froze. Then she said, “What did he do?”</p><p><em>DING!</em></p><p>“I don’t know, but he did it for about fifty years.” Crazy Lady smiled at Janice. Crazy Lady seemed very pleased. Janice tried to imagine the kind of person who would name their Dachshund Bill.</p><p><em>DING!</em></p><p>Crazy Lady looked at Bill, who was now prancing and doing these little jumps. Then her eyes traveled across the floor of the elevator. Janice could have watched an entire episode of <em>Unsolved Mysteries</em> in the time it took this elevator to climb six stories—each ding felt like someone was driving an ice pick into her brain. Wait, what was that? Was Crazy Lady frowning? She must have been suspicious. She was definitely squinting. Was she? She was very subtle. No, she wasn’t. She would say something. Wouldn’t she? Wouldn’t Janice?</p><p><em>DING!</em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Inside his apartment she took them off and clapped them together over the bathtub. Sand shook from them like salt. He was sleeping on the sofa with her collected fictions spread over his face. She plucked it off and reviewed the open page. <em>The janitress was following her upstairs with her purse in her hand and the same deep red fire flickering in her eyes. The janitress thrust the purse towards her while they were still a half dozen steps apart, and said: “Don't never tell on me. I musta been crazy. I get crazy in the head sometimes, I swear I do. My son can tell you.”</em></p><p><em>She took the purse after a moment, and the janitress went on: “I got a niece who is going on seventeen, and she's a nice girl and I thought I'd give it to her. She needs a pretty purse. I musta been crazy, I thought maybe you wouldn't mind, you leave things around and don't seem to notice much.”</em></p><p>Janice tossed the book onto the coffee table. She looked around Carl’s apartment. A single lamp burned in the corner of the living room and nothing, she realized, looked familiar to her—it was as though she had wandered into the home of a stranger. Had she seen this rug before, with all of this dizzying geometry? Yes, she had, but it had never been so overwhelming as it was now. This must be what the Minotaur had felt like, she thought—one day free, the next day at the heart of a labyrinth sprawling in every direction. She lay down beside Carl, whom she’d once known intimately, and gradually slipped from bewilderment into sleep. </p><p/><p><strong>12. Say She Wakes to a Sound as Sharp as a Knife</strong></p><p>Say she wakes to a sound as sharp as a knife. Describe how it cuts in waves, how he seals his ears with sweaty palms. Say she glances at the microwave, say it’s 3:14 a.m., say she improvises some variation of <em>Carl what the fuck</em>. Describe how he flaps his elbows and lunges toward the door. Say the hallway does not smell like smoke.</p><p>Imagine septuagenarians in bathrobes. Imagine twentysomethings in oversized Nirvana t-shirts. Imagine septuagenarians in frills and straps milling around on the sidewalk. Of course, imagine dogs. Paco the Pekingese. Cha Cha the Chow Chow. Bedlam the Bedlington Terrier, little lamb. Bill. Big men in chartreuse stripes and helmets dashing from stern gleaming scarlet engines toward a building that hasn’t burned and won’t. Questions down the block.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><em>Hoses? Do we need hoses? No, no hoses. False alarm. Ha. No pun intended. Someone was confused.</em><br>And there she is, in the middle of everything.<br>Say she looks at her, nudges him. <em>Look.</em></br></br></p><p> <em>A practical joke, a practical joke</em><br>she says. Say she shuffles around, this ancient<br>woman in girlish ASICS, tuning the witching<br>hour to some obscure frequency. Say she says<br> to the big men in hard hats, <em>This is all practically a joke</em>,<br> and looks around. <em>Don't you agree?</em><br> Imagine her scanning the faces. <em>Don't you?</em><br> Imagine the dogs! <em>Don't you agree?</em><br> Say she sees them. <em>Don't you?</em><br> Say she looks in their faces, their eyes. <em>Don't you agree?</em><br> Does she find their shoes familiar? <em>Don't you?</em><br> The green swoosh? <em>Don't you?</em><br> The spent leather, the cherry lace? <em>Don't you find them?</em><br> Say she looks them in the eye, one <em>Don't you?</em><br> and then the other <em>Don't you just want to pull it sometimes?</em><br> Under the blue and righteous moon <em>Don't you want to?</em><br> does she spin them like dolls <em>Yes?</em><br> until they know she knows and know <em>Sometimes?</em><br> they do not know? <em>Yes.</em><br> She does. <em>Don't you?</em></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Something To Believe In]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Even approaching evening, the heat was the kind one’s body didn’t believe,
where people suffered strokes because it couldn’t bake them that fast. It was
the kind in which folk made YouTube videos about cooking eggs on their
dashboard, swimming pools felt like a baby’s bathwater where swimmers sweated
with their heads submerged, and the sun slapped one at the front door.
Despite this, Edward crouched by the pond, digging stones, looking for smooth,
flat ones. Sweat poured from his armpits, down]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/something-to-believe-in/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62dadfd72ef03d047722e538</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><category><![CDATA[Short Story]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Andrew Najberg]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Fri, 12 Aug 2022 13:54:21 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">E</span>
ven approaching evening, the heat was the kind one’s body didn’t believe, where people suffered strokes because it couldn’t bake them that fast. It was the kind in which folk made YouTube videos about cooking eggs on their dashboard, swimming pools felt like a baby’s bathwater where swimmers sweated with their heads submerged, and the sun slapped one at the front door.
</p> <!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Despite this, Edward crouched by the pond, digging stones, looking for smooth, flat ones. Sweat poured from his armpits, down the back of his neck, his inner thighs. It was so humid that another couple percentage points would allow him to swim off into the sky. A tightening in his throat did set off a couple warnings in the back of his mind since he’d already drank the whole bottle of water he’d brought, but he’d rather push himself to a physical brink than deal with the mental misery entailed in going home.</p><p>His parents were in the middle of a divorce but had yet to suss out the living situation, so mom slept in the bedroom, dad in the basement. They met in the middle to fight and lecture Edward. His mom had found God through her husband’s affair, and she pressed Edward to be a better believer whenever possible. His dad pressed him to believe in going to college because “the sooner you get into the world the better.” Rick, his younger brother, believed that Edward interrupted his live-streams and impeded his ascent into an internet sensation.</p><p>For his part, Edward struggled to believe in anything. Seventeen, living in a household burning itself down, failing half his classes, and lacking relationships he might consider meaningful, it followed that he hadn’t developed a meaningful relationship with the universe.</p><p>Perhaps that was why he spent so much time by the pond anticipating the <em>plicks</em> of a well- skipped stone, watching ducks leave little deltas, whacking skunk cabbage with sticks like he was teeing off. Little lizards rustled among the dried grass around the rocks. Hawks circled overhead. Frogs croaked at the sun and plopped into the water among reeds.</p><p>That day, such a plop, an unusually large one among a bank of cattails, drew him to the water’s edge. There, among erosion exposed roots and submerged water grasses, amid the scattering tadpoles was a great, white feather, long as his forearm. Near the shaft, silvery gray chevrons streaked the vale. It was the base of the hollow shaft, however, that fixed Edward’s eye.</p><p>It was bright crimson, and from it a drop of blood fell. The drop hit the water and dissipated among the disturbed silt in which tadpoles hid.</p><p>Edward picked up the feather between thumb and forefinger and held it to the light. What kind of bird was it from? A huge white eagle or something. Edward looked about, scanning the skies and the trees. For the feather to still have blood in it, it must be fresh, but he’d been there an hour at least. He wasn’t that observant, but he couldn’t have missed a bird large enough for this feather. Another couple drops of blood fell to the grass.</p><p>Edward smiled and said, “That’s so cool.”</p><p>Then, he realized how badly the sun was beating down on him, and he set off home, the feather continuing its drip, drip, drip like an old faucet.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>When Edward reached his house, he headed straight for the back door, halting just before the back stoop. The feather was still dripping (how, he wondered), and while he didn’t have a problem with blood, both his parents would have a problem with him dripping a trail of blood across the house.</p><p>He headed to the old lawn shed and rummaged about until he found an old plastic mop-bucket. It was full of spiderwebs and dirt which he shook out, and then he slipped the feather inside. He then slipped himself inside his house and slipped off his shoes, careful to make sure his mom wasn’t home yet, watchful of the basement door lest his father, who worked from home, might pop up to ‘say hey’. He crept in his sweat drenched socks around all the linoleum patches and floorboards that were known creakers.</p><p>At the top of the stairs, he approached his brother’s door. He really wanted to show the feather to someone. It was, after all, weird. Maybe magical. Unfortunately, the torrent of gunfire and obscenities muffled by the door indicated that interruptions would be unwise. If Rick thought he’d lose a viewer or get a negative tag in the comment section, it was the apocalypse.</p><p>Instead, Edward entered his own room and went straight to his closet. He pulled an old box of toys and put the bucket in its place. He changed into clothes that weren’t drenched and didn’t smell like a gym bag. Then, he sat at his desk, queued up some dubstep, and tried to research bleeding feathers on his laptop with little success. The best he found were stories of statues crying blood and bleeding chimneys. All of them had natural explanations.</p><p>No doubt, the feather had one too.</p><p>Uncertain of a better way to proceed, Edward emailed Mr. Eddlestein, the high school biology teacher. Edward wasn’t the best student, but he liked biology and hoped he had some of Mr. Eddlestein’s goodwill, especially since it was summer break.</p><p>He’d just hit send when he heard the garage door open. Because spending so much time out in the sun had worked up both an appetite and thirst, he headed downstairs.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>In the morning, the first thing Edward did was check on the feather. He’d had a dream that he found the feather all over again. It was incredibly vivid; walking the pond’s edge, he came upon that same thicket of reeds and cattails. The only difference was that he could feel his feet crushing tadpoles with every step even though they weren’t in the water, and the feather wasn’t just sitting there. Instead, it was attached to the eight foot, severed wing of some titan-bird that had never graced zoology books. Cicada and frog songs rose to a deafening crescendo, and, as he closed his hand upon the feather, it gushed blood.</p><p>He’d woken up sitting bolt upright.</p><p>To his relief, only a couple inches of blood stewed in the bucket, though it felt odd to feel relieved to find a bucket with a couple inches of blood inside his closet.</p><p>He was also relieved when he checked his email afterwards and found that Mr. Eddlestein had replied:</p><p><em> Edward,</em></p><p><em> I appreciate that even in summer you take a keen interest in science, and I thank you for thinking of me as your first recourse upon finding such a fascinating item.</em></p><p><em> I must admit that this might be outside my expertise. However, Dr. Elsa Foster at State is an old friend of mine, and I feel you might be able to garner her interest. I will forward you an email with her contact information and office number.</em></p><p><em> Thanks,</em></p><p><em> Tim Eddlestein</em></p><p>The forwarded email was in Edward’s spam folder, but it was there. He took a short video of the feather dripping blood into the bucket and sent it to the professor as an attachment to as polite an email as he could muster, concluding it with both his phone number and Twitter handle. Then, he closed his laptop.</p><p>He was about to get up, but he hesitated. On the window above his desk were what appeared to be a set of muddy handprints. The prints were oddly misshapen. The fingers were longer than his and all wrong. There were only three and a thumb. Or were there really four fingers, with two just pressed together?</p><p>His ringtone, a snippet of a song he’d loved before he set it as his ringtone just about stopped his heart. To his amazement, it was the professor, and within minutes he’d made an appointment for later in the morning. A quick Google said it would take over forty minutes to get there, not leaving Edward a whole lot of time.</p><p>Downstairs, his mom found it off-putting that he’d meet with a professor at a school during the summer, especially one of the opposite sex, but his dad was like a Baptist at the rapture. The last thing he heard as he headed out the door was his dad telling his mom that he told her so.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Dr. Foster’s office was a small office on the bottom floor of a red brick building that could easily have been transplanted from any number of universities. She was a petite woman who carried a silver travel mug and wore a plain green t-shirt and blue jeans. Her hair was pulled in a ponytail, and she wore yellow plastic glasses. A tattoo peaked out from under her sleeve, but Edward couldn’t tell of what it was.</p><p>Edward himself wore black slacks with the only button-up shirt in his closet because he figured that’s the kind of thing one wore to talk to a college professor. If he weren’t holding a bucket with a bleeding feather inside it, he would have felt out of place. To be fair, he wasn’t convinced that the feather belonged anywhere, but by not belonging anywhere, it kind of belonged everywhere.</p><p>Unfortunately, Dr. Foster’s immediate response was that she wanted to send the feather off to a colleague’s laboratory at Vanderbilt to have tests run.</p><p>Though no thought of its kind had struck Edward before, he immediately felt possessive of the feather and couldn’t consider relinquishing it. The feather might well be the only special thing he’d ever found, the only special thing he would ever find. After all, it really was kind of magical. Magical enough that a university professor wanted it studied.</p><p>Dr. Foster wasn’t happy at how quickly Edward dismissed himself, but Edward figured at worst he could just not apply to that university.</p><p>Outside in the parking lot, Edward pulled the feather from the bucket and emptied the bucket into the nearest storm drain. He felt weird pouring a bucket of blood into the sewer, but it had to be organic and biodegradable. After all, wasn’t blood kind of like life itself? That’s what the vampire movies said.</p><p>At his car, key in hand, Edward cocked his head. There were large blotches of mud all around the car. Of course, Edward wouldn’t have expected the parking lot to be clean, but the mud seemed fresh and wet despite the morning heat already beginning to rise.</p><p>Nonetheless, Edward hopped in the car, set the bucket on the passenger floorboard, and started the engine. What next? Should he call the newspaper? A TV station?</p><p>Instead, he sat back as the air conditioner started to blow slightly cooler air out and did what any teenager would do in this situation, what he should have done from the beginning: he crowdsourced solutions by asking on Twitter, TikTok, and Instagram.</p><p>Within minutes, several of his friends had responded. The first said, “WTF dude.” The second, “I want one.” The third called him an attention whore, the fourth that his blood CGI needed work. The fifth said he was cursed, and the sixth offered him a hundred bucks.</p><p>Edward closed his phone and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then, he saw the billboard: an advertisement for Heavenly Ale. Heavenly Ale was one of those microbrews made by monks in a monastery. If the feather really was magical, monks would surely know.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>The monastery was a short drive along the highway that ran parallel to the river. Edward half-expected to turn on a dirt road and see windmills and people on horseback, but the building was nestled on a good-sized plot between a factory that produced cheese crackers and another that produced tile cleaner. The parking lot was large and set behind a barbed wire fence, and the sign at the lot’s entrance had a corporate logo that Edward associated with the big beers like Bud and Miller, though he was not sure to which. Nevertheless, Edward parked his car at the edge of the lot overlooking the river.</p><p>He sat a moment, looking at the riverbank, at the thickets of bushes and rocks and cattails that grew there, and he thought again about the moment he’d found the feather. Had it been some sort of destiny? Was he meant to have it?</p><p>He crossed the parking lot to the entrance. By the front doors, a ticket booth like one might find at an old-fashioned theater was built into the wall, and a bored looking attendant in a blue hat and vest sat chewing gum and painting her nails.</p><p>“Um, hey,” Edward said. “I want to talk to the monks.”</p><p>The attendant clicked her tongue. Her name tag said Helen.</p><p>“Wow. This place hasn’t been an actual monastery for years.”</p><p>“You’re kidding.”</p><p>“Nope, monks got bought out almost ten years ago.”</p><p>Edward kicked the sidewalk. The blood in the bucket plopped.</p><p>“But I’ve seen ads-“</p><p>“Yeah, they bought the rights to the story,” she said. Then, she furrowed her brow and tried to lean forward. The plexiglass stopped her from being able to see down in the bucket. As she sat back, she asked “Whatcha got there?”</p><p>Edward considered saying nothing because he couldn’t come up with a good reason to be carrying a bucket around, but he answered, “A bucket of blood and a feather.”</p><p>“Cool,” Helen said, rolling her eyes. “I get that.”</p><p>Edward sighed. He turned to walk towards his car, but Helen called out. He looked back. Had she realized that he really was carrying a bucket of blood?</p><p>“You know,” she said, looking mildly concerned. “There’s a fella in accounting named Murray; Pretty sure he actually WAS a monk here way back. If you want, I can let you in to talk to him for half price cash.”</p><p>Edward sighed again and continued towards the car. He wouldn’t speak with Murray in accounting, not for free let alone half price. He’d been so convinced that there must be some larger purpose to this, but what if he was like those yahoos who saw Jesus in their cornflakes? What if it was some fluke and all the tests in the world said life was a pointless misfire? Maybe he should just dump the bucket in the river, he thought, or take up that kid for a hundred bucks or go back to that professor at the university. Maybe-</p><p>The thought broke off as something hot and wet lashed around Edward, locking his arms to his sides with a wet slap. Edward looked down to see some sort of glistening, pink rope. The rope, taut as tent wire, stretched away and up, to the roof of Edward’s car.</p><p>There, it disappeared into the mouth of a massive frog. It was so large that the roof of the car had collapsed under its weight. Its skin was a pebbled olive green and deep brown, and its enormous yellow eyes had black, cross shaped pupils. Its webbed feet clung to the car frame, and its powerful hind legs flexed and tensed, ready to leap at the slightest provocation.</p><p>Edward struggled against the tongue, but its grip was like a titan’s fist.</p><p>The voice came inside his head, and it wasn’t in words, but rather an impression intermingled with the buzz of flies.</p><p><em>No point fighting me. I can pull you down my gullet before you blink.</em></p><p>“Have I lost my shit?” was Edward’s response. It felt like a good response, like the only response he could give at this point.</p><p><em>I am Amphimorian, The God Frog.</em></p><p>“Yeah, heat stroke,” Edward said. “Do I know what hospital I’m at?”</p><p><em>This is real. The feather you possess belonged to the bird menace Aviallius. It is an incarnation of evil that has plagued my kind, eating entire family lines in a single meal with no respect for the natural balance of things.</em></p><p>Edward wanted to make some scoffing retort that conveyed he knew he was talking to himself, that talking to a hallucination was talking to yourself, but he felt irrationally threatened.</p><p><em>I tracked you by following the scent of the demon’s blood. I must devour the feather lest he return and continue to prey upon my people.</em></p><p>Edward felt the desire to bolt grow. It really bothered him that his hallucination seemed able to immobilize him. Hallucinations couldn’t physically restrain him, but what if his mind convinced his body that his arms were stuck? What if this was really a sign that his systems were failing and that he’d collapse like human shaped Jell-O? The power of suggestion was impressive, especially when it came to things people tried to convince themselves of. Could Helen see him from her booth? Was he standing with his arms pressed to his side like a penguin? Was she calling security to have him removed?</p><p><em>Your doubt is understandable. Doubt is the lantern your species sees by.</em></p><p>“I’m having a psychic conversation with a giant frog,” Edward said. However, he extended his right index finger so that it pointed into the bucket his other fingers still held. “But if you want the damn feather so much, take it.”</p><p>Immediately, the tongue released, retracted like a measuring tape, and lashed back out. The bucket vanished from beside Edward straight into the Frog’s massive mouth.</p><p>A gunshot barked. Edward jumped a full foot in the air. Like a frog, he thought.</p><p>A shudder ran through the frog’s body and a spray of grayish green blood blasted out the side of its head, one of its eyes obliterated in the exit wound. Edward craned his neck just in time to see a uniformed security guard running forward with a 9mm extended. The muzzle flashed. Edward crushed his eyes shut and slapped his hands over his ears as the deafening boom of five more shots jolted his bones.</p><p>When the sound had faded and the smell of gunsmoke wafted into his nostrils, Edward chanced opening his eyes.</p><p>The guard stood in a firing stance with his gun still aimed.</p><p>The giant frog wobbled on the roof, oozing sludge-like blood. It slumped to the side and rolled off the car, striking the lot pavement with a wet smack. Its tongue rolled out of its mouth towards Edward like a wet carpet.</p><p>“Are you okay?” The guard asked Edward. “What the hell is that thing?”</p><p>Edward didn’t have a chance to answer. The body bucked. Something sharp and yellow thrust through its abdomen and jerked side to side like someone shoving a knife through a bedsheet and cutting through. What had seemed to be a blade was a glistening beak, and a massive white heron’s head shoved itself out of the frog’s innards. Two powerful wings followed. Its legs followed, two dull orange, scaly things dripping with viscera, and it kicked the frog’s body away from its talons like a toddler kicking off a shoe.</p><p>When it stretched its wings, they were themselves the lengths of cars. Edward breathed shallow, and his heart pounded. The security guard seemed to have forgotten he was holding a gun, and his hands just fell away from it and dangled while the weapon clattered to the cement.</p><p>The bird jolted the frame of its wings, snapping off the remaining moisture that still clung to it from inside the frog. It spattered across the agog faces of the onlookers.</p><p>Then, it gave its wings a tremendous flap that nearly knocked both Edward and the guard off their feet with the wind created. It flapped again, faster, and, as its feet left the ground, Edward leaned into the resulting gale.</p><p>All at once, the heron-beast <em>Aviallius</em> let loose a shrieking cry and took off in straight flight like a rising bullet. Within seconds, it had vanished over the curve of the horizon. </p><p>Edward gasped and swallowed, gasped and swallowed. He patted himself all over his torso and head to make sure that he was real and intact, and he knew without doubt that he would never doubt again.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
END
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Author’s Note </h2>
<br>Astronomers have long said that our solar system is ideally situated in a tucked away corner of the galaxy to allow us to observe the universe around us. The skies above and the ocean below swim with the fantastical; life we barely understand, phenomenon we can hardly conceive even with all we know. Life leaves us a simple choice, then: to accept or to inquire. “Something to Believe In” presents the central character with that choice in the form of a bleeding feather. Despite his youth, he finds himself on the path of inquiry and, just as in real life, the answers frustrate or seem to seek their own ends rather than any greater understanding. However, when finally confronted with an answer that is simultaneously rational and irrational, he comes to understand that knowing there is an answer at all is often the point. <br/>
</br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Not Everyone Has Returned]]></title><description><![CDATA[Translations from Ukrainian by Ali Kinsella and Dzvinia Orlowsky. Bios below.
Not everyone has returned. Not all names have been revived.
Silence has not yet been lifted from every crime.
Leaden shadows lay at the feet of gray buildings.
Give me their pedigree, from the thirties to the eighties!
Where the state machine ground their bones and minds,
Where the bloody work had not yet stopped,
Let the names converge on dry Kazakh sands,
On Kolyma’s gold dust, on Mordovia’s mud.
Let us into the ar]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/not-everyone-has-returned/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62dd94e92ef03d047722eeed</guid><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Natalka Bilotserkivets]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Fri, 12 Aug 2022 13:51:56 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><em>Translations from Ukrainian by Ali Kinsella and Dzvinia Orlowsky. Bios below.</em></p><p>Not everyone has returned. Not all names have been revived.<br>Silence has not yet been lifted from every crime.<br>Leaden shadows lay at the feet of gray buildings.<br>Give me their pedigree, from the thirties to the eighties!</br></br></br></p><p>Where the state machine ground their bones and minds,<br>Where the bloody work had not yet stopped,<br>Let the names converge on dry Kazakh sands,<br>On Kolyma’s gold dust, on Mordovia’s mud.<br>Let us into the archives—the lists, the denouncements, reports,<br>To the soft dispositions, the hard red revolutions,<br>To know in person who stoked those October embers<br>And eviscerated the country by counterrevolutionary fires.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>Here a people died out. Here vodka crushed parents.<br>Here peers languished from acetone and rock.<br>While at the top, powerful portraits of leaders floated,<br>A mustache twitched, eyebrows furrowed self-righteously.</br></br></br></p><p>And when I look at trees in pink dew, <br>At children, at the honey flowers, which wander the meadows…<br>Not everyone has returned. But not everyone has gone yet.<br>Our song is not the same, and all our rebukes have rusted.<br/></br></br></br></p><p>*</p><p>Ще не всі повернулись. Не всі імена ожили.<br>Ще над злочином кожним покрови мовчання не зняті.<br>Під будівлями сірими тіні похмурі лягли –<br>Дайте їх родовід, від тридцятих по вісімдесяті!</br></br></br></p><p>Де машина державна трощила кістки і мізки,<br>Де недавно іще не спинялась кривава робота –<br>Хай зійдуть імена на сухі казахстанські піски,<br>На піски золоті Колими, на мордовські болота.</br></br></br></p><p>Допустіть до архівів – до списків, доносів, заяв,<br>До м’яких розпоряджень, червоних твердих резолюцій,<br>Щоб пізнати в лице, хто роздмухав з жовтневих заграв<br>І спустошив країну пожежами контрреволюцій!</br></br></br></p><p>...Тут народ вимирав. Тут горілка чавила батьків.<br>Тут чамріли ровесники від ацетону і року.<br>А вгорі пропливали могутні портрети, вождів,<br>Ворушилися вуса, напучливо кущились брови...</br></br></br></p><p>І коли я дивлюсь на дерева в рожевій росі, <br>На дітей, на квітки медяні, що блукають лугами, —<br>Ще не всі повернулись, але і пішли ще не всі.<br>Наша пісня не та, і поржавіли наші нагани.</br></br></br></p><p><strong>Dzvinia Orlowsky, a Pushcart Prize poet, award-winning translator, and a founding editor of Four Way Books, is the author of six poetry collections including <em>Bad Harvest</em>, named a 2019 Massachusetts Book Awards “Must Read” in Poetry. </strong></p><p><strong>A former Peace Corps Volunteer, Ali Kinsella has been translating from Ukrainian for ten years. Her latest work,<em> Love in Defiance of Pain: Ukrainian Stories</em>, an anthology in support of Ukrainians today, is soon out from Deep Vellum Press.</strong></p><p><strong>Their collection of Natalka Bilotserkivets's poetry, </strong><em><strong>Eccentric Days of Hope and Sorrow</strong></em><strong> (Lost Horse Press, 2021) was shortlisted for for the Griffin Poetry Prize and the Derek Wolcott Prize for Poetry.</strong></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Translator’s Note </h2>
<br>“Not Everyone has Returned,” published in 1989 in her collection <i>Lystopad</i> (November), warns that “silence has not yet been lifted from every crime.” For comfort and spiritual communion, she turns to nature covered with pink dew suggesting tears as well as innocence and children wandering meadows as signs of regeneration and hope. A feeling of unwavering courage is present, as there is in much of Natalka’s work. Her speakers have often suffered unimaginable disasters, both personal and collective, yet they still believe life could improve, that it is worth living. While their aspiration for the future is not naïve, neither is it cynical. Freedom, whether of movement or access to information, is restricted in Natalka’s world. But even within these restrictions, <i>some</i> type of movement is possible; freedom <i>will</i> be found. <br/>
</br></div><!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Fire]]></title><description><![CDATA[Translations from Ukrainian by Ali Kinsella and Dzvinia Orlowsky. Bios below.
This red fire of dry stalks—
and what dry stalks
and sweet crackling of first rains!—
of fallen leaves that fell for a long time,
warm with currant smoke, or maybe raspberry,
the gentle crunch of branches cut from bushes
slowly unfolded. The ashy edges grew,
and the broken toy the child carried over
and laid at the foot of perhaps its first temple
only smoked through the varnish
of its dirty, wooden side.
O, red fir]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/fire/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62dd99232ef03d047722efd6</guid><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Natalka Bilotserkivets]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Fri, 12 Aug 2022 13:51:16 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><em>Translations from Ukrainian by Ali Kinsella and Dzvinia Orlowsky. Bios below.</em></p><p>This red fire of dry stalks—<br>and what dry stalks<br>and sweet crackling of first rains!—<br>of fallen leaves that fell for a long time,<br>warm with currant smoke, or maybe raspberry,<br>the gentle crunch of branches cut from bushes</br></br></br></br></br></p><p>slowly unfolded. The ashy edges grew,<br>and the broken toy the child carried over<br>and laid at the foot of perhaps its first temple<br>only smoked through the varnish<br>of its dirty, wooden side.</br></br></br></br></p><p>O, red fire with the blue, violet eye!<br>Noon, and then, at once, an evening village—<br>a child who’s grabbed onto its mother,<br>dark groves far beyond the river.</br></br></br></p><p>Suddenly and everywhere—here<br>on the quiet, sleepy street, in the dark<br>groves far beyond the river,<br>fires blaze up in rays of evening sun<br>and the smoke of sweet leaves<br>spread its arms to us.</br></br></br></br></br></p><p>And when the evening oval faces lit up,<br>cleansed with sparkling grain and strange delight,<br>we tossed the child in the air, kissed<br>and twirled with it—and laughed<br>as if we, too, were children.</br></br></br></br></p><p>You will never die—in your little blue coat;<br>your thin lips will never break,<br>just as this fall evening will never disappear,<br>this fire that dances and flies into the air.</br></br></br></p><p>Can we not rejoice in the happy rhythm<br>that fills the universe and our hearts?<br>Can we not catch the divine light<br>wiping tears, like years, from our faces?</br></br></br></p><p>*</p><p><strong>ВОГОНЬ</strong></p><p>Цей червоний вогонь з бадилиння сухого,<br>а іще — із сухого-таки бадилиння<br>і солодкого тріскоту перших дощів;<br>із опалого листя, що падало довго,<br>з теплим димом смородини, може — малини,<br>ніжним хруском галузок, обтятих з кущів, —</br></br></br></br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div>
розгортався поволі.
</div>
<div> Росли попелясті краї,
</div>
<div>
та поламана цяцька, яку дитинча притягло
</div>
<div>
і поклало в підніжжі свого щонайпершого храму,
</div>
<div>
лиш диміла крізь лак дерев’яним замурзаним боком.
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>...О червоний вогонь з голубим, фіолетовим оком!<br>Полудневе — і раптом вечірнє село,<br>дитинча, що руками схопилось за маму,<br>і далеко за річкою темні гаї...</br></br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div>
Але раптом і скрізь — тут
</div>
<div>
на вуличці тихій і сонній,
</div>
<div>
і далеко туди, де за річкою темні гаї, —
</div>
<div>
спалахнули вогні у промінні вечірнього сонця,
</div>
<div>
дим солодкого листя простер нам обійми свої.
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>І коли засвітились облич вечорові овали,<br>дивним захватом повні, іскристим омиті зерном,<br>ми дитину підкинули вгору і розцілували,<br>танцювали із нею, сміялися, наче воно.</br></br></br></p><p>Не помреш ти ніколи, ніколи — у курточці синій,<br>і не зломляться вічно тоненькі уста,<br>як не зникне ніколи цей вечір осінній,<br>цей вогонь, що танцює і в небо зліта.</br></br></br></p><p>Як же нам не радіти цим щастям і ритмом,<br>що пронизує всесвіт і наші серця?<br>Як же нам не ловити божественне світло,<br>витираючи сльози, мов роки, з лиця?..</br></br></br></p><p><strong>Dzvinia Orlowsky, a Pushcart Prize poet, award-winning translator, and a founding editor of Four Way Books, is the author of six poetry collections including <em>Bad Harvest</em>, named a 2019 Massachusetts Book Awards “Must Read” in Poetry. </strong></p><p><strong>A former Peace Corps Volunteer, Ali Kinsella has been translating from Ukrainian for ten years. Her latest work,<em> Love in Defiance of Pain: Ukrainian Stories</em>, an anthology in support of Ukrainians today, is soon out from Deep Vellum Press.</strong></p><p><strong>Their collection of Natalka Bilotserkivets's poetry, </strong><em><strong>Eccentric Days of Hope and Sorrow</strong></em><strong> (Lost Horse Press, 2021) was shortlisted for for the Griffin Poetry Prize and the Derek Wolcott Prize for Poetry.</strong></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Translator’s Note </h2>
<br>“Fire” (<i>Lystopad</i>) evokes personal and collective transcendence. We also get an indication of the existence or passing of something. A feeling of unwavering courage is present, as there is in much of Natalka’s work. Her speakers have often suffered unimaginable disasters, both personal and collective, yet they still believe life could improve, that it is worth living. While their aspiration for the future is not naïve, neither is it cynical. Freedom, whether of movement or access to information, is restricted in Natalka’s world. But even within these restrictions, <i>some</i> type of movement is possible; freedom <i>will</i> be found. <br/>
</br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Red Railcar]]></title><description><![CDATA[Translations from Ukrainian by Ali Kinsella and Dzvinia Orlowsky. Bios below.
don’t be afraid
it’s just a breath just a moment
just a train speeding
up into the mountains
it’s a train
a lonely game a short dream
a railcar stopped in the mountains
a small mistake underlined in red
open up
no one is paying attention
everyone has their own soul
their lonely mistakes
death’s limits
it’s just
a short dream
a red-colored railcar
careening down from the mountain
don’t be afraid
*
ЧЕРВОНИЙ ВАГОН
]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/red-railcar/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62dd97dc2ef03d047722ef78</guid><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Natalka Bilotserkivets]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Fri, 12 Aug 2022 13:47:10 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><em>Translations from Ukrainian by Ali Kinsella and Dzvinia Orlowsky. Bios below.</em></p><p>don’t be afraid<br>it’s just a breath just a moment<br>just a train speeding<br>up into the mountains</br></br></br></p><p>it’s a train<br>a lonely game a short dream<br>a railcar stopped in the mountains<br>a small mistake underlined in red</br></br></br></p><p>open up<br>no one is paying attention<br>everyone has their own soul<br>their lonely mistakes<br>death’s limits</br></br></br></br></p><p>it’s just<br>a short dream<br>a red-colored railcar<br>careening down from the mountain<br>don’t be afraid</br></br></br></br></p><p>*</p><p><strong>ЧЕРВОНИЙ ВАГОН</strong></p><p>не бійся<br>це тільки подих тільки мить<br>це просто потяг що спішить<br>угору в гори</br></br></br></p><p>це потяг<br>самотня гра короткий сон<br>у горах спинений вагон<br>маленька помилка підкреслена червоним</br></br></br></p><p>відкрийся<br>ніхто на тебе не зважа<br>у кожного своя душа<br>свої самотні помилки і межі смерті</br></br></br></p><p>це просто<br>з гори униз неначе сон<br>червоноколірний вагон<br>не бійся</br></br></br></p><p><strong>Dzvinia Orlowsky, a Pushcart Prize poet, award-winning translator, and a founding editor of Four Way Books, is the author of six poetry collections including <em>Bad Harvest</em>, named a 2019 Massachusetts Book Awards “Must Read” in Poetry. </strong></p><p><strong>A former Peace Corps Volunteer, Ali Kinsella has been translating from Ukrainian for ten years. Her latest work,<em> Love in Defiance of Pain: Ukrainian Stories</em>, an anthology in support of Ukrainians today, is soon out from Deep Vellum Press.</strong></p><p><strong>Their collection of Natalka Bilotserkivets's poetry, </strong><em><strong>Eccentric Days of Hope and Sorrow</strong></em><strong> (Lost Horse Press, 2021) was shortlisted for for the Griffin Poetry Prize and the Derek Wolcott Prize for Poetry.</strong></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Translator’s Note </h2>
<br>“Red Railcar” (<i>Hotel' Tsentral'</i>, Hotel Central, 2004) presents a dramatic duality: red is often associated with blood and fire: passion, danger, courage, determination. The railcar itself can be seen as symbolizing life’s journey, embodying power, and strength, but also as an unstoppable, threatening force.</br>
A feeling of unwavering courage is present, as there is in much of Natalka’s work. Her speakers have often suffered unimaginable disasters, both personal and collective, yet they still believe life could improve, that it is worth living. While their aspiration for the future is not naïve, neither is it cynical. Freedom, whether of movement or access to information, is restricted in Natalka’s world. But even within these restrictions, <i>some</i> type of movement is possible; freedom <i>will</i> be found. <br/>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Putin, Save the Penguins of the Arctic]]></title><description><![CDATA[Translated by Nina Murray. Nina is a poet and literary translator currently on
sabbatical from her job as a Foreign Service Officer. She lives in the UK.
This piece is a reflection on the Maidan protest that started at the end of the
2013 in Kyiv and has gone down in history known as the Revolution of Dignity.
The author was located in Slovenia where she was writing her dissertation when
the Maidan protests started. The piece was written in 2020.
Ifound a discussion board online (no other on]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/putin-save-the-penguins-of-the-arctic/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62dad6cb2ef03d047722e45f</guid><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Alina Zubkovych]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Thu, 11 Aug 2022 14:06:39 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><em>Translated by Nina Murray. Nina is a poet and literary translator currently on sabbatical from her job as a Foreign Service Officer. She lives in the UK.</em></p><p><em>This piece is a reflection on the Maidan protest that started at the end of the 2013 in Kyiv and has gone down in history known as the Revolution of Dignity. The author was located in Slovenia where she was writing her dissertation when the Maidan protests started. The piece was written in 2020. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">I</span>
found a discussion board online (no other ones) and put up a post saying I was going to protest at the Russian Embassy the following day and would love for others to join me. Several hours later, my post was deleted. I found the list of registered users which included each person's country of origin. I pulled out everyone who listed Ukraine and started sending them personal messages. A few people wrote back, saying it was a great idea, but they were not in Slovenia at the moment, but in Odesa, Kyiv, or Austria, and would be with me in spirit. One guy, a student in Ljubljana, first said he would come, then started asking whether I had the permit and other irrelevant things. Finally he said he didn't think it was worth doing anything without a permit. A coward, I thought—we won't change Ukraine with people like him, that's for sure.
</p> <!--kg-card-end: html--><p>The following day, Ivo and I made our way to Ljubljana and found the embassy row. Our country's neighbor's embassy was right next to the American one. Excellent, we thought.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Maidan found me in Slovenia. At a certain point, I simply no longer had the energy to focus on finishing my dissertation. Physically, my body ached with the oppressing pain of being separated from the collective idea of freedom that was being so clearly articulated back there, in Kyiv. The authorities had the student protesters dispersed. The next day, the people came back—thousands of times more of them.</p><p>I was in the middle of writing. I had deadlines: I was to turn in my first three chapters in three months, and the chapters simply did not exist. They were just stuff, unprocessed material, layers of things that collapsed over my head, buried me. I had intentionally chosen a peace-time subject: representations of Yugoslavia in the museums of former Yugoslavian countries. A set-up to analyze a relatively peaceful, “bright” period of life in Yugoslavia before the wars as the subject represented in museums today, i.e. long after the actual wars. The idea was to avoid the Balkan wars of the 1990s altogether, although understanding the 'before' and the 'after' without dealing with what happened 'in-between' appeared hardly possible.</p><p>Kosovo, Srebrenitsa, the two-year Siege of Sarajevo. Death, many deaths, the hatred, the populism, Limonov and Karadzic firing their AK-47s, “the Slavic Orthodox unity,” my God, such horrors, and they all happened in my lifetime. This was happening while I went to school, or skipped classes, or bought a puff pastry in the underground mall at Metro Sovetskaya. I took walks with my friends, felt sad, fell in love, ate sour-cream-and-leek-flavored potato chips (one remembers one's tastes), or helped my parents freeze strawberries and apricots for the winter, separated berries from their green stems, pitted the fruit.</p><p>“You know,” I say to Ivo, “the more I learn about these wars, the more I am amazed and awed by the fact that Ukraine was able to secure its independence as peacefully as it did. Yes, we ended up poor, yes, we totally failed the opportunity to become a decent European country when our economic indicators were better than Poland's—but we did not shed blood! It's incredible how the entire rusty monolith disintegrated into shards so easily. We had no local Milosevic keen to pick at the dead carcass, ready to erect a new discourse of hatred, or ethnic and religious intolerance. The fucking revanchist jackal!”</p><p>“Yeah, that's true...that's something,” people said to me back in 2012.</p><p>Things on the Maidan heat up. The Berkut police beat the protesters.</p><p>“I can't be like this any more! I have to do something. I can't be sitting here in my office, reading and writing about a different war when this is happening back home. Let's do something! Let's fly back to Kyiv! No, we can't, you can't just quit your job, and I teach on Wednesdays... Let's go to Ljubljana then, start a rally.”</p><p>“Who's going to come to that rally? And don't you need a permit from the police? You have to apply days in advance.”</p><p>“It's Maidan time! I can't wait for a permit. I have to act now, or I'll lose my mind.”</p><p>We pulled out the signs we had made. This was our first protesting experience, and we had no idea whether there was anything like a commonly accepted protocol—we just did whatever felt right. I positioned myself next to the plaque that read “Embassy of the Russian Federation,” and Ivo faced me from a hill across the street. My sign, written in pen, read, “Putin, save the penguins of the Arctic.” Ivo's was blank, as in, no explanation necessary.</p><p>We hear approaching sirens, and two police cars turn sharply down the street and come to a stop next to us. One officer starts toward me, two more go for Ivo. Let them arrest me, I think, to hell with the dissertation. I hate the cynicism, the fat lazy Europe, what did its bureaucrats ever do when people in Bosnia were being killed? If they deport me back to Ukraine, at least I'll have a chance to join the Maidan.</p><p><em>“Dober dan,</em> what are you doing here?”</p><p>“We are protesting.”</p><p>“What are the reasons for your protest?”</p><p>“Ukraine, Russia, Putin, the Maidan, violence against peaceful protesters there...” I do my best to speak deliberately, dispassionately, like the scholar I am, but in this very moment more images pop up, as if out of an uncorked bottle, and the pain comes, the urgent need to be free. There's a lump in my throat as I say, “Russia, we are too cynical...” Tears come, damn it, damn it, stop right now, get a hold of yourself!</p><p>“People in Kyiv want to be heard, as is their civic right, when they disagree with the President's policy, and Russia is trying to use this in its own interests. Right?” The officer asks.</p><p>More tears run down my face at finding this unexpected understanding, both of what's happening and of my own self with my pitiful piece of paper.</p><p>“What does your sign say? I have to put it down in my report. Putin, please save... whom?”</p><p>“The penguins of the Arctic.”</p><p>“But penguins live in the Antarctic, don't they?”</p><p>“My point precisely.”</p><p>“Got it, I have it down. I need to see your ID. What are you doing in Slovenia?”</p><p>He'll fine me, I think, but fine, go ahead, I'll just eat less for a month or so. It'll do me good. The officer writes down my information, but gives no sign of intending to detain me or to issue a fine. This feels very strange. Being treated with such empathy makes everything inside me squeeze even tighter.</p><p>The officer asks how long we plan to stay here.</p><p>“Two-three hours, until we freeze?”“Okay. You have no plans to cause public disturbance or vandalize the embassy, right? Fine then, take care. <em>Dobre, nasvidenje.</em>”</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[They Carry A Sickle and We Bow Down To Them]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Iam a petite, baby-faced woman. Many people close to me still joke about it. It
is all too familiar—every time I get ID'd at a bar (or worse, at a grocery
store), my friends snicker. Every time my little sister’s classmates ask her
which grade I’m in, she talks about it for weeks. It is simply comical when I
get excited over SpongeBob Squarepants on TV. I always argue that I am content
with a portion of my childhood engraved in me because this isn’t just my
experience—we as a country live exact]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/they-carry-a-sickle-and-we-bow-down-to-them/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62dadf442ef03d047722e527</guid><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Necessary]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Dana Kanafina]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Wed, 10 Aug 2022 01:17:07 GMT</pubDate><media:content url="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Screen-Shot-2022-08-09-at-10.20.11-PM.jpg" medium="image"/><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Screen-Shot-2022-08-09-at-10.20.11-PM.jpg" alt="They Carry A Sickle and We Bow Down To Them"/><p>
<span class="dropcap">I</span>
am a petite, baby-faced woman. Many people close to me still joke about it. It is all too familiar—every time I get ID'd at a bar (or worse, at a grocery store), my friends snicker. Every time my little sister’s classmates ask her which grade I’m in, she talks about it for weeks. It is simply comical when I get excited over SpongeBob Squarepants on TV. I always argue that I am content with a portion of my childhood engraved in me because this isn’t just my experience—we as a country live exactly the same way.
</p> <!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I was born almost a decade after the collapse of the USSR, when Kazakhstan was still new and shiny, barely stable after the 90s, the time notoriously hijacked by those referred to as bandits and hooligans. We had to insert ourselves somehow into the world that was—is—rapidly moving, fast-paced, creative, loud. This insertion is a task we still haven’t quite completed, but back then it was even more chaotic. I, an only child back then, lived in a <em>khrushchevka</em> with both of my parents. The ceilings were barely taller than any adult. Four neighboring apartments on the same floor were built during the Khruschev era, as the name suggests. This place was where I resided most of the time. I barely went to a kindergarten; I seemed permanently sick (I went through two major surgeries before I was old enough to go to school) and my babysitters changed every few months. People all around me were looking for things and places but even in preschool it always felt to me like something was stopping us all.</p><p>After I turned seven years old, my parents decided to send me to a Russian-speaking school, one of the oldest schools in my city. There were only a handful of Kazakh-speaking ones anyway and they all were new<strong>—</strong>again, barely older than the country itself. My parents, both Asian and hazardously young to be parents in the first place, put me in a tight blouse, gave me a backpack and dropped me off. They left me at school every morning with an unspoken instruction to be civil, neat, and sensible, the way a white girl would be. Not wild, untamed and horrid—a juxtaposition that only made sense in the young Kazakhstan, with its unchecked, internalized xenophobia.</p><p>My first teacher, a ferociously permed Russian lady in her late sixties, I still remember, carried a tiny Soviet flag. Every morning she’d take it out of her bag, place it on the table, unright and static. It was dark red, with a crooked familiar sickle in the middle of it. At the end of the school day she folded it, placed it into her bag and took it home. It was 2007, maybe 2008. The whole world listened to Britney Spears, wore low-waisted jeans and horrible eyeliner, and waited for the first Black American president to come into office. And my teacher carried with her the flag of a country that no longer existed. A dead country, as if the flag were a picture of her deceased spouse.</p><p>I liked school but I didn’t like history lessons, mainly because they didn’t make any sense. Pre-Soviet history was full of movement and spoken poetry, pictures of a vast land, not yet uglified by the anthills of khrushcevkas. Even simplified for children, there was solid evidence of many distinct eras, eras very much real until the USSR. After its emergence, there was suddenly nothing, less than nothing: mass arrests, public executions of journalists, poets and writers, two wars where Russia was the winner and us disgracefully erased, and then a state-sanctioned famine, long, crippling famine. Neither the books, nor any of my history teachers called it what it was—an attempt at genocide against the people of Kazakhstan by the Russians. And yet we were taught to be grateful. We were taught we had to pay a price for becoming civilized.</p><p>There was no dissonance in this logic. <em>Our </em>white people weren’t evil like the Europeans of the Nazi era, or the American white people of the Jim Crow South, even though they all did the same things to us as these other white people did to indigenous and Black people. On the contrary, <em>our </em>white people were our friends, our friends who knew better, that’s all. If they had not come over and helped us, we would still be living rancid nomadic lives, eating feces, as Moscow-based anthropologists claimed we did. But I didn’t know anybody who ate feces. Every building I had ever been to had a toilet. A toilet, technology invented, incidentally, not by the Russians. For that matter, most of the technology and cultural heritage the Russians supposedly generously shared with us wasn’t Russian at all.</p><p>What happened in January of 2022 was the biggest revolution in the history of Independent Kazakhstan. It happened. There was turmoil, and yes, there were lootings and power outages that left us in the dark for days, both literally and metaphorically. But there <em>wasn’t</em> death. There was the Russian army that came and put this death upon our civil protesters.</p><p>Now, in the wake of the Russian invasion into Ukraine, Kazakhstan is on the brink of realization, a realization bitter and painful. Not only is Russia a colonizer, it is a colonizer unfamiliar with a White Man’s Burden. Our colonizer didn’t leave us colorful cartoons, medieval museums, or a strong currency to depend on. What are we left with? Dostoevsky? Tetris? The first man in space (who, by the way, flew from a land very much Kazakh—the Baikonur spaceport right outside my city)?</p><p>Now, when our colonizer gets sanctioned, it is <em>our </em>prices for goods and services that doubles overnight. Our rent that <em>doubles </em>overnight. And it is the people who took and took from us who now claim that we’d be nothing without them, as if it is possible to be in a lesser position than Russia is. And it is the people who took and took from us who now dare to come over and take even more. And instead of making peace like they said they would, they made bullet holes that are still there, right in the city center.</p><p>We are Asian now, and now we are proud of that. They still carry their sickle, imperial and ugly, but we no longer bow down to them. We are coming back to our language that was both written and spoken despite what Soviet anthropologists claimed. We are coming back to our music, the one we couldn’t be starved of. We are coming back to our literature, as we are the descendants writers they had shot for decades. We are coming back to who we authentically are. And while there is no way to erase centuries of blood, we have new ideas, ideas we have discovered out there in the big, fast world, to help us understand ourselves and act. Kazakhstan does not (yet) have its very own Clint Smith or Phil Kaye or Toni Morrison, but there are plenty of very big shoes to fill—and I’m filling them.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Becoming a crumb: Thoughts on truth and recounting memory]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Jacques Derrida’s concept of deconstruction grapples with the incidental term
‘tracing’—a distinction or mark that something is missing. Trace is also a
condition of thinking.
Whether one has studied Derridian philosophy with enough depth to wrestle with
each interpretation of the word, they have nonetheless completed an act of
tracing by considering the meaning of the word itself.
As I think of the word trace, I think of the past. Recounting memories becomes
tricky. Details become traces an]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/becoming-a-crumb/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62dad8b72ef03d047722e47f</guid><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Bari Bossis]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 02 Aug 2022 02:42:39 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">J</span>
acques Derrida’s concept of deconstruction grapples with the incidental term ‘tracing’—a distinction or mark that something is missing. Trace is also a condition of thinking.
</p> <!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Whether one has studied Derridian philosophy with enough depth to wrestle with each interpretation of the word, they have nonetheless completed an act of tracing by considering the meaning of the word itself. </p><p>As I think of the word trace, I think of the past. Recounting memories becomes tricky. Details become traces and it is in our nature—the same way it is inevitable to pick up every crumb that flees your kitchen counter - to lose track of <em>something</em>. </p><p>Below, I have approached tracing by reflecting on my simple habits over a few days: eating, traveling to and from work, and the act of writing itself. I reach no resolution in this meditation on trace, but a more personal understanding that the act of reflection will never yield a replica of what was once true. As we reflect, trace, or remember, facts are obstructed by an inclination to select what it is we want to remember and how we go about remembering it.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><strong>I. Trace as a noun is evidence</strong></p><p>Evidence is a puzzle, especially for those with a proclivity toward fable-telling. Any seasoned liar will always assess whether his lie could be falsified by evidence. If it can, then the lie should not be executed, yet. If it cannot, then the lie may exist as a reasonable truth. </p><p>If my vacuum sucks away every flake of the onion peel I let fall to the floor of my kitchen while preparing dinner this evening, then my home shows no evidence of an incorporated onion. My breath might give it away to my roommate when she returns home for a chat, but I may also be asleep by then, locked away in my room having already emptied the vessel of the vacuum and taken the trash out. The onion will live inside of me and its skin at the bottom of the garbage bin. </p><p>Let the disposed remnants of this onion represent the concept of evidence at large. If we throw away all of our onions so that nobody can witness their whereabouts, and we consequently remain silent on the topic of onions forever, the onion is withheld from reality. It is still a truth in that it existed, but it has no stake in the visible present.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><strong>II. Trace as a verb is to seek</strong></p><p>Tracing, or searching for evidence, requires recollection. Tracing is inherently nostalgic, no matter how inconsequential the subject. I think of calculus class in high school, haunting me nearly a decade later though it seldom weighs in on my present life. I would be perched on the only left-handed desk in the center of the front row, vigorously jotting down every number in the presentation, yet incapable of understanding slopes and tangent lines. My mind was preoccupied with maintaining legible and alluring notes for home review. The ultimate strife of a left-handed person writing in a left-to-right direction is smudging pen ink on a live note. </p><p>What remains true to this day from that anecdote is my preoccupation with aesthetics. I sat on the train this morning with a notebook on my lap and pen in hand. My wrist was curved at a most bizarre angle, once more progressing faster than my mind was able to keep up with. In an effort to convince each person on the train that I was writing with intent, I carefully confessed to my page:</p><p>“I would rather sign my name a hundred times, filling you with a meaningless signature, than look at an empty book and sit with an inactive hand.”</p><p>Though searching for value, I surrendered to a sensation. I am picky with my pens and prefer to buy a rollerball line by PILOT called ‘precise v5.’ The ink dries quickly, which is optimal for a lefty. Enraptured by the cadence of my flow, my fingertips created an outpouring of nonsense. First, it was my signature written 27 times followed by a grocery list. Then, I escaped convention and darted my eyes toward a sneezing man across the car. Keeping my hand against the page and only lifting it once my head fell back into a bow:</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/crumb_.png" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><p>Finally, I missed my stop, got off at the following exit and stood on the platform waiting for the next train to take me back to my destination. My mother always told me that it is easy to get lost in New York, but just as easy to reorient oneself after the matter.</p><p>“Tracing is a means to an end.” </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><strong>III. Tracing is derivative </strong></p><p>Years back, I printed a great white shark onto a white Hanes v-neck during a silk screening workshop at sleep away camp. Everyone around me thought I had drawn the shark myself, which I did, but it had been traced from the logo of a surf shop in my hometown. It was safe for me to assume that the plagiarized great white might live sincerely on my chest as an original design. Nobody at camp knew of my hometown, let alone the local spot where I bought my sunscreen.</p><p>The shark on the shirt was celebrated by my camp friends. I thought it looked cool, too. From that two week long camp session, I created my own onion remnant. At first, I thought it was the logo itself. So long as nobody at camp saw the original shark logo, the sketch on my shirt would be my own and I could frolic among the camp grounds with the wardrobe of a true pioneer. It wasn’t until I returned back home to South Florida searching for a beach cover up in my suitcase that I realized the v-neck itself, my egregious knockoff of a unique local design, was the onion I needed to hide. Brimming with shame, I folded the shirt and placed it at the back corner of my dresser underneath a stack of shirts. I haven’t looked for it since.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[ODD RADIO CIRCLES (ORCS)]]></title><description><![CDATA[Our hot air balloon / turned into a lead ball.—Marjana Savka, Ukrainian poet
They look like a virus you’d see under a microscope.
A city flattened by artillery.
A bubble with a galaxy inside it, an amorphous shroud.
Not unlike the bubbles a child blows waiting in line for bread.
Undulating as if in waves towards an absent shore.
Carrying the driftwood of space and time.
Only seeing what the radio telescope writes on film.
Like what is hidden in the pictures from Mariupol
Beyond me, wav]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/odd-radio-circles/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62dafeba2ef03d047722e893</guid><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Richard Jackson]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 01 Aug 2022 21:24:38 GMT</pubDate><media:content url="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/stock-photo-road-wideki-bukowe-berdo-tarnica.jpg" medium="image"/><content:encoded><![CDATA[<img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/stock-photo-road-wideki-bukowe-berdo-tarnica.jpg" alt="ODD RADIO CIRCLES (ORCS)"/><p><em>Our hot air balloon / turned into a lead ball. </em>—Marjana Savka, Ukrainian poet</p><p>They look like a virus you’d see under a microscope.</p><p>A city flattened by artillery.</p><p>A bubble with a galaxy inside it, an amorphous shroud.</p><p>Not unlike the bubbles a child blows waiting in line for bread.</p><p>Undulating as if in waves towards an absent shore.</p><p>Carrying the driftwood of space and time.</p><p>Only seeing what the radio telescope writes on film.</p><p>Like what is hidden in the pictures from Mariupol</p><p>Beyond me, waves of forest sounds I can’t decipher.</p><p>The sky netted in the top branches.</p><p>The moles, even, afraid to show themselves for the cat.</p><p>The sun rises, scraping the top of the ridgeline.</p><p>What it sees: the 18-month-old girl, head blown open by shrapnel.</p><p>A forest of excuses. A land too far.</p><p>The smell of the fox the hunter skinned and abandoned.</p><p>The burning stumps loggers leave.</p><p>You can’t make the days follow your calendar, or<br> the streets follow your maps.</br></p><p>You can tell each country by its color.</p><p>“A country, a puddle on the map.” (Lyudmyla Khersonska)</p><p>16-year-old Iliya, whose legs were sheared off during a soccer game.</p><p>These names fall in like mortar rounds.</p><p>The wind here tonight, as if the trees were screaming.</p><p>The animal paths written through brambles.</p><p>Time drifts away in smoke.</p><p>Someone’s pajamas with cartoon unicorns in the ruins.</p><p>Each line a radio wave, a bomb’s shock wave.</p><p>Even the sky looks metallic, its stars aiming at us.</p><p>The scalloped clouds above me appearing as flack puffs.</p><p>In Mariupol they can hear the missiles overhead.</p><p>The vapor trails linger longer than their bombs.</p><p>The coyote the other day carried some small creature<br> in its jaws. </br></p><p>Just some scattered white fur after the owl dove in.</p><p>Dogs scavenging. A maternity ward become a morgue.</p><p>Death, the empty parentheses.</p><p>The empty web quivering along the trail yesterday.</p><p>Nouns with betraying modifiers.</p><p>To erase the names on the maps, to clear-cut the lives.</p><p>Now we know: Cambrian trilobites ate each other.</p><p>Twenty three species went extinct last year. We aren't<br> yet among them.</br></p><p>“A world where we once lived has left us words.” (Serhiy Zhadan)</p><p>ORCS are either eating or being eaten by galaxies like ours.</p><p>Who beyond the cosmos is watching us?</p><p>The freeze fog here has crumpled the day lilies.</p><p>The oak that fell last year is riddled with insect holes.</p><p>Kudzu is strangling our trees.</p><p>The raccoons are at the garbage. There is no food in Mariupol.</p><p>In the theater, pieces of children scattered among the dead.</p><p>“The building just folded in on itself.” A black hole.</p><p>Here, at least, the clouds can escape over the ridgeline.</p><p>ORCS are one billion light years away, further than<br> the Black Hole that will someday consume us.</br></p><p>How long does it take to consume a city?</p><p>What species does not kill its own to live? To rule?</p><p>The answers open like craters.</p><p>The last mass extinction was only the fifth to date.</p><p>Today the doomsday clock is set at under two minutes,</p><p>A disease looking for any opening.</p><p>Hearts with nothing left to pump</p><p>Someone mentioned that roots dig downwards to escape us.</p><p>The moon slowly eaten by its own shadow.</p><p>In all this, a few birds create their own space to fly through.</p><p>In the child’s drawing they look like angels.</p><p>A man with a wheelbarrow carrying away his life.</p><p>The whole city still giving birth to prayers.</p><p>Mariupol means the city of Mary.</p><p>Shrouds of smoke. Hope hides in the underbrush.</p><p>This litany of salvaged images.</p><p>How seldom we decipher the signals from our own words.</p><p>A city crumples like a map in a commander’s hand.</p><p>The day ends like a burnt-out car.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Editor’s Note </h2>
<br>Making sense of the modern world involves facing it, stripping it bare of pretense and understanding the web of links that binds us underneath all that hardship. In “Odd Radio Circles”, Jackson views the world through both satellite and microscope, binding the macro and micro and tracing the paths from ourselves to the fractures in our humanity because it is not until we’ve driven our knuckles to the foundation that we can hope to clear enough to build anew. <br><br>
</br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[How to Buy Teeth in Mexico]]></title><description><![CDATA[ "Dental Tourism” the brochure called it. “Save thousands of dollars,” it
touted, tempting U.S. citizens to cross the southern border for affordable
healthcare. My husband and I had been on the road for five years. The lingering
fumes of adolescent optimism and solar panels propelled our travels in a vintage
motorhome. Our first-world survival instincts were honed. We considered
ourselves master scavengers, having streamlined the process of acquiring the
necessities for life that most take for g]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/how-to-buy-teeth-in-mexico/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62dad3d72ef03d047722e41d</guid><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[V. G. Anderson]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 01 Aug 2022 21:24:16 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">"D</span>
ental Tourism” the brochure called it. “Save thousands of dollars,” it touted, tempting U.S. citizens to cross the southern border for affordable healthcare. My husband and I had been on the road for five years. The lingering fumes of adolescent optimism and solar panels propelled our travels in a vintage motorhome. Our first-world survival instincts were honed. We considered ourselves master scavengers, having streamlined the process of acquiring the necessities for life that most take for granted in North America.
</p> <!--kg-card-end: html--><p>It's shocking how much time is involved to find potable water when it doesn’t flow freely from brushed chrome spigots strategically located throughout a 3 bed/2 bath living space.</p><p>Next stop: the Florida Keys. With a 25-year-old engine, the last thing we expected to break our stride was candy addiction. His sweet tooth cracked, the next within days, another on the brink. Subtle but persistent pain followed, like a slow-rolling storm with spider-lightning on the horizon. Post-x-rays, local estimates put repair work nearing ten thousand dollars. “But I floss!” he bemoaned after every call for an estimate.</p><p>Muddled news reports droned on in the background. Death tolls were rising in China from a virus called something that brought to mind a popular brand of beer. Many thought<em> it’ll fizzle out by the time it gets here, like SARS</em>. Still, “let’s review the flashcards,” pundits urged: Ebola; AIDS; The Black Plague. “Woah, now! Don’t go extremist on us,” politicians roared. Their monster truck-sized spring mud fling was just getting started.<em> </em>We booked our “dental tourism” adventure to “save thousands.”</p><p>As the trip grew closer, confirmed Coronavirus cases on the West Coast increased, followed by reports of deaths from “unknown causes” all over the country. News stations scrambled to give viewers updates that wouldn’t ruffle bald eagle feathers, while our neighbor, a retired Marine, reportedly repaired his teeth with epoxy. We were Mexico bound.</p><p>The “shuttle service”—a guy in his mini-van—picked us up on the U.S. side of the border before noon.</p><p>We thought about wearing masks, but the store shelves were empty. I had planned to sew some when we returned<em>—how effective would they be at a dentist’s office, anyway? The beer virus couldn’t have come this far south yet. </em>The driver wore a mask and sprayed disinfectant, like air freshener, at every stop. “I have an immunocompromised wife and two kids,” he said. I nodded and wrapped a scarf around my face, hubs a bandana. The third passenger, a fellow nomad and “dental tourist” who’d just come from a music festival in California, followed suit. We drove across the border. No stops. The sun beat down on the small colorful dilapidated structures lining the cracked and pitted roads. Small fans animated faded streamers in multiple windows of each home. We waited outside a busy tamale stand while our driver dropped off “prescriptions” wrapped in brown parchment packed like frozen meat from a deli “for a friend.”</p><p>The facility advertised in the “Dental Tourism” brochure was as clean and nice as any I’d ever visited in the United States. Oversized couches in the reception area offered respite between procedures. Popular magazine selections in English and Spanish were spread across the side tables. Top 40 hits played from overhead. While a polite hygienist wearing turquoise scrubs suctioned excess water from my mouth through a small tube, the steady-handed dentist told me she’d been educated in the states and lived in Texas but drove across the border every day to run her practice after dropping her kids off at school. By the end of the conversation, my two fillings were completed. She also fixed another I’d had filled by a dentist in Florida, (who had fused two teeth). Then she moved on to my husband’s mouth.</p><p>There were hushed discussions concerning the extent of the work needed. “Normally, we’d break this up over a few visits, but there’s talk of closing the border—are you up for this?” she asked. He nodded. One filling, two root canals, and three pending crowns later, we watched the sun set while a young man in the back-room color-matched porcelain to my husband’s smile. The receptionist and hygienist played games on their phones behind the front desk. No masks. I’d long since given up on breathing through my thin scarf.</p><p>Our disinfected chauffeur came back around 9:00 p.m. and waited patiently for the man wielding a Dremel and dental cement to complete his art installation. After a brief stop at a 24-hour pharmacy for antibiotics and pain medication, the driver advised us to have our passports ready. Moments later, a pickup truck marked POLICIA zipped in front of us. Half a dozen men dressed in all black and Kevlar sat high on the sides of the truck bed in rows facing each other. Automatic weapons strapped to their backs. Fortunately, they were less interested in us than the man with a face painted like a clown, juggling oranges in the middle of the road.</p><p>Shots fired out from somewhere nearby as we approached the border. Drug-sniffing dogs paced rows of cars, and a young male American in full fatigues scrutinized our passports. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said with haunting depth and sincerity. I pictured our dogs back at the RV being looked after by a neighbor and hoped we wouldn’t be detained. The driver showed him some sort of credentials and spoke quickly, mentioning the dental clinic. Then we all swore we weren’t transporting any medications. My husband was green. I wrapped my scarf around my face and paced my blink. “He okay?” the soldier asked, nodding to my husband in the backseat. “Two root canals and three crowns,” my husband shot back. The officer waved us through. “Don’t come back,” he added as the van lurched forward. The driver nodded.</p><p>I imagine that border crossing going differently if all the passengers hadn’t been caucasian.</p><p>A few days later, three Coronavirus deaths were reported in the “dental tourism” town. A week later, I walked outside with one of my dogs, then struggled to climb the stairs back into the RV. My breath was labored, my heart raced, and my legs resisted the upward motion. But as the days dragged on and breathing got harder, the most surprising difficulty was the psychosis. The literal voice in my head telling me to give up. Not many have talked about it, but before confirmation of COVID-induced psychosis came from psychologists around the country, I saw it in the reported suicides of doctors who’d recovered. “Why would someone kill themselves <em>after</em> recovering?”<em> </em>the talking heads in the “news” boxes punted to pretty faces without psychology degrees. But it wasn’t just the daily death toll in their line of work breaking them. It was that voice. We didn’t give essential and frontline workers the time needed to regain enough strength to fight the voice that lingered after other symptoms subsided. Like a Siren luring sailors to crash and die on her rocky shores, COVID cried out from the darkness for those who had escaped her death grip.</p><p>As the world rebutted stasis while the virus wailed on, I recovered. My husband’s mouth healed at the same pace he beat COVID—much faster than I did. The new structures in his mouth became permanent residents while eviction moratoriums across the U.S. lapsed. And while others groaned about mask mandates or not being able to frequent their favorite bar, the survivors did what people have done since humans stood upright. They began reinventing themselves and carving new trails—literal and figurative. Some left the cities, seeking green pastures in small towns. Space to plant a garden. Caravans hit the open road in our rearview. Some took early retirement to do so, but many are middle-aged (and younger) with kids in tow. And slowly, without mention on the nightly news, humanity started rebooting. A mass exodus of survivors began reinventing the American dream. Escaping the sirens lamenting onshore, they set out to sea, collecting energy from the sun and growing food along the way whilst learning how to streamline the process of acquiring the necessities for life that most take for granted in North America. And whenever the need arises, I tell them how to buy teeth in Mexico.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[water from nowhere]]></title><description><![CDATA[the desert does not love you back, but it
sees you, dunes hunched in watchful wake,
brooding and clenching a hold of my heart and
eating it. there are stains on the sky from my fingers
sticky with the juice of dates and aloe, there are
burn marks on my wasteland from where the sun
has blistered and bled. god is the silence like
sandpaper, teaching me to thirst, taking the untamed form
of the mountains and teaching me that
i am the wilderness.
photos by the author (2022) | Wahiba Sands ]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/water-from-nowhere/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62dafd2c2ef03d047722e882</guid><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><category><![CDATA[Photography]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Cayla Bleoaja]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 01 Aug 2022 21:23:54 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>the desert does not love you back, but it</p><p>sees you, dunes hunched in watchful wake,</p><p>brooding and clenching a hold of my heart and</p><p>eating it. there are stains on the sky from my fingers</p><p>sticky with the juice of dates and aloe, there are</p><p>burn marks on my wasteland from where the sun</p><p>has blistered and bled. god is the silence like</p><p>sandpaper, teaching me to thirst, taking the untamed form</p><p>of the mountains and teaching me that</p><p>i am the wilderness.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/cayla2.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>photos by the author (2022) | Wahiba Sands desert region, Oman</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/cayla1.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>photos by the author (2022) | Wahiba Sands, Oman</figcaption></img></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>I wrote this poem while in the desert of Oman, having traversed gravelly giants and remote expanses of bare-breasted earth to sit in the shadow of perpetually reshapen sand-dunes. It amazed me that my human ancestors lived in places so hard on your skin. All these invisible lives that led up to mine being here. I felt aged, as though I had walked through histories, in and out of myself. I had so little sense of this earth existing before entering it. It is a land as brutal as it is magical, in heat and isolation and hostilities: the golden resin of frankincense, the dates and rosewater coffee, bananas and spices, camels and red-woven rugs, life against all odds. It carved into me. I still wear the scars of its thorn brushes, its blisters, its sunburn. Momentary traces of being made permanent in skin and in memory. “No man can live this life and emerge unchanged,” Wilfred Thesiger wrote in <i>Arabian Sands</i>. “He will forever carry, however faint, the imprint of the desert.” <br><br>
</br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[New Year's at the Church]]></title><description><![CDATA[New Year's at the Church (2021) Artist’s Note
For a time, I was a part of an art collective that ran an enormous DIY house
venue. We had rented a whole-ass church in the Puerto Rican neighborhood of
Chicago. For 5 years, we hosted all manner of hopefully of-age folks, elbowing
for their share of youthful experience. On New Year's Day in 2017, we reached
our apex, with 400 people crammed inside this large carpeted room that would be
better served for a potluck dinner for some Aunties' social c]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/new-years-at-the-church/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62daef5e2ef03d047722e679</guid><category><![CDATA[Artwork]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Christian Phillip Swafford]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 01 Aug 2022 21:23:19 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/newyears.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>New Year's at the Church (2021)</figcaption></img></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-art">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>For a time, I was a part of an art collective that ran an enormous DIY house venue. We had rented a whole-ass church in the Puerto Rican neighborhood of Chicago. For 5 years, we hosted all manner of hopefully of-age folks, elbowing for their share of youthful experience. On New Year's Day in 2017, we reached our apex, with 400 people crammed inside this large carpeted room that would be better served for a potluck dinner for some Aunties' social club doing the things that 20 somethings delinquents have been doing for as long as we can remember (read: 1950, probably). A picture was taken that night from the stage which captured the size and energy of that crowd. Eventually this picture would be in the police report that our landlord referenced when he kicked us out. It was a fair court. I had a simple plan, to paint this photograph in some large format. I chose a canvas I’d already filled with an abstract layer that in retrospect felt predestined to serve as the base. I projected the photograph onto the yellow and purple checkered canvas, and I knew right from the jump that the cheap projector and even cheaper bulb left me barely able to see a thing. I had genuinely wrestled with my artistic moral compass over using a projector: Was I "cheating"? <Br><br>
I knew the way I’d resolve this: I would make it difficult, I would make it a high-wire event. The painting would have to be made in one sitting and painted fast. I refused to properly mark the projector's relation to the wall, or the canvas' relation to the floor. I did not secure anything. A bump into any physical object would throw the whole event into chaos. I sat the tubes of paint at my feet to avoid movement and minimize chances to bump anything out of place. I poured an indiscriminate amount of any one color onto the palate then tried to find a projected object to duplicate. Hair line. PAINT. That's a face. PAINT FACE. What is that? I don't know, paint it anyway. <Br><br>
I used up all of whatever color I had poured before I added more to the mix. At times, I did not know what color I was using. I couldn’t tell apart the color from the base layer, the color being projected, and the color that I was currently painting. I knew only one goal: everything must be painted that night. I felt myself losing steam, but I sensed the finish line. I love how the last figures I rendered turned out; they were painted so fast that only a faint spirit exists, which falls into the vastness of the crowd.
</br></Br></br></Br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Trace no. 3]]></title><description><![CDATA[Trace no. 3 (2022) | ink & watercolor Artist’s Note
In this piece, I wanted to evoke the feeling of walking into the dark woods,
retracing your steps, looking for the monsters you once ran from but don’t fear
now.]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/trace-no-3/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62daee8e2ef03d047722e668</guid><category><![CDATA[Artwork]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Courtney W. Brothers]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 01 Aug 2022 21:22:54 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/brothers.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Trace no. 3 (2022) | ink & watercolor</figcaption></img></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-art">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>In this piece, I wanted to evoke the feeling of walking into the dark woods, retracing your steps, looking for the monsters you once ran from but don’t fear now.<Br><br>
</br></Br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Running Dry]]></title><description><![CDATA[You can dream of the ’30s
but it’s the era of darkness
blood ox plaid and baby shit gingham.
It might be better to destroy
than create
red paint on the ax
at the construction site
and I missed the leaves peak
but I still walk the creek
valiant valentine dressed as a clown.
We agreed at the beginning
the hillside where the near-witch
followed the man reading the paper
by the river looked like home
her fine lines at 39
bright lipstick and all those sea-printed caftans.
I miss my pink bike topog]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/running-dry/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62dafb4e2ef03d047722e81f</guid><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Jessie Janeshek]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 01 Aug 2022 21:22:08 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>You can dream of the ’30s<br>but it’s the era of darkness<br>blood ox plaid and baby shit gingham.<br>It might be better to destroy<br>than create<br>red paint on the ax<br>at the construction site <br>and I missed the leaves peak<br>but I still walk the creek<br>valiant valentine dressed as a clown.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>We agreed at the beginning<br>the hillside where the near-witch<br>followed the man reading the paper<br>by the river looked like home<br>her fine lines at 39<br>bright lipstick and all those sea-printed caftans.</br></br></br></br></br></p><p>I miss my pink bike topographically.<br>I don’t understand time stripes or spaces<br>the mud-colored orange-wheeled rollerskates<br>the rink that looked like a basement <br>and how many more months of right ovary pain?</br></br></br></br></p><p>The near-witch tells her husband<br>to go suck an egg<br>but the statement's been issued.<br>I’ve spent too much on bat wings<br>and calico-assed bellbottoms</br></br></br></br></p><p>and I’m sorry for the things I’ve done<br>I’ve shamed my life with lies<br>but someday I’ll get back to it<br>my high-heeled suede boots city-prim.<br>I’ll slip right on your banana peel.</br></br></br></br></p><p/><p><em>Note: </em>The title and some language of this poem is from the Neil Young song, “Running Dry (Requiem for the Rockets)”.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>My poetry is feminist, probing the connections among sex, power, and violence—frequently explored through the broken promise of Hollywood’s “golden age” and its shadow side film noir—while examining, challenging, and sometimes reappropriating patriarchal culture’s complex relationship with powerful women, especially when those women are too beautiful yet never beautiful enough. <br><br>
</br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Sanctuary]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Poet’s Note
Thanks to the artist Mark Bradford and his process in his work, my own writing
process changed. I no longer write in a linear fashion, and I've been much more
invested the past few years in getting interesting text down on the page and
then figuring out surprising ways into and through poems. This pursuit has not
only allowed me to generate poems that fascinate and engage me, but it has also
granted me the ability to interrogate and talk to and about my ghosts and
family.]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/i-dance-flamenco-in-a-slavic-dress/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62dc16602ef03d047722ec84</guid><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Christian J. Collier]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 01 Aug 2022 21:19:51 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Screen-Shot-2022-08-25-at-9.09.48-AM.png" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>Thanks to the artist Mark Bradford and his process in his work, my own writing process changed. I no longer write in a linear fashion, and I've been much more invested the past few years in getting interesting text down on the page and then figuring out surprising ways into and through poems. This pursuit has not only allowed me to generate poems that fascinate and engage me, but it has also granted me the ability to interrogate and talk to and about my ghosts and family.<br/>
</br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Wolf River]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Poet’s Note
What drew me to this poem was the two conflicting desires: one, "I want to
believe you suffer no more", and two "I want a sign you still exist". The former
can only come from the rational finality of death, and the latter can only come
from the irrational leap of belief. The latter is certainly more "beautiful”,
but the former is easier to accept and move forward from. We just get tempted
towards the beautiful rather than the real. To me, the 'problem' is that
temptation - and re]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/wolf-river/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62dd8b892ef03d047722edd1</guid><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Christian J. Collier]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 01 Aug 2022 21:19:38 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Screen-Shot-2022-08-25-at-9.10.37-AM.png" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>What drew me to this poem was the two conflicting desires: one, "I want to believe you suffer no more", and two "I want a sign you still exist". The former can only come from the rational finality of death, and the latter can only come from the irrational leap of belief. The latter is certainly more "beautiful”, but the former is easier to accept and move forward from. We just get tempted towards the beautiful rather than the real. To me, the 'problem' is that temptation - and recognizing that as a 'problem' implies a choice in the speaker to ultimately deal with their loss in the rational way.
<br/>
</br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[To Platonov…]]></title><description><![CDATA[To Platonov...
They said you liked simple people
And complicated machines.
They said that trains had sung
Your lullabies for you and that
You were afraid of women,
Who could not think…or
Were not enough manly.
Your hands…Your hands were so
Manly. So Soviet that somehow I felt
like
I could have seen you –
Extending one’s
Gaze just a few decades is not that
hard:
Though a hardship.
You seem too close. As if we were
separated
Not by six degrees but two decrees of
isolation.
Your eyes after all ]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/to-platonov/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62dc14c52ef03d047722ec22</guid><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Victoria Juharyan]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 01 Aug 2022 21:08:28 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>To Platonov...</p><p>They said you liked simple people<br>And complicated machines.<br>They said that trains had sung<br>Your lullabies for you and that<br>You were afraid of women,<br>Who could not think…or<br>Were not enough manly.</br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>Your hands…Your hands were so<br>Manly. So Soviet that somehow I felt<br>like<br>I could have seen you –<br>Extending one’s<br>Gaze just a few decades is not that<br>hard:<br>Though a hardship.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>You seem too close. As if we were<br>separated<br>Not by six degrees but two decrees of<br>isolation.</br></br></br></p><p>Your eyes after all belied your hands.</p><p>Those belonged to a poet<br>And not a proletariat<br>(though an intelligent one,<br>as they described you).</br></br></br></p><p>It’s very strange this chemistry<br>Through ages.<br>Sages speaking to me through a tapestry</br></br></p><p>Of epiphanic gages<br>That is now my mind<br>Slipping away<br>Before I could reply.</br></br></br></p><p>But I will say this much:</p><p>I like simple machines<br>And complicated people.</br></p><p>(2013)</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/victoria.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>photo of the author taken by Elina Akselrud</figcaption></img></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>“To Platonov” is dedicated to the Russian poet, playwright, and philosopher Andrey Platonov, a favorite of Hemingway’s. I wrote it in 2013 after watching a documentary on Platonov to understand why a friend would associate me with Platonov and his somewhat romantic perception of life and nature. In 2020, this poem was shared by my advisor Caryl Emerson at Platonov reading group at Princeton University, where it was composed. <br><br>
</br></br></br></div><!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[I envy the confidence of ignorance]]></title><description><![CDATA[I envy the confidence of ignorance,
The stillness of growing grass,
The rustle of dead leaves.
The majesty of trees succumbing
To the changing seasons with
No melancholia.
I envy me too, if I look at myself as I look at things
I cannot conceive. So full of life and energy,
It seems. Some strange thirst for life and death.
For I can’t resist the changing cycles
Either. But I am great only as an object.
My subjectivity haunts me,
Disturbs every sublimity. I wish I could
Perceive without perceivin]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/i-envy-the-confidence-of-ignorance/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62dc17c12ef03d047722ecaf</guid><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Victoria Juharyan]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 01 Aug 2022 21:08:18 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>I envy the confidence of ignorance,<br>The stillness of growing grass,<br>The rustle of dead leaves.<br>The majesty of trees succumbing<br>To the changing seasons with<br>No melancholia.</br></br></br></br></br></p><p>I envy me too, if I look at myself as I look at things<br>I cannot conceive. So full of life and energy,<br>It seems. Some strange thirst for life and death.<br>For I can’t resist the changing cycles<br>Either. But I am great only as an object.<br>My subjectivity haunts me,<br>Disturbs every sublimity. I wish I could<br>Perceive without perceiving my perception...<br>Maybe that’s what trees do?</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>(2019)</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ignorance.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>photo from the author</figcaption></img></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>“I envy the confidence of ignorance” was written in Maine, after an invitational lecture titled “Problems of Desire: Self-consciousness and Self-Narration in Late Tolstoy” I gave at Bowdoin College in 2019. The beautiful autumn nature of New England was very much an inspiration along with Hegel, Tolstoy, Heidegger and concerns of self-awareness. <br><br>
</br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[I dance Flamenco in a Slavic dress]]></title><description><![CDATA[I dance Flamenco in a Slavic dress,
I say my prayers in languages that
Prattle.
Some say, never forget where you came from.
Some say, know where you're going.
Some say, do both.
That's easy. Sometimes.
The difficulty lies in how to be.
Who am I? What am I?
I dance... I dance...Between rites and rituals, perhaps rapturously we'll pass
the time that ticks like a
bomb...
Will I defuse? Illuminate?
(2015)
photo from the author Poet’s Note
During graduate school at Princeton, I took Flamenc]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/i-dance-flamenco-in-a-slavic-dress-2/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62dd88102ef03d047722ed82</guid><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Victoria Juharyan]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 01 Aug 2022 21:08:06 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>I dance Flamenco in a Slavic dress,<br>I say my prayers in languages that<br>Prattle.</br></br></p><p>Some say, never forget where you came from.<br>Some say, know where you're going.<br>Some say, do both.<br>That's easy. Sometimes.<br>The difficulty lies in how to be.</br></br></br></br></p><p>Who am I? What am I?<br>I dance... I dance...Between rites and rituals, perhaps rapturously we'll pass the time that ticks like a<br>bomb...</br></br></p><p>Will I defuse? Illuminate?</p><p>(2015)</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/flamenco.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>photo from the author</figcaption></img></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>During graduate school at Princeton, I took Flamenco classes after two failed attempts of learning to dance tango as each time I would be told by the teacher that as I woman I cannot lead; Flamenco gave me more freedom as well as space. “I dance Flamenco in a Slavic Dress” is also about many cultures and languages that can coexist within a single consciousness and beyond. The poem steps into moods that gesture towards phenomenology and existentialism, questions of idealism and theories of the mind.
<br/>
</br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[On Faith]]></title><description><![CDATA[Life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery. —Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at
Tinker Creek
Augustine didn’t say this, but somebody did and it is credited to the saint all
over the internet: “The world is a book and those who do not travel read only
one page.” I don’t know if the traveling part is necessary, I think it’s just
the looking. Time turns the pages for us.
What Augustine did say is, of course, more overtly religious. “Our great book is
the entire world; What I read as promised in th]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/on-faith/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62dacf232ef03d047722e3c5</guid><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Vivian Saxon]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 01 Aug 2022 21:06:53 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><em>Life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery. </em>—Annie Dillard, <em>Pilgrim at Tinker Creek</em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">A</span>
ugustine didn’t say this, but somebody did and it is credited to the saint all over the internet: “The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.” I don’t know if the traveling part is necessary, I think it’s just the looking. Time turns the pages for us.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>What Augustine did say is, of course, more overtly religious. “Our great book is the entire world; What I read as promised in the book of God I read fulfilled in it.” In a later commentary on the Psalms, he urged his followers to “Let the world be a book for you.” We are to read the world as a text. Luther shudders in his grave. The question, as always, is how to see. </p><p>I go looking. Some hemlock trees in eastern North American forests have small metal tags nailed into their trunks. The tags identify trees that have been treated for an invasive Asian caterpillar. The caterpillar is a white, fluffy thing that makes its home underneath the hemlock needles. It looks as if it snowed upside-down. The creatures kill the tree, over time. Aldo Leopold said that the penalty of an ecological education is that one lives alone in a world of wounds. Tennessee Williams, among others, said that life is one long goodbye. </p><p>I am driving through West Virginia. The world is bleak and gray and the leaves are all off the trees. There is a war on in Ukraine. I saw a picture this morning in the news of a family of three that was killed by exploding shrapnel. In the photo, a hand fell out from underneath the tarp. Their bodies lay all crumpled in death at the foot of a World War II memorial. Their sturdy gray rolling suitcase—I have seen the same one on Amazon—was unharmed. </p><p>I saw that picture later, on reddit, uncensored. The tarp was gone, and there were three gray people. I recoiled, then looked again. Why does death feel like a violation? I suppose it’s the same reason sex does. Our beginnings and our ends find us at the limit of reason; we are humbled to the point of embarrassment. I am not sure that this is a bad thing. These are the thin places; reverence is required. Here, Annie Dillard says, eternity clips time. </p><p>It’s dangerous to venture out beyond the veil, though it hasn’t stopped the mystics, or Moses, who asked to see God’s glory. “You cannot see me and live,” God replied, wrapping up that business a bit too neatly. Well then. What are we to look for? Ezekiel received a vision, but it was mediated threefold—all he could take was “the appearance of the likeness of the glory of the Lord.” Uzzah touched the Ark and died on the spot. Fine. Fear, not love, is the beginning of wisdom. </p><p>About the fear of God, Dillard wrote, “I do not find Christians outside of the catacombs sufficiently sensible of conditions. Does anyone have the foggiest idea what sort of power we so blithely invoke? Or, as I suspect, does no one believe a word of it?” In our defense, it is entirely incomprehensible. Belief is just a word. I was force-fed mystery; I swallowed so much that it became a part of me. I think that is the point of the sacraments.</p><p>I scrolled down and saw another dead man. He was alone, blasted off of a TV tower by some Russian with a button. He too was gray—his black blood was muted and matted by the dust that collected on his head. I do not want to know who he was. </p><p>My mom posted a picture on Instagram today of the Ukrainian flag. “Wake up, America!” She begged. “What kind of world are we leaving for our children and grandchildren?” </p><p>I am walking the trail under the cliff and looking for exposed coal seams. I don’t see any, just cracks in the hard rock that time made slowly. </p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/saxon.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><p>The earth holds all the evidence of our old great wars. Chert blades in Africa and arrowheads in Oklahoma, ancient, rusted muskets in England and Spanish cannons at the bottom of the sea. Over time, the soil takes them back. Slow accumulation of dust and dirt buries our history; a small mercy. The earth knows we can’t hardly bear the ills we see. </p><p>One broken layer of rocks has faint words etched in it. I can make out the first two words—“Who is.” The middle has worn off. The last two words remain— “Our God.” I am not kidding; you can go and see it for yourself. It is on the Castle Rock Trail in New River Gorge National Park. Someone in this ancient rock carved out a Psalm, and time has left the only pertinent question. </p><p>In the gospel of Luke, Christ said that if the people are silent, the stones will cry out. Robert MacFarlane wrote that if your mind were only a slightly greener thing, the trees would drown you in meaning. I read the rocks, I listen to the trees, I consider the lilies. The thin places are stretched to breaking. Look: something pours through. </p><p>What my mother does know, better than I do, is that you ask for peace from people, not from God. The world we will leave is the world that always has been and always will be. Qoheleth says that there is nothing new under the sun. My professor says that all time is equidistant from Christ. Time, turning its pages, preserves only the essentials. I am not claiming to understand.</p><p>I am back on the edge of the canyon. The wind, just buffered by the coal seams under the ridge, now envelops me in its muffled roar. Everything is brown up here. The trees are skeletal, the dead leaves make a bed. It is crisp outside. In some places, the only difference between November and March, fall and spring, is knowing it is so. <br/></p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[On the day the sadness hits]]></title><description><![CDATA[my whole body is heavy
carrying the weight of
not being her life’s love.
under my skin there is
a racing of the heart
which when distilled
turns out to taste
like adrenaline.
imagine it was like this
she was the person i wanted
and in a second she evaporated
our elusive future. on which
i should never have hung
so many hopes.
i had dreamed many things
must have only dreamed
she dreamed them too.
ahead in my vision
we stood connected
& weightless.
our crystallised future
a glass house of pla]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/on-the-day-the-sadness-hits/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62dc0b3a2ef03d047722ea1d</guid><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Lucy DK]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 01 Aug 2022 21:06:32 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>my whole body is heavy<br>carrying the weight of<br>not being her life’s love.</br></br></p><p>under my skin there is<br>a racing of the heart<br>which when distilled<br>turns out to taste<br>like adrenaline.</br></br></br></br></p><p>imagine it was like this<br>she was the person i wanted<br>and in a second she evaporated<br>our elusive future. on which<br>i should never have hung<br>so many hopes.</br></br></br></br></br></p><p>i had dreamed many things<br>must have only dreamed<br>she dreamed them too.</br></br></p><p>ahead in my vision<br>we stood connected<br>& weightless.</br></br></p><p>our crystallised future<br>a glass house of plants.<br>our children had no faces.<br>our island a rich kitchen.<br>she whirled around with<br>bottles of wine. sometimes<br>she smashed them. still<br>it was good.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>as down on earth<br>our fleeting evenings<br>turned harder and harder.<br>her love thinner and thinner.<br>their time shorter and shorter.<br>i spun parallel dreams into<br>an extended eternity.<br>through the glass<br>sunlight came.<br>our days warmer<br>and warmer.<br>our skin merging.<br>melted magnets<br>birthing some<br>gay garden<br>of eden.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>who hasn’t endured today<br>for the promise of tomorrow?</br></p><p>the future spun out indefinitely then<br>more gorgeous in its needing to be<br>salvation from my earthly prince.<br>she: arrogant. reckless.<br>handsome. protecting me<br>from all evil but her own.<br>i held out for a benevolent king.<br>who would arrive when the time<br>was right. but to dream silently<br>is to dream stupid.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>for who can trust a dream<br>dreamt alone?</br></p><p>that last fleeting evening<br>she sat across from me.<br>a fallen angel speaking english<br>instead of tongues. like our love<br>something basic. like our touch<br>never heavenly.</br></br></br></br></br></p><p>imagine she said there was <em>no spark</em><br>when i spent days, weeks and months<br>trying to strike a match. only to be met<br>with no oxygen. only splinters.<br>imagine she looked to me for answers<br>to vague and incoherent questions.<br>unable to name the problem<br>she would like solved.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>i sat in front of her. watching my<br>dreams forgotten and foolish<br>as she scrambled for good words<br>and chose only the worst.<br>lips meeting to form<br>intangible sounds<br>of disconnection.</br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>she spoke of love<br>not <em>in </em>love<em>.</em></br></p><p>of princess diaries<br>not bell hooks.</br></p><p>could only ever say<br><em>i don’t like it.</em></br></p><p>and only ever answer<br><em>i don’t know why.</em></br></p><p>her response to<br>my false fairytale then<br>necessarily childlike.<br>it’s true i had<br>wanted a child.<br>would have done<br>most things to<br>someday<br>have one<br>with her.<br>on earth i heard<br>only affirmation<br>ignored all hesitation<br>like Rumpelstiltskin<br>i spun gold with deceptive<br>expectation of payment<br>that never came.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>i called her by her name<br>never expecting she would<br>one day guess mine.<br>it ended there.</br></br></br></p><p>we sat together apart<br>finally exposed in the dark.<br>both of us liars. her eyes said<br>she was done putting out<br>our many little fires.</br></br></br></br></p><p>she couldn’t say what<br>she knew she must. so<br>i unwillingly gave her<br>the unspeakable words.<br>amazed & devastated<br>i watched as she boldly<br>handed me the axe<br>with which to do<br>her deed.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>i swung</p><p>deeply abandoned and relieved.<br>everything i had ever wanted<br>punctured by everything<br>i had tried not to see.<br>impossibly she asked<br>to stay the night.<br>the candle burning<br>at both ends now.<br>my wife a ghost<br>still it was<br>impossible<br>to say no.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>also, i couldn’t bear<br>to watch her leave.</br></p><p>the havoc i might<br>once have wreaked<br>on lovers turned villains<br>was quietened by the baby<br>in her face. the one she had<br>very occasionally<br>let me cradle.</br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>we slept then and<br>both awake<br>i traced our<br>happiest moments<br>onto her face<br>that whole painful night.<br>carelessness illuminated<br>by dim orange light.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>i clung<br>to the outline<br>of the outfit i wore<br>in the park where we met<br>both instantly obsessed.</br></br></br></br></p><p>i sketched the pressure of the way<br>i kissed her by the lake. we had started<br>how we meant to go on.</br></br></p><p>there were so many bodies of water.<br>there were so many bottles of wine.</br></p><p>that birthday way back when<br>i still liked her stush friends.</br></p><p>those first orgasms<br>i stood with her beneath me<br>elevated by her hands<br>to some other dimension.</br></br></br></p><p>the span of light<br>breaking through<br>her childhood room<br>that first morning<br>i believed she was<br>my last ever love.<br>that the thing<br>was sealed<br>and done.<br>she told me it was.<br>she called me her wife.<br>all day. all night.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>tale as old as time but<br>i swear</br></p><p>she said it<br>with her chest.</br></p><p>the dinners we cooked.<br>the way she looked at me.<br>those soapy showers<br>in various airbnbs.<br>cleaning each other's skin.<br>unplaiting each other’s hair.</br></br></br></br></br></p><p>the cabin with the champagne<br>that left me forever changed.<br>the secrets i told her<br>the ones she always kept.</br></br></br></p><p>that time we came in unison<br>and she said, <em>we’re meant</em><br><em>to be together. </em>the places<br>we wanted to go.<br>the places we went.<br>i traced them all till<br>her face grew cold.<br>the connection of skin<br>somehow now severed<br>the person i wanted<br>no longer the person<br>beneath my fingers.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>i traced her lips then<br>willing her to kiss me<br>and eventually she did.<br>but even then<br>on that<br>the last night<br>of our once breathless adventure<br>into the always risky avenues<br>of a shared and promising life<br>it was only with hesitation.<br>only with something gone.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/lucydk.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>I wrote on the day the sadness hits a couple of weeks after a break up. When the pain was still stinging (as it does) and there was much left to process. It’s about our sometimes unfortunate tendency to imagine relationships into the narratives we want for our lives, without always respecting their truths, or limitations. It hurt to feel like I had been sold a dream. But I also had to accept that it was a dream of my own making. One I had held onto at the expense of my reality.
<br><br>
</br></br></br></div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><p/>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Art by Travis Payne]]></title><description><![CDATA[2022 | multimedia Artist’s Note
I'm what you call a multimedia artist. I started out with physical media but
have mostly gone full digital art though I do dip back into physical materials
when I feel the call to. I tend to be inspired by fantasy, sci-fi, and surreal
art movements. In my work, I try to explore the use of line and color. In this
piece, I was thinking about how we as humans in these current times leave traces
of ourselves in those digital spaces. It's ethereal. Life is, too.]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/art-by-travis-payne/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62dc0a7c2ef03d047722ea0c</guid><category><![CDATA[Artwork]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Travis Payne]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 01 Aug 2022 21:05:39 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/travis.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>2022 | multimedia</figcaption></img></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>I'm what you call a multimedia artist. I started out with physical media but have mostly gone full digital art though I do dip back into physical materials when I feel the call to. I tend to be inspired by fantasy, sci-fi, and surreal art movements. In my work, I try to explore the use of line and color. In this piece, I was thinking about how we as humans in these current times leave traces of ourselves in those digital spaces. It's ethereal. Life is, too. <br><br>
</br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[MRI]]></title><description><![CDATA[
Let’s talk about,
the giant tube, the ways
& all the permutations
to keep one’s cool.
& by goes through
& by cool I mean
screaming until the lady
I don't know where the idea
originated, but turns out
Or so says the lady
& I start sliding in.
a loud series of bangs
a clockwork-orangian
rhythms pulsed into
volume-one series
between brief,
of sound wash, as if
& precipitated by curious
Add to this
locking you in
slowly transforming into
for the gestalt of it
of it. Nor
it out or ignore
]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/mri/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62dc022f2ef03d047722e8e3</guid><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Sebastian Matthews]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 01 Aug 2022 21:05:20 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="display: flex; width: 550px;">
<div style="text-align: left; width: 50%;">
Let’s talk about,
the giant tube, the ways
& all the permutations
to keep one’s cool.
& by goes through
& by <i>cool</i> I mean
screaming until the lady
I don't know where the idea
originated, but turns out
Or so says the lady
& I start sliding in.
a loud series of bangs
a clockwork-orangian
rhythms pulsed into
volume-one series
between brief,
of sound wash, as if
& precipitated by curious
Add to this
locking you in
slowly transforming into
for the gestalt of it
of it. Nor
it out or ignore
rising within my body.
playoff race standings
childhood homes
respectively)—& started
Thought that led to
which walked me
of hyperventilation.
counting minutes,
Which got me
where I was conveyor-
to get an IV hook up.
the technician before
Back inside.
There was one interval
matched my counting
for a minute, minute & a half
encompassing my breaths,
me off center, sending me
of disembodied confusion.
…47, 48, 49…
pulling myself to 60
then jumping back
on home, where morning
& the moon rotated
But done what? <i>Piece of cake</i>
It wasn’t until I am back
he last time I had to resort
was when I was stuck
of a crashed car, waiting
To be pulled out of the car
bound for the hospital.
& the MRI
though you couldn’t have
& who knows
it will be. Either way,
this time
</div>
<div style="text-align: right; width: 50%;">
now that I am free
torture gets articulated
one goes through
& by <i>one</i> I mean me
I could say endures. <br>
not losing my shit </br>
comes get me out.
it'd only take 15 minutes
it will be more like 45-50
as she pushes the button
& what was said to be
& alarm bells in reality are
array of techno-jack-hammer
the brain at maximum
switched out for another
saidstically calming periods
held up lightly by clouds
animal-in-the-wall knocks.
the tight squeeze, the headgear
the warm blanket
a hair suit. I was not ready
the pure sensory overload
my inability to drown
the cacophony, nor the panic
I ditched all the stratagems—
tournament seedings
& young adult rentals (10 & 10
counting my breaths.
too-deep breaths
to the precipice edge
Nothing to do but start
1 to 60, in 5-minute blocks.
to the 30-minute mark
belted back into the light
<i>15 minutes to go</i>, chirped
disappearing from view.
Back to counting.
where the cosmic pulse
& so I rode its wave
before it subsumed me
erasing numbers, knocking
down a rabbit hole
Above, I saw cartoon script
I reached up & grabbed hold
resting on its wobbly platform
into the minutes, riding them
light rose over the horizon-line
out of view. I’d done it!
a friend had told me.
in the car that I realize
to counting my breaths
behind the steering wheel
for the EMTs to arrive.
to be placed on the helicopter
Then, it was life or death.
just diagnostic test
convinced me that in there.
maybe it <i>was.</i> Maybe
I’ll be ready
to the best of my ability.
</div>
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>I often write poems straight out of experience, as was the case with "MRI." Directly after leaving the doctor's office, I went to a local taqueria and ordered some tacos and a beer. I pulled out a pen and opened the book I had with me and scribbled out the poem on its blank back pages. I have since worked on the poem, but 90% of what you see here is what I captured at that lunch counter. The poem's structure came to me as I was typing the poem out later that day. <br><br>
</br></br></br></div><!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Time Capsule]]></title><description><![CDATA[The shape of her hands
is the shape of my longing
as she digs into the earth.
She finds the small toys
that burrowed into the soil
next to the vegetables.
In her kitchen, she cradles the cut
from the knife,
her sister brought over
because she needed something
sharper
in case, in case
the vegetables were picked
too raw.
Her family at the table.
Her pockets full of memories,
sagging towards the floor
as she reaches for beets.
Outside, she buried time capsules
with the quiet pieces of her
life –]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/time-capsule/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62daf9b62ef03d047722e7d7</guid><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><category><![CDATA[Photography]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Olena Jennings]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 01 Aug 2022 21:04:58 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>The shape of her hands<br>is the shape of my longing<br>as she digs into the earth.<br>She finds the small toys<br>that burrowed into the soil<br>next to the vegetables.</br></br></br></br></br></p><p>In her kitchen, she cradles the cut<br>from the knife,<br>her sister brought over<br>because she needed something<br>sharper<br>in case, in case</br></br></br></br></br></p><p>the vegetables were picked<br>too raw.<br>Her family at the table.<br>Her pockets full of memories,<br>sagging towards the floor<br>as she reaches for beets.</br></br></br></br></br></p><p>Outside, she buried time capsules<br>with the quiet pieces of her<br>life – the crayon, the Barbie<br>doll head, the pocket of a uniform.<br>My longing is bent toward itself.<br>Toys unearthed, stacked into a basket.</br></br></br></br></br></p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/time-capsule.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>dress designed by Olena Jennings | photograph by Roman Turovsky</figcaption></img></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>“Time capsule” began with the idea of tracing the shape of a hand. That shape is engraved in memories of working in the garden. Physical memories are also buried in the garden. The poem was written first. Then, I looked for a vintage garden fabric that could serve as a skirt. The top of the dress represents a basket in which vegetables and memories are collected. The rope is rough to the touch and encourages one to trace the shape with their fingers. Textile art is my medium. I like that it bridges craft and art. I also like that the dress can embody the voice in the poem. <br><br>
</br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[the calculus of dusk]]></title><description><![CDATA[it has been a problem of numbers
in rows like sunflowers
their sum differences
the size of a space of a letter
to be apart instead of
a part
in isolation we had to watch
the unthinkable
like tiger king and the deer
walking downtown streets
in nashville i’ve grown old
and been born again
ten thousand times
in twenty-four months
the tick tock of everything
at once all the time
like mass multiplied
by the speed of light
above us the wingtips’
tracers blinking the moon
is a raccoon with a st]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/the-calculus-of-dusk/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62daf7b52ef03d047722e78c</guid><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Chet Weise]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 01 Aug 2022 21:04:34 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>it has been a problem of numbers<br>in rows like sunflowers<br>their sum differences<br>the size of a space of a letter<br>to be <em>apart</em> instead of<br><em>a part</em></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>in isolation we had to watch<br>the unthinkable<br>like tiger king and the deer<br>walking downtown streets<br>in nashville i’ve grown old</br></br></br></br></p><p>and been born again<br>ten thousand times<br>in twenty-four months<br>the tick tock of everything<br>at once all the time<br>like mass multiplied<br>by the speed of light<br>above us the wingtips’<br>tracers blinking the moon<br>is a raccoon with a stick<br>through its neck pointed<br>at hidden water: <br>sometimes it’s best to just say a thing<br>look, we’re different now</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>our small imaginary numbers<br>transformed into calculus<br>measuring the infinitesimal changes<br>or the exponential swell of a moment<br>like you and i<br>when we went back to the drive-in<br>and had a coke with milk duds<br>how caramel tasted like sky</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>The poem is my one and only about isolation during COVID-19. The pandemic experience has seen parts striving for the whole. People trying to connect or reconnect to themselves or their community. People trying to understand the totality of the virus and how to navigate it based on partial knowledge. In respect to that, math has become more a part of our daily discussion. Once again, taking parts and hoping to understand the whole. Percentage cases. Exponential growth. Probabilities. Statistics. In the poem, wingtip lights cause visual tracers – trace hints at the larger, unseen airliner. A whole that is real, but hundreds of people zooming through the sky in a metal tube continues to feel like a monumental miracle to me. Despite it all, miracles continue to occur in our everyday life. I find that comforting. After two years of COVID, I also finally appreciate how the small things can grow exponentially into miracle-ness. As William Blake said, "To see a World in a Grain of Sand / And a Heaven in a Wild Flower," or maybe even a milk dud.<br><br>
</br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Self-Portrait]]></title><description><![CDATA[This piece is a scan of a graphite self-portrait I completed in August of 2021. I’ve been interested in self-portraiture since I was very young—in recent years I’ve found the practice both healing and horrifying]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/self-portrait/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62daed5a2ef03d047722e64c</guid><category><![CDATA[Artwork]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Isabella Bruzzese]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 01 Aug 2022 21:04:14 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p/><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/isabelle-self-portrait.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Self-Portrait (2021) | graphite on paper</figcaption></img></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-art">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>This piece is a scan of a graphite self-portrait I completed in August of 2021. I’ve been interested in self-portraiture since I was very young—in recent years, I’ve found the practice both healing and horrifying, as it allows me to investigate/illustrate the often distorted perceptions I have of my body.<Br><br>
</br></Br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[equinox in big sur]]></title><description><![CDATA[i.
dawn under redwoods looks like
deep night;
any change of light is obscured by
one thousand years
of silent perseverance–
burn marks slashed across maroon trunks,
the patient stalwart grows ever upward
between pushing modernity
distant whispers of traffic
and the rushing pacific
a brother in solemn certainty.
dawn under redwoods,
when owls and jays,
once a day,
harmonize.
tucked in hooded shadows,
mournful baritones of the Great Horned God
sings itself into a sunrise slumber;
the last stret]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/equinox-in-big-sur/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62daf2332ef03d047722e6b8</guid><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><category><![CDATA[The True]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Brynna Hall]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 01 Aug 2022 21:03:49 GMT</pubDate><media:content url="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Screen-Shot-2022-08-09-at-9.20.57-PM_.png" medium="image"/><content:encoded><![CDATA[<img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Screen-Shot-2022-08-09-at-9.20.57-PM_.png" alt="equinox in big sur"/><p>i. </p><p>dawn under redwoods looks like<br>deep night;<br>any change of light is obscured by<br>one thousand years<br>of silent perseverance–<br>burn marks slashed across maroon trunks,<br>the patient stalwart grows ever upward<br>between pushing modernity<br> distant whispers of traffic<br>and the rushing pacific<br> a brother in solemn certainty.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>dawn under redwoods,<br>when owls and jays,<br>once a day,<br>harmonize.<br>tucked in hooded shadows,<br>mournful baritones of the Great Horned God<br>sings itself into a sunrise slumber;<br>the last stretch<br> next to the glowing moon over the western pines<br>of night.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>Steller's Jays <br>tear neon blue cuts across a lavender sky<br>and promise the forest of the rising splendor –<br>shrill cries echo through <br>a kaleidoscope of branches,<br> ‘the day!’ they call, ‘it comes!’</br></br></br></br></br></p><p>the sky moves slowly:<br>black,<br>grey,<br>abalones on the beach at dusk,<br>the innermost petal on a lilac, <br>the smell of the first bloom of tea roses,<br>children’s laughter,<br>and finally,<br>blue.<br/></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>ii. </p><p>at the edge of the earth, God put a patio.</p><p>there, the pacific is the width of the world<br>and the sun bleeds on cresting waves<br>with such painful intensity<br>that I want to look away but<br>I do not.</br></br></br></br></p><p>cragged cliffs pour themselves<br>into the splintered sea,<br>like a call to prayer at high noon;<br>turquoise rips across kelpy darkness<br>and the sky pales beside <br>the thrusting waves -<br>the sacrificial singer of earth’s loudest song,<br>gregorian chants in salt<br>and brine.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>overhead, <br>a shadow<br>passes,<br>the sun darkens<br>to pay his respects;<br>have you ever looked directly at God?</br></br></br></br></br></p><p>the wings alone might throw us into eternal night;<br>whispers of extinction,<br>spectres of lead and steel<br>smell of rust and blood; create<br>the shape of destruction;<br>the shape of man;</br></br></br></br></br></p><p>the California Condor<br>soars westward and, for a moment,<br>silences even the waves.</br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>The California Condor once flew in the thousands across the Pacific coast of the United States. But they were placed on the endangered species list in 1967, largely due to lead poisoning from irresponsible hunting and improper disposal of animal carcasses. In 1980, there were fewer than ten California Condors left in the world. After one of the most successful species revitalization projects in history, today over 300 Condors fly along the California coast. On Spring Equinox, at the edge of a cliff in Big Sur, I saw one flying in the wild. I’ve never been so close (at hundreds of feet away!) to something so nearly lost from all of us; mere traces of this species are still all that remain, and yet it remains; it flies, in spite of us all. This poem is my homage to a creature and a place that are stark, vicious, otherworldly, and yet on the edge, existing in fragments of what they once were, as so many of us are. <br><br>
</br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Cartoons for Issue 4 by Brooke Bourgeois]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Artist’s Note
Brooke is a cartoonist and illustrator who primarily finds inspiration at the
intersection of unlikely themes. She is constantly ‘searching’ for jokes that
are specifically suited to visual anchors, and this often involves re-imagining
historical periods, fairy tale characters, and even cartoon tropes. In the
collection of cartoons she has provided for this issue, she explores this meta
theme of searching in her practice while each individual cartoon employs
searching on a micr]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/cartoons-for-issue-4/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62daf15a2ef03d047722e6a5</guid><category><![CDATA[Cartoon]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Brooke Bourgeois]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 01 Aug 2022 21:03:21 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/brooke1.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/brooke2.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/brooke3.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/brooke4.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/brooke5.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/brooke6.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/brooke7.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-art">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>Brooke is a cartoonist and illustrator who primarily finds inspiration at the intersection of unlikely themes. She is constantly ‘searching’ for jokes that are specifically suited to visual anchors, and this often involves re-imagining historical periods, fairy tale characters, and even cartoon tropes. In the collection of cartoons she has provided for this issue, she explores this meta theme of searching in her practice while each individual cartoon employs searching on a micro level somehow: searching the internet, searching for love, searching for a way out of desert island, searching for purpose.
</br></div><!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Views from Concord]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Artist’s Note
The images featured in this issue are from my series Transcendental Concord
(Radius Books, 2018). The series is a visual interpretation of
transcendentalism: a literary, philosophical, and social movement that developed
from a community in Concord, Massachusetts. Through this project—which involved
equal parts photographing, walking, and reading—I sought to pay homage to the
transcendentalists and make images that reflect their philosophy. Over the
course of a year, I explored]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/views-from-walden-woods/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62daece52ef03d047722e63f</guid><category><![CDATA[Photography]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Lisa McCarty]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 01 Aug 2022 21:02:36 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/lisa1_.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/lisa2_.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/lisa3_.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-art">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>The images featured in this issue are from my series <i>Transcendental Concord </i> (Radius Books, 2018). The series is a visual interpretation of transcendentalism: a literary, philosophical, and social movement that developed from a community in Concord, Massachusetts. Through this project—which involved equal parts photographing, walking, and reading—I sought to pay homage to the transcendentalists and make images that reflect their philosophy. Over the course of a year, I explored the landscape that inspired them as well as where they lived and wrote.<Br><br>
While on these pilgrimages, I photographed specific places in Concord referenced in transcendentalist writings. I photographed <i>simply,</i> wandering on foot with a film camera. I photographed <i>deliberately,</i> with reverence toward the natural world, observing variations large and small in the environment. And I photographed <i>experimentally,</i> incorporating long exposures as well as camera movement from photographing while walking. Although I never expected to see exactly what the transcendentalists saw, I hoped to feel something of what they felt, searching the landscape for traces of history and a sense of interconnection.
</br></Br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Letter to the Reader]]></title><description><![CDATA[Dear Reader,
Last December when we announced a new Editor-in-Chief, we also announced that
instead of publishing Symposeum quarterly, we would publish twice a year: in the
summer and in the winter. We would still experiment with form, explore new
themes, and curate content that we deemed worth your time—and we believe we’ve
stayed true to these priorities. We also assured ourselves and our readers that
our 1840 roots would likewise continue to root us in soil fertilized by a
hopeful spirit.
Wi]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/letter-to-the-reader-issue-4/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62daf1ed2ef03d047722e6b0</guid><category><![CDATA[Letter]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[The Editors]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 01 Aug 2022 21:00:28 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>Dear Reader,</p><p>Last December when we announced a new Editor-in-Chief, we also announced that instead of publishing <em>Symposeum </em>quarterly, we would publish twice a year: in the summer and in the winter. We would still experiment with form, explore new themes, and curate content that we deemed worth your time—and we believe we’ve stayed true to these priorities. We also assured ourselves and our readers that our 1840 roots would likewise continue to <em>root</em> <em>us </em>in soil fertilized by a hopeful spirit.</p><p>With these commitments front and center, we’re excited to bring you our first issue of 2022 and fourth issue of <em>Symposeum. </em> In the pages that follow, while you’ll recognize echoes of our publication’s past and earlier incarnations, this issue looks and feels different than the rest. </p><p>Our Issue Four theme is “Trace.” </p><p>When it first entered the written lexicon some seven hundred years ago, the word “trace” meant “to follow,” “to outline,” or “to ponder." We chose it as our issue theme because it reproduces the Transcendentalists’ praxis of “rational optimism, as well as beckons us to engage the world around us through critical inquiry despite our present moment’s feverish pitch. </p><p>But still, what is a <em>trace</em>? A trace may be small. A trace can be significant. There are traces of events, memories or relationships that linger with us. There are traces in successes and failures that hint to something bigger or brighter on the horizon. We also leave our own traces on others. </p><p>The works curated in this issue explore these musings and questions. Try to approach each piece with this lens in mind; see for yourself what there is to discover, and what “traces” they leave behind. </p><p>The cover art by Bryce Cobb was commissioned especially for this issue of <em>Symposeum</em>. For Bryce, reflections on “trace” kept circling back to lineage and legacy. His cover art illustrates just this: the artist tracing his lineage through his father and brother. </p><p>We are especially proud this issue to showcase Ukrainian authors and others deeply affected by current global events. Plutarch warned centuries ago that it is “so very difficult a matter” to trace history for truth, but we commend these contributors for their pursuit of truth amidst international toil.</p><p> <em>Dana Kanafina, a writer from Kazakhstan, shares an essay about her country’s coming-to-terms with Russia’s colonial legacy.</em></p><p> <em>Professor Victoria Juharyan offers us three poems that trace Slavic culture through various artistic domains.</em></p><p> <em>Dzvinia Orlowsky and Ali Kinsella translate Natalka Bilotserkivets’ poems from Ukrainian.</em></p><p> <em>Olena Jennings, a Ukrainian poet, contemplates in Time Capsule how objects and shapes influence memory.</em></p><p> <em>Alina Zubkovych pens a stirring essay on her own experiences of the war from Kharkiv, Ukraine.</em></p><p>There is much cause for despair—from wars and shootings to hunger and disease—but despair alone mends nothing. No matter the <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/51642/invictus" rel="noopener noreferrer">“Horror of the shade”</a>, to quote the poet William Ernst Henley, we remain convinced of our species’ indomitable spirit. Join us, then, in this issue’s attempt to gather and trace what good yet abounds around us.</p><p>We invite you to look at each piece individually, collectively, and creatively with “trace” as both a point of launching-off and rallying-around. Finally, as this is our latest attempt at an issue during our new chapter as a publication and project, we welcome your honest feedback: what you loved, what you missed, what could be better. Feel free to drop us a note at symposeum@thedial.us. Happy reading!</p><p>In hope,</p><p><strong>Ali Kominsky,</strong><em> </em>Editor-in-Chief, <em>Symposeum</em></p><p><strong>Rachel Hone</strong>, Founder, <a href="http://api.symposeum.us/p/9a86a766-24ff-4122-8b33-dc3e9046e1c8/www.thedial.us">The Dial </a>project<br/></p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Pathways to our Past]]></title><description><![CDATA[The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and loitering.
—Walt Whitman
The winter winds arrive late in November. The icy exhalation from the north
barges into my yard, breaches the garden walls, and creeps ever so slightly into
the soil. Snow begins to fall, and beneath the surface, water, life, and its
associated memory becomes frozen in time. From above, a distant, warning honk
grows louder until an airborne fleet of geese arrive from the north to signal
the beginnin]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/pathways-to-our-past/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62dad2062ef03d047722e3fd</guid><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Adam Syty]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Fri, 22 Jul 2022 16:45:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><em>The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and loitering. </em>—Walt Whitman</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">T</span>
he winter winds arrive late in November. The icy exhalation from the north barges into my yard, breaches the garden walls, and creeps ever so slightly into the soil. Snow begins to fall, and beneath the surface, water, life, and its associated memory becomes frozen in time. From above, a distant, warning honk grows louder until an airborne fleet of geese arrive from the north to signal the beginning of a homeward retreat.
</p> <!--kg-card-end: html--><p>As the northern snow and cold pushes us inward, we are forced to gather around the fire, tell our stories, and reflect on the passing year. Without the worries of lawn maintenance and external upkeep, I can begin to trim the weeds of my mind and let the seeds of my past take root. Lately, I’ve wrangled most with the idea of home. The geese, who seem to find their way back each winter, have no trouble following the ancestral pathways of their past back home. Have the geese started using Google maps? Do they follow the South Mountain star to Bethlehem? And what if there is no pathway back home? What if a 500,000 square foot warehouse has been erected on your ancestral fields? And what if home isn’t a physical place but an idea—like a game where we are searching for connections and a way to ground our past memories with our present positions?</p><p>Recently, Sarah (my six year old daughter), and I have started playing the game, <em>Memory</em>. When we play, she quickly gets flustered if she can’t find the matches. I try to explain that memory takes time to develop. She needs more practice. The memories are there—she just needs to find the pathway. It’s a conversation I had with my student, Emma. She was worried she had missed too many important familial moments while engaged in hours of gymnastics practice and competition. <em>No</em>, I tried to explain; <em>the memories are all there - you just can’t see them clearly enough yet</em>. <em>Wait. Be patient. Give it time. Let them grow.</em> We must leave the present to understand the past. It’s too fresh; too new—the dust still needs to settle like a creek whose silt has been suddenly disturbed. Let the waters of time carry the silt away and then the view will become clear.</p><p>While much of my own young childhood is hazy, I distinctly remember the orange and brown hues of our version of <em>Memory</em>. I remember spreading out the hundred square cards across our porcelain tiled kitchen table, and I remember playing the game after dinner with my father and my younger brothers who would sometimes get frustrated and quit mid-game. If I won, it was probably more out of occasional luck than skill. My geospatial memory always seemed to fail me mid-game. I would turn over a card I distinctly remembered being an ice cream cone, only to find a white goose, a beetle, a painting, or a green dinosaur. I too would get lost among the many memories scattered randomly about.</p><p>I still get lost easily. I can never remember street names and often have to backtrack like I did last summer on a run at Cape Cod. I turned left twice to head home, but somehow ended up two miles further down the coast and finally had to run home on the uneven, wet shoreline. Additionally, I had to stop half way to ask a parking attendant what road I had exited on. Every beach entrance had the same food and ice cream advertisement in the middle of the pathway, so each exit looked tantalizingly like the way home. Even my GPS watch seemed to be lying to me about the return distance, so I’m often amazed that anything can find its way home amidst all the changes and unmarked turns of life.</p><p>Every November, as if the meeting had been scheduled in advance, a blizzard of Snow Geese arrive from somewhere up north, circle my neighborhood, and land in the open field behind my neighbor’s house. The first time I woke up one unsuspecting morning to this noisy alarm, I was quite confused because I thought it had snowed heavily over the field but nowhere else. I watched in amazement as suddenly the blizzard would rise up and return to the clouds as if time was reversing itself. I blinked a few times as if dreaming, and when I looked again, the only remnant of that dream was a muted honking and a faint white mirage of snow covered hills in the distance. To me, this yearly goose-blizzard is a haunting remembrance of the snows I tried to leave behind, but to these weary northern travelers, the field and the nearby quarries they spend the night in are home during this perennial holiday retreat.</p><p>The reassurance of a home to return to is something I once took for granted. After high school, I tried my best to flee the Buffalo, New York snow and wind that blew daily from the great lakes onto my car, the roads, the track, and everything I preferred to be uncovered from December until March. I wanted nothing to do with this gray, solemn season. To my younger self, Buffalo wasn’t a home - it was a desolate place, empty of life, bereft of meaning, and far from the much warmer southern locales or more literary east coast.</p><p>So I left. I flew south and landed in the fields of Lewisburg, Pennsylvania where it occasionally snowed, but was often reasonably seasonal and felt full of much more potential for growth and change. But as the years went by, I felt a surprising pull to return home. The roads, the traditions, my family, and even the poorly performing Buffalo Bills all seemed to call my attention back to the homeland. This was initially a strange feeling of loss because I had tried so hard to detach myself from that place that I never expected the magnetism of it would pull me back. Suddenly, I found myself excitedly returning each Thanksgiving to run the local turkey trot that served as a reunion for the diaspora of others who, like me, had attempted to escape this frozen tundra.</p><p>All 12,000 of us would run, frolic, or dance our way down Delaware Avenue as we noisily and often boisterously returned en masse to the city we left behind. We would then engage in a bit of a class reunion in the crowded convention center. Groups would exchange stories, tell tales of adventure, reconnect with old friends, drink copious Labatt Blue, sing along to the Goo Goo Dolls and The Tragically Hip, and then head home as the beginning of Arlo Guntherie’s long winded “Alice’s Restaurant Massacre'' began its traditional 12pm Thanksgiving rotation on 97 Rock.</p><p>My trips back to Buffalo were always brief and full of the various rendezvous that come with a divorced family, but each year the time there felt shorter and shorter and my desire to return grew increasingly from the deeply rooted nostalgia within me. As the memories scattered and spread across my mind over the years, I found that I knew less and less people in the convention center post turkey trot, and our Sunday morning pre-departure family brunch at the Pancake House grew smaller and smaller. As these losses piled up and my own family became settled elsewhere, the memories I had of Buffalo stubbornly persisted. Sometimes we have to leave a place to understand it. We have to step back from the daily monotony of that old life to reflect on and separate the pieces of value hidden within that multifaceted experience. At first, there are simply too many cards on the table, and they are all upside down and meaningless, but as those cards are slowly turned over, and the pictures begin to return and invoke memories since passed, those individual cards are suddenly imbued with meaning that grows as time passes and connections can be made.</p><p>I’ll often be washing the dishes or walking around a corner when suddenly a memory from the past bursts into my mind. I’m never sure what scent or mysterious vibration of the universe unhinged it, but instantly I’m overtaken by a brief, vivid, and fleeting recollection of a place and time: an old stone wall I would pass on my way to Cheltenham, the white and green victorian house on Germantown Ave, the old rail bridge on the Peanut Line, and many other past recollections I never paid much attention to. These mysterious neural pathways that lead us back mentally to our past are also byproducts of leaving.</p><p>On an unplanned return to Buffalo, I attended the funeral of my mom’s boyfriend. He was a man who knew more about what happened on that day than any single encyclopedia could ever muster. With a dash of humor and sarcasm, he would occasionally come in and out of my life over the years as a passenger with my mom. So these occasional moments over the last fifteen years had left me with a glimmer of emotional connection to this man who had unexpectedly passed and was now prostrate in front of many family and friends.</p><p>Rick loved the Beatles, and this love inspired his son Ricky to learn to play the guitar. His son lovingly played a rendition of “Black Bird” at the funeral and the memory and overwhelming emotion of the moment vibrated throughout the funeral home. The ability of music and sound to call us home and help us find our way back is another feat of the mind; it’s as if we can follow the wavelength back to a place or memory we’ve lost. The rediscovery can be emotional as it rushes through us and we reconnect with all its pieces and fragments that fall from that great bag of memories hidden deep within us. The tragedies, the celebrations, and all the moments and feelings we’ve forgotten, locked away, or hidden suddenly spill out and we try not to step on or break these delicate reflections of ourselves and the time we can not get back.</p><p>Sometimes, when I step momentarily into the star-lit darkness of the night, I can hear the solitary honk of a few geese returning home. I hear their lonely and searching honk repeating like a metronome as they depart into the distance, and then there is stillness. The moment freezes and coalescences. A lingering breath—atoms of oxygen—fuse with the water of memory and become a crystal bridge between the past and present. I can recall that fleeting hieroglyphic, but where was it amongst these scattered and unturned memories? Sometimes what we’re looking for is right in front of us, but we don’t know we’re looking for it yet. It beckons us, and calls to us, but we struggle to translate its message of recollection.</p><p>This was true of a print in my classroom. I’ve had a wintry scene of a few geese landing amidst a field of snow next to my classroom door for years and haven’t thought much about it. The print is a copy of my father in law’s painting. He was a painter of many natural scenes and occurrences: owls, pheasants, cardinals, and even the lowly geese made their way into the fields of his mind. Unfortunately, he passed away many years ago. He struggled to find his way home in his mind and so took another path. In remembrance, I took a few of his prints, and over the years they have migrated to my classroom and have landed on various walls.</p><p>Every winter morning, as if my classroom walls have suddenly taken flight, thousands of brown and white geese begin their daily air commute to Nazareth’s empty corn and soy fields. Formations of capital and lowercase “V”s soar across the entire length of the sky as they emerge ceaselessly from the distance, while a honking buzz echoes from a local quarry and penetrates the tranquil silence of the frozen mornings. Later, I watch from my classroom window as large cargo planes will ripple through the same sky and descend with packages that will be shipped from the ever-rising local warehouses. Finally, trucks will noisily rumble toward New York City and other eastern destinations from our growing transport hub. Everything is coming and going along these ancient and invisible pathways of our past. It’s as if the universe inhales and exhales each morning, leaving only a faint contrail lingering in the cold December sky as the geese and planes repeat their primordial ritual of survival and search for sustenance.</p><p>Until recently, I never thought much about the geese in Chet's landscape paintings. Chet had been a hunter, first by necessity, and second by hobby. Surely a man of quiet mornings in the fields and woods would understand the nature of birds and other animals better than those of us who merely exist in their midst. So it was fitting that as I passed his painting one morning, I finally understood its solemn significance. Its muted grays, the birds’ spread wings, the farmhouse in the distance; it was a return home. Not a vacation or a jubilant trip, but a return out of necessity, survival, and continuance. A trip he surely would’ve understood given his own need to provide food for his brother and later his own family. This need arose from his own unfortunate thrust into adulthood at a young age. I’m sure the loss of his father left him with a solemn understanding of the harsh realities of life, but also made the memory of those hunts for food all the more important and spiritual. The yearly landing of the geese, the fallen snow, the early morning silence and solace of the universe, and the pull and tug of those past memories lost to the ages and whispers of the dry rattling leaves. It’s all there in the painting if you look for it.</p><p>Home, and our memory of it, can be transitory, and it can shift out of necessity. We never forget our first home as we move to other places, but I think we’re always searching for solid ground to build on. I have few relics of my family’s Polish past and only a lingering remembrance of the taste and smell of the pizzelles my great grandmother, Nana, would have ready in her small kitchen. We would stop by her split-level home, and I would often hang out on the steps that led to her upstairs neighbor’s apartment. On those steps was a magic eight ball that beckoned me to shake it and ask it fun, childish questions. In hindsight, I wish I had known the right questions to ask about my family's past, and I wish I could’ve understood my great grandmother as her mind retreated back to her Polish language in those final years, but we are often too young or naive to see the path backward. So we head in the opposite direction, the weeds grow, and the path becomes lost to the woods.</p><p>Prior to her passing, my aunt Gale left my brothers and me scrap books filled with pictures and assorted memories of our past. She worked sporadically on these beautifully bound treasure chests of memories while constantly fighting off a cancer that refused to exit her body. This understanding of death probably gave her, like Chet, a better understanding of memory. When life is fleeting, the past must become clearer. Those lonely and erratic flickers of visions must become vivid. The fear of losing them and taking them away must be one of constant trepidation. There is no service to collect our memories upon passing - so if we’ve held them too close they’ll simply travel away on the winds of time, passing along with whatever path our spirit follows.</p><p>Today, looking through those assorted cards, ancient family pictures, SAT scores, and other found items of my childhood always brings me back to a happy past of unknown potential. One memory leads to the next, like a series of cards that keep matching, leading to match after match until the memory pathway is exhausted or some disruption breaks the momentary focus. What seemed so clear becomes fleeting and the woods become dense. There is a brief echo, a lonely and wild whisper from the distance, darkness settles in my mind and then, like the geese who are carried away by the warm winds of spring, it is gone. It makes me think I should leave the last cards for Sarah the next time we play <em>Memory</em>. My ego could handle a loss or two. Maybe she’ll remember these last fragments of memory one day when she plays with her own kids and the first card she turns over is the picture of a father.</p><p>Sarah, who during first grade recess, is currently excavating dinosaur bones she believes she has discovered in the back of her elementary school. She told me she’ll have the head out tomorrow and the leg the next day. She and her friends are working feverishly, fifteen dedicated recess minutes per day, to unearth this ancient fossil that has somehow managed to go unnoticed to generations of kids who have run over and around it. Maybe the memories of our past, like these bones, lie sleepily beneath earthen years of forgetful dust. If we look closely we might just see the sprouting seeds and remember the sounds of those wild, distant calls. And if we can follow them amidst the busy world around us, we must look with the curious eyes of a child who is searching for dinosaur bones under the same dirt we all have run over many times before. We may have missed the memories the first time we looked, but they remain, waiting quietly while the world turns, and someday we will unearth them, discover them with wild imagination, and dig and dig and dig them out from the deep recesses of our past to find our way home.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Shapes of Love]]></title><description><![CDATA[ As a teenager, love had been clearly laid out for me in church services and
Bible studies. Love was sacrifice, it was sometimes difficult, it endured all
burdens, it was outlined clearly in the Bible. Then there were the implicit
definitions, too: love was something you usually found between age twenty and
thirty; it happened when God ordained it, it should be acted on (marriage) as
soon as possible.
When I first fell in love with Nico, it felt nothing like I thought I was
supposed to feel.
T]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/shapes-of-love/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__62dacb0f2ef03d047722e3a1</guid><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 4 - Trace]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Lena Mazel]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Fri, 22 Jul 2022 16:16:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">A</span>
s a teenager, love had been clearly laid out for me in church services and Bible studies. Love was sacrifice, it was sometimes difficult, it endured all burdens, it was outlined clearly in the Bible. Then there were the implicit definitions, too: love was something you usually found between age twenty and thirty; it happened when God ordained it, it should be acted on (marriage) as soon as possible.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>When I first fell in love with Nico, it felt nothing like I thought I was supposed to feel.</p><p>The people I knew talked endlessly of their future spouses. There was especially a practice of preparing to meet “future husbands.” We sat up in dorm rooms and in coffee shops talking about, writing to, and most importantly praying for, these hypothetical men.</p><p>This definition of love was easy to understand and easy to follow. You met someone decent enough, checked that you had compatible beliefs, avoided being alone together too often, and then got married.</p><p>But in 2016, when the search for future husbands reached a fever pitch all around me, I fell in love. I was on a year abroad at Oxford University; we met at a Christmas party.</p><p>Falling in love felt both unexpected and inevitable. It was inconvenient and new, yet unmistakable. The sleepless nights, the looking around endlessly for his car, the daydreaming. But falling in love felt nothing like I had been told it would. Between the ages of sixteen and twenty two, I had been told that love felt like sacrifice, like righteousness. And it didn’t feel like that at all.</p><p>Falling in love with Nico was easy: he was kind, honest, funny, open-minded. Perhaps most significantly, I sensed a deep understanding between us, even early-on.</p><p>But if this was love, what was the thing I had learned about in all those church services through young adulthood?</p><p>When I met Nico, I was going to a Bible study led by a woman—we'll call her Kate. Kate and I were close, and met up each week to catch up. We often walked the long path of Magdalen College gardens, and one week I told her I was developing a raging, undeniable crush on someone—not someone from church, but a boy from my ballet class.</p><p>In response, Kate said I shouldn’t see him again, and stopped on the path as we overlooked a duck pond. She turned away, facing the water, and told me about her own year abroad, when she had fallen in love with a Nicaraguan man who had asked her to run away with him. But she had already been engaged to someone from our church. “It was the most romantic moment of my life,” she told me. “But I knew it wasn’t right.” So she turned away from the brilliant sunset overlooking the Panama Canal and went home. </p><p>I didn’t ask her if she regretted it. Her words spoke of absolute certainty, but when I tried to imagine myself in her position, I felt a deep ambivalence. </p><p>When Kate looked over the Panama Canal, I imagine that devotion was what her decision was really about: to stay devoted to the certain, to the right—or to turn towards the unknown. </p><p>When it came time to make that decision for myself, I didn’t want to choose devotion; I wanted to choose love. </p><p>What was the difference between devotion and love? To me, the difference was that love looked different to everyone. Devotion, on the other hand, had a clearly defined set of characteristics.</p><p>To be devoted to something meant a commitment to it through the good times and the bad—no matter what. Devotion refined you as if by fire. It was a trial for a worthy object.</p><p>Sometimes, devotion didn’t even need to be for a person: it could be for an idea instead; the idea of marriage, the idea of commitment, the idea of holiness.</p><p>For some, devotion could be good. That loyalty—for an art form, for a set of ideals, for a path you had laid out for your life—could give clarity and focus.</p><p>But devotion had its dangers.</p><p>Devotion made it possible to “love” your future spouse before even meeting them; to pray for that person, to be implicitly loyal to that person. But devotion to an imaginary person had its dangers—it could make you ignore their very real flaws when they did show up. Devotion, not love, is what kept many of my friends in relationships with “righteous” men who cheated on them. And devotion kept my friends in relationships with men who told us women were built to submit to male authority, that men always had the last word in an argument.</p><p>I too was devoted to this vague idea of righteousness. And when I met Nico, an agnostic, I had to weigh love against devotion and decide: which was more important?</p><p>My church at the time forbade interfaith dating. At church, the world was evenly cleaved into future husbands and non-future husbands, believers and non-believers, and love couldn’t shift this impersonal calculation. At least, it didn’t for most of my friends.</p><p>It took me a while to realize I could step out of that paradigm, that love wasn’t defined for me by an external source. Again, it was devotion that kept me in church as my friends told me Nico and I would both go to hell, that they prayed for us to break up, that I was no longer fit to mentor other students or be trusted to give advice. But then it was love that got me out; love showed me a kinder, more accepting way to see myself and others. Love said, this isn’t how real friendship works.</p><p>Out of the narrative, I felt lost. My Christian friends got married, and I watched on social media. My friends from church became schoolteachers and youth pastors. We sent long, intense, argumentative messages back and forth, then lost touch. </p><p>I often wondered about the people I knew who had imagined their future spouse for so long. When they finally looked at that person at the altar, did they see them at all? Or did they simply see a reflection of their own desires, solidified by years of praying and journaling; a collage of righteousness and perfection. </p><p>At times I still felt devotion’s shadow. The narrative was strong and compelling: that you could convince yourself to be in love with an idea, regardless of the real. An idea is safe and perfect; it doesn’t require any choices. I was devoted to the idea of that safe narrative: meeting someone young with all the same beliefs, getting married on an accelerated timeline with the approval of everyone, becoming a wife (as if being a “wife” meant something new—anything other than my current self, but married). I was so devoted to the timeline someone else had set out in my head that when I did fall in love, it felt confusing and new.</p><p>But the love Nico and I have was real—it was real enough to help me see through the definition of love I had inherited from religion. And it opened the door to other loves, too, ones I had been told to ignore in favor of the love that looked like righteousness. We moved in together and adopted two parrots. I took pole dancing classes and bought a deck of tarot cards. I became softer, less judgmental.</p><p>When I look back at the decision to devotion and love, I like to imagine a shadow-life, a life where I had made the opposite decision. In this life, I am still in church, I have not lost friends, I have the certainty of community and a predetermined, supposedly holy life plan. But in this shadow-life I know I would be deeply, desperately unhappy. Devotion would have made me more holy, but it wouldn’t have changed me.</p><p>Only love could do that.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Views from Walden Woods: A Triptych]]></title><description><![CDATA[Left to Right: Autumn, View from the Emerson-Thoreau Amble (2018) | Autumn, View
from Walden Woods (2018) | Concord Grape Vine, Ralph Waldo Emerson House (2018)
Artist’s Note
The images featured in this issue are from my series Transcendental Concord
(Radius Books, 2018). The series is a visual interpretation of
transcendentalism: a literary, philosophical, and social movement that developed
from a community in Concord, Massachusetts. Through this project—which involved
equal parts photogra]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/triptych-of-walden-woods/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__6186583ae77d0504782d311d</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 3 - Searching]]></category><category><![CDATA[The True]]></category><category><![CDATA[Photography]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Lisa McCarty]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 09 Nov 2021 14:42:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-gallery-card kg-width-wide kg-card-hascaption"><div class="kg-gallery-container"><div class="kg-gallery-row"><div class="kg-gallery-image"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/lisa3_.jpg" width="1200" height="943" alt=""/></div><div class="kg-gallery-image"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/lisa1_.jpg" width="1200" height="943" alt=""/></div><div class="kg-gallery-image"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/lisa2_.jpg" width="1200" height="943" alt=""/></div></div></div><figcaption>Left to Right: <em><em>Autumn</em></em>, View from the Emerson-Thoreau Amble (2018) | <em><em>Autumn</em></em>, View from Walden Woods (2018) | <em><em>Concord Grape Vine</em></em>, Ralph Waldo Emerson House (2018)</figcaption></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-art">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>The images featured in this issue are from my series <i>Transcendental Concord </i> (Radius Books, 2018). The series is a visual interpretation of transcendentalism: a literary, philosophical, and social movement that developed from a community in Concord, Massachusetts. Through this project—which involved equal parts photographing, walking, and reading—I sought to pay homage to the transcendentalists and make images that reflect their philosophy. Over the course of a year, I explored the landscape that inspired them as well as where they lived and wrote.<Br><br>
While on these pilgrimages, I photographed specific places in Concord referenced in transcendentalist writings. I photographed <i>simply,</i> wandering on foot with a film camera. I photographed <i>deliberately,</i> with reverence toward the natural world, observing variations large and small in the environment. And I photographed <i>experimentally,</i> incorporating long exposures as well as camera movement from photographing while walking. Although I never expected to see exactly what the transcendentalists saw, I hoped to feel something of what they felt, searching the landscape for traces of history and a sense of interconnection.
</br></Br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Reaching for the Stars]]></title><description><![CDATA[Reaching for the Stars, micron pen on illustration board, 10" x 8", 2021American
Dream, photograph, 10" x 8", 2021 Artist’s Note
For so many people, America represents a place of new beginnings and new
opportunities. That’s why in 2007, my family traveled over 8,000 miles to
America from our hometown of Kerala, India. Like so many immigrants, we came to
America in the search of better education, better job opportunities, and a
better life for me and my brother. My parents had to work tireless]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/reaching-for-the-stars/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__61866aac2ef03d047722de0f</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 3 - Searching]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Necessary]]></category><category><![CDATA[Artwork]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Samantha George]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 09 Nov 2021 14:42:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/samantha-pontilism.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption><em>Reaching for the Stars</em>, micron pen on illustration board, 10" x 8", 2021</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/samantha-photo.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption><em>American Dream</em>, photograph, 10" x 8", 2021</figcaption></img></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-art">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>For so many people, America represents a place of new beginnings and new opportunities. That’s why in 2007, my family traveled over 8,000 miles to America from our hometown of Kerala, India. Like so many immigrants, we came to America in the search of better education, better job opportunities, and a better life for me and my brother. My parents had to work tirelessly to build themselves a home. Yet through this struggle, we've built ourselves not only a home but a life: a life that, in all likelihood, we could not have replicated or enjoyed back in India. <Br><br>
In my artwork, I sought to capture this search for the American Dream that many immigrants and minority communities hope for but often struggle to achieve. Still, their determination to provide a better life for themselves, for their families, and for future generations is unflinching, even in the face of tribulation. Whether from India like my family, whether from Afghanistan like thousands of our newest neighbors, or whether from across the Mexican border, those who seek to call America "home" should be welcomed with hands as open as theirs that—like the photo—are reaching out.
</br></Br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Series of paintings for Symposeum by Lucy Villeneuve]]></title><description><![CDATA[Lemonade, acrylic on canvas, 20" x 24" (2021)Currently, acrylic on canvas, 20" x
24" (2021)Sunday, acrylic on canvas, 20" x 24" (2021)Marshmallow, acrylic on
canvas, 20" x 24" (2021)Yurt, acrylic on canvas, 16" x 20" (2021) Artist’s Note
I have spent so much of my life planning and organizing chaos as an attempt to
feel in control. Thus, my studies in Buddhism, and specifically the Taoist art
of wu wei have felt like a rewiring. Infusing wu wei into my practice, I am
along for the ride while ]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/art-by-lucy-villeneuve/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__61865ae7e77d0504782d313f</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 3 - Searching]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><category><![CDATA[Artwork]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Lucy Villeneuve]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 09 Nov 2021 14:42:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/COVER---Lemonade.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption><em>Lemonade</em>, acrylic on canvas, 20" x 24" (2021)</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Currently--1-.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption><em>Currently</em>, acrylic on canvas, 20" x 24" (2021)</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Sunday--1-.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption><em>Sunday</em>, acrylic on canvas, 20" x 24" (2021)</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Marshmallow.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption><em>Marshmallow</em>, acrylic on canvas, 20" x 24" (2021)</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Yurt.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption><em>Yurt</em>, acrylic on canvas, 16" x 20" (2021)</figcaption></img></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-art">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>I have spent so much of my life planning and organizing chaos as an attempt to feel in control. Thus, my studies in Buddhism, and specifically the Taoist art of <i>wu wei</i> have felt like a rewiring. Infusing <i>wu wei</i> into my practice, I am along for the ride while also driving. The lines, shapes, and colors have a conversation, a song, a dance that I look for and honor—it’s a slippery in-betweenness just outside my grasp. As I attempt to balance the scale between intention and nonsense, I meet myself wherever I am on my canvas. My pieces, too, come with me: into my bedroom as I sleep, next to the kitchen table as I eat. Like a dissolving effort that moves forward, the colors become “of course” and the lines wax “okay” in a quiet, ecstatic optimism.
<Br><br>
Pastels are irresistible to me. They are the only element I choose outright. The soft blues, pinks, yellows, oranges, and greens undeniably bring me joy. They call to me in whispers from the shelves of art supply store, capturing me with ease. I don’t question the attraction. I pull the lines from behind my eyes, back out the top of my head, and down to my hands, the space between them dictating their existence. Above all, when I am making my pieces, I think of my mother’s hands. They were often attempting to grasp at something that existed only in her voice, twisting and flicking about in a search of understanding.
</br></Br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Home is where you find it]]></title><description><![CDATA[ The path to the summit of Scotts Bluff National Monument is Nebraska at its
best. Morning walks among sweeping panoramas in the serenity of the prairie are
treasured rituals for many of us who live nearby. So in 2015, when 25,000 tons
of sandstone broke away from the side of Scotts Bluff National Monument,
pulverizing the path below and closing it for over a year, hundreds of walkers
and I were left a bit out of sorts. We were forced to find new morning routines,
reminded that even our monument]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/home-is-where-you-find-it/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__618668f62ef03d047722dde2</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 3 - Searching]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Daniel Bennett]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 09 Nov 2021 14:42:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">T</span>
he path to the summit of Scotts Bluff National Monument is Nebraska at its best. Morning walks among sweeping panoramas in the serenity of the prairie are treasured rituals for many of us who live nearby. So in 2015, when 25,000 tons of sandstone broke away from the side of Scotts Bluff National Monument, pulverizing the path below and closing it for over a year, hundreds of walkers and I were left a bit out of sorts. We were forced to find new morning routines, reminded that even our monuments are just here for a moment.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>From the history I’ve stitched together from elders, friends, and roadside historical markers, I sense that this area has always been shaped by transience. Passers through—in search of game or work in sugar beet fields or simply on their way to somewhere else—came, left their mark, and moved on. Among those travelers, however, some stayed or returned.</p><p>I myself first arrived in 2013 for my first job as a community planner, made this place home for five years, and left for new opportunities. When given the option to work remotely in 2020, I returned after just 18 months away and found things had already changed. Friends had moved, some of my favorite businesses closed, my work and position in the community were different. It felt like coming home and finding some other family’s pictures on my wall.</p><p>Anyone who has tried to make their home in a place that doesn’t feel “home” anymore understands. In Wendell Berry’s novel <em>Hannah Coulter</em>, Berry addresses precisely this sense of displacement. An iconic American environmentalist, poet, and novelist, he has written prolifically about rural life; Berry’s novels center in the fictional town of Port William, an analogue for his actual place of residence in Port Royal, Kentucky. In <em>Hannah Coulter</em>, the titular character is a twice-widowed elderly woman reflecting on her years in Port William. Toward the end of the book, she considers the changes in the town and her own sense of the community’s “completeness”:</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote> The old Port William that I came into in 1941 I think of now as a sort of picture puzzle. It was not an altogether satisfactory picture. It always required some forgiveness, for things that of course could be forgiven. But the picture was more or less complete and more or less put together and the pieces were more or less replaceable. After the war ended in 1945, slowly at first but ever faster, the lost pieces were not replaced. Sometimes, as when we buried the old Feltners or Mr. Milo Settle, the new grave contained a necessary and forever finished part of the old life. </blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>In my work, I come across many residents who view “home” similarly as a sort of puzzle with missing pieces. Ask elders in just about any small town what they think could be better in their community, and there’s a chance you’ll get a list of everything that <em>used</em> to be there. It's easy to pass off longing for “the good old days” as backward-thinking and unimaginative, but perhaps this lament is worth considering, even honoring. We seek out the lost pieces of home—friends, landmarks we love, traditions, institutions—not only because they constitute an essential part of what we think of as <em>home</em>, but also because they constitute an essential part of how we think of <em>ourselves</em>. Adapting to a new picture without all of its puzzle pieces is not only adapting to a new environment, but also a foreign way of <em>being</em>.</p><p>The towns and people of Nebraska most inspiring to me don’t dwell on missing puzzle pieces. “Home” for them is an active, creative process that draws on their gifts in new ways. They approach their projects with curiosity. Old and new friends dim and brighten to form new constellations of support and meaning. A friend from church engages our community this way. Despite losing his wife, despite his children moving away, despite retiring from his official job titles that compelled community presence, he still shows up. He fixes fencing on a friend’s rangeland south of town, he mentors youth, he presents to grief recovery groups, he helped lead our congregation’s giving campaign, he’s started framing pictures for others with old barn wood, he always makes room for new friends. His actions are ordinary but the innerwork that preceded them is heroic. Untethering ourselves from a familiar picture of “home” to venture into a new way of being takes great courage. Setting our foundation on the deepest meaning for our life, rather than on familiar titles, takes great faith.</p><p>Whether Port William of 1941 or Scottsbluff of 2018, we all carry with us pictures of how “home” should be. When pieces of these pictures inevitably go missing, we are all susceptible to embarking on heartfelt but futile searches to replace what is irreplaceable. Perhaps more accurately, we cling to old ways of being and delay the real innerwork of self-transformation. But if I were to take a lesson from my friend, and from Berry, it would be that at some point we must let the passers through pass on and let the rockslides fall. Home may be found again in the courage to face this estranged terrain at last with an open heart, in faith that belonging is our birthright, which through our gifts we are called to reclaim.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Searching for the Blue]]></title><description><![CDATA[#1, acrylic on paper, 13" x 20" (2020)#2, acrylic on paper, 13" x 20" (2020)#3,
acrylic on paper, 13" x 20" (2020)#4, acrylic on paper, 13" x 20" (2020)#5,
acrylic on paper, 13" x 20" (2021)#6, acrylic on paper, 13" x 20" (2021)#7,
acrylic on paper, 13" x 20" (2021)#8, acrylic on paper, 13" x 20" (2021)#9,
acrylic on paper, 13" x 20" (2021)#10, acrylic on paper, 13" x 20" (2020)#11,
acrylic on paper, 13" x 20" (2020)#12, acrylic on paper, 13" x 20" (2020)#13,
acrylic on paper, 13" x 20" (2020)#1]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/blue-portrait-series/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__61866a2c2ef03d047722de00</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 3 - Searching]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Plain]]></category><category><![CDATA[Artwork]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Ahmed Hmeedat]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 09 Nov 2021 14:42:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/1.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>#1, acrylic on paper, 13" x 20" (2020)</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/2.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>#2, acrylic on paper, 13" x 20" (2020)</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/3.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>#3, acrylic on paper, 13" x 20" (2020)</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/4.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>#4, acrylic on paper, 13" x 20" (2020)</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/5.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>#5, acrylic on paper, 13" x 20" (2021)</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/6.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>#6, acrylic on paper, 13" x 20" (2021)</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/7.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>#7, acrylic on paper, 13" x 20" (2021)</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/8.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>#8, acrylic on paper, 13" x 20" (2021)</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/9.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>#9, acrylic on paper, 13" x 20" (2021)</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/10.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>#10, acrylic on paper, 13" x 20" (2020)</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/11.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>#11, acrylic on paper, 13" x 20" (2020)</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/12.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>#12, acrylic on paper, 13" x 20" (2020)</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/13.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>#13, acrylic on paper, 13" x 20" (2020)</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/14.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>#14, acrylic on paper, 13" x 20" (2020)</figcaption></img></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-art">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>“Searching for the Blue” is a series of portraits conceived during the COVID-19 pandemic. However, its origins can be traced back to my final days in Alexandria, Virginia. The night before I was to return to my native Palestine, I looked carefully at my belongings. Much to my chagrin, I came to the realization that I would not be able to bring my full set of art supplies. Thus, I decided to give them away to my friends. As I held the last tubes of paint in my hand, I recognized that my love of blue exceeded my sense of generosity. Suddenly, the dictum of German-American architect Ludwig Mies van der Rohe popped into my head: “less is more.” At that moment, I made a compromise with myself; the ultramarine blue, the titanium white, and the ivory black acrylics would make the journey back home with me. I wasn’t sure how this limited color palette would inform my artistic practice, but I was optimistic that I could create something.<Br><br>
On March 5th, 2020, the Palestinian authority declared a national state of emergency due to the rapid spread of COVID-19. During lockdown, I transitioned to working remotely from home. Searching for something to do with my extra time, I sought out the suitcase that housed the remainder of my art supplies from the States. As I quietly contemplated the three colors, a flash of inspiration came to me: a series of portraits. Seeking the spirit of collaboration during a time of isolation, I decided to work with photographers who shared copyright-free images of their photos on various websites. In my portraits based on these works, I strove to capture an impression—not a likeness—using systematic brushstrokes, the bluish tones acting as a common ground between people of all backgrounds. This is especially important to me as a Palestinian. I believe that the search for connections with other cultures and people is a fundamental element of our shared humanity, which, in turn, allows us to bridge divides. Working with limited resources made me realize that anyone can use anything and everything at their disposal to create art, to express themselves. Despite one’s circumstances or lack of materials, the impulse to create always seems to shine through.
</br></Br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[The Black Dogs of Enlightenment]]></title><description><![CDATA[ The setting was old Tbilisi, a strange destination, fable-like. The rough brown
bricks of the ancient baths, the second-story verandas, enclosed in the
vernacular architectural style. The dry cliff faces and banks rising in random
juts around the city. Scrub vegetation. In truth, except for the myth-feeling,
it didn’t have much to recommend it.
Nevertheless, tourists came from the clandestine North in search of stimulating
heat, the weird half-desert, half-mountain conditions that revved you u]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/the-black-dogs-of-enlightenment/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__618669352ef03d047722ddec</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 3 - Searching]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><category><![CDATA[Short Story]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Sean Murray]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 09 Nov 2021 14:42:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">T</span>
he setting was old Tbilisi, a strange destination, fable-like. The rough brown bricks of the ancient baths, the second-story verandas, enclosed in the vernacular architectural style. The dry cliff faces and banks rising in random juts around the city. Scrub vegetation. In truth, except for the myth-feeling, it didn’t have much to recommend it.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Nevertheless, tourists came from the clandestine North in search of stimulating heat, the weird half-desert, half-mountain conditions that revved you up if you let them. If you drank the strong local <em>chacha</em>, the hundred-proof brandy, and ate raw green figs. Pomegranates. It was, allegedly, a sensual city.</p><p>Fruit was not the topic, however. Nor liquor. The topic was philosophy, of a kind, the argument of the day between old friends: Mo Kaplan and Chrissy Halsted.</p><p>“Listen, let’s discuss this.” Mo speaking. “There’s myth and then there’s enlightenment,” he said. “But the end is the same for both modes: to banish the unknown. Myth assigns it to categories of either local or universal mystery. Enlightenment makes it the object of science. Thus, myth is rigid with classifications, while enlightenment admits no hypotheses unless they can be tested. Both are weighed down by the tendency toward dogma. Face it. They operate under the same human headings of error and limitation.”</p><p>Mo (Morris) was much the senior of the two, genially bald and dressed sensibly in the cotton pants and soft-soled shoes of American old age. His knees turned in slightly when he walked. He carried a canvas tote bag full of notebooks and pens, lip balm, sunscreen, an incomprehensible bus schedule. His one eccentricity was to turn up the collar of his polo shirt. Identifiable as a professor at fifty paces.</p><p>Chrissy was harder to pin down. Her age indeterminate. She had the authority of long experience about her, but this had to do with her movements: precise, definitive. She was an empiricist. Her straight and delicate nose invited admiration. Her smooth, tan skin expressed a great firmness of character, and there was virtue as well in her blond hair, pulled into a youthful ponytail, as she’d worn it in high school, playing basketball, volleyball. Only the skin around her eyes (and the aforementioned sure movement) betrayed her age. There, in the crenellated corners and the brownish under-eyes, she looked over forty.</p><p>“And so what,” Chrissy asked. “Is there a function to this insight? Is salvation in play here?”</p><p>“Salvation from what?” Mo asked. He acted skeptical, but secretly he was deeply stirred. He didn’t see his friend often enough, he forgot the stakes she always played for. Salvation! My God, what a question!</p><p>“You said it yourself: from the unknown."</p><p>In truth, they were amateurs in this, or at least outsiders. Mo was a poet of some standing in the American Academy of Arts and Letters, and a professor of literature. Chrissy was an expert in human and animal behavior, a psychology PhD, an occasional dog trainer.</p><p>They were drinking their breakfast coffee in the hotel before attending the seminar they’d come to the city for -- a literature retreat, a kind of vacation for writers. They would each give a lecture. He on Seamus Heaney, she on the writer and animal trainer Vicki Hearne’s philosophy of cognition.</p><p>“Or maybe,” Mo ventured, improvising, excited by the next steps of his thinking, “salvation lies in the synthesis. It is a dialectic after all. Hegelian, maybe. Myth is the thesis, enlightenment the antithesis, Salvation the synthesis.” Mo had a much-thumbed copy of the book in his tote bag, <em>The Dialectic of Enlightenment</em>. He was adumbrating Adorno and Horkheimer’s argument. Or trying to.</p><p>“Interesting,” Chrissy admitted. “But you started out trying to convince me that my Enlightenment values were bunk. That strict observation was put to bed by Heisenberg, and we were back into some non-Newtonian mythos.”</p><p>“True.” Mo had large, dark, hard-thinking eyes, a twentieth-century Jewish physiognomy. He put an age-mottled hand to his bald, brown head, a gesture of acquiescence. “Well,” he said, “theory is for suckers anyway. It’s mostly chaos out there.”</p><p>Chrissy nodded. “Amen to that,” she said. “Ask any mutt in the street. He’ll tell you.”</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Chrissy was bonded to Mo in large part by admiration. A deep envy even. She wished for his temperament. Sometimes she tried to muster it, the warmth, the generosity, the optimistic views. But it was useless. She was like cement: it was hard to come away from her without skinned knees.</p><p>Or. Was that really true? Was she so rough? More likely this was just her inner experience, the barbed self she couldn’t show anybody. On the outside, she conformed to the usual ideas of polite interaction. She tried to listen and not be dismissive. When she had angry thoughts, she kept them down, knowing they’d be nothing but destructive. She came across as nice.</p><p>So why the spiritual defenses? As far as she could tell, they’d always been there. In all respects, Chrissy was a head case, she knew. She’d always counted her steps across intersections and bridges, and she had to take deep breaths all the time in order to stabilize her uncomfortable heart. Her nervous, repetitive mind. Tuned senses.</p><p>Hard as it may have been to believe, dogs were what kept these eccentricities of hers in check. Dogs don’t conform to human projections. Animals generally, in fact. We get all the stories wrong.</p><p>The answer, which Chrissy realized as a girl, before it became an academic topic for her, was to eliminate language. Dogs didn’t use it. They built their cosmos instead out of their bodies and the world. Their medium of communication was space. Much more reliable, and with more immediate feedback—the feedback of teeth. Chrissy was once asked if a particular German Shepherd was dangerous; she said, yes, <em>dogs</em> are dangerous. Just like cars and airplanes and staphylococcus. It’s like Mo said. Chaos out there.</p><p>Chrissy mused on these things in her hotel room that night, after the seminar, jet-lagged, failing to sleep. The air conditioner cycling.</p><p>What she realized was that there were indeed, concretely, two versions of herself. One was the professional Chrissy, the PhD, the world lecturer and expert. The adept who flew business class to Washington and Geneva for meetings with NIH and the World Health Organization. Who edited landmark psychology textbooks, gave TED talks, testified before Congress.</p><p>But this was a brittle and superficial role. Not genuine. This Chrissy operated as a processing unit, an automaton, nearly, a fluent alien or robot that was pleased to use Chrissy’s faculties for its own purposes. This Chrissy was a candy shell around the gooey nougat of another, more primal Chrissy.</p><p><em>That</em> Chrissy, the first and apparently permanent one, was nothing but a sensitive girl from the sticks, rooted to the landscape of central South Dakota. That Chrissy was a groping, naïve child roughed up by the indelicate universe, told she was too tall and gangly, too dreamy, impractical, but also too masculine. Never mind that these were incoherent tropes. They were formative.</p><p>As a result, Chrissy’s existence was under strain. The two versions of her worked against each other. Professional Chrissy made all the right moves and hummed along in her uninterruptable way. But the primary Chrissy, South Dakota Chrissy, buzzed with alarm: who was this juggernaut? It was no version of herself she could recognize. <em>She</em> couldn’t advise presidential candidates and Olympic medalists. <em>She</em> couldn’t charge appearance fees and live in Westchester. That was what other people did.</p><p>Other people like Mo. Mo, who had been the U.S. Poet Laureate and won a Pulitzer and yet experienced no dissonance or rift in his identity. And not because he was to the manor born. He’d had the usual Jewish middle-class experience. A life among grocers and dry-cleaners and the occasional well-to-do dentist. Owners of light manufacturing ventures. Textile lives.</p><p>Instead of roping them off, these chaotic people, he’d thrown his arms around them, made them his great subject. He wrote them into full being. Much as they had written him. And despite finding the high places of American society, he never left them. Mo was one-hundred percent integrated.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Interesting, for Chrissy at least, that the city of Tbilisi had a dog problem. Feral, docile, garbagey animals trotted and lollygagged all over the center of town. They all had the same bored, imperturbable look. City dogs. There was nothing they hadn’t seen. Most had yellow tags in their ears, indicating they’d been captured, spayed or neutered, then released, part of the city’s program to bring their numbers down.</p><p>For some reason Chrissy began to think of them in the terms of her debate with Mo the previous day, the one over myth and enlightenment. The goal of enlightenment is to establish mastery. And you established mastery by advancing on the unknown—gradually, successively reducing its acreage.</p><p>But this framework raised epistemological concerns. What was it to know? What counted? For dogs, after all, there was no such thing as the unknown. The existence of the unknown required speculation, forecasting. Dogs didn’t ruminate. Everything existed for them in the present, fully factual. They could be confused, or just wrong. Did that mean they didn’t know? No. It meant they knew one thing until they got new information, and then they knew something else, and that was all there was. Sense data, the end. They were wholly enlightened at all times.</p><p>This quirky, useless argument amused her. She sat at her café table and swizzled the wine in her glass, waited for Mo to come back from the bathroom. They’d had a long day of enduring seminar presentations. The young people were obsessed with memoir. One grad student had been a hooker in Vegas, using heroin. She thought this made for a kind of automatic literature. She described her tattoos.</p><p>When Mo did come back he seemed to move a little gingerly. Chrissy didn’t ask what was wrong, and Mo didn’t want to give her the grizzly details. He told her it was nothing. Something he ate.</p><p>What he didn’t say was that he’d been troubled by nerves recently. For instance, the flight to Tbilisi from Munich had been as bouncy as he’d been on in a while, and it had knocked his spirit around. As a young man he’d been terrified of flying. He was sure every rattle and mechanical whine indicated catastrophe, every wiggle in the plane’s steel frame would wrench it apart in mid-air, leaving him to plunge tens of thousands of feet down to a crushing, unimaginable end. Even then, Mo had looked at death with real seriousness. He didn’t indulge the fiction that certain great, striding men were beyond mortal concerns. Might, intellectual or physical, wouldn’t save you. You had to be humble before big forces. This went for the force of human comprehension as much as the force of death and accounted for Mo’s earnestness in his talks with Chrissy, he thought. He wanted so badly to get it right! In life and in ideas! Remember the young man riding on airplanes with his guts in a crunch!</p><p>Eventually though, age did perform some useful operations on him. The anxieties of his youth dissipated a bit. His writing improved and he experienced a day-to-day satisfaction that had to do with the long view he was now able to take: history would choose him or not for its inscrutable purposes, as it did every man, every woman. There was no agency in life.</p><p>And what a relief that was! In your blindness, while you waited for your destiny, you were free to putz around! Life was a comedy! Anything was possible.</p><p>Ok, sure, when this line of thinking went soft, it justified an annoying relativism, even nihilism. No authority, no standards. An ugly free-for-all in both the material and spiritual arenas. But Mo didn’t advance it as a mode of analysis. He’d never been big on the utility of the various -isms on offer. Rather, he found it to be a kind of emotional key to the lock of good judgement and moral equilibrium. It let him breathe and got rid of his fear of flying.</p><p>Until this damned flight from Munich. He’d been in a window seat and had seen the rough, high clouds slamming into the plane. Bunched and roiled, demonic vapors, particulates lifted by convection currents over the serrated Caucuses below. It was then that he felt the old perturbation in his stomach, and the old extension of useless vigilance over every stimulus. The kid behind him hiccupped, and Mo’s intestines cramped.</p><p>Worse than this, though, was a seemingly profound and dispiriting realization. Can it be, he thought. Can it truly be that our demons own us for so long? Mo Kaplan, seventy-four years old, and still not clear of the shadows?</p><p>Mo blew out a long breath. “What were we talking about?” he asked.</p><p>“Tattoos.”</p><p>“Right. You should get one. It could say, <em>enlightenment</em>.”</p><p>Chrissy snorted. “Yeah,” she said. “On my ass.”</p><p>This was good for a laugh. They were at an outdoor table, but in the shade—the air was hot but not altogether unpleasant. There was a breeze that smelled of construction dust and something vaguely grapey. An easiness prevailed, generally, and in particular between these two American friends.</p><p>Then without prelude, a chaos of dogs in the street. A half dozen mutts snapping and spinning, they heaved out from an unobservable alley. They didn’t seem to be fighting. They barked—at nothing, or each other—but made no effort to communicate.</p><p>People stopped their conversations and turned. Chrissy turned. This was highly unusual behavior.</p><p>Just as suddenly, from up the street, came another three, four of them, racing, full of purpose. These took the lead and the whole pack, nearly a dozen, tore off, digging up the sidewalk weeds with their nails. An eerie silence in their wake.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Mo kept at it with the theory. He admitted it. He was one of those suckers.</p><p>“Listen, the more I think about it, I realize I was wrong. Banishment of the unknown isn’t the end. It’s just the mode. The end is domination of nature. Myth has the shamans to make it rain. Enlightenment devises cloud-seeding.”</p><p>“Which works.”</p><p>“What does?”</p><p>“Cloud-seeding.”</p><p>“Does it? Well, fine. The point is that the domination of nature allays fear. The bear can’t eat us if we eat him first. It’s fear. It’s always fear.”</p><p>Chrissy took this in, and Mo worked it over silently in his mind as well. She was thinking of rejection, interpersonal fuck-ups. Love-pains.</p><p>He was thinking of physical distress. They each expressed their suffering in long breaths.</p><p>At that moment, as if in judgement, or explication, the earth lurched. Chrissy had never experienced a quake before, but the instinct for self-preservation made her leap up anyway, and vault the now-twisted railing around the restaurant’s patio. She got out in the open street.</p><p>Mo, being older, couldn’t move so decisively. He had to try to pick his way over the rail. But brick and glass rained from above and struck him. He was buried and died in front of her.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>That night people wandered the streets. There was very little going inside to sleep. How could anybody do it?</p><p>Still, there were quiet alleys, and Chrissy sought these out. They smelled of blown ash. They were unevenly lit. Crones hobbled about in the dust and their presence burdened her. <br>They were shell-backed beetles, rolling dung. Such creatures! Did they have hearts, souls, the human systems?</br></p><p>Eventually Chrissy came into a small, deserted square, an ornate fountain, dry, at the center. At the base of the fountain, outside its chipped marble rim, lay a black dog in blissful or at least indifferent repose, its side rising and falling in a lazy sine of breath.</p><p>Chrissy stared momentarily. Had that been what riled those mutts up earlier, after all, that animal-type pre-perception of doom? There’d been a pack of them, which was unusual in itself—mostly you saw these strays keeping their own counsel, finding solitary patches of shade. Like this one in front of her now, peaceful, content after that terrible release of the earth’s interior tension.</p><p>She could probably walk up to him—city dogs didn’t startle. But they also didn’t much care for human interference. He’d probably move away.</p><p>Instead, watching him as she walked, she went around to the far side of the fountain and sat. And there wept for the unattainable end of everything.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Jamais]]></title><description><![CDATA[
Poet’s Note
I first realized that I was a multiracial person in kindergarten. When my mother
came to eat lunch with me one day at school, her presence bewildered some of the
other children. Many asked me afterwards if I was adopted. One even followed up
the question with a matter-of-fact declaration: “You look nothing like your
mom.” How does this blonde-haired, light-eyed, fair-skinned child belong to this
Black woman? She was frequently mistaken for the nanny, given countless double
takes]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/jamais/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__61866b412ef03d047722de20</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 3 - Searching]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Meghan K. McGinley]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 09 Nov 2021 14:41:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>I first realized that I was a multiracial person in kindergarten. When my mother came to eat lunch with me one day at school, her presence bewildered some of the other children. Many asked me afterwards if I was adopted. One even followed up the question with a matter-of-fact declaration: “You look nothing like your mom.” <i>How does this blonde-haired, light-eyed, fair-skinned child belong to this Black woman?</i> She was frequently mistaken for the nanny, given countless double takes and stare downs. As I grew older, I began to search for a tangible sense of identity. When I heard a story about my mother’s great-grandfather from Haiti, my young mind fashioned herself a Frenchman. It was not until much later that I understood the terrible irony of this “adoption.”<Br><br>
My undergraduate work in French led me to the poem “Un coup de dés jamais n'abolira le hasard” (“A Throw of the Dice Will Never Abolish Chance”) by the French symbolist poet Stéphane Mallarmé. Its strange spacing, varied typefaces, and resistance to meaning drew me in like nothing I had ever read before. As I struggled to articulate the “searching” theme for this issue of <i>Symposeum,</i> Mallarmé’s poem called to me again, its black and white imagery more vivid than ever before. The idea that my mother never imagined me as I am—in this pale yellow body—collided with the shipwrecks in Mallarmé’s verse.<Br><br>
Inspired by the Belgian artist Marcel Broodthaers—who reimaged <i>Un coup de dés</i> in a purely visual manner, blacking out its words as if they were censored—I reconceived Mallarmé’s piece as an erasure poem. Instead of Broodthaers’ black bars, I created white rectangles with black outlines, working digitally on a PDF of Basil Cleveland’s English translation of the poem. The poem’s quadrants, drawn from Cleveland's formatting, cradle my archipelagoes of empty space, the remaining text like shards of silence. Who I am and where I belong within the Black community as a white-passing person are questions without concrete answers, the title of the poem “Jamais” (“Never”) signifying this dilemma. However, in this never-ending search, I find comfort in the fact that I am not less than because I exist in between.
</br></Br></br></Br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Letter to Readers]]></title><description><![CDATA[Dear Reader,
The theme for this issue was chosen nearly half a year ago, before the delta
variant, the U.S. withdrawal from Afghanistan, and other unpredictable events.
We are left searching now even more than we were then: for the right thing to
say about what’s taken place in the past six months, the right thing to do in
response, and the right way to use these pages as a space for reflecting
rationally yet optimistically about it all. Of course, our search is just as
much a reaction to the ]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/issue-three-letter-to-readers/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__618655f4e77d0504782d30d6</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 3 - Searching]]></category><category><![CDATA[Letter]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[The Editors]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 09 Nov 2021 14:41:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>Dear Reader,</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">T</span>
he theme for this issue was chosen nearly half a year ago, before the delta variant, the U.S. withdrawal from Afghanistan, and other unpredictable events. We are left searching now even more than we were then: for the right thing to say about what’s taken place in the past six months, the right thing to do in response, and the right way to use these pages as a space for reflecting rationally yet optimistically about it all. Of course, our search is just as much a reaction to the world around us as it is an earthling expression of deeper, constant yearnings. More time. New plans. Beauty in brokenness. Balance in chaos. Community in social distancing.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>This issue’s cover art, “Lemonade” by Lucy Villeneuve, evokes a sense of self-discovery in the act of searching. Her shapes, lines and colors work in tandem with one another to move forward, her canvas capturing their quiet dance of ease and joy.</p><p>As the zeitgeist of our own moment in history becomes increasingly characterized by cynicism or catastrophe or both, there is an undeniable sense of urgency in post-pandemic transitioning where patience formerly prevailed. We’re back to errands, even running them. We’re back to traffic in the rush to work. We’re back to scheduled leave and busy airports and sending invitations and declining them because of calendar conflicts.</p><p>A collective challenge is thus finding true connection amidst so much connectivity. </p><p>This issue, like all issues of <em>Symposeum,</em> is a product of connecting people, ideas, and stories through collaboration. In plays, poetry, prose, and photography, from fictional worlds to Walden Pond, we engage the topic of searching because it represents the first step in our collective response to the dire challenges of our day. When faced with a problem, even countless problems, we go searching for answers. We explore this theme both literally and abstractly.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="margin-left: 30px; margin-right: 30px;">
In <i>Home Is Where You Find It, </i> Daniel Bennett meditates on reclaiming our “birthright of belonging...in estranged terrain at last with an open heart.”
Ahmed Hmeedat, a Palestinian artist, utilizes a limited color palette in an anonymous portrait series to show that “despite one’s circumstances or lack of materials, the impulse to create always seems to shine through."
In a captivating essay on the next frontier, <i> Star Tours, </i> Lauren Spohn considers what space tourism teaches about the sublime—“the scarcest and most plentiful resource on earth.”
South African animal tracker and storyteller Boyd Varty invites us into the wild to show us how finding meaning in life “takes the same courage that it takes to follow a lion in thick terrain.”
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>This issue also includes works on the subversive nature of cryptocurrency; the conflict-riddled relationship of information and truth; the comedy of paparazzi; dark matter; the Taoist art of <em>wu wei</em>; missing Dutch paintings; lessons from preschoolers; archaeological discovery; loss; immigration; identity. </p><p>Four issues in and we are also still publishing several “firsts,” including our first play, our first curated museum exhibition, and our first high school student. Even so, a lot has stayed the same. As always, <em>Symposeum</em> aims to impart our conviction that human goodness and ingenuity are most keen where they are most threatened. Despite the size of the threats, it is our hope that we will continue to wrestle, interrogate, seek, inspirit, cultivate, listen, build, and try.</p><p>The editorial team is grateful for our contributors who believed in this project enough to produce something for it. We’re also indebted to countless others who freely lent their time, talent, and advice to the process of building what will be a cultural touchstone. As The Dial community grows, it is a joy to labor alongside so many thoughtful optimists.</p><p><em>Symposeum</em> is a publication of The Dial project: a twenty-first century creative, collaborative community dedicated to elevating rational optimism in public discourse. It draws on the commitment of our nineteenth-century predecessor to exploring works of “the Necessary, the Plain, the True, and the Human.”</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="margin-left: 30px;">
By <b>Necessary</b>, we mean works of critical inquiry.
By <b>Plain</b>, we mean works of novel insight into ordinary occurrences.
By <b>True</b>, we mean works of empirical investigation.
By <b>Human</b>, we mean works of intimate experience.
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Just like an authentic symposium, our quarterly issues examine single topics through a variety of perspectives. We trust you'll enjoy how each piece uniquely connects to this issue's theme as much as we enjoyed the unique challenge of putting Issue 3 together. Of course, none of this would be possible without our contributors' talent and freely lent time, the dedication of our leadership team, or our readers' support. Thank you.</p><p>Yours in hope and gratitude,</p><p>The Editors</p><p><br/></p><p><br/></p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Tracking Your Life]]></title><description><![CDATA[ As a boy I spent every day in the South African bushveld apprenticing under
some of the greatest Shangaan animal trackers in the world. I was taught to
attune to a hidden world of stories and information etched faintly in the earth
as scuff marks and gait patterns. Tracking an animal was like learning a new
dialect that opened my understanding of a foreign land. Even the language of
birds gained meaning as I learned, in the face of tremendous unknowns, to find
and follow the faint trail of a li]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/tracking-your-life/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__61865de1e77d0504782d318a</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 3 - Searching]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Plain]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Boyd Varty]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 09 Nov 2021 14:41:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">A</span>
s a boy I spent every day in the South African bushveld apprenticing under some of the greatest Shangaan animal trackers in the world. I was taught to attune to a hidden world of stories and information etched faintly in the earth as scuff marks and gait patterns. Tracking an animal was like learning a new dialect that opened my understanding of a foreign land. Even the language of birds gained meaning as I learned, in the face of tremendous unknowns, to find and follow the faint trail of a lion.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Life, I eventually realized, works in the same way, at least if you are going to lead a meaningful life. We must attune ourselves to meaning. It is something we must track. It moves like a wild animal whose faint footprints and scent we must follow. I have spent my adulthood trying to stay on the track of my own life, and trying to help others do the same. Along the way, I have learned important lessons about tracking meaning.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/boyd6.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Photos C/O Boyd Varty</figcaption></img></figure><p><strong>FINDING THE FIRST TRACKS</strong></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">T</span>
racks are hard to find, with the first tracks being the most difficult of all. We live in what the Celtic mystic John O’Donohue calls a neon culture. The modern societies of the world seem to be losing the foundational structures that fill our lives with meaning. We have forgotten how to belong. We have forgotten how to be deeply connected as a community. We have become robotic, almost hybrid, as we collectively forget our relationship with nature.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>We live in a society with a schooling system that has a “you should know, you have to get it right” mindset. So often we stand on the edge of a search because we feel that only when we know exactly what’s right for us will we make the changes and begin the journey.</p><p>A tracker, however, knows that more often than not we must begin searching without any clear sense of where we are going or what we will find. The search is more about attuning our awareness than needing to know. We start the search at peace without knowing what we are searching for.</p><p>It may take you some time to awaken your inner tracker. But even if you grew up in an urban metropolis your tracker stays with you, deeply embedded in your biology courtesy of hundreds of thousands of years of evolution. You were born a tracker.</p><p>My own search began like it often does at the confluence of vagaries and certainties. I was unsure about what called me and yet certain of what I did not want. You may know this place of inner turmoil. My family had run a world-famous game reserve in South Africa called Londolozi for four generations and I was set to, in line with family traditions, take over the running of it. Running a photographic safari lodge was an exciting prospect on paper, however it left me feeling lukewarm at best. At worst, it was like I was letting down not just the family but the whole ecosystem of life on the reserve.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/boyd2.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><p>I had also been plunged into my search by two traumatic encounters. In Johannesburg I had been a victim of a dangerous armed robbery. Shortly after that, I nearly lost my leg in the jaws of a crocodile while swimming in shallow water in the river at the reserve. Both experiences had left me in a strange no man's land. I was frozen inside. The world suddenly seemed violent and cruel, yet at the same time a spark had been lit. I had looked the fragility of life in the eye and it stared back at me with a challenge to live deeply.</p><p>I was stumbling away from the path ordained for me to find my own track. I needed to heal. In some deeply intuitive part of myself, I knew that healing could only come in the search. I have come to learn that there is nothing more healing than finding your gifts and sharing them.</p><p>The first tracks, however, are the hardest to find.</p><p>In a vast wilderness a tracker does not need to know where the lion is; all they need to do is to dial down the infinite possibilities of where it could have gone to a single first track, then the next track, then the next.</p><p>In my own search, empowerment meant simply taking a small step each day toward what felt like <em>my </em>track. I didn’t know where that track would lead me. As Joseph Campbell said, “If you can see your whole path in front of you, then it’s not your path”.</p><p>Rather, as with lions, all I needed was a first track and then a next. A daily moment of presence toward my track over many days took me closer to finding what I was searching for. People who make true changes in their lives are those who make daily consistent steps toward what calls them.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/boyd1.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><p><strong>DEVELOPING TRACK AWARENESS</strong></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">O</span>
n one occasion in my late teens I had followed the tracks of a leopard high in the Drakensberg Mountains when I happened across some hikers who had been obliviously trudging down the same trail, stepping on fresh leopard tracks as they went. I didn't understand it at the time, but later in my life I would remember that moment and an important idea would come with that memory: <i>there is information on the path but we must attune to it.</i>
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>In your search you will need to develop your track awareness. There is a place inside you deeper than rational thoughts. There is a wild self inside you that knows, even when you don’t, how to be fully alive. This place in you is of nature itself and knows in the same way that a lion knows how to be a lion and trees know when to bloom. Deeper than your rational mind you must find the tracks of this wild self.</p><p>A tracker teaches themself to attune to certain search images and information. My track awareness was such that I was seeing the trail of a leopard other hikers were walking through, carelessly and unwittingly.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/boyd4.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><p>You don’t need to be an animal tracker to search for a more meaningful life. You must, however, develop track awareness in life, an awareness of the deep, wild self inside you that <em>knows</em>, even when you don’t. Nobody can do this for you. It is <em>you </em>who must pay attention: to feelings of expanded energy, to people who excite you, to activities that make you feel alive. By following your curiosity, you can develop awareness for the “track” of your life.</p><p>In my own life I found myself literally sitting forward in my seat anytime a great storyteller started speaking. I was drawn by an innate excitement to mystics and healers and found my nervous system resting into a deep state of calm anytime I was in nature. Everything was speaking to me.</p><p>Developing this kind of track awareness takes disciplined attention, but following these types of new metrics that you develop for yourself will take you away from the “I should” path to something way more wild and essential. As we develop track awareness we see that while we don’t know what we are looking for, there are clear signs and metrics toward our own nature that speak as peace, joy, health, and vitality. Tracks!</p><p><strong>THE INSTRUMENT OF THE BODY</strong></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">A</span>
s a boy I would watch as the Shangaan trackers use their own bodies to attune to the animal they were tracking. They would move at the speed the animal was moving, stop where it stopped, imitate how it shaped itself to listen or crouch. In this way the tracker could use his body to feel the mood of the animal.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Our body is the product of hundreds of thousands of years of wildness. We must learn to use it in our search. The body has information for us on the search. Just starting to notice what or who makes you sit forward in your seat with excitement can show you a path. What causes your shoulders to slouch in dejection may show you another path altogether. What is your body unconsciously drawn to? Learn to listen to the ancient wisdom in your body.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/boyd3.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><p><strong>THE FOLLOWING STATE</strong></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">O</span>
n the trail of a lion, the tracker enters the following state. His eyes catch the faint geometry of paw pads. He spots grains of sand on grass where tawny beasts have stepped. While he follows these signs, he listens for alarm calls ahead. He vectors the line of the animal through the woodland using trees ahead as waypoints. He spots tracks. He orients himself, listens, and anticipates where the animal may have moved, all the time making micro-adjustments to his path to stay in tune with the direction the tracks points. He is doing this all at once without trying. He is in the following state.
</p> <!--kg-card-end: html--><p>The tracker has let go of the finding of the animal and is totally absorbed in the process. He is fully attuned to the path of the animal. He is present. At this point the beauty and artful attention of tracking is felt to be the purpose itself.</p><p>In your search you may experience the following state as the culmination of the above points. You suddenly touch a state of constant creative response. You let go of needing to know. You feel attuned to your own track as feeling and sensation. Your body is alive with somatic instinctual knowledge and you are taking small, daily steps toward this new path on internal, self-defined metrics. The track of your unique life!</p><p>The following state is not inherently more meaningful than what came before. Rather, it is the intention and attention with which you track that allows meaning to flow into what you do. You feel in step with some higher wisdom manifest in your own life.</p><p><strong>LOSING THE TRACK</strong></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">Q</span>
uite suddenly, the track is gone. The flow of the following state unexpectedly disappears. You doubt yourself. All trackers know losing the track is part of tracking. When the Shangaan trackers would lose the track, they would remain relaxed and enter a curious state of discovery. A tracker might go back to the last clear track. You might ask yourself: when was the last time I was totally on track?
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I remember once following the tracks of a huge pride of twenty lions across an open flood plain. We flew along the tracks. So many lions leaving pug marks made for a lion superhighway. I was brimming with confidence when suddenly the path of twenty lions vanished under the track of a large herd of elephants that had moved through the area.</p><p>It is important to know that losing the track is a part of tracking. When you have left the safe confines of the life you knew in search of something new, you may find yourself suddenly lost in the land between your past self and your future self.</p><p>Trackers continue to move forward, trying new trails and game paths up ahead. Any place they do not find the track is not wasted; it helps refine where the track will be rediscovered. Losing the track is a part of tracking.</p><p><strong>THE DAILY ART OF THE SEARCH</strong></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">A</span>
s a tracker, I have learned that I feel the most myself when fully engaged in the process of following an animal. My eyes sharpen to tracks and my senses come alive. I feel the wilderness telling me a story as tracks cut through beautiful, wild terrain. It feels intimate when I find where this wild creature slept and then drank from a small waterhole. All day I follow, until at dusk I leave the tracks to the night. There is no failure that I have not found the animal. I have been fully awake in the art of the search.
</p> <!--kg-card-end: html--><p>This insight became true for me on my own journey when I began to attune deeply to my own transformative process and followed the wisdom of the wild self. As I learned its tracks, my life filled up with challenging engagements. Each day that I lived inside my own search, something strange happened. I became deeply attuned to a daily discovery of my path. As if by some magic, people started to come to me to discuss their own search. Instead of animal tracks, it was their intuition that led them.</p><p>Soon I was running retreats and working with people all over the world as a guide in the wilderness of personal meaning. In some strange way, my dedication to living as a tracker had allowed a path to emerge. I was arriving somewhere unplanned.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/boyd5.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><p>Now, I am also lucky to know that this is not <em>the </em>path. I haven’t found what I’m looking for. I have found a way of being that demands continuous daily attention. A way of searching that, like tracking, does not define the search by what you ultimately find. The real joy lies in the artful, daily dedication to the search itself.</p><p>Searching for “meaning” or “the track” of your own life takes the same courage that it takes to follow a lion in thick terrain. You will have to leave the safety of the world you know behind. You have to turn your attention on, like a lightswitch. You must feel an old, primal simmering in your nervous system, and fall onto the trail of something wild.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Cartoons on Searching by Brooke Bourgeois]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Artist’s Note
Brooke is a cartoonist and illustrator who primarily finds inspiration at the
intersection of unlikely themes. She is constantly ‘searching’ for jokes that
are specifically suited to visual anchors, and this often involves re-imagining
historical periods, fairy tale characters, and even cartoon tropes. In the
collection of cartoons she has provided for this issue, she explores this meta
theme of searching in her practice while each individual cartoon employs
searching on a micr]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/recovery-cartoons-by-brooke-bourgeois-2/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__61865cdee77d0504782d3171</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 3 - Searching]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Plain]]></category><category><![CDATA[Cartoon]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Brooke Bourgeois]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 09 Nov 2021 14:41:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/chameleon.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/sitter.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/waldo.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/jesus.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/spiders.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-art">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>Brooke is a cartoonist and illustrator who primarily finds inspiration at the intersection of unlikely themes. She is constantly ‘searching’ for jokes that are specifically suited to visual anchors, and this often involves re-imagining historical periods, fairy tale characters, and even cartoon tropes. In the collection of cartoons she has provided for this issue, she explores this meta theme of searching in her practice while each individual cartoon employs searching on a micro level somehow: searching the internet, searching for love, searching for a way out of desert island, searching for purpose.
</br></div><!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Terrain]]></title><description><![CDATA[Haven't I shared all my memories already?
Sweated into ink the anchored years
When the sun drove us like a team
of plough-horses through the summer sky?
No, I’ve kept a few things back, fears now
half-forgotten, loves remembered always
but never acted upon, never sent out
into the world to meet their fates.
None of that matters now to anyone but me,
and to me only because it pointed a direction,
gave some oblique shape to the edge
of the trailing, unmapped, interior terrain.
Poet’s Note
S]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/terrain/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__61866cf62ef03d047722de46</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 3 - Searching]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Necessary]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Jesse Graves]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 09 Nov 2021 14:41:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>Haven't I shared all my memories already? <br>Sweated into ink the anchored years<br>When the sun drove us like a team<br>of plough-horses through the summer sky?</br></br></br></p><p>No, I’ve kept a few things back, fears now<br>half-forgotten, loves remembered always<br>but never acted upon, never sent out<br>into the world to meet their fates.</br></br></br></p><p>None of that matters now to anyone but me,<br>and to me only because it pointed a direction,<br>gave some oblique shape to the edge<br>of the trailing, unmapped, interior terrain.</br></br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>Searching seems to me the essential calling of poets. What we do is more purposeful than simply looking, or observing, or recording our sensory perceptions, though those activities all contribute to the enterprise. The poem “Terrain” engages many of my favorite associations with language, with its equation of writing with labor and the exploration of unknown territory. The opening image feels somewhat mythical to me, with the sun driving my memories and me like horses through the sky, which seemed like a good approach to overarching concerns about how we write and what we are called to write about. I employed a technique here that I have not attempted often, to ask questions and then try to answer them in a direct way. The interior terrain is inexhaustible, and it draws us forward in pursuit of the poem; nothing could give a writer more hope than that. <br><br>
</br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Star Tours: The Rise of Space Tourism and the Return of the Sublime]]></title><description><![CDATA[ On the dusty morning of July 11, 2021, two hundred miles south of Albuquerque,
Sir Richard Branson squeezed into a blue and gold jumpsuit and shot into space.
He was the first person in history to ride fifteen kilometers short of the
Kármán Line—the international boundary between the atmosphere and the void—on a
rocket built with his own money.
“To all you kids down there, I was once a child with a dream, looking up to the
stars,” Branson said [https://www.bbc.com/news/science-environment-5779]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/star-tours/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__61867aa32ef03d047722dfa8</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 3 - Searching]]></category><category><![CDATA[The True]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Lauren Spohn]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 09 Nov 2021 14:40:00 GMT</pubDate><media:content url="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/space_666666.jpg" medium="image"/><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/space_666666.jpg" alt="Star Tours: The Rise of Space Tourism and the Return of the Sublime"/><p>
<span class="dropcap">O</span>
n the dusty morning of July 11, 2021, two hundred miles south of Albuquerque, Sir Richard Branson squeezed into a blue and gold jumpsuit and shot into space. He was the first person in history to ride fifteen kilometers short of the Kármán Line—the international boundary between the atmosphere and the void—on a rocket built with his own money.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>“To all you kids down there, I was once a child with a dream, looking up to the stars,” Branson<a href="https://www.bbc.com/news/science-environment-57797297"> said</a> to the camera inside the Virgin Galactic spaceplane. “Now I’m an adult in a spaceship, with lots of other wonderful adults, looking down to our beautiful, beautiful earth. To the next generation of dreamers, if we can do this, just imagine what you can do! Heyyyy!”</p><p>Branson unbuckled his straps and wafted out of his seat. “Come out, mister!” yelled one of the wonderful adults in the background. Three minutes later, Branson and crew glided into southern New Mexico and doused their blue and gold jumpsuits in expensive champagne. Standing on the press-release stage like a rock god, Branson announced that from now on, anyone could have the same life-changing experience for only $400,000.</p><p>And so, with one small step for mankind and one giant leap for one man, the Age of Space Tourism began.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Branson is not the only billionaire hurtling into space these days. Amazon mastermind Jeff Bezos<a href="https://apnews.com/article/jeff-bezos-space-e0afeaa813ff0bdf23c37fe16fd34265"> followed</a> Branson a week after the Virgin Galactic stunt, launching from Van Horn, Texas, to upstage the British music mogul by twenty-one kilometers. Never one to let other genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropists steal the spotlight, SpaceX founder and CEO Elon Musk <a href="https://www.theverge.com/2020/2/18/21142137/spacex-tourism-orbit-earth-private-citizens-dragon-space-flight">sent</a> four tourists into orbit 366 miles above the Earth for three days in September. The Inspiration4 mission, the first all-civilian spaceflight in history, was financed by billionaire Jared Isaacman, who founded a payment processing company after he dropped out of high school. </p><p>Thanks to the glitzy billionaire space race, the demand for star tours has soared alongside the price tag. Space tourism companies like<a href="https://www.spaceperspective.com/"> Space Perspective</a> and<a href="https://spaceadventures.com/"> Space Adventures</a> have already sold out flights for 2024. Tickets for the Space Perspective experience run at a modest $125,000 “per Explorer.”</p><p>“The demand is very, very high,” Bezos<a href="https://www.cnbc.com/2021/07/20/blue-origin-jeff-bezos-launch-watch-video-stream-live-updates.html"> said</a> at a Blue Origin presentation following the historic New Shepard launch, after the company<a href="https://www.cnbc.com/2021/07/20/jeff-bezos-blue-origin-space-tourist-sales-approaching-100-million.html"> had sold</a> nearly $100 million worth of future flights. “This is a tiny little step of what Blue Origin is going to do.”</p><p>With all the money and the press pouring into space tourism, it seems reasonable to ask: why do so many people want to jet above Earth’s atmosphere at a few hundred-thousand dollars a minute? COVID-19 has been bad, but it’s not an <em>Interstellar-</em>level disaster. The universe’s first known <a href="https://www.cnn.com/travel/article/aurora-station-luxury-space-hotel/index.html">luxury space hotel</a> is still at least six years away. You can’t even play <a href="https://astronomy.com/news/2021/02/alan-shepard-smacked-golf-balls-on-the-moon--and-now-we-know-where-they-landed#:~:text=In%20the%20annals%20of%20golf,most%20famous%20swings%20ever%20taken.&text=So%2C%20before%20his%20trip%20to,of%20a%20regular%20golf%20club.">golf on the moon</a> yet. What are space tourists paying small fortunes to experience?</p><p>Judging from the hype videos, website slogans, YouTube ads, and press releases, nothing short of a really awesome view.</p><p>The real question is, is it worth the price?</p><p>Unsurprisingly, space tourism companies seem to think so. “To go beyond the reaches of the earth, into space and to look back down at it,”<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q0G9D8nMeJk"> said</a> Joe Rohde, a forty-year Disney Imagineer and Experience Architect at Virgin Galactic, “It’s a spectacularly neat opportunity with huge potential for transformational change in a person.”</p><p>The rhetoric from other space tourism companies flies just as high as Rohde’s. “See the world as it was made to be seen” (<a href="https://spaceadventures.com/spaceflight-experiences/">Space Adventures</a>). “To gaze upon Earth from space—to take in the astounding views and vivid colors—is an unforgettable spectacle that astronauts call life-altering” (<a href="https://www.spaceperspective.com/">Space Perspective</a>). “Purchase a window seat on a life-changing spaceflight” (<a href="https://www.spaceperspective.com/">Blue Origin</a>).</p><p>For all the suspicion we may have of corporate PR-speak, the experience has mostly lived up to the hype. “It was so amazing,”<a href="https://apnews.com/article/jeff-bezos-space-e0afeaa813ff0bdf23c37fe16fd34265"> said</a> Oliver Daemen, the eighteen-year-old Dutch teen who ate Skittles in zero gravity with Bezos in the New Shepard, “Let’s hope that many, many more people can do this.” “My journey to space changed me in unexpected ways,” <a href="https://people.com/human-interest/hayley-arceneaux-reflects-on-inspiration4-space-mission/">wrote</a> Hayley Arceneaux, the twenty-nine-year-old Inspiration4 crewmember who works as a physician assistant at St. Jude’s Children’s Research Hospital in Memphis, Tennessee. “When I saw Earth from the glass cupola for the first time, I was overwhelmed with gratitude—gratitude for being alive to see it, but also for getting to see something that so few people have seen from that perspective,” she continued. “To be in that small group is something I never felt I deserved, but it was an opportunity that I was able to seize, and I hope many others will too.”</p><p>Space tourism may well deserve the critiques it’s already drawn, from scientists warning about its <a href="https://www.space.com/environmental-impact-space-tourism-flights#:~:text=Scientists%20worry%20that%20growing%20numbers,and%20contribute%20to%20climate%20change.&text=Some%20scientists%20consider%20that%20disconcerting,space%20several%20times%20a%20day.">effects on climate change</a> to social critics calling it a <a href="https://theconversation.com/billionaire-space-race-the-ultimate-symbol-of-capitalisms-flawed-obsession-with-growth-164511">frivolous pastime</a> for the ultra-rich. There’s certainly a wisp of dramatic irony to Daemen and Arceneaux’s hopes that “many” more people will experience the wonders of spaceflight. Daemen’s father paid an undisclosed price for the joyride after the original winner of Bezos’s charity auction gave up his $28-million-dollar seat. Arceneaux, a bone cancer survivor, was selected for Inspiration4 after Isaacman underwrote the mission and donated a seat to St. Jude’s, all for <a href="https://www.space.com/spacex-inspiration4-new-era-private-spaceflight">roughly</a> $200 million. The future where anyone can shoot to the stars for the price of an airline ticket is still far, far away.</p><p>But when it comes to hyping the view from space as “life-changing”—a sight worth paying limb and risking life to see—the space tourist companies are actually onto something. And judging from the history of human spaceflight, that “something” is much older and more wonderful than even Sir Richard Branson’s childhood dreams.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Humans first saw the Earth from outer space on April 12, 1961, when Russian cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin completed one orbit around the planet in the Vostok 1. But the view of Earth from space only became <em>a thing</em>—a discrete subject to discuss in conversation, newspapers, or YouTube ads—seven years later. It was Christmas Eve, 1968, four days into the Apollo 8 lunar orbital mission, seven months before Neil Armstrong took his giant leap. On one of the final loops around the moon, American astronaut Bill Anders snapped a photo of Earth peeking around the lunar surface. He called it <a href="https://www.nasa.gov/multimedia/imagegallery/image_feature_1249.html">“Earthrise.”</a> </p><p>The photo was a sensation. American wilderness photographer Galen Rowell<a href="https://www.abc.net.au/science/moon/earthrise.htm"> described</a> it as</p><p>"the most influential environmental photograph ever taken." Another <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/14/science/space/14mission.html?pagewanted=all">writer</a> called it the beginning of the ecological movement. <em><a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.smithsonianmag.com/science-nature/who-took-legendary-earthrise-photo-apollo-8-180967505/&sa=D&source=docs&ust=1636206902292000&usg=AOvVaw1TxbwJzaCWB38VjntahZM5">Smithsonian Magazine</a> </em>calls it one of the most iconic photos of the century.</p><p>The image of the blue marble hanging in the void laid bare how fragile “starship Earth” really is. Why was everyone so eager to nuke it into stardust? The past decade had seen Southeast Asia scorched by napalm, Los Angeles charred by race riots, a president and a civil rights leader assassinated. But from 239,000 miles away, with all those sins washed white and blue, how wasteful our wars, how pointless our racial and religious divides, how silly our pretensions to knowledge suddenly seemed! It was like John Lennon’s “Imagine” frozen in a photograph.</p><p>"The vast loneliness is awe-inspiring,” said Jim Lovell, Command Module pilot on the Apollo 8 mission. “It makes you realize just what you have back there on Earth."</p><p>Two other striking photographs amplified the earthrise effect over the next three decades. The first was “The Blue Marble,” taken 18,000 miles from Earth’s surface by the Apollo 17 crew in 1972, the first image to show the Earth’s south polar ice cap. The second was snapped by the deep space probe Voyager 1 in 1990, thirteen years into its Saturn-bound mission, four billion miles from home. In marked contrast to the rich swirling blues of “Earthrise” and “The Blue Marble,” this <a href="https://www.planetary.org/worlds/pale-blue-dot">photograph</a> shows Earth as a dust mite. Smaller than a pixel, it’s all but sucked away by the gaping black vacuum that swallows 99.99% of the image. Astronomer and author Carl Sagan, who originally requested that Voyager 1 take the photograph, captured the picture’s poignant effect in his 1994 bestseller, <em>The Pale Blue Dot:</em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote>There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known.</blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Astronauts after Apollo 8 have had similar reactions to seeing our world wrapped in the wide womb of uncreated night. “You develop an instant global consciousness, a people orientation, an intense dissatisfaction with the state of the world, and a compulsion to do something about it,”<a href="https://www.mdpi.com/2077-1444/11/8/418/htm"> explained</a> Edgar Mitchell, Lunar Module Pilot for the 1971 Apollo 14 mission. “Looking at the universe out there from my vantage point, I began to realize that we don’t know crap about anything, we really don’t…” another Apollo crew member reported after he spent several days orbiting the moon. Following a six-month stay at the International Space Station in 2011, American astronaut and former F-16 pilot<a href="https://www.businessinsider.com/overview-effect-nasa-apollo8-perspective-awareness-space-2015-8"> Ron Garan</a> described the Earth in Sagan-like terms as a “stunning, fragile oasis.” Seen from far enough away, it seems, the world reverts to Eden.</p><p>As for life-changing, many astronauts have radically corrected course after they landed back on Earth—some more radically than others.</p><p>Mitchell went on to found an Institute of Noetic Sciences to study the revelation he received in space about the unity of the universe.</p><p>Garan started writing books and giving<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kjqHhrtwHzo"> TED Talks</a> about “the orbital perspective,” which he <a href="https://www.rongaran.com/rons-latest-books/">claims</a> will “guide and inspire our efforts to build a better world.”</p><p>Perhaps the most extreme, James Erwin of Apollo 15 left the space capsule convinced that humans descended from extraterrestrials. For over a decade, he led expeditions to Mount Ararat in eastern Turkey in search of Noah’s Ark.</p><p>Not every astronaut leaves space with a new religion. But the life-altering reaction to seeing Earth from outside the atmosphere is common enough to have both a name and a Wikipedia page: “the overview effect.” Writer Frank White coined the term in his 1987 book of the same name, which re-released in its third edition in 2014. “I was flying cross-country, from the east coast to the west coast, in the 1970s,” White explained in a recent<a href="https://vimeo.com/55073825"> documentary short</a> about the overview effect, “and I was looking out the window, and as I was looking down at the planet, the thought came to me, ‘Anyone living in a space shuttle, or living on the moon, would always have an overview.’” White continued, “They would see things that we know, but we don’t experience, which is that the earth is one system, we’re all part of that system, and that there is a certain unity and coherence to it all.”</p><p>The language resonates with the select, but growing, number of space travelers who have experienced the view White only imagines. From Gagarin’s <a href="https://www.reallifestories.org/stories/1619/">observation</a>, famously contorted by Soviet propagandists, that an astronaut “cannot be suspended in space and not have God in his mind and his heart,” to Arceneaux’s telling <em>People Magazine</em> that the view of Earth made her feel “overwhelmed with gratitude,” the history of human spaceflight makes it hard to deny the overview effect. Something out-of-this-world really does seem to be out of this world.</p><p>Ancient and modern philosophers like <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/17957/17957-h/17957-h.htm">Longinus</a>,<a href="https://www.google.com/books/edition/A_Philosophical_Enquiry_Into_the_Origin/WSkGAAAAMAAJ?hl=en&gbpv=1&printsec=frontcover"> Edmund Burke</a>, and<a href="https://www.google.com/books/edition/Kant_s_Critique_of_Judgement/-jvXAAAAMAAJ?hl=en&gbpv=1&printsec=frontcover"> Immanuel Kant</a> would call it the sublime. Contemporary social psychologists <a href="https://www.google.com/books/edition/The_Happiness_Hypothesis/gHEv9yzj_a4C?hl=en&gbpv=1&printsec=frontcover">Jonathan Haidt</a> and <a href="https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/29715721/">Dachner Keltner</a> would call it awe—that powerful, seldom-broached “third dimension” on the axis of human experience where we perceive divinity, sacredness, and moral connectedness. By any name, that feeling of being swept up into something utterly mysterious, confronted with the fearfully infinite, and thrust face-to-face with something deep and true and totally beyond the reach of everyday existence, is real.</p><p>It’s hiding behind waterfalls, swirling in hurricanes, dancing in symphonies. And, judging by the <a href="https://www.businessinsider.com/overview-effect-nasa-apollo8-perspective-awareness-space-2015-8">evidence</a> of the overview effect, it seems to be floating a mere sixty miles above the Earth.</p><p>“[M]y research on the moral emotions has led me to conclude that the human mind simply <em>does </em>perceive divinity and sacredness, whether or not God exists,” <a href="https://www.google.com/books/edition/The_Happiness_Hypothesis/gHEv9yzj_a4C?hl=en&gbpv=1&printsec=frontcover">wrote</a> Haidt in his 2006 <em>Happiness Hypothesis, </em>“by our actions and our thoughts, we move up and down on a vertical dimension,” and we are “impoverished human beings” if we let our world “collapse into two dimensions.” The cosmonauts, astronauts, and tourists who have rocketed higher up this vertical dimension than any humans in history seem to agree. Their language reveals an aesthetic and moral response to the view from outer space—in Gagarin’s case, first seeing the Earth as a precious blue marble, then feeling the moral weight of protecting that marble, and finally writing <a href="https://books.google.com/books/about/Orbital_Perspective.html?id=j6H_sgEACAAJ&source=kp_book_description">three-hundred-page memoirs </a>to help people see “a way forward without divisions of race, nations or religions.” From the evidence on Earth, Spaceland seems to be the world beyond second-dimensional strife over ego, fame, and fortune.</p><p>We all stand to gain if Virgin Galactic, Blue Origin, SpaceX, and other space tourism companies can reduce the cost of spaceflight so that more than the ultrarich can experience this launch-to-Damascus. If millions, even thousands, of diplomats, politicians, CEOs, doctors, lawyers, software engineers, teachers, law enforcement officers, factory workers, grocery clerks, nannies, parents, and siblings went about daily life inspired by the overview effect, we might see real improvements in global issues like poverty, inequality, and climate change. We might make real progress toward peace.</p><p>Does this mean that space tourism will save the world? Not quite. For all the wonder of spaceflight, and its potential to open a new frontier for experiencing the sublime, there are several reasons to doubt that the billionaire space pioneers can, in the<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9E9bscLGTAA"> words</a> of billionaire space pioneer Tony Stark, “privatize world peace.” Altogether, these reasons should be the cause of great rational optimism for us as-yet Earth-dwellers.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>First, we should be wary that corporate motives will discolor the space-tour experience of the overview effect. Competition might push companies to optimize their adventure experience, as well as drive down the price of admission, but market dynamics might also chafe against the spirit of the sublime.</p><p>The overview effect is all about encountering the wonder of a universe too big to grasp, and a planet too precious to lose over egotistic squabbles. But space tourism, for all its highflying PR, descended into egotistic <a href="https://www.theverge.com/2021/7/9/22570287/space-tourism-virgin-galactic-branson-blue-origin-bezos">squabbling</a> even before Sir Richard Branson squeezed into his electric blue spaceflight suit: Jeff Bezos announces the New Shepard will launch on July 20, the fifty-second anniversary of the Apollo 11 moon landing; Branson announces he’ll launch nine days earlier. Two days before Branson takes off, Blue Origin <a href="https://twitter.com/blueorigin/status/1413521627116032001?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw%7Ctwcamp%5Etweetembed%7Ctwterm%5E1413521627116032001%7Ctwgr%5E%7Ctwcon%5Es1_c10&ref_url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.theverge.com%2F2021%2F7%2F9%2F22570287%2Fspace-tourism-virgin-galactic-branson-blue-origin-bezos">tweets</a> that Bezos’s rocket is bigger than Branson’s. It’s hard to find the Earth-is-too-precious-to-lose-let’s-stop-fighting spirit in a middle-school-playground-level Twitter exchange. These are the pioneers forging a new way to the sublime?</p><p>It seems wrong to turn the experience of Haidt’s vertical axis, so basic to being human, and the overview effect, so precious to astronauts since Gargarin, into a battleground for billionaire egos and corporate ownership. Will all space tourist companies fall into the same trap? (Musk, for his part, seems content to launch his space capsule 366 miles above the squabbling en route to Mars.)</p><p>Beyond the corporate politics, the structure of the space tourism industry may, somewhat paradoxically, keep tourists from actually experiencing the overview effect. The view-of-Earth-from-space was born in a moment of serendipity. Bill Anders wasn’t planning to take a photo of the earthrise when Apollo 8 slipped around the lunar surface. He wasn’t in space to gaze poetically at the Earth, experience “a life-changing adventure,” and return to his wife and kids with a new orbital perspective. He was a fighter-pilot-turned-astronaut simply doing his job. Part of the reason “Earthrise” was so profound is that it was unexpected.</p><p>We’d think, consequently, that the novelty would wear off for astronauts following Apollo 8. But even astronauts who have been warned about the overview effect ahead of their first mission <a href="https://vimeo.com/55073825">report</a> feeling amazed. Why? Until this summer, the view of Earth from space was almost exclusively reserved for professional astronauts. Spaceflight was risky, and the men and women who did it devoted their lives to aviation and aerospace. They blasted above the Kármán Line on taxpayer dollars to conduct scientific experiments. Even if other astronauts had experienced it before, the overview effect was something special--something that both the astronauts and their home nations appreciated in proportion to their risk and sacrifice.</p><p>But a minutes-long jaunt to the edge of space in a pay-as-you-go rocket is a categorically different experience from a week-long mission to the moon in a capsule funded by American citizens trying to beat the Soviets in the Cold War Space Race, run by a computer with less processing power than an iPhone. The serendipitous view of the earthrise from the Apollo 8 command module was a miracle. The hyped-up view of Earth from the VSS Unity backseat, or the New Shepard capsule, is the A/B-tested product you paid for. Tomorrow’s space tourists will rocket up the atmosphere in a vehicle designed (in Branson’s case) by a Disney Imagineer, to experience the Earth as profit-maximizing marketers want them to see it. Where is the “Earthrise” serendipity, the danger, the sense of earned privilege, the perspective-shattering surprise? Will we appreciate the view the same way without these things? Will we look out the passenger window and see anything beyond the pictures we saw in advertisements and Instagram feeds?</p><p>Space tourism companies themselves are wary of these dangers. Why else does no one call space tourists “space tourists”? Ordinary citizens who have gone to space have <a href="https://www.yorkdispatch.com/story/news/2021/05/25/space-tourism-grows-gets-call-astronaut/116525178/">resisted </a>the label since the early 2000s. Space tourists today are called “<a href="https://spaceadventures.com/">clients</a>”, “<a href="https://spaceadventures.com/experiences/spacewalk">mission participants</a>”, “<a href="https://www.spaceperspective.com/experience">explorers</a>”, and even “citizen <a href="http://www.virgingalactic.com/">astronauts</a>.” The labels certainly apply to the Inspiration4 crew, who underwent <a href="https://time.com/6083965/inspiration4-space-training/">months of training</a> before their three-day mission, but what happens the day after tomorrow, when space tourists blast up to space like they blast up Space Mountain today? Does “astronaut” apply to anyone who can afford to buy the label? Even space tourist companies, rhetorically at least, seem to have an aversion to making spaceflight strictly commercial.</p><p>Beyond these worries about turning the cosmos corporate, we have reason to doubt that space tours, taken even in the best of faith, can give us a long-term source of sublimity. In the event that ten years from now we have a flourishing space tourism market that lets millions of people snap earthrise selfies for their social media accounts, the wonder of the world above the Kármán Line will eventually wear off. What happens when we have hotels in space, waystations on the Moon, and colonies on Mars? Exactly what happened to the view of the Earth from the airplane, a mere 35,000 feet above the planet. The novelty will get old.</p><p>In the early twentieth century, seas of clouds inspired French aviator Antoine de Saint-Exupéry to write <em>The Little Prince; </em>oceans of sky<em> </em>stirred Kenyan aviatrix Beryl Markham to write prose that made Hemingway jealous. The view from a commercial jet window, after all, is what first inspired Frank White to write about the overview effect. Now, most airline passengers pull the sunshade over their window, so they can hack away at their email without squinting. Why should the view of Earth from a few hundred thousand feet higher be exempt from the same hedonic adaptation?</p><p>Branson, for his part, already seems to have gotten over his life-changing view of the “beautiful, beautiful earth.” A month after the VSS Unity stunt, he <a href="https://www.forbes.com/sites/jonathanponciano/2021/08/13/billionaire-branson-sold-300-million-in-virgin-galactic-stock-this-week-as-shares-tumbled/?sh=1e41c03d6f69">offloaded</a> $300 million worth of Virgin Galactic stock as shares nose-dived more than 25%. Whether it was the bad business model, the <a href="https://techcrunch.com/2021/09/02/faa-grounds-virgin-galactic-amidst-investigation-into-july-mission/">course-deviating </a>spaceplane, or Branson’s electric blue spacesuit, it seems that capturing the space-sublime is trickier business than imagineering thrill rides.</p><p>At least three considerations, then, should sober our excitement about space tourism’s one-hundred-percent-subliminity-guarantee: corporate motives that cut against the spirit of the overview effect, the risk of over-commercialization cheapening the experience, and the likelihood that sooner or later, people will get bored of the orbital perspective. But this is all wonderful news. Why? If we’re doubtful that we can always find the sublime on space tours, we should be optimistic that we can always find the sublime on Earth, without paying for admission.</p><p>The third dimension of human experience, for Haidt, is about seeing the divine and the sacred in what surrounds us, whether or not we believe that God exists. If that’s true, the sublime is simultaneously the scarcest and most plentiful resource on Earth. Life-changing perspective is everywhere if we look hard enough to find it. Romantic poet William Blake <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43650/auguries-of-innocence">saw</a> “a World in a Grain of Sand”; writer David Foster Wallace <a href="https://sites.psu.edu/kingsel/files/2016/08/DFW-How-Tracy-Austin-Broke-My-Heart-1994-1lctx91.pdf">found</a> the sublime in Tracy Austin’s tennis serve; playwright Thornton Wilder <a href="https://www.thorntonwilder.com/our-town">discovered</a> wonder in an ordinary New Hampshire town. Most people feel something similar when they get swept up in the crowd after the beat drops at a rock concert, or the rookie scores the winning touchdown and the crowd rushes the field at the championship game. Others feel it watching a sunset, hearing a speech at a funeral, holding a newborn baby, or seeing the groom’s face when the bride starts down the aisle. Still others might feel that strange mystic unity watching the Olympics opening ceremony, contemplating the Rose Window of the Notre Dame Cathedral, or gathering around a campfire on a long summer night to gaze open-mouthed at the stars.</p><p>Spaceflight is wonderful. The overview effect is a gift to this generation that anyone lucky enough to receive should embrace with open arms. But if we flatlanders don’t have the aesthetic appreciation and moral charity to wrestle wonder from the recalcitrant stuff of everyday life, we won’t be able to keep wonder pinned for long in the backseat window of a rocketship. If we can’t find a reason to stop the petty ego battles and self-destructive infighting here on Earth, we won’t find it out there in space. But if anything, that’s reason for excitement. It means that the sublime is everywhere we’re willing to see it.</p><p>A retired astronaut in his fifties, who flew multiple missions to the International Space Station during his career, summed up the limits of space tourism in a recent <a href="https://www.mdpi.com/2077-1444/11/8/418/htm">interview</a>:</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote>As far as the overview effect and getting a sense that we are a common humanity, and we all share a common home, and at the end of the day that the things that unite human beings are commonalities between human beings that are greater than the things that divide us . . . You know, I think the reason that I didn’t come away with some kind of sudden, strong compelling feeling in that regard is that I think I knew that before I left.</blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>To reach the highest view of this beautiful, beautiful planet, we can—and maybe one day must—keep our feet planted firmly on Starship Earth.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Big Stories: They Still Matter]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Perhaps, like me, you’ve noticed a curious sort of temporality since the
pandemic began. Time is passing both unbearably slowly and frighteningly
quickly. The slow dragging days add up before they come to pass. History seems
to outpace itself, leaving absences of memory in its wake. We’re moving into the
future without the chance to catch our breaths, and without the time or frame of
mind to organize our recollections and observations in the passing present into
a coherent story that can bring ]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/big-stories/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__61867e652ef03d047722dff1</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 3 - Searching]]></category><category><![CDATA[The True]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Will McCollum]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 09 Nov 2021 14:40:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">P</span>
erhaps, like me, you’ve noticed a curious sort of temporality since the pandemic began. Time is passing both unbearably slowly and frighteningly quickly. The slow dragging days add up before they come to pass. History seems to outpace itself, leaving absences of memory in its wake. We’re moving into the future without the chance to catch our breaths, and without the time or frame of mind to organize our recollections and observations in the passing present into a coherent story that can bring us safely to a future worth living in at all.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>In the nineties, there was much think-piecing and hand-wringing about the imminent end of history. Famously, historian Francis Fukiyama confidently proclaimed in 1992 that we had reached the end of history, with Western liberal democracy having shown itself globally ascendant and historically necessary with the fall of the Soviet Union. At that time, Western liberal democracy was a metanarrative that helped us to frame historical events in a cohesive and forward-looking framework.</p><p>Twenty years after September 11, 2001, the apparent decline of Western liberal democracy and its more recent spawn, neoliberalism, leave us wondering about the viability of such stories, as well as their perceived truth value: if liberal “progress” isn’t assured, as the last several decades seem to suggest, then what are we to do? What Big Story should we be telling?</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Narratives are essential for my day job. I recently returned home to Birmingham, Alabama, after spending five weeks in a small tent outside the town of Munising in the piney woods of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. I spent the summer working on an archaeology project excavating logging camps that were operated in the early twentieth century. On projects like that, studying the relatively recent past, you’re not really expecting to find buried treasure. Rather, it’s a lot of tobacco tins and nails and bits of broken glass and bottle caps. The point of the project was to identify how poor (mostly Scandinavian) immigrant loggers lived their daily lives by meticulously uncovering and analyzing their trash. What did they eat? What did they buy? Did they have time for leisure? That’s really all archaeology is: methodically digging up trash and learning about the people who left it behind. These workers make scant appearances in the historical record, so archaeology is well-suited for reconstructing their lives and trying to tell their stories the best we can.</p><p>As an archaeologist, I specialize in historical archaeology. Historical archaeologists study the period for which we also have a written record. Historical archaeology contrasts with prehistoric archaeology, which is the kind of archaeology most readers are probably familiar with. Historical archaeology offers one way to remedy a selective documentary record. What makes historical archaeology distinct from prehistoric archaeology is that we work between the archaeological record and the historical record. We try to fill in the gaps in the telling of history. The themes historical archaeologists treat, and the stories they incorporate, are often related to questions of colonialism, race, capitalism, environmental destruction, and the like.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/will3.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>View from the archaeological site of Mawchu Llaqta in the Colca Valley, Peru. Photos C/O Will McCollum</figcaption></img></figure><p>The first step in filling those historical absences is to identify an absence in the first place. But where does one look for something that isn’t in the written record or in the stories we tell ourselves? To me, it seems that the best one can first do is trace the contours of the dominant narrative so as to determine what has already been said. This allows us to identify the limits of the historical absence.</p><p>After tracing the dominant narrative, we must determine which absences matter. Crucially, a Big Story can train one’s attention toward the gaps that do matter for that story’s unfolding. The dominant narrative is the history that has been recorded and remembered, and doesn’t necessarily cohere with any one Big Story. But without direction by a Big Story, how does one know where to look for the historical absences that matter for the direction of that story?</p><p>Big Stories—Western liberal democracy being just one example—situate events within the longer arc of history and its unfolding. The kinds of stories I’m calling Big Stories are those myths that generalize so as to account for the broad sweep of history and its ultimate direction. These stories are less concerned with the historical particulars than with how the particulars fit into a larger explanatory narrative. These are commonly known as metanarratives. Other competing contemporary examples of Big Stories are Christianity (and any other universalizing religion), Marxism, evolutionary biology (along with modern western science in general), and fascism. Without Big Stories, you just have scattered and unorganized bits of information, decontextualized data like broken glass. Big Stories help in our search for absences by highlighting themes that continue to matter in the contemporary world.</p><p>To draw from my own archaeological fieldwork experience, take for example the case of early Spanish colonial towns in Peru. In the southern Andes of Peru, I helped excavate an abandoned sixteenth century Spanish colonial town. The town was one of hundreds of <em>reducciones.</em> These were towns to which indigenous Andeans were resettled after Spanish conquest in 1532. All told, upwards of a million Andeans were forcibly relocated to these Spanish colonial townships because the Spanish believed it would make Catholic evangelization and colonial administration more efficient.</p><p>We spent ten weeks in a village of four hundred people, 14,000 feet above sea level in the high Andes. Sleeping on bunk beds in the village parish, without heat and with only sporadic running water, we hiked an hour each morning to the site. All this to dig up Inca and Spanish colonial potsherds and try to tell a particular story of sixteenth-century indigenous subjects living under colonial domination in Peru. Here, European colonialism is the Big Story of interest both because it shaped the modern world, and because it left colonized and exploited subjects largely absent in the historical record. Many scholars argue that European colonialism is one of, if not the, foundations to modernity. Another candidate for foundations to modernity is the development and growth of capitalism. In fact, it’s hard to disentangle colonialism and capitalism, and many point to early European colonial exploits in the fifteenth century as inaugurating capitalism as such. But I’m not so interested in the nuances of the origins of capitalism here. To the matter at hand, Marx’s critique of capitalism offers me a Big Story for approaching my current research in Birmingham, Alabama of all places.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/will1.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>View overlooking Lake Superior in the Keweenaw Peninsula, Michigan.</figcaption></img></figure><p>What is unique to Birmingham (and to the entirety of the industrialing South) is the transition from racist chattel slavery to racist wage-labor in Alabama. In the abandoned iron mines of Birmingham’s Red Mountain Park, the Big Story of Marxism directs me toward issues of race and class that guide my research. I don’t mean to suggest that some kind of proof or justification of Marxism is specifically materially located in Birmingham, of all places. My point in this essay isn’t to argue the merits of Marxism, anyway. What I mean is that the Big Story of Marxism (as just one universalizing narrative) directs my attention to what matters for the story regardless of where that matter-ing takes place. The development of industrial capitalism as a mode of expropriating surplus labor, alienating workers, and creating surplus value (profit) for the bosses isn’t unique to Birmingham. The Big Story of Marxism simply allows me to focus on historical absences that pertain to that larger story. A Marxist mode of analysis can be applied to pretty much anywhere.</p><p>In my own case, in Birmingham, Red Mountain Park is home to abandoned iron mines that together comprised the foundation for the city’s rapid industrial growth in the late nineteenth century. Located between downtown Birmingham and the neighboring town of Bessemer, it incorporates the remains of the industrial infrastructure of the iron ore mines into its layout, with abandoned mine shafts visible from hiking trails. However, the park doesn’t highlight the mining camps themselves, where the workers lived, in its presentation of Birmingham’s industrial past. The mining camps in Red Mountain Park were majority-Black, and many of the workers had moved from agrarian plantation settings to work in the newly industrializing setting of Birmingham at the turn of the twentieth century. This story is one of the transition from chattel slavery to industrial wage-labor after emancipation, and it is the broad and sweeping narrative of Marxism that first directed my attention toward this question of labor history.</p><p>By chance, I came across the mining camp of Smythe, a majority-Black mining camp with almost no archival representation, a place that would help me address the questions posed by absences in the historical record and directed by my own commitment to Marxism as a Big Story.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>One challenge in telling the stories needed to make sense of history is that social theorists (Foucault, Deleuze, Derrida) have spilled much ink arguing that all stories are formal constructs and, therefore, fictions. More recently, some writers like Yuval Noah Harari have popularized these ideas in even less-nuanced ways.</p><p>French poststructuralism came onto the scene in the second half of the twentieth century. Building on the arguments of earlier philosophers like Herder, Neitzsche, and Wittgenstein, the poststructuralists basically argued that, because our understandings of the world are grounded in our own historically-contingent and inherently values-laden language, there is no such thing as objectivity. All judgement, they claimed, entails certain self-referential assumptions that make a “realist” understanding of the world impossible. Foucault, for instance, argued in <em>The History of Sexuality</em> that the notion of an individual having a thing called a “sexuality” is itself a relatively recent historical development, one which would be alien to past civilizations. The poststructuralists thus highlighted a linguistic quirk that does not exist in English, but does in all the Romance languages: that “history” can refer to both a scholastic study of past events (<em>l’histoire</em>) and a subjective narrative (<em>une histoire</em>). The impact of this revelation was to suggest that <em>l’histoire</em> is actually just another of many competing <em>histoires</em>. The Big Story, they argued, is just that: a story.</p><p>We continue to see the influence of poststructuralism in contemporary cultural and political life in this country. This isn’t to suggest that an obscure group of French poststructuralists, in some way, caused our current predicament, but rather that the school of thought offers a descriptive and explanatory framework for thinking through our current disdain for truth. Think disinformation, or the total disintegration of verifiable narrative. The proliferation and pathological consumption of online information that’s been hyper condensed into images and bits of text only compounds the problem of finding a story that <em>means</em> something at all.</p><p>Surely you can relate with the feeling that we know everything and nothing at the same time. In light of the poststructuralist critique, and bearing in mind the fractious proliferation of online information, how do we continue telling stories? Even in historical archaeology, which is an empirical discipline, can we be sure we aren’t just writing another fiction? As we study the silenced stories of colonized indigenous people in Peru, or as we reconstruct the lives of miners in Alabama, are we not still selectively reading history? If we are writing fiction, is this a problem?</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>In his influential <em>Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History</em>, the late Haitian anthropologist Michel-Rolph Trouillot identified a basic ambiguity in the vernacular use of the word “history.” He describes what he calls Historicity 1 and Historicity 2.</p><p>Historicity 1 describes the sociohistorical processes that actually happened out there in the world. On the other hand, Historicity 2 describes the <em>stories</em> we tell about what happened out there in the world. These two kinds of historicity are both distinct while also overlapping considerably.</p><p>Trouillot argues that to get at that ambiguity we ought to study the power-laden operations that produce silences in historical narratives. Ultimately, he is concerned with understanding how we might begin to redress historical erasures and write histories about people left out of dominant narratives.</p><p>Saidiya Hartman, a historian of U.S. slavery, addresses the problem of how to account for marginalized people (enslaved people, in her case) who leave no record of their own in the archives, and about whom next to nothing is written. For enslaved people, Hartman might at most have a name in a ledger documenting their sale as chattel. She pointedly says, “The necessity of trying to represent what we cannot, rather than leading to pessimism or despair, must be embraced as the impossibility that conditions our knowledge of the past and animates our desire for a liberated future.” So if a story is always going to be fiction, how does one go on telling stories, especially in the case of a story without any archival representation at all? In my own case, if Black industrial workers were erased from the Birmingham archive, how can I tell their stories anyway? Archaeology is one mode for probing historical absences, but are we not still telling a fiction, just a different fiction read against the dominant narrative?</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>My own dissertation research is concerned with Smythe, the aforementioned abandoned majority-Black iron ore mining camp in my hometown of Birmingham, Alabama. The site was occupied from roughly 1890–1915. The site was owned and operated by the Tennessee Coal, Iron and Railroad Company (TCI), which was incorporated by U.S. Steel in 1907.</p><p>Unsurprisingly, a corporation like U.S. Steel isn’t exactly interested in an anthropologist snooping through their records. Except for census records, I have had no luck in identifying any relevant documents in the Birmingham archives. Furthermore, any administrative documents related to Smythe were laid to rest in the U.S. Steel archives. I have emailed people in public relations several times and have been redirected and ignored each time.</p><p>This is a perfect, if not glaring, example of a gap in the archival record. Archaeology offers one option for recovering these lost memories.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Memory, of course, plays an important role in this problem of recovering stories that have been forgotten by history. In popular understanding, history is sometimes thought of like an individual’s memory. That is, history as collective or social memory. Trouillot takes aim at this framework, what he calls the storage model, and argues that history, and likewise individual memory, cannot be thought of as a cabinet with different compartments and their corresponding representations retrievable at will. Even were this the case, and all the representations were readily accessible, history isn’t a simple record of the sequence of the contents of each compartment. History requires an interpretive and narrative framework for organizing its contents.</p><p>Neither the individual’s memory nor collective memory is reliable as a representational accounting of what happened. An individual’s memory (and therefore identity) is malleable and unstable, and our collective recounting of history is always selective. Neither history (collective memory) nor individual memory is fixed, and the demands of the present always shape the contours of our recollections, both in narrating our selves and in narrating history.</p><p>Without a concept of a future worth living in, it’s hard to know what information in the present and its corresponding past bears recounting. That is, in the face of an absent future, we’re also left with an absent present and past.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/will2.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>A child’s shoe and the face of a doll excavated in the Hiawatha National Forest in Michigan's Upper Peninsula.</figcaption></img></figure><p>Inundated with information, it seems difficult to zero in on what matters when we don’t have a Big Story. Stories, historical and personal, provide texture and organization to collective and individual memory. Stories push us to be attentive to the present and the past in terms of a future we look hopefully toward.</p><p>One reason that Big Stories matter is that they give us direction for recovering and retaining the information that matters for a future. They allow us to determine which gaps in memory matter for the sake of the story. We’ll never be able to recover all the information that has been lost to time and its distortions and erasures. But having a Big Story as a framework allows us to focus on what really matters.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Obviously, not everyone can put archaeological methods to work in filling historical gaps and other gaps in memory. Although archaeology offers an obvious toolkit for redressing historical erasure, it is by no means the only method of saying what heretofore has not been said.</p><p>Even if histories are fictional constructs, I argue that those constructs are still worth telling if we are to one day live in a future worth living in.</p><p>This question of history’s absences bears importance for living in the present as well. As gestured to above, without a Big Story directing us toward some imagined future, we are left with absences in the present and, as the present passes, absences in the past. The challenge we are left with is imagining a future we want to live in, and its corresponding story, in order to make us attentive to what matters in the present and past.</p><p>With multiple intersecting crises with apocalyptic overtones, it seems particularly urgent that we imagine a future worth living in. By hopefully identifying a direction to history’s unfolding, we can inhabit the density of history in the now, and productively weed through proliferating scattered information to identify what matters for the Big Story.</p><p>History is still being written. The question remains: What future will be written into existence?</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Searching in the Dark: The Case for Dark Matter]]></title><description><![CDATA[*The artwork featured in this piece was done in collaboration with digital
artist Kendra Oliver, an educator and artist living in Pittsburgh.
On a September evening in 1846, German astronomer Johann Gottfried Galle
received a letter requesting that he point his telescope at one small patch of
the night sky. The letter detailed that by performing this observation, Galle
might solve a puzzle that vexed the scientific community for years. This puzzle
concerned the orbit of Uranus, the only planet]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/searching-in-the-dark/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__61867d702ef03d047722dfe3</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 3 - Searching]]></category><category><![CDATA[The True]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Max Fieg]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 09 Nov 2021 14:40:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><em>*The artwork featured in this piece was done in collaboration with digital artist Kendra Oliver, an educator and artist living in Pittsburgh.</em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">O</span>
n a September evening in 1846, German astronomer Johann Gottfried Galle received a letter requesting that he point his telescope at one small patch of the night sky. The letter detailed that by performing this observation, Galle might solve a puzzle that vexed the scientific community for years. This puzzle concerned the orbit of Uranus, the only planet whose orbit couldn’t be predicted by Newton’s theory of gravity. Uranus would be expected to be in one place but show up in another. Spurred by this mystery, Galle’s letter-writer asked himself: is Newton’s theory not a description of our world, or is there something else responsible for this anomaly?
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Prior to writing his letter, French astronomer and mathematician Urbain Le Verrier made a calculation he hoped would explain the orbit of Uranus and maintain support for the theory of gravitation. Le Verrier and others suggested that there was a <em>dark companion</em> responsible for the disturbance: an unknown, massive body orbiting near Uranus providing an extra gravitational pull. Supposing this massive body existed, Le Verrier predicted where and how heavy Uranus’s dark companion must be to explain the data. He sent his letter to Galle telling him where to look. On the night the letter arrived, Galle searched the sky and discovered a royal blue planet three billion miles from Earth, known today as Neptune, within one degree of Le Verrier’s prediction and after less than one hour of searching.</p><p>The mystery of Uranus’s anomalous orbit posed a serious challenge for nineteenth century science. The puzzle and consequent discovery of Neptune are exemplary of a recurring pattern in physics: an observation is made that doesn’t agree with a theory’s prediction, so scientists must either come up with a better theory or find an effect (like an undiscovered planet) which might explain the observation using a current theory.</p><p>Twenty-first century physicists and astronomers, however, find themselves in a similar but much more dire situation. Around 50 years ago, another observation led us to question our best and most well-tested theories. Like the disturbance in Uranus’s orbit, this observation suggested that there is a certain missing mass in our universe, only far darker than the dimly lit Neptune. That mass is what physicists and astronomers call “dark matter,” an incredibly elusive and distinctly unusual substance. As a mid-level graduate student pursuing a PhD in particle physics, I work with collaborators at UC Irvine and around the world to help us better understand dark matter: how to find it, where to find it, its secrets, and what effects it might have on the world around us, or above us.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/maxphotoredo.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Kendra Oliver,<em> Patterns and Predictions</em>, digital artwork (2021) | Patterns and predictions throughout history have shaped our reality. From the idea of “some dark companion” that was responsible for the orbital disturbances to the existence and understanding of dark matter, patterns and prediction drive human knowledge. This is based on human creativity and ingenuity.</figcaption></img></figure><p>As a result of more than a century’s worth of research, physicists today have a grand theory of particle physics which is (unimaginatively) called the Standard Model. The theory holds that there are merely 17 indivisible particles that interact with one another and constitute the building blocks which form everything in our universe. The Standard Model describes how these particles interact, has been tested against countless experiments, and we can predict the outcome of these experiments with remarkable precision. In fact, the Standard Model is the most predictive theory that humans have ever come up with. We know, however, that the Standard Model is incomplete as dark matter cannot be any of these 17 particles. We know in great detail how these 17 behave, and dark matter does not behave quite like any of them. One of these known particles, called the neutrino, is similar to dark matter and can give some insight into how dark matter behaves. The neutrino is a ghost-like particle that passes through matter undisturbed. It was predicted to exist based on experiments that could not be explained, and the scientist who theorized it lamented, “I have done a terrible thing: I have postulated a particle that cannot be detected.”</p><p>From the Italian for “little neutral one”, the neutrino is an elusive particle that rarely interacts with other particles. Countless neutrinos are constantly being produced in the sun. These neutrinos travel through the vacuum of space, and more than 100 trillion of them pass through you unnoticed each second. Despite the neutrino’s near complete detachment from other particles and our experiments, it was eventually discovered two decades after it was predicted and is a crowning achievement of theoretical and experimental physics. Like the neutrino, dark matter is passing through you unnoticed each moment. Unlike the neutrino, however, we do not yet know how many dark matter particles are passing through you nor where they come from, and its identity still eludes us more than five decades after we gathered the first conclusive evidence of dark matter’s existence.</p><p>The story of Neptune’s discovery mirrors the story of how we learned about dark matter. By observing the motion of a body like Uranus, one can calculate the forces causing that motion, such as the gravitational tug of an unseen companion like Neptune. A half-century ago, astronomer Vera Rubin used this same tactic on stars within the nearby Andromeda Galaxy, two million light years from Earth. Starting with the stars at the edge of the galaxy, she measured their velocity as they orbited the disk, the galaxy’s “rotation curve.” Here again the tactic proved useful: just as one could predict the motion of Uranus around the sun using the known planets, Rubin could predict the motion of the stars around the galaxy using the other known stars.</p><p>Rubin painstakingly analyzed data and made a stark conclusion: all the stars at the edge of the Andromeda Galaxy were rotating much faster than expected. So fast, that the gravitational pull of the galaxy wasn’t enough to keep these stars from flying apart. There had to have been something else keeping Andromeda intact. Once more, observation suggested that there was some kind of dark companion, a missing mass providing the needed gravitational interaction. Just as Le Verrier predicted the mass and location of Neptune, Rubin could predict the mass and location of her dark companion.</p><p>Rubin and her collaborators predicted that about 85% of Andromeda’s mass was unaccounted for. Meaning, if you were to tally up all the stars, gas, and planets in Andromeda, add up their weight, and compare this with the mass required to keep the galaxy from flying apart, you would come up 85% short and conclude that you are not counting <em>most </em>of the galaxy’s actual mass. This conclusion wasn’t unique to Andromeda, but true of almost every known galaxy. Rubin’s work and follow-up studies predicted the location of this missing mass: it fills a large bubble or “halo” with the halo’s host galaxy embedded in it’s interior. We call this 85% missing mass “dark matter” because it does not emit, absorb, or strongly interact with light like stars, planets, and most particles do. To this day, while we’re confident that it exists, we have little idea of what dark matter actually is, even though it dominates our universe.</p><p>There are many ways that we study dark matter: astronomers and experimentalists scour the sky and design intricate experiments to find the dark matter needle in the haystack, while a theorist might develop a grand theory which unites dark matter with the successful Standard Model. My interest in this search is somewhere between these two in the field of dark matter<em> phenomenology</em>. To explain by way of our guiding example, the story of Neptune: Newton as a theorist developed the theory, Le Verrier as a phenomenologist used the theory to make a prediction to test the theory, and Galle as an astronomer searched the sky for the effects of the prediction.</p><p>A study in dark matter phenomenology usually begins down one of two roads, either the theoretical or experimental. When a theorist develops a new model of dark matter, it’s not always clear how this theory can be verified nor how it will affect our experiments. A theorist might come along and suppose there is a dark matter particle which only interacts with the elusive but well-known neutrino, for example. How this type of dark matter could subsequently be discovered with current experiments is highly uncertain.</p><p>Or a study might start with the experimentalists who report that they’ve developed an exciting new experiment, or they’ve obtained an experimental result that cannot be explained with the Standard Model. Maybe this anomalous result is dark matter, maybe it’s something else altogether, or maybe it is something more mundane like an error in the experiment. In each case, my collaborators and I have the job of predicting the phenomena from a theory and determining how these phenomena might be observed. Let me give an example of a project I worked on to describe how this process looks in a type of search called an “indirect<em> </em>detection” of dark matter.</p><p>How do you search for something you can’t see? By starting with something you <em>can </em>see. The Galactic Center Gamma-Ray Excess is a longstanding anomaly, in which there is light emanating from the center of the Milky Way which we can’t fully explain. The stars in the Milky Way glow of course, but there is a small excess of light above the glow we expect from conventional light sources. One popular idea is that this excess is the result of dark matter annihilation. Annihilation is a process where two particles crash into and destroy each other, converting their energy into other particles like light rays in the process. Annihilation happens with Standard Model particles all the time. In this proposed solution to the Galactic Center Excess, two dark matter particles would occasionally annihilate each other and give off the observed excess of light. As a phenomenologist, my job would be to find a model where two dark matter particles can annihilate each other, and calculate the properties of the dark matter particle such that it would give off the observed glow, thereby explaining the mysterious excess of light and learning more about this dark matter model.</p><p>The goal is to gather evidence for dark matter being a certain type of particle with a certain mass, interacting in a certain way with other particles. If enough evidence like this is gathered, scientists become more and more sure of what the dark matter particle actually <em>is</em>. Alas, no such gathering of evidence has been assembled. We currently have disparate pieces of evidence, and wide swaths of particles that we know dark matter isn’t<em>.</em></p><p>There are countless particles which have been suggested to be dark matter, and each has been or will be investigated thoroughly. The history of the search for dark matter involves decades of experiments, theories, and mathematics that takes years to grasp, even at a basic level. I recall when I was a younger student when academic papers read like a Dr. Seuss book filled with made-up words. Consider this handful of actual theorized particles and see if you can guess which one I just made up: gluons, glueballs, inflatons, quarks, squarks, quirks, winos, neutrinos, neutralinos, tops, downs, charms, bottoms, simps, wimps, and chimps. For most physicists (though most may not care to admit), our time is frequently spent discussing and pouring over papers trying to make sense of the findings while deciphering language like this. You never know, it could be a decades-old study that one day gives you a clue on dark matter, or an idea a collaborator put forth at lunch that merits further investigation. It can sometimes be disorienting, but at a fundamental level, dark matter is a hypothesis that begs the most familiar and child-like questions: What are we made of? What kind of world do we live in?</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/DarkMatter2.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Kendra Oliver, <em>Missing Matter</em>, digital artwork (2021) | Through observing the swirling movement and calculating masses of galaxies the darkness can be seen. For example, prediction indicated that 85% of Andromeda mass was unaccounted-for, similar to all other galaxies. Scientists can identify the location of the missing mass by a giant bubble, or “halo,” that crowns every galaxy. It does not absorb or strongly interact with light. These relationships are explored in this piece that tries to visualize dark matter.</figcaption></img></figure><p>To convince yourself that every galaxy, and thus the universe, is dominated by a mysterious and virtually undetectable dark matter requires more evidence. As Carl Sagan put it, “Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence.” Still, the suite of evidence for dark matter is overwhelming. More evidence is found in studies that examine groupings of thousands of galaxies called galaxy clusters. As Vera Rubin studied the rotation of stars around a galaxy, galaxy clusters allow us to study the orbit of galaxies around other galaxies. We’ve discussed this same phenomenon before, but sure enough the galaxies are found to be rotating so fast that they <em>should </em>fly apart. Notably, when the amount of missing mass is calculated, it is roughly the same 85% amount that Rubin found.</p><p>Another terrific observational technique which can be used to infer the existence of dark matter is called “gravitational lensing.” As a ray of light passes near a very massive body such as a star or galaxy, the ray’s path is bent by it like a lens. By measuring how much the light deviates from its path one can calculate how much mass is doing the bending. When these observations are performed on certain systems, the light appears to be bent more than it should be. You can probably guess what is responsible for the bending. Once again, these studies imply that there is a missing mass distributed as a diffuse halo around galaxies that outweighs regular matter by 5:1. How these analyses are performed is a longer discussion, but all of these observations plus countless others suggest the same missing mass. The interesting thing to note is that virtually every piece of evidence for dark matter relies on its bulk gravitational effects as opposed to the effect of one dark matter particle, obfuscating the particle’s identity.</p><p>But why should you care? What does dark matter have to do with you, at the end of the day?</p><p>One of the most significant signs of the existence of dark matter--if not <em>the </em>most significant--is the existence of you. Without dark matter our universe would be a much different place, and it’s entirely possible our universe would not exist at all without it. The full reach of dark matter's influence on our universe is not well understood, and its mysterious nature lures us toward a deeper understanding of our world.</p><p>But it is not just some substance light years away that you’ll never encounter; in fact, you are actually engulfed in dark matter right now.</p><p>Wherever you go, you are immersed in a sea of atmosphere, standing on an earth that orbits a sun you are familiar with. You might remember from chemistry class that the atmosphere is composed mostly of nitrogen and oxygen molecules, that the earth is a variety of metals like iron, and that the sun is almost 100% hydrogen. These atoms and molecules can absorb light, bump into each other, and their mass is well determined by countless experiments. But as you live in this atmospheric sea of regular matter, you are a speck in a much vaster ocean of silent particles. This silent dark matter does not absorb much light, if any light at all. The dark particle does not seem to bump into regular matter very often, and its mass is highly indeterminate. There is somewhere between one and more than a trillion-trillion dark matter particles all around you. Meaning, while we are confident of the total mass of all the dark matter in the room with you, we are so unsure of an individual particle’s mass that we can’t say whether it is a few heavy particles or trillions of light ones.</p><p>With all the evidence we have for dark matter, a mystery like this captivates the scientific investigator: so sure that something is there, and yet so unsure of what it is. But our studies and experiments have not been in vain. While we don’t yet know exactly what dark matter is, and questions abound more than answers, we at least know by studying dark matter’s effects what it <em>isn’t.</em> For example, we have no conclusive experiment that has detected even a quiet nudge of dark matter, so we at least know that it doesn’t interact very strongly.</p><p>If dark matter interacted strongly with regular matter, then as the Earth-sun system sweeps through the Milky Way’s dark matter bubble, I would feel a dark-matter wind against my face, even as I sit and type in my office. I don’t feel this, so it must not interact with me (or our experiments) very much, if at all. But one might ask: can dark matter occasionally bump into regular matter and give off a faint, detectable signal? This is what some experimentalists do in the study of dark matter “direct detection.<em>”</em></p><p>At the Homestake Mine in South Dakota, there’s a retired gold mine that had previously been the largest and deepest gold mine in North America. It sports a large quarry carved into the brown earth and some repurposed buildings left over from the mining days. One mile beneath the surface, however, paints a different picture, a place anything but forgotten. It was here where a $10 million dollar detector sought to detect the anomalous bump of an undiscovered dark matter particle. Until its recent retirement in 2016, the Large Underground Xenon Experiment (LUX) was an effort that tried to observe the direct detection of dark matter, whereby the detector would give off a signal that it had been bumped by something. The detector is shielded by nearly a mile of rock to prevent Standard Model cosmic rays and other particles of our atmosphere from reaching the detector and giving a false-positive for dark matter.</p><p>This mile of rock is thick enough that the only thing that should be able to reach the detector are neutrinos and the elusive dark matter. Neutrinos are not of signal interference concern, however, because they’re known to be so weakly interacting that the detector is not (yet) sensitive to them. Under mountains and in mines across the world, direct detection experiments like LUX have not reported any conclusive signal, which is not the most exciting result. And yet, these results do rule out certain candidates of dark matter, which in turn focus our research efforts on more promising candidates. As these null results come in every few years, the detectors are upgraded and become more sensitive to a dark matter particle that might interact more weakly. These direct detection experiments are constantly being improved and eventually will become sensitive to neutrinos, which cannot be shielded by any mountain. These detectors will then hit the so-called “neutrino floor,” below which it will be difficult to distinguish a regular neutrino bump from the nudge of dark matter on the detector. While there are studies trying to figure out how to get around this neutrino floor -- some prefer the term “neutrino fog” -- the ceiling is rapidly coming down. Aside from a few minor signals which have not yet convinced physicists, the dark matter particle has evaded every test of direct detection thus far.</p><p>But even if we pursue all these experiments, even if we discover dark matter, what is the point of it all?</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/DarkMatter3.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Kendra Oliver, <em>The 17</em>, digital artwork (2021) | There are 17 known particles, represented here as abstract forms. From the Standard Model, 17 indivisible particles interact and constitute the building blocks of our universe and in this image are neatly organized. The idea that these 17 particles are shared and distributed throughout the vacuum of space and are all around us. Also, the idea that new particles might arise based on predictions and patterns that are observed is possible. This image outlines the predictive power of theories that drive truths about our world but also the way that we logically and categorical understand the world around us.</figcaption></img></figure><p>The first and easiest answer I might give is that it matters for technological applications, which is the most concrete and potentially useful outcome of knowing more about dark matter. While it is not immediately clear how useful dark matter might be for humans, the source of various technologies has been famously unanticipated in the past. For example, as NASA studied robotics and developed new materials for space flight, countless technological applications unexpectedly came about, from innovations in artificial limb research and cochlear implants to the improvement of solar panels. In the 1980s, particle physicists were smashing various particles together for experiments and a few of them invented the world wide web so they could share data quickly. Technology has a habit of sneaking up on us and improving our lives from places we least expect; who is to say what applications dark matter might yield?</p><p>Dark matter has even been studied as a potential rocket fuel for deep space missions. It is expensive to bring anything to space, let alone fuel, but if you are constantly submerged in dark matter fuel then that is no longer a problem. The dark matter fuel could even give off neutrinos as a byproduct when burned, for all we know, which makes it hard to imagine humans guzzling it at a dangerous rate reminiscent of fossil fuels here on Earth. While a dark matter fuel is an exciting prospect, it is difficult to foresee how or if this could ever be realized.</p><p>And yet, the realm of the possible is sometimes limited the most by our imagination.</p><p>Beyond the technological reasons for studying dark matter, there are other exciting possibilities that can be fun to imagine. In some models, the dark matter can form dark atoms or dark molecules, and one can envision dark planets, dark stars, or even dark beings. There might be an entire <em>dark sector</em> secluded from our realm but living in the same space. The world we are used to shows all these complex structures: from DNA to entire galaxies, and regular matter is only a small fraction of the universe compared to dark matter. About fifteen percent, remember? Isn’t it only natural to assume the same complexity extends to our mysterious friend?</p><p>My reason for studying dark matter is based on the profound realization that humans can understand this grand and ancient universe we live in. Only 300 years ago, with a pen and paper, Newton realized that what kept his feet on the ground was the same phenomenon that kept the planets in motion, and in less than a lifetime he united the Earth with the heavens. Newton passed down a technique for his descendants to use and make spectacularly correct predictions, like Le Verrier did with the discovery of Neptune. Discoveries like this bolster a belief that our theories must be describing something that must be true about our universe.</p><p>Today we have soared far beyond what Newton and Le Verrier could have ever dreamed. We now understand that we live in a universe that is 14 billion years old, and on a planet that formed 4 billion years ago as a species that appeared less than half a million years ago. We know that less than twenty particles comprise every human that has ever lived. These particles are the building blocks of our world, and we understand how these particles assemble themselves into complex structures. But despite the success of the Standard Model of particle physics, we know it is not complete.</p><p>We live in an interesting valley of time, where we are so sure of dark matter’s existence yet have so little idea of what it is. Dark matter has quietly evolved alongside us over the past fourteen billion years; without it, our galaxies would not have the gravitational glue needed to stay intact and intelligent life may never have formed. And so, we have rediscovered ourselves as particles that have been guided by an unknown dark matter: a dark companion which has guided the particles in us to search and eventually ask, “What is dark matter?” If a question like this doesn’t compel us to search in every dark corner of the universe for an answer, then what question does?</p><p>P.S. The answer to the Seussical particle challenge I posed is “chimps.”</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[The Cloud and the Fire]]></title><description><![CDATA[*The following piece contains passages that may be best suited for a mature
audience.
This play is based on a true story. Its lessons are manifold: Don’t ride in
elevators. Be nice to gay people. See to it that your lady finishes, too.
I can only thank my lucky stars that I was there to see it all.
It is my sincere hope that you, the Reader, come away from this play a new man,
especially if you happen to be an old woman. Furthermore, it is my sincere
command that you, the Reader, reflect on]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/the-cloud-and-the-fire/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__61866f022ef03d047722de9c</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 3 - Searching]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><category><![CDATA[Comedy]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Foster Swartz]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 09 Nov 2021 14:40:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><em>*The following piece contains passages that may be best suited for a mature audience.</em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">T</span>
his play is based on a true story. Its lessons are manifold: Don’t ride in elevators. Be nice to gay people. See to it that your lady finishes, too.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I can only thank my lucky stars that I was there to see it all. </p><p>It is my sincere hope that you, the Reader, come away from this play a new man, especially if you happen to be an old woman. Furthermore, it is my sincere command that you, the Reader, reflect on the following themes as you read: </p><p>1. The rapid decay of communication skills not regularly exercised </p><p>2. The superficiality of the purported evolution of interactions between heterosexual males </p><p>3. The part played by God in an age which has largely forgotten Him </p><p>4. The criteria duly considered in the evaluation of whether the proverbial life is proverbially good </p><p>Think on these things, and let me know what you discover. My editor says we need the answers by tomorrow. Good luck! </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><strong>EXODUS 13:21 </strong></p><p><em>GERALD enters an elevator, wherein the ATTENDANT awaits him. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
ATTENDANT
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>What for?</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>What? </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
ATTENDANT
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>What for? </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I...I have a meeting. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
ATTENDANT
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>What floor? </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Oh! I thought you were saying something else, ha-ha. </p><p><em> The ATTENDANT presses the button for the top floor. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
ATTENDANT
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Walk down if you need t'. </p><p><em> The elevator ascends. GERALD, confused and perturbed, tries to form the words to confront the ATTENDANT. He cannot; he elects cordiality instead. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>This is the first elevator ride I've taken in a year. </p><p><em> The ATTENDANT does not respond. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD (CONT'D)
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Feels like I've forgotten how to talk to people after so long, y'know? Ha-ha. </p><p><em> The ATTENDANT does not respond. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD (CONT'D)
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>You, too, huh? </p><p><em> The elevator bell dings, and the ride comes to a stop. CYNTHIA enters. She begins texting, as GERALD searches for just the right thing to say to her. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD (CONT'D)
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>So am I the only one here who has COVID? </p><p><em> Not acknowledging GERALD, CYNTHIA reaches into her purse and withdraws a mask. She puts it on and continues texting. The ride continues until the next ding, whereupon DAN enters. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
DAN
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Dan. </p><p><em> DAN has a forehead tattoo which reads "THIS SIDE UP." </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I'm Gerald. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
DAN
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>What? </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I am Gerald. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
DAN
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>It's good to be named Dan, though. </p><p><em> Several moments later, DAN pulls down his pants. CYNTHIA, too, disrobes. DAN reaches a hand into CYNTHIA's panties, and she takes hold of his genitals. The two engage in phalangeal love without making eye contact. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>(after this has endured too long)</p><p>H... hey! </p><p><em> CYNTHIA continues to text as the action unfolds. DAN stares open-mouthed at the ceiling, groaning with increasing frequency and amplitude. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD (CONT'D)
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Stop it! </p><p><em> The ATTENDANT picks his nose. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
DAN
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>AAH! </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>AAH! </p><p><em> CYNTHIA removes her hand from DAN's undergarments, and she sends off her text with an audible swoosh. The two put their clothes back on. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
DAN
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Man. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>(to ATTENDANT)</p><p>Are you...is...is anyone going to do anything about this?! </p><p><em> The elevator bell dings. CYNTHIA puts her phone in her purse, then turns to GERALD. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
CYNTHIA
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Death is everywhere. </p><p><em> CYNTHIA departs, and the ride continues. Gradually, a smile spreads across DAN's face. He, too, turns to GERALD. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
DAN
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I fucked her. </p><p><em> GERALD regards DAN, exasperated, hurt. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>But... why you? </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
DAN
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>What are you, some kinda fucking faggot? </p><p><em> Beat. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
DAN (CONT'D)
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>(sincerely)</p><p>I'm sorry I called you "faggot." </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Thank...thank you. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
DAN
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>What would you prefer to be called? </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>What? </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
DAN
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I did my training, man. This is a safe space. Do you prefer the term "gay"? </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Oh, no, not gay, I'm not— </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
DAN
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Homosexual? </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>No, I'm...heterosexual, I'm not—</p><p><em> The elevator bell dings, and the ride comes to a stop.</em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
DAN
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Just tell me, dude. Queer? I like anal, too! </p><p><em> The elevator doors open. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>(becoming frustrated)</p><p>No, man, I'm not fucking queer! </p><p><em> TIMOTHY enters, wearing a rainbow t-shirt. The word "GAY" is written on the shirt in hot pink bubble letters.</em> </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD (CONT'D)
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I. </p><p><em> DAN briskly exits. GERALD is consumed by the horrible question of whether TIMOTHY overheard his declaration of heterosexuality. After an unbearable minute, the elevator bell mercifully dings. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
TIMOTHY
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Cunt. </p><p><em> TIMOTHY exits. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>(calling after him)</p><p>I, I, I voted for Biden! </p><p><em> The doors close, and the elevator reinitiates its ascent. GERALD throws his face into his hands. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
ATTENDANT
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Hint. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>(lifting his head)</p><p>Hint? </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
ATTENDANT
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Talking to people. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Okay. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
ATTENDANT
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>C'mere. </p><p><em> GERALD walks to the ATTENDANT's side. The ATTENDANT leans close to GERALD to whisper in his ear. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
ATTENDANT (CONT'D)
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>The secret, kid. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>...Yes. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
ATTENDANT
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Um. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>...Yes. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
ATTENDANT
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>You need to. You need to picture you; no, you, you picture them. Picture themselves: naked. Or, or, you picture, you picture you naked, and them also, are—</p><p><em> GERALD attempts to physically disengage, but the ATTENDANT puts a hand on his shoulder to keep him close. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
ATTENDANT (CONT'D)
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>What, you, need, to do, is picture a naked, picture, and think that all of you there are naked. Also. </p><p><em> The ATTENDANT releases GERALD and sits back on his stool, satisfied and proud of his advice. The elevator bell dings, and KATHY comes on. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>(quickly)</p><p>Hi, there. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
KATHY
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>(with warmth)</p><p>Hello. </p><p><em> Good enough, GERALD thinks. Good enough. </em></p><p><em> The elevator continues to ascend. After several moments, KATHY suddenly turns to face GERALD, her eyes filled with tears. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
KATHY (CONT'D)
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I can't do this anymore. </p><p><em> KATHY rushes to the button panel and smashes EMERGENCY STOP. The ride comes to a screeching halt. She crumbles to the floor and weeps.</em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>What's wrong?</p><p>(kneeling down to meet KATHY)</p><p>Are you—</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
KATHY
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>(punctuated, hysterical sobs)</p><p>I can’t take this anymore!</p><p><em> The ATTENDANT seems to fall asleep. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>(exasperated, becoming impatient)</p><p>What? What can't you take?! </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
KATHY
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I...I was with my friends at dinner the other night. It was Luke and Olivia, who're dating, and Marianne and Gretchen, who're also dating, and me. And they were telling me about this <em>BuzzFeed</em> quiz they all took, which essentially assigns you a movie that best matches your "dating style," or your "love style," or something. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Okay. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
KATHY
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>And...and they asked me to take it. </p><p><em> KATHY's face contorts as she recalls the details. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
KATHY (CONT'D)
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>And, like, Luke had gotten <em>The Notebook</em>, and Gretchen had gotten, like, <em>The Proposal</em>, and, uh... </p><p><em> KATHY starts to sniffle. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>It's okay. Really. </p><p><em> GERALD holds KATHY's hand in his. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
KATHY
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>(barely able to get the words out)</p><p>And...and...and Marianne got <em>La La Land</em>, which is my favorite movie, and...and... </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>You can tell me. </p><p><em> GERALD holds KATHY's other hand in his other hand. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
KATHY
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>And...and...and I got <em>SCHINDLER'S LIST</em>! </p><p><em> KATHY erupts in sobs again, throwing her head onto GERALD's chest. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>You got <em>Schindler's List</em>? The Holocaust movie? </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
KATHY
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>(muffled by GERALD's chest)</p><p>The Holocaust movie! </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Oh. </p><p><em> GERALD scrambles to think of something reassuring to say. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD (CONT'D)
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Wait! Maybe the quiz meant you were, like, the hero, right? The guy who saved the Jews! </p><p><em> KATHY sits up and pulls her phone out of her pocket. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
KATHY
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Quote: "Your romantic aura is most like the 1993 Steven Spielberg classic <em>Schindler's List</em>. You are nothing like Oskar Schindler, the guy who saved all those poor Jews, honey. No, you are 100% the Nazis who killed all those Jews in cold blood. Hashtag, boss bitch." </p><p><em> KATHY explodes once more in a violent fit of tears. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Hey, no no no, I mean, I'm Jewish, and I'm not afraid of you at all! </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
KATHY
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Not yet! </p><p><em> KATHY leaps off the floor and stumbles to the button panel. She punches the panel as hard as she can. The panel malfunctions, and the elevator is sent into free-fall. This development stuns her out of despair. She, along with GERALD, screams helplessly in the name of life. </em></p><p><em> The ATTENDANT briefly opens an eye and grumpily presses an unseen button on the panel, halting their plummet. GERALD and KATHY catch their breath, and the elevator bell dings.</em> </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
KATHY (CONT'D)
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I think it's going to be okay.</p><p>(turning to GERALD)</p><p>Thank you. </p><p><em> KATHY exits, and the elevator continues its ascent. A long while passes before GERALD speaks. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>What does it mean, man? </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
ATTENDANT (eyes closed)
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Are you talking to me? </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>What does it mean?.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
ATTENDANT
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>(eyes remaining closed)</p><p>It means, Gerald, that you're going to be fine. </p><p><em> GERALD digests this. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>At least we're going up. </p><p><em> The ATTENDANT nods his head. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
ATTENDANT
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>(eyes remaining closed)</p><p>Better'n down. </p><p><em> The elevator bell dings. JULIA steps on. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
JULIA
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Isn't it great having COVID? </p><p><em> GERALD stares at her. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
JULIA (CONT'D)
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Total hoax, right? </p><p><em> JULIA smiles to herself. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>(a chuckle crescendos to belly-laughter)</p><p>Ha...ha-ha...ha-ha-ha-ha! Yes! Yes it is! </p><p><em> JULIA turns to see whether GERALD's laughter is sincere (or whether he is crazy). She finds that it is (and that he may be). </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
JULIA
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>People don't usually like that joke. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>(earnestly)</p><p>I love that joke! </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
JULIA
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>(laughing now herself)</p><p>Yeah? </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I made it when I got on, too!</p><p>(to ATTENDANT)</p><p>Tell her! </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
ATTENDANT
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>(opening and rubbing his eyes)</p><p>Made the joke. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
JULIA
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Well, I'm glad to hear that. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>(stunned)</p><p>Great! </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
JULIA
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Where are you heading? </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I...I forget! </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
JULIA
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Ah. Are you a serial killer by chance? </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>No! No, I just, well... </p><p><em> GERALD realizes all at once that JULIA is someone he can talk to. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD (CONT'D)
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Well, you see, I'm actually a spree killer. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
JULIA
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Oh! Yes, I do see. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Yeah, we actually have a big thing about people confusing the classifications. It's like, like, all we talk about—</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
JULIA
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>All you talk about at the meetings, huh? </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Right, exactly. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
JULIA
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Gotcha, yeah, I see how that could be a pain. </p><p><em> The elevator bell dings. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
JULIA (CONT'D)
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Listen: my lunch date just canceled. Do you want to replace him? Or is there a spree killer summit right now? </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I—</p><p><em> GERALD looks to the ATTENDANT. The ATTENDANT is trying to lick his own elbow. GERALD returns his gaze to JULIA. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD (CONT'D)
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I would like to date you. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
JULIA
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>(laughing)</p><p>Well, let's try one lunch first, okay? </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Okay. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
JULIA
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Meet me downstairs in five. </p><p><em> JULIA exits, and the elevator doors close behind her. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Okay! O-KAY! O-KAY, O-KAY, O-KAY! </p><p><em> GERALD dances as the elevator continues its ascent. Suddenly, he grasps the intolerability of the direction. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD (CONT'D)
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Wait! </p><p><em> GERALD reaches past the ATTENDANT and repeatedly smashes the button for the lobby. But the elevator continues to ascend. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD (CONT'D)
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Wait! </p><p><em> GERALD frantically scans the elevator for a solution. The ATTENDANT's tongue is a millimeter from his elbow. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
GERALD (CONT'D)
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Wait! </p><p><em> The ATTENDANT licks His elbow. </em><br/></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
<u>FIN</u>
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p/>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Artwork by Rebecca Arp]]></title><description><![CDATA[Can the body be a searchlight (Eye) (2021)
glass, lead, fluxUntitled (Sea Ache) (2021)
deceased grandfather's oar, acrylic | paraffin wax, tissue paper, ink Artist’s
Note
My artistic practice concerns emotion, memory, ritual, and spirituality as seen
through the lens of my experiences as a queer woman raised in the rural Midwest.
I often use materials and motifs associated with the family, the home, and the
church alongside the barriers of participation and acceptance in those
structures for]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/art-by-rebecca-arp/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__61866e512ef03d047722de86</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 3 - Searching]]></category><category><![CDATA[The True]]></category><category><![CDATA[Artwork]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Rebecca Arp]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 09 Nov 2021 14:40:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<h2 id="can-the-body-be-a-searchlight-eye-2021-">Can the body be a searchlight (Eye) (2021)</h2><figure class="kg-card kg-gallery-card kg-width-wide"><div class="kg-gallery-container"><div class="kg-gallery-row"><div class="kg-gallery-image"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/arp1.jpg" width="5184" height="3888" alt=""/></div><div class="kg-gallery-image"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/arp2.jpg" width="2550" height="3501" alt=""/></div></div></div></figure><h2/><figure class="kg-card kg-gallery-card kg-width-wide kg-card-hascaption"><div class="kg-gallery-container"><div class="kg-gallery-row"><div class="kg-gallery-image"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/arp8.jpg" width="650" height="774" alt=""/></div><div class="kg-gallery-image"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/apr7.jpg" width="592" height="836" alt=""/></div></div></div><figcaption>glass, lead, flux</figcaption></figure><h2 id="untitled-sea-ache-2021-">Untitled (Sea Ache) (2021)</h2><figure class="kg-card kg-gallery-card kg-width-wide kg-card-hascaption"><div class="kg-gallery-container"><div class="kg-gallery-row"><div class="kg-gallery-image"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/arp3.jpg" width="5184" height="3888" alt=""/></div><div class="kg-gallery-image"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/arp5.jpg" width="5950" height="7700" alt=""/></div></div><div class="kg-gallery-row"><div class="kg-gallery-image"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/arp4.jpg" width="5950" height="7700" alt=""/></div><div class="kg-gallery-image"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/arp6.jpg" width="5950" height="7700" alt=""/></div></div></div><figcaption>deceased grandfather's oar, acrylic | paraffin wax, tissue paper, ink</figcaption></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-art">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>My artistic practice concerns emotion, memory, ritual, and spirituality as seen through the lens of my experiences as a queer woman raised in the rural Midwest. I often use materials and motifs associated with the family, the home, and the church alongside the barriers of participation and acceptance in those structures for the LGBTQAI+ community. In all of my work, I am searching, researching, constructing, deconstructing, and reconstructing commonly accepted ideas and beliefs. I invert the traditionally hard and soft, explore the nuances of interpersonal relationships and selfhood, and attempt to capture the quotidian with sincerity.<br><br>
Rembrandt's <i>Storm on the Sea of Galilee,</i> one of the most valuable objects ever stolen, remains missing to this day. I explored the idea of forming a relationship with a piece of artwork that I will likely never see in person. On the oar, I inscribed quotes from Mark 4:35–41, some personal associations, and a Dutch quote from Rembrandt, who said he wishes his work to portray "die naetuereelste beweechgelickheijt" or, "the most natural/lifelike emotion/motion". I also sought associations in astrology and music. Rembrandt is said to be a Cancer sun and a Scorpio rising. Lana del Rey has these same placements and her song "Mariner's Apartment Complex" fits into the theme nicely. The music video also includes seascapes. I have embedded, on wax, an image from this music video, an image from the music video for “The System Only Dreams in Total Darkness” by The National, and the Rembrandt painting itself.<br><br>
My lantern series approaches searching in a different light. A gay Christian may be taught that their faculties of loving are unholy, directed toward the wrong aims. One may have a crisis of integration—how does one feel at home in a body where even its unconscious actions are seen as sinful? A lantern is a tool of searching, illuminating, and guiding. How can the body, then, be used as a lantern?
</br></br></br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Antibiotics: To the Clerk at the Pet Shop, Chicago, Lower West Side]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Since we didn’t make it to that pet shop, let’s just say we’re still on our way
there. I write “we” because I wasn’t looking for it alone. Actually, all of this
happened only because there was a “you” back then. Someone might say that we
were only going there on account of you, and technically that’s the rotten
truth. But the thing is, already four years later I still keep going back to our
pet shop. I want to clear my conscience there.
I remember it clearly, and if it exists in actuality, I’d]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/antibiotics/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__618678462ef03d047722df78</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 3 - Searching]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Yuriy Serebriansky]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 09 Nov 2021 14:40:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">S</span>
ince we didn’t make it to that pet shop, let’s just say we’re still on our way there. I write “we” because I wasn’t looking for it alone. Actually, all of this happened only because there was a “you” back then. Someone might say that we were only going there on account of you, and technically that’s the rotten truth. But the thing is, already four years later I still keep going back to our pet shop. I want to clear my conscience there.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I remember it clearly, and if it exists in actuality, I’d be able to recognize it from a block away. A small but, of course, respectable store. Along the left side from the entrance are shelves of dog food. Deposits of cheap pellets, promising “the tender meat of delicious turkey” (I’ve always wondered about that job—a taste-tester for dog food). </p><p>Above the door is a bell like the ones at Seven Eleven. On the right is an entire wall of aquariums. There aren’t any expensive saltwater fish with digital-looking color combinations here—only nice old freshwater ones are sold. There’s a school of zebrafish (<em>Danio rerio</em>) wearing the striped outfits of disco dancers. There’s the “Siamese fighting fish” (<em>Betta splendens</em>), who, with the faded glamor of discolored dressing gowns on their sides, wander, not looking at each other, like married artists who have grown old together. The top aquarium to the right is completely without fish, here there are only aquatic plants, snails, and water bubbles. Finally, I notice that there are bubbles in every aquarium. </p><p>The aquatic plants are the most ordinary ones—<em>Sagittaria Spec</em> and <em>Vallisneria</em>. I break the silence and start telling you about duckweed (<em>Lemna</em>). About how there’s a kind of duckweed, of which the little leaves, if you don’t stop them, will multiply and spread over the entire surface. Like parasites. They’ll block out light to the large fish. You have to thin out duckweed from time to time. I tell you about how when I was a child I wanted to lie in shallow water, slightly below the surface, and watch the duckweed from below to see how rays of sunlight managed to break through the gaps between the tiny leaves, while the top of my head rested on the warm, sandy beach. A hedgehog in a cage has caught your attention. For goodness’ sake, it’s just an ordinary hedgehog. What is it that you see in them? That they can protect themselves? But you’re not trite like that. I won’t ask you what you see in my plainness.</p><p>Oh, Chicago—with your head in the clouds and the chill along your river. You’ll always be my New York. The view from the bridge of a rusty tugboat passing by below. To touch your wall of a church covered in ivy. All of the doors are locked. The street preachers are so convincing that you don’t even need to go inside the church.</p><p>To grow up here, without the habit of ever thinking to lift your head up, then go off to war, and return with a sense of the fragility of this world, which you wouldn’t understand any other way. To know what kind of people are here and why. How poems change this city. For the better—or not. </p><p>Your strange, one-of-a-kind Latina friend tries to convince us not to go there. It’s dangerous. But the medicine can only be bought at this pet shop. </p><p>The owner doesn’t pay any attention to us. Now I’m certain. That is, certain that the salesperson at the store is also its owner. An ordinary salesperson would have said something. Even jokingly. An owner understands his work. </p><p>The display case for fish medicine is right behind his back. I ask him to recommend fish antibiotics. He takes interest, responding, “WHAT KIND OF FISH and WHAT HAPPENED?” It sounds like a prompt for a secret passphrase. He doesn’t recognize my accent and is apprehensive, but by habit, I have a lot of trust for people, which I push in front of myself everywhere I go, like a cart full of apples. I know how to use it. In every country in the world people ask me for directions. Though most often to the train station.The owner/salesperson points at the display case with his hand: Aqua-mox forte, $28.99, Aqua-zole, $37.99, Aqua- Ceph, $24.99, Fish Biotic Ciprofloxacin, $27.99, Fish Biotic Ampicillin, $17.99.</p><p>You, of course, are thinking about your cat—she never did return home. I try to imagine the scene of a nighttime shooting in Venezuela, in your hometown. Bullets don’t leave a gleaming trail as they fly through the air. Such an image is almost always a lie. Gunfire is panic. But who would ever think to shoot a cat?</p><p>She’ll come back in two days and you’ll start reading your Brodsky again.</p><p>And that salesperson with the Czech eyes will listen to you.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-translation">
<h2> Translator’s Note </h2>
<br>Yuriy Serebriansky’s genre-defying meditation reflects on a trip he made to a Chicago pet shop with a friend for the purpose of obtaining fish antibiotics for his friend’s relatives in Venezuela, who were unable to receive antibiotics intended for humans on account of the international sanctions imposed on the country. Serebriansky also alludes to Yuri Norstein’s 1975 animated film, Hedgehog in the Fog (Ёжик в тумане), in which a hedgehog, searching for a white horse, finds himself lost in an expansive fog, making a journey through an unknowable, mirage-like world. As Serebriansky brings attention to human experiences that arise from economic sanctions, he evokes pensive hope for a better alternative. Translated from Russian to English by Sarah McEleney. <br><br>
</br></br></br></div><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-author">
<h2> Afterword (Author’s Note) </h2>
<br>I wrote this piece in 2019. It took two years to find a way to speak about the situation: US-imposed sanctions restricted, among other things, antibiotic imports to Venezuela. I was shocked to learn the only way to legally buy antibiotics for your relatives in Venezuela now is to buy them from the pet shops. Fish treatments contain several types of antibiotics. Some might work.<br><br>
I do not write and have never written intellectual prose; I am an observer. But this narrative was written with the idea that one day the observer will be replaced by someone empowered to act. We might see writing itself as a way to call others to action, and to affect change however and wherever we can.
<br><br>
</br></br></br></br></br></div><!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Shooting Stars after Shooting Penguins in Frigid Isolation for 27 Years]]></title><description><![CDATA[A nature photographer pivots into the world of paparazzi.
After twenty-seven years of documenting penguins in Antarctica, I was
desperately searching for a new career. I left behind the desolate, frozen
tundra devoid of any human interaction for New York City. On my first day I
found myself standing outside of a Ruth’s Chris Steakless Steakhouse, ready to
shoot the vegan celebs as a new photographer for People magazine.
Now I’ll admit: I was nervous. I had never seen a celebrity in person. Fo]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/shooting-stars-after-shooting-penguins/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__618679dd2ef03d047722df93</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 3 - Searching]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><category><![CDATA[Comedy]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Madeline Goetz]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 09 Nov 2021 14:40:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><em>A nature photographer pivots into the world of paparazzi.</em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">A</span>
fter twenty-seven years of documenting penguins in Antarctica, I was desperately searching for a new career. I left behind the desolate, frozen tundra devoid of any human interaction for New York City. On my first day I found myself standing outside of a Ruth’s Chris Steakless Steakhouse, ready to shoot the vegan celebs as a new photographer for <i>People</i> magazine.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Now I’ll admit: I was nervous. I had never seen a celebrity in person. For twenty-seven years, I had rarely seen other people at all. All I’d seen was carnage. Most people don’t know that when you shoot penguins, you’re not actually allowed to intervene if they’re being attacked by a seal or succumbing to the elements. I had to remain calm and totally disregard the bloody bloody bloodbath soiling the snow at my feet. </p><p>Anyway, there she was...Hailey Bieber! My first celebrity sighting! I wiped a speck of penguin blood off of the lens and started shooting furiously.</p><p>“Hailey!” I screamed. “Are you vegan?” </p><p>“Today I am,” she said. </p><p>“Oh, so you wouldn’t burst out of the Antarctic Ocean onto an unsuspecting mother penguin and gnash your orca teeth through its skin, chewing it up, bones and all?”</p><p>“No, I would not do that,” she said.</p><p>This was clearly a different type of subject than I was used to shooting. </p><p>As she walked away, I checked the photos I’d taken. Sadly, I’d made a blunder. When shooting Hailey, I had habitually set up my tripod to be penguin level, as I had done for twenty-seven years, so I only had photos of her calves. I’ll sell you one for $35. </p><p>I need the money. Just like I knew I needed to learn on the job, and fast.</p><p>Next up was Lin-Manuel Miranda. From my recent IMDB crash course, I knew he was from Broadway. Well, I knew another star that could have been on Broadway once: the penguin who inspired the character of Mumble in<em> </em>the feature animated film, <em>Happy Feet. </em></p><p>“Lin!” I hollered. “Lin! Over here!” </p><p>He turned. </p><p>“Lin, do you remember the character of Mumble in <em>Happy Feet?”</em></p><p>“Of course!” He said. </p><p>“Well did you know that the dancing penguin who inspired him one day accidentally tap danced to the edge of an iceberg that crumbled under his weight, plunging the young bird into the frigid waters below? Three dozen hungry hungry orcas mouths wide, clamoring for a chunk of penguin meat? And I just had to stand there, watching, shooting, because as a nature photographer I’ve taken a solemn oath never to intervene in the natural playing out of the food chain. I don’t write the rules of nature. I just watch as the worst and most excruciating circumstances of death imaginable befall the flightless birds. Sometimes I pointed bloodthirsty seals in the right direction if I needed a shot. Or if the penguins made me mad. But you can’t prove that.”</p><p>And that’s how I captured this beautiful image of Broadway’s Lin-Manuel Miranda looking absolutely horrified. I’ll sell it to you for $50. </p><p>It was at this point in the night that someone from Ruth’s Chris Steakless Steakhouse came outside and offered the press complimentary wine. I declined. I’d sworn off the stuff since one fateful night in the barren lands of Antarctica when after one too many glasses of Pinot Grigio, I accidentally trampled two dozen penguin nests. </p><p>No, I must level with you; I did it purposefully. </p><p>You see, I had come to resent my subjects. They were the focus of my camera, myself, my life. I was completely tethered to their existence yet, by a solemn blood oath I swore to the Nature Photographers Association of America (Milwaukee Chapter), I could never truly <em>be </em>a part of their lives. I couldn’t intervene. I was stuck in one place. It was I who was the flightless bird. </p><p>Well, on that momentous day the Pinot Grigio said no more. I stomped, dear reader. I lifted up my Patagonia boots and I stomped and stomped and stomped until I no longer internalized the splintering shells beneath my feet. I was human. I was in charge. I was the orca!</p><p>Of course, I was horrified by my actions. Actually, reader, it did not affect me that much. </p><p>Halfway through the night, Jay-Z and Beyoncé stopped to chat with me! I couldn’t believe it! I had a prime opportunity for an exclusive interview with two of the most famed and elusive stars in the industry. </p><p>“Forgive me, celebrity power couple,” I said to them, “But why did you stop to chat with me?”</p><p>“It’s nice how quiet you’re being,” said Beyoncé.</p><p>I nodded. “My silence was honed from years of quiet, stoic observation of gruesome mass murder in the southernmost tip of the Earth. Who are you wearing tonight?” I politely asked. </p><p>They walked away. If you want you can buy a photo of the backs of their heads. $80. </p><p>At this point in the night, most of the guests had already made their way inside. I thought my work was done. But then they arrived, fashionably late: The New York Mets. Dozens of baseball players clad in fancy black and white tuxedos were sauntering over to me. No, not sauntering—waddling. And not players—penguins. It was like I was right back on the ice. I held my lens steady as they approached. I knew not to move a muscle. Suddenly Noah Syndergaard, one of the pitchers, tripped. He fell, skidding across the sidewalk and coming to a stop directly at my feet. </p><p>“How embarrassing,” he said. “Can you help me up?”</p><p>“I CAN’T TOUCH THE PENGUINS!” I screamed. “DO NOT ENGAGE. DO NOT ENGAGE. IT IS NOT UP TO ME TO PLAY GOD IN YOUR FIGHT AGAINST THE ORCAS. YOU BETTER SWIM, MOTHER FUCKER.”</p><p>It turns out that was enough to have me removed by Ruth’s Chris’ vegan security staff. Apparently, everyone who walked the green carpet ended their stroll by complaining to the event organizer about my “off-putting demeanor.” </p><p>Worse, as I was leaving, I realized the D’Amelio sisters had been livestreaming the entire event on TikTok with Andy Cohen. Any footage of the event would be worthless. Everyone had already seen and consumed what they wanted. I trudged home to my parents' brownstone on 68th and Broadway. </p><p>Was I sad? Of course. But not discouraged. Much like the penguins, I know I will adapt. I will make it in my new chosen career. Mostly because my old career is no longer an option: I am on an endangered species watch list, in the sense that I am a serious threat to them because of the whole egg stomping incident. Also, there’s that whole issue of the ice melting.</p><p>At the end of the day, it’s survival of the fittest for us all. For me, my parents’ lucrative careers in finance ensured I would survive. I just hoped my feathered friends would do the same. But I knew for a fact they would not. The penguins would all be starved, drowned, or mauled. Imminently. All I can ask now is that you visit my gallery documenting their suffering. It’s in this really chic loft in SoHo.<br/></p><p><strong>END</strong></p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Issue 3 at a Glance]]></title><description><![CDATA[
Series of paintings for Symposeum | In her series of paintings composed
specifically for Symposeum, Lucy Villeneuve evokes a sense of self-discovery in
the act of searching.
Cartoons on Searching | New Yorker cartoonist Brooke Bourgeois finds inspiration
at the intersection of unlikely themes.
Scenes from Walden Woods: A Triptych | Photographer Lisa McCarty searches the
Walden Woods landscape for traces of its transcendental past.
Tracking Your Life | Raised on the Londolozi Game Reserve i]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/issue-3-in-27-sentences/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__6186b2f62ef03d047722e162</guid><category><![CDATA[Letter]]></category><category><![CDATA[Issue 3 - Searching]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[The Editors]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 09 Nov 2021 14:39:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p/><p><strong>Series of paintings for <em>Symposeum</em></strong> | In her series of paintings composed specifically for <em>Symposeum</em>, Lucy Villeneuve evokes a sense of self-discovery in the act of searching.</p><p><strong>Cartoons on Searching</strong> | <em>New Yorker cartoonist Brooke Bourgeois finds inspiration at the intersection of unlikely themes.</em></p><p><strong>Scenes from Walden Woods: A Triptych | </strong><em>Photographer Lisa McCarty searches the Walden Woods landscape for traces of its transcendental past.</em></p><p><strong>Tracking Your Life | </strong><em>Raised on the Londolozi Game Reserve in South Africa, Boyd Varty uses his experience as an animal-tracker to describe the individual's pursuit of a meaningful life.</em></p><p><strong>Terrain</strong> | P<em>oet Jesse Graves traverses his own interior terrain, in pursuit of verse itself.</em></p><p><strong>Preschool as a Profession of Philosophy</strong> | P<em>hilosopher Garrett Allen details his transition from graduate school to preschool, and the reasoning behind it.</em></p><p><strong>Home is where you find it</strong> | <em>Returning to the small western-Nebraska town he lived in for 5 years, community planner Daniel Bennett takes the measure of contrasting approaches to the search for "home."</em></p><p><strong>The Black Dogs of Enlightenment</strong> | <em>A short story by Sean Murray. As aging academics, friends Mo Kaplan and Chrissy Halsted have spent decades of their lives studying and explaining. Yet as they catch up at a conference, each realizes the depths of their unanswered questions. When disaster strikes, their discussions that pit enlightenment against animal instinct will linger over the search for resolution.</em></p><p><strong>Searching for the Blue</strong> | <em>Palestinian artist Ahmed Hmeedat’s “Searching for the Blue” portrait series uses only three colors to explore the common ground and shared humanity between people of all backgrounds.</em></p><p><strong>Reaching for the Stars </strong>| <em>High school student Samantha George embraces the hope of the immigrant's journey in her art.</em></p><p><strong>Eye Lantern and Sea Ache artwork</strong> | <em>In this selection of pieces by artist Rebecca Arp, she searches for a sense of self through the affective channels of personal experience.</em></p><p><strong>The Cloud and the Fire</strong> | <em>In the search for meaningful relationships, is there any greater obstacle than miscommunication? In this absurdist play by Foster Swartz, Gerald encounters a series of eccentric characters on a strange elevator ride where people can hardly understand one another. As he searches for someone, anyone, he can truly talk to, the reader hopes that with the next elevator ding will come a person who makes finally makes sense.</em></p><p><strong><strong>Antibiotics: To the Clerk at the Pet Shop, Chicago, Lower West Side</strong> | </strong><em>Part incisive societal critique, part meditative dreamscape, Yuriy Serebriansky's piece explores conceptions of health and the value of human life in a thoroughly modern and experimental context.</em></p><p><strong><strong>Shooting Stars after Shooting Penguins in Frigid Isolation for 27 Year</strong>s | </strong><em>In this comedy piece by Madeline Goetz and Jack Sentell, a former nature photographer looks for a new career, but old habits—unlike vulnerable penguins—die hard.</em></p><p><strong>Star Tours: The Rise of Space Tourism and the Return of the Sublime | </strong><em>Lauren Spohn searches for the transformative sublime, exploring the possibilities of space tourism and how the average, earth-bound human might “wrestle wonder” in everyday life.</em></p><p><strong>Crypto's Search for Meaning</strong> | <em>In this piece, Kyle McCollom searches for the potential of cryptocurrency as human infrastructure. </em></p><p><strong>Searching in the Dark: The Case for Dark Matter | </strong><em>Particle physicist Max Fieg considers the evidence for, and significance of, the theory that implies that 85% of matter is invisible, undetectable, </em>dark<em>. A </em>Symposeum<em> collaboration, digital artist Kendra H. Oliver depicts the search to render visible the patterns and predictions through which scientists understand this phenomenon.</em></p><p><strong>Big Stories: They Still Matter</strong> | <em>The field of anthropology involves a great deal of literal searching. Anthropology also searches for a story, a metanarrative that coheres the disjointed bits of data uncovered in the field. In this essay, anthropologist Will McCollum wrestles with the need for (and possibility of) such metanarratives in the post-truth era of disinformation.</em></p><p><strong>The Long Now</strong> | <em>A contemporary art exhibition from Nowk Choe questions the idea of timeliness.</em></p><p><strong>The Ends of Information: Searching for Truth in the Digital Age</strong> | <em>In the age of Big Data, what is information for, and what do we hope to find at the bottom of it all? </em>Symposeum<em> managing editor Nissim Lebovits takes on these questions.</em></p><p><strong>Things I Need to Know </strong>| <em>A father wonders how grace and goodness prevail in this poem by Andrew Najberg. </em></p><p><strong>On My Mother's Passing</strong> | <em>Poet Ronan Quinn offers a moving and ultimately hopeful meditation on the omnipresent void that follows a great loss and seeks a means to fill this absence.</em></p><p><strong>Lost & Found </strong>| <em>This poem by Tripp Wolf is about a son who finds his late mother in the artifacts of her life.</em></p><p><strong>To J—</strong> |<em> Josh DeFriez's poem draws its reader into the ongoing search for stories that help us explain—and heal from—the pain we suffer, cause, and witness in the world.</em></p><p><strong>SABBATICAL</strong> | <em>Emily Meffert brings to us a narrative exploration of language, meaning, and coming to consciousness in a fictional world in short story form.</em></p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[The Ends of Information: Searching for Truth in the Digital Age]]></title><description><![CDATA[ "The universe,” wrote the Argentine author Jorge Luis Borges, “(which others
call the library), is composed of an indefinite and perhaps infinite number of
hexagonal galleries, with vast air shafts between, surrounded by very low
railings.”
The library in question is the imaginary Library of Babel, described by Borges
in a short story of the same name. Occupied only by wandering librarians, it is
eternal, an endless collection of unique books, all comprised of the same
twenty-five orthographi]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/the-ends-of-information/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__61867ff02ef03d047722e022</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 3 - Searching]]></category><category><![CDATA[The True]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Nissim Lebovits]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 09 Nov 2021 14:39:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">"T</span>
he universe,” wrote the Argentine author Jorge Luis Borges, “(which others call the library), is composed of an indefinite and perhaps infinite number of hexagonal galleries, with vast air shafts between, surrounded by very low railings.”
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p> The library in question is the imaginary Library of Babel, described by Borges in a short story of the same name. Occupied only by wandering librarians, it is eternal, an endless collection of unique books, all comprised of the same twenty-five orthographical symbols, repeated in infinite permutations. And in the infinitude of this library and its symbols, realize the librarians, everything is to be found.</p><p>In Borges’ universes, though, “everything” is never so simple as it sounds. “Everything,” he writes of the infinite contents of the library, includes not merely the innumerable variations of letters on a page, but </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote>the minutely detailed history of the future, the archangels’ autobiographies, the faithful catalogue of the Library, thousands and thousands of false catalogues, the demonstration of the fallacy of those catalogues, the demonstration of the fallacy of the true catalogue, the Gnostic gospel of Basilides, the commentary on that gospel, the true story of your death, the translation of every book in all languages, the interpolations of every book in all books. </blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Everything, in other words, includes everything and its converse, truth and its repudiation alike.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Reading Borges today, one thinks it merciful that he did not live to see the internet age. His oeuvre, renowned for its dealings with memory, signs, infinity, and the like, anticipated today’s cultural atmosphere to a stunning degree. It is almost impossible to read about information—digital or otherwise—without stumbling across a reference to the Argentine, and for good reason. To enter his world is to be treated to an intricate, encyclopedic, and labyrinthian system of references—the internet <em>avant la lettre</em>. The mercy, of course, is that Borges’ work is coherent; his stories are short (he sometimes wrote reviews of his own non-existent books, declaring that it was not worth writing the whole books themselves), and intentional to the point of being didactic. If anything, his concision suggests that his relationship to infinity was as much a fear as a fascination.</p><p>We who survive Borges may envy him in his tomb. As even the most articulate describers of the information zeitgeist will tell you, there is no metaphor sufficient to capture what we have lived through since the birth of the internet at the end of the last millennium. First, there is the issue of speed. As computer scientist Jaron Lanier has described it, the totality of available information has grown at a scarcely-fathomable pace: “It’s as if you kneel to plant the seed of a tree and it grows so fast that it swallows your whole town before you can even rise to your feet.” Yet speed is the easy half of the puzzle; far more bewildering is the question of scale.</p><p>In 1949, when information theory was in its infancy, the Library of Congress was estimated to contain one hundred trillion (10^14) bits. It was then thought to be the largest information repository in the world. Since the birth of the internet, though, the numbers have exceeded anything remotely intelligible to us. We now speak of zetabytes (10^21) and yottabytes (10^24), the latter of which is equal to <em>ten billion times</em> the Library of Congress of only seventy years ago. The creation, collection, and dissemination of information in the twenty-first century has, by virtue of its scale, surpassed our capacity to wrap our minds around it. For all intents and purposes, our library is like Borges’: effectively infinite.</p><p>It is not odd, therefore, that we as a society seem to be experiencing a collective sense of disorientation. It floats latent in the air, the wifi, the socialsphere, and crystalizes in headlines and articles like <a href="https://medium.com/@tunikova_k/are-we-consuming-too-much-information-b68f62500089">“Are We Consuming Too Much Information?”</a> and <a href="https://hbr.org/2009/09/death-by-information-overload">“Death by Information Overload.” </a>The latter term, “information overload,” dates back to Alvin Toffler’s 1970 book, <em>Future Shock</em>. Fifty years later, a whole cottage industry of books, classes, talks, etc. is devoted to helping people sort through the surfeit of available information (doing so, of course, by providing them with more information). Clearly, we think, there is too much to know.</p><p>What makes, I believe, this feeling of overload so freighted is its moral dimension. Old is the notion that more and better information improves ethical judgement. Socrates, the authors of the Gospels, and Shakespeare, for instance, have all suggested that moral actors are best off when making informed choices, and, inversely, that uninformed actors may be forgiven their moral errors. Certainly it’s not always so simple; John Rawls, for one, has proposed with his “veil of ignorance” thought experiment that some information can prejudice our actions and lead us to make arguably less moral choices. And, finally, what if the mere presence of information proves itself an obstacle to moral action?</p><p>In his introduction to the 2007 anthology of <em>The Best American Essays</em>, the author David Foster Wallace coined the phrase “Total Noise,” which he described as “the seething static of every particular thing and experience, and one’s total freedom of infinite choice about what to choose to attend to and represent and connect, and how, and why, etc.” Total Noise, according to Wallace, is more than just too much information; it is the incapacity to remain conversant with the ever-expanding volume of information necessary to remain a moral citizen of the world. Wallace’s feeling of being overwhelmed therefore isn’t only a sense of epistemic inadequacy—it is a distinct awareness of failing on levels ethical and existential.</p><p>Lest these failings seem like the abstractions of a particularly torturous graduate school philosophy paper, let’s take an aerial survey of American information culture right now, in the fall of 2021. The immediately obvious issue is COVID-19: the propagation of both mis- and dis-information (the key difference being intentionality) has been <a href="https://www.who.int/news-room/feature-stories/detail/fighting-misinformation-in-the-time-of-covid-19-one-click-at-a-time">declared an “infodemic” by the WHO.</a> On top of that, we might point to the QAnon conspiracy theory or the “Big Lie” about election fraud. The actions of adherents of both of these credos are patently inexcusable—but one must admit the possibility that, if someone <em>genuinely believed</em> that, say, Democrat politicians were running a satanic child sex-trafficking ring, she would be morally obliged to do something about it. Lastly, and more broadly, the atomization of American culture, fueled largely by social media, has led to what the literary critic Sven Birkerts has called the “balkanization of interests,” as well as its more explicitly nefarious counterpart, the ideological echo chambers of contemporary politics. Information overload, in other words, can credibly be viewed as the source of our most pressing sociopolitical issues in America today.</p><p>So where does that leave us? We feel overwhelmed by a perceived excess of information, which in turn makes us morally agitated. Our social, political, and cultural institutions all suffer for it. This raises, then, a question: if all this information is the source of so many problems, why are we producing and collecting it? What is information for, and what do we hope to find at the bottom of it all?</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>“Infoglut” is, at present, the term of choice for describing this flood of information, but the feeling of inundation itself is far older than the neologism. More than two thousand years ago, the author of Kohelet (Ecclesiastes) decried the excess of books being written in his own time. The first-century Roman philosopher Seneca derided his peers for mindlessly accumulating books, on the grounds that their pages contained more information than a person could possibly absorb in a lifetime. The Muslim historian Ibn Khaldun made similar complaints in the fourteenth century, and no lesser figures than Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz and Alexander Pope despaired at the “deluge” of books that followed Gutenberg’s invention of the movable-type printing press. </p><p>Curiously, though, what spurred these experiences of infoglut was not technological innovation, but cultural change. To be sure, the invention of the printing press galvanized the spread of information; historian Elizabeth Eisenstein has famously argued that the printing press effectively caused modernity in Europe. But ancient China and Korea developed the printing press more than five hundred years before Europe without ever succumbing to the same sense of overload. On the other hand, medieval Islamic societies, despite lacking mechanical printing technology, were sufficiently inundated by information to prompt regular complaints from leading scholars. The difference, according to Ann Blair’s <em>Too Much to Know</em>, was cultural: “the invention of printing in Europe coincided with a renewed enthusiasm, visible in earlier centuries but revitalized by the humanists, for the accumulation of information.” Whether in ancient Baghdad, seventeenth-century Holland, or present-day America, an overwhelming amount of information was always available; the question was simply whether or not it was accompanied by a cultural belief in the importance of its comprehensive accumulation.</p><p>In “The Library of Babel,” Borges describes the moment when a “librarian of genius” discovers the fundamental law of the Library, that all things are found therein: </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote>When it was proclaimed that the Library contained all books, the first impression was one of extravagant happiness. All men felt themselves to be masters of an intact and secret treasure. There was no personal or world problem whose eloquent solution did not exist in some hexagon.</blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>In a rush, the librarians set off to plumb the endless halls of the library in search of the book that might contain the answers to their own lives, or to the origin and fate of the library itself. For centuries, relates the narrator, they have kept up the search.</p><p>Quixotic as Borges’ librarians may seem, they are not as alien to us as we would like to think. Our problem with infoglut isn’t the <em>glut</em>, precisely—it’s our unstated conviction that, in the ever-growing haystack, there is a needle to be found. Infoglut is only a problem because we happen to believe that there is some finite quantity of important knowledge that can only be found by parsing an ever-growing accumulation of information. Although infoglut refers literally to the haystack, its implicit quarrel is with the needle.</p><p>One of the primary impacts of the Enlightenment in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries was to undermine the nearly two thousand-year-old belief in divine truth. Thinkers like Spinoza illuminated the too-human origins of the Bible, while early scientists like Newton showed that the world’s purportedly supernatural order could actually be explained through pure, mechanical laws. In particular, the discovery of deep geologic time—that the Earth was far, far older than the Bible claimed—shook the fundaments of Western knowledge, incontrovertibly repudiating the claims of the Bible, which had until then been thought the supreme arbiter of truth. </p><p>With the Bible’s credibility reduced by rubble, the West began its long, slow abandonment of Christian explanations of the world, opening itself instead to the novelties of science. Yet, while this entailed rejecting the <em>divine</em> coherence of the world, those who put their faith in natural science did not lose their conviction that explanations of the world must ultimately accord with one another. Instead, they came to believe that the world was governed by a collection of physical laws: all in harmony, and all eventually discoverable by humanity’s rational, observational faculties.</p><p>The process of this progressive discovery—the assembly of the great edifice of Science—has been so successful and become so much a part of the fabric of our society that we rarely notice it today. Everyone who passed through an American public school is familiar with the scientific method: advancing iteratively through trial and error, buttressed by hypothesis, evidence, and reevaluation that ultimately leads, no matter how slowly, to an increasingly accurate conception of the world. Along the way, we discard our less accurate ideas—out the window with the flat Earth, miasma theory, lobotomies. In his book <em>Delete: The Virtue of Forgetting in the Digital Age</em>, Viktor Mayer-Schönberger offers a clarifying anecdote:</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote>[My old friend] limited his personal library to exactly two hundred books. Once he had read a new book, he would decide whether it was among the two hundred best books he’d ever read. If so, he would add it to his collection, and discard the lesser one. Over time, he thought this process of constant filtering and deliberate forgetting would continuously improve his library’s quality, so that he would retain in his external memory only the really important and valuable thoughts. </blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>This is the teleology at the heart of our civilization. Essentially, we see the world not only as an open book, but as a comprehensive one, comprised of knowable and ultimately coherent truths. There is no personal or world problem whose eloquent solution does not exist in our hexagon, if only we are willing and able to sort through 1024 bits worth of information.</p><p>We denizens of the post-Enlightenment also typically take for granted that the truth lies in the future. Whether you’re a liberal, a Marxist, or a Christian, you have inherited this teleological reasoning—just over the next hill, you think, lies the End of History/a classless society/the Kingdom of God. Yet these beliefs would strike many of the ancients as bizarre. For many in the pre-Enlightenment world, both in the West and out, as well as for many contemporary societies, we move temporally away from an original truth, to which we must return. </p><p>Around the twelfth century, the intellectual elite of medieval Jewry were engaged in a heated debate. One side maintained that God’s Law had been given in utter clarity and completeness at Sinai and since distorted, while the other held that the Law needed to be progressively uncovered as humans came to a better understanding of the world around them. Traditional Islamic theology holds that Muhammad’s revelation was not <em>new</em>, but in fact a corrective to Jewish and Christian perversions of an original divine revelation (paralleled by Jesus’ oft-ignored claim in the Book of Matthew: “Do not think I have come to abolish the Law or the Prophets. I have not come to abolish them, but to fulfill them.”) Even today, the veracity of religious claims in the Jewish and Islamic worlds depends on chronological lists of who learned what from whom, somewhat akin to footnotes. The closer one gets to the original, oldest source (Moses or Muhammad, respectively), the more authority a claim has.</p><p>Nor is this idea somehow superstitious or irrational; up until the time of mechanized printing, older versions of a text were less likely to have been subjected to multiple rounds of copying, and therefore less likely to contain grave errors. New copies of texts were considered farther from the truth, which is why the Library of Alexandria, for instance, always sought out the earliest possible copy of a text for its collection, paying handsomely for its purchase (or taking it by force when necessary). Even today, children playing “whisper down the lane” understand that more recent information can serve to obscure what is true.</p><p>Be that as it may, our present society is all-in on the notion that a final truth is out there—and that, if we simply gather enough information, we will find it. There is perhaps no better exemplar of this paradigm than a now-notorious 2008 essay in <em>Wired</em> by Chris Anderson, titled “The End of Theory: The Data Deluge Makes the Scientific Method Obsolete.” Anderson's basic thesis was that, prior to the emerging data age, the scientific method functioned by proposing inherently inaccurate models of the world and then continuously improving those models based on small data sets. With our increasing ability to make use of Big Data, however, Anderson argued that we would be able to simply analyze incomprehensibly large quantities of data to find correlations. We no longer needed to understand why things correlated in order to know that they did so in a statistically significant way:</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote>Petabytes allow us to say: “Correlation is enough.” We can stop looking for models. We can analyze the data without hypotheses about what it might show. We can throw the numbers into the biggest computing clusters the world has ever seen and let statistical algorithms find patterns where science cannot.</blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>The crux of Anderson's argument was that data would lead us to the truth. Collect enough data and, with or without the obdurate theorizing of the model-blinded scientists, we would arrive at understanding. Such faith in the power of fact and reason alone is admirable if not a little too dogmatic, but my point here is not to criticize Anderson so much as to highlight how his argument is emblematic of a larger social faith that we have—in many ways unique to our civilization—in inexorable epistemic progress by the sheer force of information.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>It might be helpful to pause here and digress for a moment on what we mean when we say “information.” Our present understanding of the term is, much like our expectations for its uses, rather novel. It dates back to the revolutionary work of Claude Shannon in the first half of the twentieth century. Shannon’s “Mathematical Theory of Communication” (known today as information theory) was built on the bit: the most basic unit of information transmission, representing a logical state of two values (true/false, yes/no, 1/0, etc.), and it lies today at the heart of much of our world. But “information” in Shannon's theory is a unit generalized, the epistemological atom, and, like the atom, can form many different things.</p><p>When we laypeople think of information, we tend to associate it with quantitative data: life expectancy, likes on Instagram, probability of winning an election, free throws made. With the rise of companies like FiveThirtyEight and the omnipresent spectre of The Algorithm, this is certainly one of the most popularly visible manifestations of information. But it is not the extent or limit. Information, in contemporary parlance, is much wider in scope.</p><p>Consider a field outside the sciences, such as history. Sixty years ago, at the outset of the data revolution, professional historians felt themselves stifled. They were reaping the informational surpluses of the digital age, but, in contrast to their quantitative counterparts in scientific fields, at a loss for how to proceed. Carl Bridenbaugh, president of the American Historical Association, warned in 1962 of a “historical amnesia” as the result of new technology like Kodak cameras and radios, which he feared were rapidly eroding the skills and communicative ability of historians specifically and society in general. Yet not everyone agreed that the problem was one of perdition. As Elizabeth Eisenstein herself explained at the time, “It is not the onset of amnesia that accounts for present difficulties but a more complete recall than any prior generation has ever experienced. Steady recovery, not obliteration, accumulation, rather than loss, have led to the present impasse.” </p><p>For historians, an abundance of information was an obstacle to actually using that information effectively. This is because gathering and analyzing historical information, most of which is inevitably qualitative, demands a painstaking and largely subjective application of parameters. At a minimum, competence as a historian depends on an ability not just to find patterns in data, but to put those patterns in a broader context. Equally problematic, the abundance of information gives a false appearance of comprehensiveness, as if <em>a lot</em> of information is effectively the same as <em>all</em> the information. But, as historians-in-training are often admonished, “the absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.” Big Data today, for instance, largely leaves out the many millions of people around the world who are not online. The hard work of history, then—contextualization—is often undermined by the accumulation of information, which gives the illusion of completeness while becoming ever harder to understand en masse.</p><p>To further complicate our definition of information in the context of history, various historians, philosophers, and literary scholars have pointed out over the last half-century (e.g., Jacques Derrida, Edward Said, Michel Rolph-Truillot, etc.) that the parameters of our questions themselves—i.e., the assumptions we make about the information that we are analyzing—are often themselves the sources of profound bias. “The winners write the history books” isn’t only an indictment of propagandist historical writing; it is an acknowledgement that all historical work is an act of interpretation. Whether victory is military or epistemic, history is the construction of competing narratives. Historical judgement therefore requires a meta-understanding of why and how we make those judgements in the first place. Yet ultimately, we cannot but admit that our own biases sneak into the parameters we set for historical study, making objectivity or truth impossible to attain no matter how much information we have at hand.</p><p>This cuts at the heart of the study of history itself: all historical evidence, being ephemeral, is incomplete. Like a limit in calculus, we might approach historical truth, but our presumptions will always be conjecture, shaped arguably as much by our own contemporary experiences as by the actual conditions of the past. As Mayer-Schönberger points out,</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote>Even in the digital age, not everything we communicate is captured in digital format—and certainly not what thoughts we ponder, and how we assess and weigh the pros and cons before making a specific decision. ... Put simply, even if perfect contextualization may re-create the information context, it cannot take us back in time.</blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>All this accumulation elides a plain reality: the past is a foreign country. No amount of information will allow us to revive subjects who were once flesh and blood, to know what jokes Nefertiti laughed at, or how the market smelled in the morning at Caral-Supe, or whose breasts inspired the author of the Song of Songs to think of two fawns browsing among the lilies. We may have the facts of history, but we can never wholly grasp the meaning as it was for those who lived it.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>In New Jersey, at Bell Laboratories in 1943, a portentous meeting took place between Alan Turing and Claude Shannon. Turing, brought recently to popular awareness by Benedict Cumberbatch in <em>The Imitation Game</em>, is considered the progenitor of theoretical computer science and artificial intelligence. He was, like Shannon, a visionary, capable of understanding long before others the transformative potential of the technology at their fingertips. But Turing, for all his foresight, left his meeting with Shannon astounded by the scope of Shannon’s notion of information. “Shannon wants to feed not just <em>data</em> to a [computer],” said Turing, “but cultural things! He wants to play music to it!”</p><p>Turing’s astonishment might now sound naive. The world’s 365 million Spotify listeners seem to prove pretty conclusively that you can, after all, play music to a computer. We have managed not only to play <em>music</em> to a computer, but to show it art and movies, to read it books, to play sports with it, and so on. We’ve even managed to quantify (or so we think, anyway) culture’s reception: cultural phenomena today are measured in likes, views, clicks. If anything, we now live—in the Global North, at least—at a moment when culture unfolds predominantly as digital information and our digital reaction to it.</p><p>To Turing, Shannon’s idea of handling culture mechanically must have sounded like philistinism. Both inside the West and out, civilizations have long thought of culture’s genesis as ineffable. The Bible speaks often of divine inspiration, the Greeks of the muses, Arabic poetry of the influence of <em>jinn</em>. More than one cultural moment in recent memory has depended on a heady stock of psychoactive drugs as a means to (in their view, at least) transcend rationality. Simply, it is hard (both conceptually difficult and, for certain people like myself, somewhat galling) to imagine the paintings of El Greco, the music of John Coltrane, the novels of James Joyce reduced to a string of bits to be apprehended by a machine.</p><p>At present, though, the bits appear to be winning. Computers at least comprehend culture in the literal sense that they contain it—and increasingly they attempt to lay claim to its creation, too. There is a growing interest in <a href="https://www.vice.com/en/article/n7bqj7/ai-generated-art-scene-explodes-as-hackers-create-groundbreaking-new-tools">using AI to generate visual art</a> and <a href="https://openai.com/blog/jukebox/">music</a>. Google has introduced Verse-by-Verse, an AI tool that <a href="https://sites.research.google/versebyverse/">generates poetry in the style of famous American poets</a> (though the poetry itself leaves much to be desired). And beginning in 2010, a multidisciplinary team of researchers created the <a href="https://cyber.harvard.edu/events/luncheon/2011/05/Culturomics">Culturomics project</a>, which analyzed the corpus of available literature on Google Books to identify and analyze culture trends over time, such as the social media leadup to the Arab Spring. Taken together, these efforts suggest authority, tangibility—a belief that there is some truth in culture to be pinned down and known, some definite direction to which we are headed.</p><p>Many civilizations in history have believed that culture moves in a fixed direction. Sometimes this has been forward: the sense of indomitable progress in nineteenth century Europe, for example, inspired the poet Tennyson to write: “Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range. / Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.” Others have revered a semi-mythic Golden Age, and thought all subsequent culture a fall from grace. The eleventh-century Chinese literary critic Huang Tingjian, having declared that all the best poetry had long since been written, dismissed innovators, asserting that “the quest for new expressions is itself a literary disease.” (The specific target of Huang’s ire was Li Bai, considered today among the greatest Chinese poets.) Too often, the notion that culture has a necessary direction has even been the precursor to violent chauvinism, such as under the Nazi regime. Unfortunately for all of these views, the clarity of theory and expectation is inevitably muddled by, well, life. </p><p>Only the benefit of hindsight makes cultural change appear inevitable. It’s easy to say, for instance, that our high estimation of Shakespeare was a matter of course. But Shakespeare was for two hundred years discounted by the English-speaking world in favor of his contemporary, Ben Johnson. The Bard was only rescued from relative obscurity because the German philosopher Johann Gottfried Herder extolled his virtues in <em>Shakespeare</em>, a 1773 book that helped launch Romanticism across Europe. Likewise, the now-canonical Dutch painter Johannes Vermeer died impoverished in 1675. His work languished, virtually unknown, until its rediscovery two centuries after his passing. So even if we can agree, say, that Michelangelo and van Gogh represent peaks in the Western canon of visual art, it would be hard to claim that Michelangelo led to van Gogh, and absurd to think that van Gogh’s art would inevitably supplant Michelangelo’s by virtue of a greater claim to truth or beauty. </p><p>Chris Anderson's 2008 <em>Wired</em> article explains that, from Google's perspective, cultural explanations were irrelevant—only predictability mattered: “Who knows why people do what they do? The point is they do it, and we can track and measure it with unprecedented fidelity. With enough data, the numbers speak for themselves.” Thirteen years later, we know that <a href="https://thepointmag.com/examined-life/the-logic-of-the-like/">this predictability has been willfully harnessed</a> by Big Tech to drive us into more and more predictable consumer niches, along the way knowingly exacerbating ideological extremism. While we may pride ourselves today on a willful degree of cultural tolerance and pluralism, our present idea that there is a truth to be found in the analysis of culture remains deeply problematic because, fundamentally, what all this information does is narrow things. It takes an immense corpus of work and gives us a vector, a probable direction. This may be useful when examining something like the laws of physics, but it is antithetical to the function of culture.</p><p>This is because the value of culture is not in information to be sorted and analyzed to find a truth, but precisely in that it <em>defies</em> monolithic interpretation. Metastudies of culture such as cultural history, might benefit from accumulation of information, insofar as we “better” understand the culture being studied—but culture itself does not. Cultural items rise, decline, and reappear as needed; their meaning and value are contingent upon the needs of the present generations. The point of cultural information is not Truth, but truths—to call our attention to the staggering, ecstatic plurality of human experience. As the American literary critic Lionel Trilling wrote of literature in his preface to <em>The Liberal Imagination</em>, </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote>To the carrying out of the job of criticizing the liberal imagination, literature has a unique relevance, not merely because so much of modern literature has explicitly directed itself upon politics, but more importantly because literature is the human activity that takes the fullest and most precise account of variousness, possibility, complexity, and difficulty.</blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>The determinism inherent in not caring why culture is one way or another reduces cultural actors (read: us) to pieces in a fixed game of chess, endlessly traversing a shrinking board. Rather than succumb to this homogenization, we might insist that the vagaries of culture are in fact the best defense against the increasingly rigid factionalism of our algorithm society.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Doubtlessly, the mass of available information will continue to swell. We will need new numbers, new metaphors of scale that make our present befuddlement seem quaint. It is often taken for granted that we will eventually emerge from this cultural moment, that we will learn to cope with infoglut like our ancestors learned to deal with the deluge of books that followed the invention of printing. I am fairly confident that (if we survive the climate crisis) this is true. My question, though, is not <em>if</em> but <em>how</em> we survive this moment—what kind of society will we be when it has passed?</p><p>By the end of Borges’ story, most of the librarians are despondent. Centuries of searching have proved fruitless. If the truth is out there, they realize, it will never be found, not in all the vastness of the library's infinite halls. In despair, they turn to mysticism, to nihilism, to violence, to suicide. But the narrator, curiously, is possessed of a strange optimism. Though he is tired, and not a little unsure of the meaning of his circumstances, he views the library's boundless shelves as a sign not of death, but of life. “The certitude,” he insists, “that everything has been written negates us or turns us into phantoms.” In their innumerable possible permutations, the library’s pages are a bulwark against erasure.</p><p>Contrary to what our present culture insists, there is no final truth out there for us to find. No amount of accumulated information—nothing short of the entire universe itself—will explain everything, wrapped neatly with a bow. But there are smaller, personal truths out there, and beauties, and freedoms. In embracing them, we might find that they, far more than any singular vision of Truth, accommodate the illimitable possible futures that lay before us. The world is not a finite thing to be known once and for all. It expands, growing ever larger in what it might encompass, and information, if it seeks to describe our world, finds its truth not in uniformity, but in constant flux and evolution. Without the burden of teleology, then, the abundance of information is not moral encumbrance, but hope for change—not a final end, but fodder for meaning, which varies infinitely according to the ceaselessly changing constellations of human experience.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[The Long Now]]></title><description><![CDATA[Photos C/O Nowk Choe
Daniel Schine Lee’s “Jam and Cook” (a functional karaoke machine + oven) and
“Pagoda Go-Go” (an 80s-esque analogue of Heelys) mock the cynical manipulation
of trends for profit, while also asking whether art and culture cannot be
meaningful despite arriving “late.”
Suyon Huh’s “Monument” and “Payphone” reference the great mass of artistic
movements across time and culture, materializing competing but ultimately
cumulative ideas of beauty by the application of gradually-lay]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/the-long-now/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__61867f2d2ef03d047722e006</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 3 - Searching]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Plain]]></category><category><![CDATA[Exhibition]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Nowk Choe]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 09 Nov 2021 14:39:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/nowkmain.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Photos C/O Nowk Choe</figcaption></img></figure><p/><figure class="kg-card kg-gallery-card kg-width-wide kg-card-hascaption"><div class="kg-gallery-container"><div class="kg-gallery-row"><div class="kg-gallery-image"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/nowk1.jpg" width="4760" height="7141" alt=""/></div><div class="kg-gallery-image"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/nowk2.jpg" width="4724" height="7086" alt=""/></div></div></div><figcaption>Daniel Schine Lee’s “Jam and Cook” (a functional karaoke machine + oven) and “Pagoda Go-Go” (an 80s-esque analogue of Heelys) mock the cynical manipulation of trends for profit, while also asking whether art and culture cannot be meaningful despite arriving “late.”</figcaption></figure><p/><figure class="kg-card kg-gallery-card kg-width-wide kg-card-hascaption"><div class="kg-gallery-container"><div class="kg-gallery-row"><div class="kg-gallery-image"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/nowk3.jpg" width="1200" height="1500" alt=""/></div><div class="kg-gallery-image"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/nowk4.jpg" width="1200" height="1500" alt=""/></div></div></div><figcaption>Suyon Huh’s “Monument” and “Payphone” reference the great mass of artistic movements across time and culture, materializing competing but ultimately cumulative ideas of beauty by the application of gradually-layered paper dough.</figcaption></figure><p/><figure class="kg-card kg-gallery-card kg-width-wide kg-card-hascaption"><div class="kg-gallery-container"><div class="kg-gallery-row"><div class="kg-gallery-image"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/nowk5.jpg" width="4032" height="3024" alt=""/></div><div class="kg-gallery-image"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/nowk7.jpg" width="4032" height="3024" alt=""/></div></div></div><figcaption>Hyejoo Jun’s “Matter of Nakwon” and “Tourist Gaze” use light boxes and a microscope to display particulates from nearby cities. Suggesting that we consider ourselves “dust of the Earth,” she invites us to ponder a different timescale: that of cosmic matter.</figcaption></figure><p/><figure class="kg-card kg-gallery-card kg-width-wide kg-card-hascaption"><div class="kg-gallery-container"><div class="kg-gallery-row"><div class="kg-gallery-image"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/nowk2_.jpg" width="4704" height="3136" alt=""/></div><div class="kg-gallery-image"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/nowk3_.jpg" width="4704" height="3136" alt=""/></div></div><div class="kg-gallery-row"><div class="kg-gallery-image"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/nowk5_.jpg" width="4704" height="3136" alt=""/></div></div><div class="kg-gallery-row"><div class="kg-gallery-image"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/nowk4_.jpg" width="4704" height="3136" alt=""/></div></div></div><figcaption>Jaekyung Jung’s “A Village” contrasts the apparent insignificance of impoverished people catching abandoned dogs with the historical narratives of the rich surrounding village, interrogating the ways that divergent identities can yield unique experiences of the same moment in time.</figcaption></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-art">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>We live in capricious times. Everywhere we are pressured to keep pace with fads, and no less so in the art world. Artists, curators, and critics chase relevance by addressing popular topics, but these trends are ephemeral, and relevance itself a chimera. In this context, my exhibition <i>The Long Now</i> abandons “timely” topics in order to explore timeliness itself.<Br><br>
The exhibition was hosted in the Nakwon building in my native Seoul, Korea. An official piece of Korean architectural heritage, the Nakwon building is something of an oxymoron: the destruction of most Korean traditional architecture during the Japanese occupation and the Korean War means that most of our “historical architecture” was built in the last half-century. As an employee at an architectural firm that focuses on historical preservation, I am particularly sensitive to these contradictions, and chose the site as a way to question the relativity and paradoxes of timeliness.<Br><br>
Four artists participated in the exhibition, each bringing a unique perspective to the issue of timeliness. Jaekyung Jung’s documentary footage questions grand narratives of Korean history by juxtaposing a slum with its rich surroundings. Daniel Schine Lee’s fictionalized “archive” of 80s culture—assembled from imitation clothes and music that he produced specifically for this exhibit—questions the cynical manipulation of trend culture. Hyejoo Jun considers the timeliness of the microworld, offering dust particles from nearby cities and asking how our participation in the ever-changing landscape informs our sense of the present. Finally, Suyon Huh’s layered sculptures evoke iconography to suggest that meaning and beauty are the product of the accretion of time.<Br><br>
The uniting force of the exhibit's display is the pedestal. Traditionally the literal foundation of monuments, the pedestal has become structurally unnecessary in most buildings and statues. Today, therefore, it serves as a symbol of monumentality, rather than an essential part of monuments themselves. I chose to display each artwork on a pedestal in order to emphasize the same tension between artistic vainglory and the sands of time that led Percy Bysshe Shelly to write his famous poem, “Ozymandias.” Tiny gaps between the pedestals and the gallery floor purposefully evoke the unmoored feeling of the passage of time.<Br><br>
Ultimately, what I propose in <i>The Long Now</i> is measured hope. While the exhibition questions the pessimism of relentless fads, it does not dismiss the importance of relevance according to the conditions of each new generation. It is skeptical of the hubris of eternality, but also recognizes the need to look beyond the immediate present and into the distant future. Perhaps we will find this apparent paradox more tenable than either flippant transience or stubborn constancy.<Br><br>
</br></Br></br></Br></br></Br></br></Br></br></Br></br></div><!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[To J—]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Your browser does not support the audio element. Poet’s Note
I never sent this letter to J– because it wasn’t written for him. I wrote it for
S–, for me, and for anyone else searching for healing after a bad romance.
People like J– say one thing but do another, and that leaves you constantly
searching for how they really feel.
In the time I’ve known him, J– has never had the guts to face his feelings. In
one of our first conversations, he told me, “I just don’t have emotions. I don’t
get th]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/to-j/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__618685a22ef03d047722e0fa</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 3 - Searching]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Josh DeFriez]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 09 Nov 2021 14:39:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--> <audio controls="" src="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/symposeum-production.appspot.com/o/audio%2FN%20Lake%20Shore%20Dr%20(1).m4a?alt=media&token=0627128d-c9b9-47b5-b937-609988ce96f8">
Your browser does not support the
<code>audio</code> element.
</audio><!--kg-card-end: html--><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Screen-Shot-2021-11-22-at-11.56.53-AM.png" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>I never sent this letter to J– because it wasn’t written for him. I wrote it for S–, for me, and for anyone else searching for healing after a bad romance. People like J– say one thing but do another, and that leaves you constantly searching for how they really feel.<br><br>
In the time I’ve known him, J– has never had the guts to face his feelings. In one of our first conversations, he told me, “I just don’t have emotions. I don’t get them.” When he was dating S–, he’d call him his “friend,” his “guy,” and, rarely, his “boyfriend.” But he’d say it all sarcastically, with air quotes, and his face would flush at the shame of admitting to feeling something. After they broke up, J– suddenly referred to “you know who” with a name instead of a euphemism. The death of his affection restored his power, but it broke what remained of my trust. <br><br>
I wondered, did S– ever know that J– avoided using his name? How would that make him feel? How did the break up feel for him? How was he handling the broken dreams?<br><br>
Many poems feel intentional, but this one did not. I don’t remember which parts I wrote first or why it felt so necessary for a second voice to crisscross the poem. But I distinctly remember the alchemy that happened in my heart during the hours I spent spilling out the words, cutting them back, and rearranging them. As I began writing, I felt angry and hurt, but I finished it feeling hope for S–, for myself, and for all of us searching to heal from toxic relationships.<br><br>
The friends I’ve shared this poem with always ask, “how am I supposed to read this?” And I always say, “I have no idea.” After they sit with the poem for a while, some people see what I found by writing it; others don’t. I hope you do.<Br><br>
</br></Br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></div><!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Lost & Found]]></title><description><![CDATA[Shh, shh, shh...
Breezes caper in the dogwoods; white petals twirl onto the sidewalk.
The air smells green, and sweet, and forgiving.
Shh, shh, shh...
White wicker rocker creaks in the gloaming.
My sister moves her downy head into the blanket and breast.
She smells of talcum powder and Johnson’s tearless shampoo.
I marvel at her wrinkled fist clutching the crochet weave of the afghan. I
drowse on the floor at our mother’s feet, green sculpted carpet rough against my
face
“Down in the Valley” su]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/lost-and-found-tripp-wolf/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__618684ee2ef03d047722e0e5</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 3 - Searching]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Tripp Woolf]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 09 Nov 2021 14:39:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>Shh, shh, shh...<br>Breezes caper in the dogwoods; white petals twirl onto the sidewalk.<br>The air smells green, and sweet, and forgiving. <br>Shh, shh, shh...<br>White wicker rocker creaks in the gloaming. <br>My sister moves her downy head into the blanket and breast.<br>She smells of talcum powder and Johnson’s tearless shampoo.<br>I marvel at her wrinkled fist clutching the crochet weave of the afghan. I drowse on the floor at our mother’s feet, green sculpted carpet rough against my face<br>“Down in the Valley” sung in rocking-chair time—shh, shh, shh... <br>I lie awake in the bottom bunk, curled against my pillow, feet drawn nearly to my chin.<br>Spiderwort hangs in a ceramic cowboy-boot planter,<br>A gift from my grandmother that casts tendril and talon shadows across the path to my door. <br>I wait for the tired cough to come from the room down the hall—a signal that she sleeps and will not turn me away when I crawl under her covers<br>Shh, shh, shh...<br>Her hand already a skeleton in my grip—shh, shh, shh... <br>The mechanic breath of the ventilator—shh, shh, shh... <br>Until no breath comes—shh, sh, sss— <br>Lost.<br>I think I see her a dozen times the first month, a dozen more in the next six.<br>I delete her number from my contacts a year later—no longer in service.<br>I delete her voicemails two years later, to the day.<br>I mine for artifacts occasionally—the dusty mementos that evoke the story,<br>A piece of clothing, a kept baby tooth in a velvet box that held a piece of jewelry.<br>Perhaps her touch left a signature to attest to the permanence of things—<br>Of her.<br>An autographed baseball never forgets the hand that held it.<br>My daughter names the world, all things must be spoken into existence.<br>Tree, bubberfly, moon—Sophie, the dog, and Masha, the cat.<br>When the streetlights flicker into orange and the cicadas sing their songs<br>I fold her long-legged body into my lap, and I sing,<br>“Down in the valley, the valley so low.”</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>As a child, my mother rocked me and my younger sister in a white wicker rocker that stood sentinel in every place she lived except the last. It represented the quiet and comfort of childhood. As I grew older and moved away from my childhood home, I would call her from whatever adventure I might be enjoying at the moment. My whole life, she tethered me to reality and to the rest of the family. I called her from Mardi Gras, the Ocoee River, Iraq, Afghanistan, and when I discovered I was going to be a father. On March 9, 2019, she took her last breath with her hand in mine. <br><br>
Following her death, I found myself looking to fill the void her absence created. I saved voicemails so I could hear her voice whenever I wanted. Even though I knew she was not there to answer, I called her number to tell her where I was and what I was doing, longing to hear the mixture of motherly dismay tinged with pride. I searched for her in all the places she no longer inhabited. In the end, I found her: in the phrases I said and stories I told of hers. I found her in trinkets and in artifacts. Most of all, I found her in songs—songs that I still sing to my daughter that my mother once sang to me, rocking me in that old white wicker rocking chair.<br><br>
</br></br></br></br></br></div><!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[On My Mother's Passing]]></title><description><![CDATA[Your mellow touch has gone, off with the
Blue, red flashing lights that came for you on
That day. I hadn't noticed life being taken
From you, seized a little bit too rudely,
S0 quietly in the morning, the days, nights,
I feel the presence. You have not gone.
The empty space on your chair where you
Sat, a reflection in the mirror I can still see.
Our kindred spirits, a keen mind wandered
Astray, a lost memory you did try so hard
To catch, worried that you were losing it,
Not knowing what i]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/on-my-mothers-passing/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__618684892ef03d047722e0d3</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 3 - Searching]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Ronan Quinn]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 09 Nov 2021 14:39:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>Your mellow touch has gone, off with the<br>Blue, red flashing lights that came for you on <br>That day. I hadn't noticed life being taken <br>From you, seized a little bit too rudely,<br>S0 quietly in the morning, the days, nights, <br>I feel the presence. You have not gone.<br>The empty space on your chair where you<br>Sat, a reflection in the mirror I can still see. </br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>Our kindred spirits, a keen mind wandered <br>Astray, a lost memory you did try so hard <br>To catch, worried that you were losing it,<br>Not knowing what it was to begin with, to <br>Roll with the blows, a frenzy to end up like <br>My father. Peace of mind, a point to start<br>With, to look for, but it was in the family, a<br>Silent killer, a slow death that came to you. </br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>A dent in your armchair looking to be filled,<br>Deep undulating undercurrents not leaving <br>Me be, a seismic shift in every day, I <br>Move to make you a cup of tea, but you <br>Are not around to drink it. Unspoken words <br>In heart-rendering times, some ongoing <br>Attempts to fill the time, empty results as a<br>Twilight of day ends in a hazy dew. </br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>Loose ends, a void opened underneath me,<br>Unsure of what I should do next, the time <br>Thrown at me like a spring release, what to do<br>If the walls appear the same as before. <br>I'm wobbly on my feet, seeking to utter<br>Your name, were I small I would yet climb<br>On your lap as my place is lost in an hour's <br>Absence, I am by myself that much more. </br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>If my girl could dance with me in this <br>Empty room, telling me the right foot to put <br>To fill the empty spaces, empty phrases. <br>Her lilting accent, silent gaps, help defeat<br>The dark, fill the crevices that have come.<br>Stayed, appeased, given me a new strut, <br>Resplendent in defeat that was, come give<br>Me a hug, as you would, show the lead.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>A search among the bramble bushes and <br>A sight of a flower garden, to lay down<br>The ashes to sprout a tree of life and more, <br>The risk of time blowing back in my face.<br>That loss of intention replaced with an aim<br>Now, the wind will take off what remains sown, <br>The sea breeze blowing hard on my back, <br>Helping me, cajoling me to find my place.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>I first thought of this poem one evening this past summer. I had been musing at the time on my mother's death of a short illness a few months before, and her dementia diagnosis some years prior to that. Long before the coronavirus pandemic, I had been my mother’s primary carer. Her sudden death left me with the uncanny and unanticipated experience of having a great deal of time on my hands, and not knowing what to do with it, to say nothing of the great existential gaps in my life that followed her passing. I also took to anticipating my Russian girlfriend filling in some of the gaps. <br><br>
In style and substance, this poem owes a great deal to the Russians and the English Romantics, the former of whom I studied extensively during my Master’s in Russian literature. Three poems in particular which have inspired my verses below are Patrick Kavanagh’s “In Memory Of My Mother” and “Memory of My Father”, and Pushkin’s “To My Nanny.”<br><br>
</br></br></br></br></br></div><!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[SABBATICAL]]></title><description><![CDATA[And did you get what
You wanted from this life, even so?
—Raymond Carver, "Late Fragment"
The heat was historic.
“This heat is historic,” they’d said on NPR. At Pike Place fishmongers were
selling their souls for ice. The biologist visited each morning, drank coffee,
let seagulls drown the radio in her ears. She liked the rockfish, seeing them
bright and flop-bellied in their lukewarm display.
At home her computer monitor gathered dust like an artifact. It had been
untouched for three wee]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/sabbatical/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__6186863b2ef03d047722e111</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 3 - Searching]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><category><![CDATA[Short Story]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Emily Meffert]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 09 Nov 2021 14:39:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><em>And did you get what</em><br><em>You wanted from this life, even so?</em><br>—Raymond Carver, "Late Fragment"</br></br></p><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">T</span>
he heat was historic.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>“This heat is <em>historic</em>,” they’d said on NPR. At Pike Place fishmongers were selling their souls for ice. The biologist visited each morning, drank coffee, let seagulls drown the radio in her ears. She liked the rockfish, seeing them bright and flop-bellied in their lukewarm display. </p><p>At home her computer monitor gathered dust like an artifact. It had been untouched for three weeks. It baffled her that, after twenty-one years, researching adaptations in extremophiles hadn’t joined her loose ends. Was this it, then? She’d written a proposal that involved spelunking through the archives of one institution or another. To see what life at the bottom of the ocean might reveal about life on other planets, she’d explained.</p><p>In the afternoons she drank espresso martinis on her porch and watched Mr. Cardoso swing his watering can among the dahlias next door. Perhaps she’d buy one of those houses built around a big tree. She could become spiritual. Start a watch collection. Fall in love.</p><p>On Friday she brought home a King crab. It reminded her of—where was it that Gulliver traveled? Where everything was giant? Its spiked legs looked like a desert plant. Today was the nineteenth day of her sabbatical, she realized. Was it the twentieth? The heat made everything hazy. The haze seeped in through her ears. She could feel it as soon as she woke up, that heavy film on her brain’s machinery. The days bled together. The Pacific and the sky brewed a dull, disorienting continuum. </p><p>It was there when she returned to her house. She set her crustacean on the step and squatted to examine the envelope. Someone had dropped it on her welcome mat. The letter inside had an official look to it. They requested her expertise to investigate reports of an unnamed halophile in deep sea brine pools off the coast of X. At the bottom someone had scratched an illegible signature. No name was printed. She’d have to leave at once.</p><p>When she reported to the government office the clerk confirmed that she had been invited to take a leading role at the X Astrobiology Laboratory. He used that word. You have been <em>invited</em>, he said. She had never heard of it. How long were they expecting her to stay? The clerk couldn’t say for sure. It would depend on what she found. She asked the clerk who arranged her appointment. The clerk shook his head. You never know with these things, he said. </p><p>“I’m sure you recognize,” he said, shuffling papers on the big mahogany desk, “that the urgency of your assignment cannot be overstated.” </p><p>“I don’t quite understand.”</p><p>“They’re calling it <em>Signifojn</em>, I guess. It’s a kind of—what would you call it? A nickname? It’s a kind of placeholder in the scientific community, until they gather enough information to classify it.” His desk was like a repository for all the papers that had ever been lost in the world. “That’s where you come in.” He looked at her over his glasses. “The implications of a discovery would be colossal. And given the state of things . . .”</p><p>What was the state of things? </p><p>“Who will I be working with?”</p><p>He pulled his sleeve back and scrutinized the top of his wrist. “You’ll have to ask someone in country,” he said.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>She packed her passport, toothbrush, three bags of Planters Honey-Roasted Peanuts, the June issue of <em>Scientific American</em>, and Annie Jump Cannon, her basement Bengal. She left Noah’s old Huskies sweatshirt and her favorite tuberose perfume. She kissed the boards of her acetaminophen-red bungalow and left a spare key with Mrs. Cardoso, who would keep an eye on her ferns while she was away. Mr. Cardoso joined his wife in seeing her off. Good luck, Irene. We’ll miss you.</p><p>She met the pilot at a neglected regional airport south of town. He wore an archetypal aviator’s hat—the kind lined with imitation wool—and motioned her toward the open door of a Cessna. She thought that was odd. As they ascended she watched her world become small. An arcing river balanced the sharp symmetries of an industrial park. Baseball diamonds baked and freeways ribboned like hair beneath a microscope. After several minutes the Sound carved the city into a jagged puzzle. When everything beneath her turned blue, she closed her eyes. </p><p>She woke in a wall of clouds. The pilot’s voice had startled her. She plugged her nose and blew hard and her ears popped like tiny bombs exploding in her head. </p><p>“Cat?” he said without turning around. </p><p>Annie Jump Cannon purred like a spontaneous extrovert. Irene was irritated. </p><p>“Bengal,” she said. The pilot cleared his throat. She could see his shoulders shifting. Her center of gravity was shifting, too.</p><p>“What’s your earliest memory?” he said. He was wearing a cotton t-shirt that might have been white in a previous life. She couldn’t see his face.</p><p>“Um,” she said. “What?”</p><p>“That you can remember,” he clarified. And, hurriedly, “I’m just making conversation.”</p><p>A long moment passed. Annie Jump Cannon was tense in her lap. “Spilling Cheerios in Alaska,” she offered. </p><p>“Alaska,” he said. She couldn’t place his accent. </p><p>“The cafe was up on stilts,” she said. “One big room without corners.”</p><p>“I’ve always wanted to go to Alaska,” he said. She felt vaguely sideways.</p><p>“When the bowl flipped I thought the world had turned over.” </p><p>That made him laugh.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Except for distant mountains, her destination was brown and featureless, like a face she couldn’t read. It wasn’t a town but a cluster of buildings—each a dozen stories and earth-colored with hexagonal windows she couldn’t see into. The pilot left her with an old-fashioned skeleton key and instructed her to report to the seventh floor of the building with the short lavender door. You’ll see a room with a circle of hands on the door, he said. That’s the one you want. Before she had time to ask questions he was back in the plane. Then she was alone there, on that dusty plain sewn with endless replications. </p><p>Inside the door engraved with a circle of hands she found an austere bedframe and a plasticky, dorm-style mattress. Aside from those, light from a hexagonal window with acid-etched glass revealed a couple dozen large bins. On the bed there was a letter addressed to her. </p><p><em>Dr. Gadbois—</em><br><em>Welcome! We’re thrilled to have you here. Please take some time to settle in and get your bearings. We look forward to meeting you.</em></br></p><p>It wasn’t signed. Someone knocked on her door. </p><p>When she opened it a man pushed past her and heaved himself against the fort of bins. One tumbled to the floor and busted open. It was full of bags. Annie jumped from where she had been perched on the bed and scampered beneath it. The man shouted something she didn’t understand. She was frozen. He scooped up an armful and dashed out of her apartment, manic as he’d come. </p><p>The bags were all sizes. There was a coin pouch woven with hemp. A pleather clutch in the shape of a corndog had rolled across the room and popped open. One lunchbox featured a roost of embroidered butterflies. There was an oversized duffle and a guitar case and a whole line of fatigued paper grocery bags and a fanny pack. She touched them one by one. She opened the other bins and they contained bags, too. Touching the bags made her sad. She missed the pilot. She needed some air.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Outside it occurred to her that she might have left her oven on. She tried to text Mrs. Cardoso but there was no service. There were no streets or sidewalks or signs or traffic lights or cars—just the negative space between buildings. Around her people sat on benches or leaned against walls or sat cross-legged in the dust. Most were alone; most seemed mildly vigilant. She struggled to catch people’s eyes. She thought of little islands.</p><p>Ten minutes into her walk someone poked her on the shoulder blade. Irene spun around and found a small insistent woman pointing at the canvas tote Irene carried. The insistent woman excavated her pocket and produced a fistful of something. Then she thrust both cupped hands toward Irene and mumbled unintelligibly.</p><p>If the old insistent woman had been physically imposing Irene would have sprinted. Instead, Irene peered into the cavity formed by the woman’s small fingers. An array of glass beads pooled inside. Some were big as marbles and others appeared to be as tiny as salt crystals. </p><p>“Eh?” the woman said. She eyed the canvas tote hung on Irene’s shoulder, insistent. Irene touched its topmost strap. The woman’s eyes widened. </p><p>Irene removed the tote from her shoulder. She extended her opposite hand and displayed her blank palm. The timid woman moved toward her. She loosened her fingers and let the beads drop like sand in an hourglass. When Irene’s hand was full the woman seized the tote and pressed it against her chest. </p><p>When she got back to her building there was a very tall man sitting outside, manning a cardboard box. A hooded figure approached him and traded a basket for a roll of toilet paper. When she came to the door he inspected her and shrugged. Another person offered him a pair of purple socks. He reached in the box and produced a second roll. Irene fished the beads from her pocket and displayed them beneath the building’s leaking light. The very tall man frowned. Then he extended a roll of toilet paper and cupped his extended hands. </p><p>There were no outlets in her room. Two bulbs burned on the ceiling; the meager furniture glowed. Filaments coiled inside the bulbs like metallurgical slinkies. Irene’s phone was at seven percent. It was two in the morning. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>At first it was impossible to acclimate. The second day was a nightmare. Irene woke in a flushed room; the light was dim but expectant. She inhaled a bag of peanuts then walked where she didn’t walk the previous evening. She struggled to get information. Someone squeaked and clucked at her on the corner of one not-street and another. A man toting bungee cords opened his mouth and expelled the sound of wind through high trees. She couldn’t get over that. That night, she was brushing her teeth in the bathroom down the hall when a woman yodeled with several voices at once.</p><p>She never found the X Astrobiology Lab. At first she thought if she could find the coast she would walk it until a research institute appeared. But there was no coast. On the third day she traced the development’s single continuous edge. Past the peripheral buildings there were dust, immaterial shrubs, and a suggestion of mountains on the earth’s long rim. </p><p>On her fourth day Irene met a soap peddler who refused to open his mouth. Inexplicably, she offered him a triple gusset briefcase. As he reached toward her she swam in silent gratitude. He reciprocated: a bundle of bright bar soaps bound in twine. He placed her hands on either end and squeezed lightly. She thought of Noah. She looked away. Later, a scalding shower made one fragrant: tuberose.</p><p>Her quick acceptance surprised her. On the fifth day she scanned articles about deadly fungi, ongoing projects to deflect asteroids on their way to Earth, and electrodes at the roots of conscious experience. She wrote <em>Signifojn</em> in the magazine’s slick margins with the obsessive agony of a first crush. On the sixth day she cried until Annie Jump Cannon’s fur was a salty mop and on the seventh day she slept. That night she dreamed of microbes pulsing in a sea of molten rock on a planet far away. She woke into darkness without contour and her loneliness throbbed like they throbbed.</p><p>On the eighth day she resigned herself to a life of tragic surrealism and vowed to find the person who signed her original letter. Instead she found Mona, bartering fire.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>She went to the square in the morning to see what she could get. She carried a battered Tumi suitcase and a sequined pencil pouch and a backpack with a bloated pocket shaped like a soccer ball. She noticed a young woman showing pedestrians a picture of something. The chemical symbols for sulfur, argon, calcium, and samarium were arranged on her t-shirt to spell <em>S-Ar-Ca-Sm</em>. Irene squinted to read the text below it. <em>My Main Element</em>. Were her eyes playing tricks on her? Was this a mirage?</p><p>“Hey!” Irene shouted.</p><p>The woman made a visor of her hand. She was a nest of copper hair and a swatch of painfully pink skin. She looked about the age of Irene’s students. She held out the picture to Irene—a vintage 7up ad severed from some publication. An uncanny family smiled around an awkwardly cultish bonfire. <em>You like it...it likes you! </em>the slogan ventured.</p><p>When Irene approached her the woman extended a matchbox. “You speak English?” Irene said.</p><p>The woman looked baffled. She reached backward and set her clumsy merchandise on a folding table.</p><p>She lunged forward. She collided with Irene. Irene was alarmed. </p><p>“Sister,” she said. She squeezed Irene. Her arms were tight. “Yes,” she said. She was rubbing her hands on Irene’s back. “Yes.”</p><p>Irene shut her eyes. Pressure surged from her chest; it shattered the ceiling in her head. The relief was dizzy and private. The woman’s ear pressed against Irene’s shoulder.</p><p>“When’d you get here?” she asked.</p><p>“Eight days ago,” Irene said. “I think.”</p><p>“The heat makes your memory lazy,” the woman observed. </p><p>“When’d you get here?” </p><p>“God, I don’t know. I think we’re at the top of the world. Or the bottom. Pretty soon the sun won’t set at all. Then it won’t rise for longer than you can imagine and the dark is bitter cold. That’s what happened when I got here. The days stretched and stretched and then they snapped.”</p><p>Irene felt a wave of nausea. “What is this place?”</p><p>She shrugged. “Hell, I guess?” </p><p>Irene looked around. Across the square the man who sounded like wind appeared to be singing to no one. </p><p>“Why did you come here?”</p><p>“I left St. Paul to see my longtime friend in Michigan. I was supposed to catch a ferry in Manitowoc for the last leg of my trip.”</p><p>“Who arranged that?”</p><p>“What, the ferry?”</p><p>Irene nodded.</p><p>“Some service, IDK. Had this chick pick me up in a private plane and told me to look for a ferry named <em>SEEG-NEE-FO </em>when I got here.” She accented each syllable of the word. She shook her head. “On the other side of town, the agent said. It’ll take you right to us.” </p><p>Irene paused. She watched the woman. “Have you seen—”</p><p>“That the place is a blip in a big desert?” The woman twirled her pointer finger in the air and opened her eyes wide. “Hadn’t noticed.” </p><p>Irene showed her hand. “Irene.”</p><p>The woman studied it. It was as though she thought something would happen that could not be taken back. “Mona,” said Mona. They shook.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>A lot of people seemed distressed, Mona said. She and Irene sat on the ground in the shadow of the building on the square’s western edge. Everyone had their thing that they had a lot of and traded it for other things. She was lucky, she said, to have found in her apartment several bookcases stacked with matchboxes. Fire was practical. The poor man who lived next to her moved into an apartment full of violins. She thought about giving him some of her matchboxes but then people would trade with him instead of her, and how would she eat?</p><p>Irene couldn’t say.</p><p>“Sometimes people you see everyday just disappear,” Mona said. “Poof. Into thin air.”</p><p>Irene thought. Then she said, “Earlier, when you said you were supposed to take a ferry, what did you say was its name?”</p><p>“<em>SEEG-NEE-FO</em>.”</p><p>“<em>Signifojn</em>,” Irene murmured, half inside and half out. “The clerk who briefed me—if you can call it that—on my appointment said that word. Said it was a microbe.”</p><p>Mona frowned. “Sorry?”</p><p>“He told me <em>Signifojn</em> was the nickname of an unclassified microorganism off the coast of this place. I was assigned to investigate it.”</p><p>“Um, that’s weird. That’s actually kind of funny,” Mona said. “That’s like, really weird.”</p><p>“Have you ever heard the word?”</p><p>Mona looked reflective. “I think, yeah, I think it’s like the name of a boat company. I’m pretty sure I’ve heard of it before.”</p><p>Irene was skeptical. “Well I’m certain I’d never heard it before. Have you mentioned it to anyone else?”</p><p>“To who? Tornado man? The squeaky chicken girl? I have to talk to myself just to fight off insanity.”</p><p>“That’s very odd.”</p><p>Mona shrugged. She stood and brushed the sand off her backside. “You a scientist?”</p><p>Irene nodded. “I study salt at the bottom of the ocean. Looking for life where survival is hard.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>Irene stood. Her legs felt like they’d been clasped for eons. “There are comparable bodies of water on one of Jupiter’s moons. Very salty.”</p><p>“So you’re hunting aliens?”</p><p>“Hunting, no.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>Irene looked around. A man sprawled on a patchwork of primary colors, surrounded by stacks of quilts. People idled and calculated. A crowd was forming around some kind of food. The air smelled nutty and rich. A woman kneeled at the large well in the center of the square, driving a gourd-shaped basket across its surface. A procession of rings swelled. The disruption was arresting.</p><p>“If you’re searching for something where it might not exist,” Irene said, “it’s important to know the signs of that thing where it does.”</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>That night she dreamed a vivid memory. Once—several lifetimes ago, it seemed, before the eggshells and impasses—Noah had taken her to the roof of his apartment building to try a mercurial malbec. In the nautical twilight she’d pointed upward. “Bats.” </p><p>The next weekend they returned. Noah’s eyes seemed fixated on the wide vacancy above the buildings around them. She asked him why. He hadn’t known those things were bats, he said. He was looking for them because he thought he might find them. </p><p>Had he ever looked for something he was confident he wouldn’t find? She conversed on the brink of a second glass. That vintage had been tainted by fire. She liked it; the taste helped her imagine something she’d never seen. </p><p>He squinted at her. Said finally what are you getting at. You couldn’t speak abstractly without inviting accusations, even in those days. She hadn’t seen it then. She wasn’t getting at anything.</p><p>He said people were more likely to look for things they guessed they could find. Wouldn’t be rational otherwise. Scientists, maybe, to rule out the far fetches. He kissed her floral wrists, her necklace. Before he’d met her he’d looked for love on the streets of Chicago without believing he’d find it. She thought about that. Low odds, high reward, she said. He wouldn’t go out in a snow storm. But a nice spring evening, he’d walk the streets for hours anyway. Notice people. </p><p>They agreed that they had a better shot at finding something from the roof of his building—given they knew what they were looking for—than from the street, which was full of obstructions. But a birdseye view lacked intimacy. They could guess at the texture of a leaf or the sound of an engine but had no way of verifying these. They might locate some sought thing from the roof and never know whether something else would have pleased them more. But roaming took forever. All that wasted time. </p><p>Overhead the bats convened and dispersed, shouting across the broad failing light. Noah was swirling his wine. Here and there she caught his eye. It was as though all the actors on that stage were determined to crystallize for a moment, then dissolve.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>After a week of fruitless contemplation they resolved to say it to everyone. <em>Signifojn</em>, they whispered in doorframes, in confidence, in shadowed corners of the square. They were startled by the number of people who were startled to hear it. How would they describe the reactions they encountered? Incredulous, moved, paranoid, desperately familial. Irene said it to the woman who housed the choir of yodelers. Her vocalizations became clumsy, frantic. She grabbed Irene’s shoulders and seemed to plead with her. When Irene spoke other words the woman sputtered toward silence, like a candelabra suddenly and devastatingly snuffed.</p><p>Irene and Mona started recording their impressions of reactions in a notebook. They started drawing lines between them. The web became thick. They catalogued clusters. There was the curious camp, which thrilled to attempt commiseration across languages. There was the group of cryptic gesturers, who motioned and demonstrated with evangelical fervor. There was the huggy group that offered water and food and seemed to spend many hours each day admiring the immaterial shrubs. Mona named the smallest cluster The Unruffleds—rare individuals who rolled their eyes and clipped their nails and could not learn bewilderment at all.</p><p>“What are your conclusions?” Irene asked one night. They’d traded a picnic basket full of matches for bathtub brew and had danced while Mona’s neighbor played something scratchy and atonal. Now that it was late they were stumbling around outside, figuring. Irene balanced herself against the cool wall of the building. She tried to concentrate. The sun had been whittled down as far as the season would allow. The sky was lilac-colored, blank, barely lucid. </p><p>“<em>Signifojn</em> is not a microbe,” Mona said. “Or a boat. I mean, not more so than it is anything else,” she considered. “A tote. A flame. The thing that creates the possibility of a flame. A tiny piece of glass.”</p><p>Irene seemed unsatisfied by her answer. “I keep thinking—and I hate this thought every time it surfaces—I keep thinking that this place,” she said, “is a red herring. You know?”</p><p>Mona scratched her cheek. </p><p>“Like, plane drops us here, then we’re bent on locating the answer to something that doesn’t exist within the limits we’ve taken as givens.” Irene paced unsteadily. “Who decided that <em>X</em> describes just the ground beneath these buildings?” She looked around. “What if it’s out in the desert? The next town over, the one we can’t see?”</p><p>Mona squatted. She laid her palms on the earth and made little dunes between her fingers. “I’ve noticed something,” she said. “I told you how people disappear.”</p><p>“Yes. The tall toilet paper man who used to sit outside my building. One day he wasn’t there and I haven’t seen him since.”</p><p>“Yes. Yes. Just like that. Poof.”</p><p>“You have a theory?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Mona said. “A relationship, maybe.”</p><p>Irene raised her eyebrows.</p><p>“Well,” she began. “I’ve been thinking about the people I’ve known who disappeared, like, thinking about what cluster they’d belong to.” She scattered the dunes between her fingers and dusted her hands off. “From what I can remember, seems like everyone would’ve fallen in that smallest group.”</p><p>“The Unruffleds.”</p><p>She nodded.</p><p>“What do you make of that?”</p><p>“I don’t—I mean, there can’t be just less Unruffleds of all the people who get dropped here. Right? You know? Like, what if it’s the smallest group because they don’t last long?”</p><p>Irene was silent. Then she said, “You think that’s the ticket out?”</p><p>Mona shrugged. “Seems like it. But how can we know where they go?”</p><p>“Wouldn’t you guess they’re taken home?”</p><p>“I thought I was going to Manitowoc and now I’m here. So who knows? I think you’d have to make a big bet on whether the place they go to is better than this one.”</p><p>Irene shivered. Mona’s face looked unfamiliar in the vague purple light. The buildings loomed like staunch shells in a world that was passing ceaselessly through them.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>In her dream that night Irene stood on the ground where her building had been built. This was centuries before that, though—before that dust had become foundational. In the crook of one arm a heavy manuscript moved her speech. She turned its illuminated pages carefully, admiring the spiritual colors. The people in that general vicinity nodded, pondered, shook their heads, scoffed, affirmed, laughed, glanced with curiosity or none, struggled to understand or didn’t, formulated rebuttals, listened occasionally, shrugged, moved along. She traveled to all the corners of the earth and stood at every intersection, proclaiming the answers to the original questions. She gave them names that were broadly recognizable and elusive as contours in a cave. </p><p>In her dream it was unknown to Irene why she was doing these things, but she was overcome with the impression that she had failed to achieve the outcome she was seeking. After the failure she sang. It was a wordless, unpredictable song. She was stunned to hear the notes she sang as she produced them. After a long time a bystander moved close and yielded to impulse. His body twisted and popped like a spark. Later, another approached them and stretched a reptile over a hollowed tree. He rapped and slapped and thumped and struck until there was a perceptible correspondence between the three. Day after day they returned to that place and did those things. </p><p>Irene woke feeling strangely comforted. After so many days waking to the immediate challenge of reconciling her present situation with the complex and long-rehearsed situation that she’d expected to be her life, she had become adept at retraining her focus on things that couldn’t be taken from her. At mid-day she sat by the well in the center of the square and watched people draw water. She wanted to reach out and touch each of them—a gesture of compassion and understanding. Suddenly she was overwhelmed by their shared, inarticulate sadness. </p><p>Mona sat beside her in the afternoon. The sun was intense then and the square was quiet for a long while.</p><p>“I dreamed last night,” Mona said. </p><p>Irene became aware of her surroundings at once. The voice had startled her. She looked up. </p><p>“What’d you say are signs of life?”</p><p>“Um, they’re different. It depends. There are certain molecular signatures. . .” Irene trailed off. On the other side of the well a man pressed his basket against the force of the water until it was submerged. The still surface crumpled like a paper bag.</p><p>“There has to be some kind of disturbance,” she said. Waves arced toward her. She thought of bats calling out, getting their bearings in the night. “Some transformation of energy. Nothing lives without ruffling everything.”</p><p>Mona seemed to be anticipating more. Then she squeezed her hand. “Sister,” she said. </p><p>Irene looked at her. The pressure on her hand was kind and safe and knowing—it knew. It was like regaining a pair of misplaced glasses. Mona’s copper mane sharpened at the edges. The pale lines crossing her perpetual sunburn flashed with clarity and contrast. So many places the sun hasn’t touched, she thought. That was easy to forget at the bottom of the world. The top. Wherever they were, this inexplicable X. </p><p>“Sister,” Irene said. “Yeah.” She exhaled. “Yes.”</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Things I Need to Know]]></title><description><![CDATA[I do want hope, belief
in intercession. That my children,
if in need, could expect bread.
To know them is to know the dirt
-engrained lines of their shoeless feet
as they belly sprawl over coloring books.
Just one state over, a blue newborn found
in a blue cooler beneath a speed limit sign.
This, exactly, has happened before: a life
as iteration of the facets of human cruelty,
what I read the first occurrence only
to me—tragedy sealed in Ziplocs
and four-wheel drive Suburbans parked
windows u]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/things-i-need-to-know/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__618682092ef03d047722e05f</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 3 - Searching]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Necessary]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Andrew Najberg]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 09 Nov 2021 14:39:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>I do want hope, belief<br>in intercession. That my children,<br>if in need, could expect bread.</br></br></p><p>To know them is to know the dirt<br>-engrained lines of their shoeless feet<br>as they belly sprawl over coloring books.</br></br></p><p>Just one state over, a blue newborn found<br>in a blue cooler beneath a speed limit sign.</br></p><p>This, exactly, has happened before: a life<br>as iteration of the facets of human cruelty,<br>what I read the first occurrence only<br>to me—tragedy sealed in Ziplocs<br>and four-wheel drive Suburbans parked<br>windows up in summer sun.</br></br></br></br></br></p><p>Blame it on the snake, or belts, or lineages<br>of fists, but my children are too real<br>to allow anyone such grace.</br></br></p><p>I watch them totter in pajamas.<br>They bicker about games and turns<br>and who looks at whom, dip<br>crackers in milk and brush crumbs off<br>lips with forearms as they dance,</br></br></br></br></p><p>make it hard to understand that as humans,<br>something monstrous lives in us all.<br>No parent can be innocent<br>and expect to keep their children<br>the same while they sing at bedtime.</br></br></br></br></p><p>After mine are tucked in, I lie<br>in bed under the fan as the dog<br>circles its rug. Tomorrow, again,<br>I look for new roads, choose one<br>that leads to more than that.</br></br></br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>Even before the twenty-first century, many felt battered by the brutality of daily news, but today, the internet and social media allow us to track the struggles of everyone we know alongside those we’ve never met. We coexist with tragedies that are simultaneous with our most innocent moments. “Things I Need to Know” grapples with the braiding of children’s play and horrific abuses, and emphasizes the necessity of this discordance. My intention is to show a speaker ready to break under the world’s weight, while also allowing them to recognize their worthiness of the very grace they seek for their children. In a world where a narrow few hold seemingly overwhelming power, I see this poem as a reminder that we must grasp our own agency if we hope for anything better to follow.<br><br>
</br></br></br></div><!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Preschool as a profession of philosophy]]></title><description><![CDATA[A few weeks ago I heard a scream and turned my head to see Robert stomping his
foot. He and Harry, both around four years old, were standing next to each
other. Robert was leaning forward, chest out, holding his arms straight down,
fists clenched. When I got there, I asked, “What happened?”
“He took my train!” Robert screamed.
I turned to Harry, who was holding a Thomas train in his hand, and asked him,
“Was Robert playing with that train?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Did you take it?”
“Yes,” he answe]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/preschool-as-a-profession-of-philosophy/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__618820252ef03d047722e1b0</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 3 - Searching]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Plain]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Garrett Allen]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 09 Nov 2021 14:38:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>A few weeks ago I heard a scream and turned my head to see Robert stomping his foot. He and Harry, both around four years old, were standing next to each other. Robert was leaning forward, chest out, holding his arms straight down, fists clenched. When I got there, I asked, “What happened?”</p><p>“He took my train!” Robert screamed.</p><p>I turned to Harry, who was holding a Thomas train in his hand, and asked him, “Was Robert playing with that train?”</p><p>“Yes,” he said.</p><p>“Did you take it?”</p><p>“Yes,” he answered, brow furrowed. “I want it.”</p><p>We talked about it and moved on. The whole encounter lasted less than a minute but it stuck with me. Harry didn’t deny taking the train or lie about the circumstances. He didn’t apologize or give an excuse. And yet there wasn’t a hint of meanness about him. He was perfectly serious when he uttered, “I want it,” which to him was sufficient grounds for taking the train. I admire the awesome simplicity of Harry’s behavior.</p><p>I also shudder to think about what lies ahead for Harry and the others in my preschool class as they grow up. In infancy, reality and desire lie flush against each other. There is no boundary between them, no fault line. In preschool the first cracks emerge. A child wants a toy, or to have their mother, or simply to say what’s on their mind, but they don’t get to have it. They see the toy but don’t get to play with it. They want their mother, but she is not there. They have an idea but don’t get to make it known.</p><p>The gap between desire and reality continues to grow as we age. Eventually, it’s not that we want the train and don’t get it, but that we do and it doesn’t satisfy us. It isn’t what we had hoped for. Not what we had been promised. We hold the actual train in our hands and yet seem to long for something different, something hidden and remote. We enter a school or church or career and are disappointed. We enter society and find it is different than we had imagined. The gap widens into a canyon, and the canyon becomes too wide to see across.</p><p>I think it is impossible to avoid encountering this canyon between the ideal and real. The more you get to know a thing—its historical and contemporary reality—the more you see a mismatch between the idea in your head and what it actually is. The hopeful intuitions that lead you down a path turn out, inevitably, to be inconsistent with reality.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I spent ten years of my life formally studying philosophy. I was initially attracted to the discipline because I wanted to understand my place in the universe and my path through it, in the largest and most comprehensive sense of the terms. But as I began to move through the field it became clear to me that professional philosophy is more about universities, papers, and CVs than what I had hoped for. It is formal, conventional, and professional. Its nature is dictated by the institutions that support it. Faced with this inconsistency, I eventually concluded that what goes by the name “philosophy” in the contemporary university is a corrupted and distorted image of philosophy rather than philosophy itself.</p><p>But what is this “philosophy itself”? When I say this, the image of Harry comes to my mind again. Harry explained his taking the toy, grabbing it out of Robert’s hands, by saying he wanted it. The logic behind his action, which he articulated so beautifully and shamelessly, was simple: “I want it, therefore I take it.” And I would guess it’s even better to get rid of the “I,” since at Harry’s age the ego, the sense of self, is between nonexistent and inchoate. There is no distinction between self and world, and no space for others. Reality answers immediately to desire, individual desire.</p><p>When I say that what we call “philosophy” is not philosophy, how am I different from Harry, innocently but ignorantly imposing my desire on things? Granting that it is not what I desire it to be—the organic attempt to know yourself, the universe and your place in it—how am I not naively confusing myself, my own needs, with the world?</p><p>I can relate to the mixture of confusion and outrage Harry felt when I implied that he might well want the train but still can’t grab it out of Robert’s hands, which suggests to me that I might be in an analogous situation, and have an analogous lesson to learn. But the source of our confusion is different. Harry is confused because he is used to what he wants being his, and now he wants something and is being told it is not his. Desire is decoupling from reality for him. But I am confused because I am used to one thing being called “philosophy,” and now we are calling something really different “philosophy.”</p><p>Traditionally, philosophy was understood to be a way of living that involves regular attempts to know oneself and the world through examination of received norms, habits and conventions. By making these unconscious norms explicit, we come into a position to evaluate them and their alternatives, to select and reject. By giving an account of ourselves and holding ourselves to account, we put ourselves in a position to pursue the good life, to live wisely. </p><p>Accordingly, philosophy has traditionally been considered to be both comprehensive and transformative. It reorders everything a person knows and does, and thereafter sits at the top of their priorities. This love of wisdom includes theory and practice, words and action, and is pursued with a solemn, religious, joyful devotion that makes the practitioner idiosyncratic, unconventional, fanatical. </p><p>This conception of philosophy is held in common by my philosophical heroes, who railed against the professionalization of intellectual life. In his dialogue <em>Gorgias</em>, Plato criticizes teachers who teach their students skill in argumentation without concern for the truth of the argument being made. According to Plato, absent a concern for the truth, what they teach is just verbal acrobatics and fancy argumentation, a parody of true intellectual life. Similarly, in his essay “The American Scholar,” Ralph Waldo Emerson argues that “Action is with the scholar subordinate, but it is essential. Without it he is not yet a [human being].” Professionalization, he says, is dangerous when it leads to specialization and abstraction. When thinking is not part of an integrated whole, it becomes distorted. </p><p>Yet philosophy today is professional, in that the object of reflection is circumscribed. What a professional philosopher thinks about is limited and the limit is given by the profession. Because you need to publish papers in established journals to become established in the field, you have to write about what the established journals are interested in. From the inside, that is a big umbrella, but from the outside it is an extreme limitation. </p><p>One result of this attitude is that PhD students and early career academics concentrate on what is hot in the field at the expense of their own interests. As a graduate student I often met even mid-career professors who wistfully lamented the ongoing neglect of their deeper philosophical interests due to career pressures, the necessity of establishing themselves in the field as it exists. They look forward to tenure, when they imagine they will have the time to explore their own questions, the writers and issues that originally drew them to the subject. </p><p>I saw this in my own experience as a PhD student in philosophy at the University of Chicago. Emerson and Henry David Thoreau are two of the writers whose work I find the most interesting, culturally relevant, and philosophically rich, yet I was told I could not write a dissertation because the few senior faculty who might have advised me thought that such a dissertation would not help me secure a job at a university as a professional philosopher. Not one of them took issue with the worthiness of the topic. They just didn’t think it would be a passport to the profession. </p><p>Across the board, members of the discipline focus their energy on what is being talked about in the field more than the practical interests which surround them on the professional track. Why are some writers excluded from the mainstream of professional philosophy? Why do people in the field use the phrase “adding a line to your CVs” as if it were an end in and of itself? What does this mean about the profession I am entering? Along with many others, these questions are excluded from professional reflection, but that alone makes such reflection unphilosophical. No question which arises out of genuine interest can be excluded from our inquiry when we inquire with a philosophical spirit. Philosophy is the discovery and pursuit of our interests. Not an ancestor’s, or corporation’s, or institution’s, but our own. </p><p>But professional reflection is limited in a second way in that it is detached from action, except a few actions of a professional sort. Healthy reflection is part of a cycle that runs from experience to reflection to judgment and back into experience. In the healthy cycle, knowing leads into doing. Making arguments with where you put your muscles and bones. Professional reflection, on the other hand, exists in isolation. It has no urgency, no outcome, and no end point, other than giving a talk at a conference or publishing a paper or book. It prizes only the articulation of ideas, not the employment or embodiment of them. The whole sphere of action, the use or neglect of ideas, lived and embodied reality, is invisible to it. </p><p>Once, at a philosophy conference in Germany, I heard a young academic give a talk about the idea of art in the tradition of German idealism, an important philosophical movement of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. He argued compellingly for the idea that life is essentially an artistic process. As he spoke I thought about how this line of thinking must have consequences, for instance, for how we write philosophy. Afterwards, I approached him, excited to ask him about the next steps, the practical implications of his thesis. But he merely answered by connecting new ideas to those he had talked about and adding what another philosopher had said about them. Ideas, but no actions. For him it was enough to talk about the thesis, to spell the ideas out theoretically. My questions, which grew out of my interest in enacting them, were foreign to him. </p><p>Nowadays philosophy is thought of as a department at a university, but historically it was much more than that. When I was a professional philosopher, I was shocked other philosophers didn’t reflect on these issues more. Philosophy, as I understand it, inherently involves questioning. It involves submitting received norms and practices to examination in the here and now, by you and me, by our own lights. It makes titles alleged, and it turns credentials into “credentials.” And yet most graduate students take it on authority that they are entering the profession of philosophy. </p><p>Graduate students must simply adopt, for instance, the writing norms of the contemporary academic world. In the history of philosophy, it is easy to see that Plato, Nietzsche, and Wittgenstein all write in very different ways: plays, essays, aphorisms, myths, etc. Graduate students, however, simply adopt the norms of the contemporary academic world. To mention just two things, this means writing impersonally, so that the author as a subject disappears from the text, and it also means a lot of what is called “sign-posting”: “My argument in this section will proceed in three steps. First I will…” Graduate students take it on faith that these norms are conducive to their ends—but philosophy involves questioning precisely that. </p><p>In the end, you get a situation where academic philosophers can lecture at length and with nuance about the special abstract topic of their professional attention, but their reflection on the innumerable practical issues surrounding them is stuck at an elementary level. They seem to have had no thought to spare for the practical questions that must assail them left and right as they move through the discipline, let alone the world. Their reflection is not like the radiating curiosity of a child. It goes only in a particular direction. As Emerson says of the “multitude of scholars,” “their talent is some exaggerated faculty, some overgrown member, so that their strength is a disease.” Why do we call what they do “philosophy”?</p><p>Here I am back with Harry again. He was confused by the gap between desire and reality, and I am confused by the gap between language and reality, and also desire and reality, the gap between the idea and tradition and promise of philosophy and the way it actually exists in the modern university. Why aren't graduate students and professors, many of whom desire to do philosophy for the same reasons you do, able to achieve their desire in the one context that would seem to be most conducive to it? I was as stunned by that context, and the gap I had found between expectation and reality, as Harry was by the gap that suddenly emerged between his desire and reality. Unlike Harry, however, I can struggle to understand the gap, to articulate it in language and to live in the space opened up by that understanding. </p><p>One thing living with the gap means is embracing the role of action in philosophy, thereby distinguishing it from the academic discipline called by the same name. As it is understood in the professional world, philosophy doesn’t require any action, but that understanding appears to me as a fruit grown from rotten and corrupted institutional soil. Philosophy is a way of life. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>After I left my graduate program at the University of Chicago, I got a job teaching second grade at a German-speaking elementary school in Ravenswood, a neighborhood on the north side of the city. Teaching second grade, while thinking and writing about it, is a key part of the expression of my philosophy. It is to me what journal papers are to a professional philosopher. They are publications of my thinking. It appears in my CV, my life course. </p><p>And yet I wonder who, if anyone, reads these publications. Because, of course, teaching second grade and preschool is not commonly read as an expression of philosophical significance. This fact points to a problem of incongruence or lack of recognition between myself and society, a problem that arises necessarily in the attempt to live in the gap between the ideal and the real. People don’t recognize me as a philosopher, though I consider myself one, and people whom I don’t consider to be philosophers are publicly recognized as such. Society does not see in me what I see in myself. </p><p>In fact, embracing the role of action in philosophy seems to be intensifying this problem rather than solving it. In essence, I believe that the degrees and titles formally handed out by universities are empty decorations, and that the entire field of professional philosophy is inherently compromised. On the other hand, I imagine that I, a titleless, PhD dropout, working in a preschool, practice genuine philosophy. And from that point of view the world appears turned on its head. The field of people, teaching courses, writing books, working for actually-existing, multibillion-dollar institutions? A distortion. A corruption. They are philosophers by letter, but I embody the spirit of the tradition. I am the true philosopher.</p><p>Of course, my own thinking reminds me again of Harry. He thought the reality of his playing with the train followed simply from his desire to play with it. He was struggling to separate desire from things, to see the high-resolution complexity of the world, to recognize that other people are as real as he is. Am I, like Harry, selfishly imposing my desire on the world? Am I ignorantly concluding that something is so, because I want it to be that way? </p><p>Such a possibility is an inherent danger in the path I have chosen. Arguments to the effect that philosophy is a way of life and cannot be institutionalized and professionalized are sound, I believe. Moreover, I fancy the idea of a philosopher living simply, humbly, anonymously. Anonymity combined with a great desire for recognition can easily produce delusion, but I am honored to face this danger, because philosophy, as I understand it, is essentially dangerous. Philosophy inherently involves questioning everything, and above all questioning yourself. Of course questioning is dangerous. The philosophical wager is that it is worth it. </p><p>Suppose I am right that philosophy cannot be professionalized or institutionalized or credentialized, can be practiced as much by a preschool teacher as by anybody else. Suppose you <em>believe</em> this. How do you <em>keep</em> believing it? When all the social and economic and institutional evidence goes in the other direction? When you are alone?</p><p>You need spiritual practices. Spiritual practices help you free yourself from the troubles and desires that harass you. They are sequences of thought that help you regulate your mind. Philosophy has traditionally understood these structures of thought, and practices of making them, to be indispensable for wise and contented living. These sequences are not intended merely to be objects of abstract contemplation. They are <em>practices</em>: things you <em>do</em>, and do not once but again and again.</p><p>The expert on such practices is Pierre Hadot. A leading scholar of ancient philosophy in the second half of the 20th century, Hadot shows how spiritual practices have been integral to the philosophical tradition throughout history, developed and used by everyone from Plato and Epictitus and Marcus Aurelius to Nietzsche. They can take the form of dialogue, meditation, reminders or story-telling. He emphasizes that spiritual practices are not just theoretical objects but engage the imagination and affectivity. They are to be used in learning to live. That’s what makes them <em>exercises</em> or <em>practices</em>.</p><p>One classic variety of spiritual exercise involves achieving what Hadot calls the “view from above.” Everyone is familiar with the effect of looking down on human affairs from the height of a mountain or airplane. The promise of a spiritual exercise is to create a state of mind, an attitude, from a natural experience like this one. To see things “from above” means to see things in perspective, from the largest plain available to you. The spiritual exercise involves deliberately cultivating such an experience, harnessing its power so that it can be returned to at will. Then it is built into a poem, a saying, or a myth, which can be repeated as the situation demands. They are to be ready-to-hand, put to use in daily life.</p><p>In my case, I need spiritual practices to tie down for myself what philosophy is and to free myself from the desire for recognition from those I don’t recognize. In one of my favorite practices, I meditate on the opening chapter of <em>Moby-Dick</em>, where Ishmael explains his reasoning for going to sea as a “simple sailor” rather than as a cook or an officer. Although they have more prestige for their office, they are less free, he asserts, and he prizes his freedom to be a revolving eye and to, say, climb the masthead when he pleases. “I abominate all honorable respectable toils,” Ishmael says. “It is quite as much as I can do to take care of myself.” I repeat these lines like scripture, holy writing that reaffirms me in my choice to be untitled, a simple sailor on the seas of life.</p><p>In a broader sense, I consider the work I do at the preschool a spiritual practice. My power of observation is constantly rewarded, as I learn not only about my utterly individual children but also about myself and universal humanity. It is a constant exercise in patience. Patience in execution and patience in iteration. No one recognizes the pleasure and consolation of repetition better than children! Working daily in a preschool classroom, I deliberately and concretely live out my own conception of philosophy, instead of getting carried along by the implicit disciplinary assumptions of professional philosophy. Every day the environment brings home to me that life is not thought or said but lived.</p><p>More basically, however, when the question is how to stay sane in a world that’s gone insane, the answer, making exceptions for abnormal psychology, is that you can’t do it alone. You need understanding, and you need other people. identities are social, and die in isolation. This means that, if there is a sense of philosophy I want to preserve and realize, I need to find other people to do it with. I need to find my way to peers who can speak my language and share my questions and values, help me formulate and progress toward goals, who can recognize me and be recognized by me in turn. Why aren't graduate students and professors, many of whom desire to do philosophy for the same reasons I do, able to achieve their desire in the one context that would seem to be most conducive to it? And if that context—the university—is not, in fact, the most conducive to philosophy, which is?</p><p>That’s where I am now. I am searching for friends who I can think with while transforming myself, and my sense of philosophy. For me, that means looking inside and outside the academy, perhaps even preferring the misfits and dropouts. It means finding those who are organically intellectual, asking not only the sanctioned, professional questions but the natural and urgent ones arising from their experience. Those who not only speak but act. Those who are broadening their audience and experimenting with new forms like YouTube and podcasts. It means preferring those who don’t have a title, an official name for themselves, at least not yet. Those who are still searching for one.</p><p>In this spirit, I am reaching out to real, living like minds, whether at work, or on Substack, where I write a newsletter and read others, or at home. Since July I have lived in an intentional community in Los Angeles that attempts to weave activism together with prayer. The founder of the house, who was the first person I’ve ever met who described himself, candidly, as a mystic, had spent years participating deeply in radical politics before realizing that the call for political action must be balanced by and combined with contemplative practice. In the last few months he has guided me into the world of monasticism: meditation, fasting and daily mysticism. He has also introduced me to his concepts of organizing for transformational social change. His methodology combines old-school, bottom-up, daily-grind organizing with mass-action, out-in-the-streets, front-page protest. While providing a vocabulary for thinking about the structure of social movements, he has invited me to see the value in, and ingenuity of, well-executed symbolic protest, like Occupy Wall Street or Gandhi's salt march.</p><p>Here, again, I find some of myself in Harry. Someday Harry will come to see others not as obstacles to his desire but companions in it. With or without his acknowledgment, they already are. And if Harry comes to recognize Robert’s desire for the train, for example, as like his own, then his own desire for the train is validated as a good thing, as not purely arbitrary but grounded in something real and shared.</p><p>LIke the Harry I am imagining, I believe the next step for me is opening up to my need for other people in grounding, solidifying, and ultimately realizing my desires. In order to realize my philosophy, I need to be open to my conception of it changing as it grows more real in conversation with others. I need them in order to live in the gap between philosophy as I experienced it and the philosopher I want to be, the lover of wisdom I want to become.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Crypto's Search for Meaning]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Imagine that you make a salary of $100,000 a year. After taxes and various
living expenses, you manage to save $10,000 of that original figure. You tuck
that sum into a savings account that steadily accrues interest. You feel like
you are making financial progress. Suddenly, the socio-political situation in
the country where you live nosedives. Month after month, your original $10,000
dwindles in value as runaway inflation dashes your financial dreams. After a
year of turmoil, a little over hal]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/cryptos-search-for-meaning/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__61881f532ef03d047722e1a1</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 3 - Searching]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Necessary]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Kyle McCollom]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 09 Nov 2021 14:38:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">I</span>
magine that you make a salary of $100,000 a year. After taxes and various living expenses, you manage to save $10,000 of that original figure. You tuck that sum into a savings account that steadily accrues interest. You feel like you are making financial progress. Suddenly, the socio-political situation in the country where you live nosedives. Month after month, your original $10,000 dwindles in value as runaway inflation dashes your financial dreams. After a year of turmoil, a little over half of your savings remains. Almost $5,000 in value seemingly evaporates into thin air.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>You feel powerless. Despite your hard work, you cannot get ahead. That’s the experience of those living in countries with inflationary currencies like Argentina, where the annual inflation rate<a href="https://www.reuters.com/world/americas/argentina-inflation-seen-year-low-32-june-likely-reheat-2nd-half-2021-07-15/"> broke 50% in July</a> of this year. As a result, the Argentine peso is a game of currency hot potato. To escape this devaluation, people seek refuge in a more stable home: the US dollar.</p><p>Demand for the dollar in Argentina is so high that, in the most recently available estimate, one-fifteenth of all physical U.S. dollars were in Argentina.<a href="https://www.federalreserve.gov/paymentsystems/coin_data.htm"> According to the Federal Reserve</a>, there is a little over two trillion U.S. dollars in circulation worldwide, meaning that Argentines may hold over $136 billion—a mind-boggling amount of cash to be concentrated in a single foreign country.</p><p>One of the ways to acquire physical dollars in Argentina mirrors the pre-legalization process for acquiring weed in the US: you text your “weed guy.” He shows up and sells you an illicit drug, which you store somewhere in your home.<a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/business/why-argentinas-hot-delivery-item-is-cold-us-cash/2020/11/16/2aae26c2-2824-11eb-9c21-3cc501d0981f_story.html"> In Argentina, you text your “dollar guy.”</a> The dollar guy shows up, sells you illicit USD cash for pesos, and you store that cash somewhere secret in your home, which is often referred to as “under the mattress.” This analog approach to stable savings comes with a good amount of risk: your home becomes a target for theft, you could lose your life savings in a fire, and you, by attempting to protect your savings and family’s future, are performing an illegal activity.</p><p>To address this risk, those who face significant devaluation of their local currency are switching from physical USD to a new, digital alternative: cryptocurrency. Cryptocurrencies are new internet networks that power online finance. Many cryptocurrencies are run by a decentralized group of computers around the world, much like the email network. The most popular of which is Bitcoin, a digital alternative to gold that is highly volatile and not backed by anything other than its code and cryptography.</p><p>But a new form of cryptocurrency—USD stablecoins—has grown to overtake Bitcoin volume and usage. Each USD stablecoin token is equal to one US dollar and maintains a stable value as a result. Regulated financial institutions like Circle—a US-based company that operates a stablecoin called USDC—back each token with a US dollar held in a US bank account and allow you to redeem each token for a regular US dollar.</p><p>Like Bitcoin, USD stablecoins are globally available, can move freely between accounts, and can be traded for any other cryptocurrency. These tokens’ accessibility and stability make them great vehicles for escaping inflation, and using cryptocurrency—or “crypto” for short—as a tool to solve pervasive problems like inflation is becoming more and more common. Stablecoins in Argentina are just one example of the equitable financial access that crypto can unlock for the rest of the world.</p><p><strong>Flush with Flaws</strong></p><p>And yet, that’s not the impression you’d get of crypto when reading the headlines. Those headlines are not wrong; crypto is flush with flaws. Cryptocurrency exchanges have been hacked to the tune of<a href="https://markets.businessinsider.com/news/currencies/cryptocurrency-hacks-fraud-cases-record-bitcoin-ethereum-wallets-breaches-defi-2021-8"> nineteen</a> billion USD so far, losing users’ funds due to the irreversible nature of cryptocurrency transactions. Scam projects like<a href="https://www.justice.gov/usao-sdca/pr/director-and-promoter-bitconnect-pleads-guilty-global-2-billion-cryptocurrency-scheme"> Bitconnect</a> and<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/OneCoin"> Onecoin</a> defrauded investors of a combined six billion USD using multilevel marketing schemes packaged as cryptocurrencies. The technology used to validate transactions for many cryptocurrencies—”proof of work”—uses<a href="https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2021/09/03/climate/bitcoin-carbon-footprint-electricity.html"> more electricity than some countries</a>. Cryptocurrency has been used as the payment mechanism in ransomware attacks, like the<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Colonial_Pipeline_ransomware_attack"> Colonial Pipeline hack</a>, which caused a rush on gasoline in the American South in spring of 2021.</p><p>All that said, we are still in the early days. The first cryptocurrency, Bitcoin, was created just twelve years ago and wasn’t widely known until 2017. As with crypto, most nascent technologies came with their fair share of early concerns.</p><p>The telephone was at first written off due to its low sound quality and inability to work over long distances.<a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/innovations/wp/2014/07/31/why-we-should-believe-the-dreamers-and-not-the-experts/"> An internal memo at Western Union</a> stated, “This ‘telephone’ has too many shortcomings to be seriously considered as a means of communication. The device is inherently of no value to us.” But they and other communication companies underestimated the rate of technological improvement that would follow: better microphones, better speakers, and better wiring infrastructure to carry the sound data.</p><p>Similarly, the first computers were seen as too expensive, too large, and not widely applicable—a hobbyist toy for the wealthy. Even Kevin Olson, the founder of computer manufacturer Digital Equipment Corporation,<a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/innovations/wp/2014/07/31/why-we-should-believe-the-dreamers-and-not-the-experts/"> wrote off the concept of a personal computer</a>, saying, “There is no reason anyone would want a computer in their home.” But the technology soon improved, costs dropped, and what was built on top of computers was otherwise unimaginable. Word processing, digital spreadsheets, and games opened up massive new industries and productivity gains.</p><p>Almost thirty years after the invention of the personal computer came the internet. At first, the internet was for niche forums and had no clear purpose. The dot-com bubble was seen as<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dot-com_bubble#The_bubble"> a cash grab</a> where investors speculatively bought internet-related stocks at any valuation. Today, the internet has transformed media, music, entertainment, and commerce. Even Wikipedia was considered untrustworthy not that long ago by many teachers who advised against it as a source. Now, according to studies by<a href="http://blogs.nature.com/nascent/2005/12/comparing_wikipedia_and_britan_1.html"> Nature</a> and the<a href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/29/EPIC_Oxford_report.pdf"> Wikimedia Foundation</a>, Wikipedia is of a similar quality to its predecessor, Britannica. Through an army of connected contributors, Wikipedia has managed to organize the world’s knowledge into a reputable resource.</p><p>Even though these new technologies seemed unfeasible, irrational, and toylike in their infancy, we as a society explored their possibilities. Despite the new problems that came with these breakthroughs, we searched for more compelling use cases that could significantly improve the human condition. Today the same hunt is still on, but for what crypto makes possible.</p><p><strong>Global Financial Access</strong></p><p>Beyond access to a stable store of value like USD stablecoins in Argentina, developers are bringing standard financial services—like savings accounts and assorted investment apps—to the crypto ecosystem, making these products more accessible to people around the world who wouldn’t otherwise have access to them.</p><p>For example,<a href="https://pooltogether.com/"> PoolTogether</a> is a crypto app that provides a lottery-based savings account. Each stablecoin saved on PoolTogether acts as an entry ticket into a lottery for the interest earned that week across all depositors. This project reimagines the predatory nature of gambling service providers, offering an alternative way to save money with a globally accessible financial product.</p><p>Another crypto app called<a href="https://compound.finance/"> Compound</a> allows anyone to take out a loan for about three percent APR at time of writing. By cutting out middlemen, Compound allows you to earn about three percent APY (at time of writing) on money deposited into it. This significantly beats traditional banking interest rates like the<a href="https://www.marcus.com/us/en/savings/high-yield-savings?prd=os&chl=ps&schl=psg&cid=1897658841&agp=71134098180&cre=481148736143&kid=goldman%20sachs%20savings%20account&mtype=e&adpos=&gclid=CjwKCAjwyvaJBhBpEiwA8d38vHvJGS55Pnq7Seg2nw6CtAv54XdqbnU3uAurdYxLp9ZM_ElWZ6SsOBoCmkYQAvD_BwE&gclsrc=aw.ds"> Marcus</a> product by Goldman Sachs with a current APY of half a percent.</p><p>Or take<a href="https://uniswap.org/"> Uniswap</a>, which provides a decentralized exchange app where anyone anywhere can invest in any token. This trading happens 24/7, and NASDAQ, Robinhood, or any other financial institution cannot shut you out or control what you trade.</p><p>All these services are decentralized and unstoppable apps that run on crypto networks. Because there is no central organization offering these services, there’s no legal entity to regulate. This ability for a developer to write code, upload that code to a crypto network, and quickly create a globally accessible financial product without an army of lawyers, expensive licensing fees, and all the requisite back office operations means that financial access can grow faster and these lower costs can be passed on to users as lower fees.</p><p>That said, the above decentralized tools and their like are difficult to use and confusing to understand. Some cryptocurrency networks where financial tools like the ones described above are often overwhelmed due to high demand for these services and limited transaction capacity, causing the cost of a transaction (ten to one hundred USD) to price out many around the world who are excluded from the financial system. However, just as corporations and governments built the infrastructure to scale the telephone and the internet, the online communities around crypto are self-organizing to provide the education and build the improvements necessary to scale networks and meet the demand of the world while keeping transaction fees and energy usage low.</p><p><strong>New Public Infrastructure</strong></p><p>While still searching for purpose, crypto is becoming what the internet is today: public infrastructure. The internet created instant and global access to knowledge and communication. Crypto, too, will create instant and global access to financial services. The internet powered movements like the Arab Spring that were historically difficult to organize due to dictatorial control of communication. Now, crypto is enabling people to circumnavigate bad actors like corrupt governments and expensive middlemen to plug into the basic financial services that we take for granted in the US. Compound and Uniswap are also commoditizing previously gated financial services, letting anyone take out a loan or make an investment without having to go through special brokers.</p><p>Thanks to the internet, digital communication is commoditized in the form of email; no corporation has privileged access to the email network. Because most of traditional finance is online, Wall Street’s power is in the digital world more than the physical. And, because crypto is digitally native, we can now truly occupy Wall Street and decentralize what they control: money.</p><p>This is why crypto matters.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><em>All views expressed above are solely my opinion, do not reflect the opinions of my employer, and should not be taken as investment advice.</em></p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Ascending Series (2021)]]></title><description><![CDATA[No. 1-5 (acrylic on paper)
No. 6-30 (iPad)
Artist’s Note
The Ascending Series began as a handful of paintings specifically made for the
"Recovery" issue of Symposeum. The visuals in the series were a collaborative
work influenced by the music of D.C.-based ambient guitarist Tristan Welch, who
created instrumental tracks for me to interpret visually. In his songs, Tristan
layers distorted guitar loops on top of smoldering, tempo-less bass lines to
build what one reviewer called “a mini-s]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/ascending-series/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60d0f028e77d0504782d2ecc</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><category><![CDATA[Artwork]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Steve Loya]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 21 Jun 2021 20:03:01 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>No. 1-5 (acrylic on paper)</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-5_50729772833_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-3_50730600877_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-4_50729772858_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-2_50730600927_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-30_51010348262_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><p>No. 6-30 (iPad)</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-28_51009509658_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-29_51010230341_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-27_51009377218_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-26_51010133652_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-25_50857902921_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-24_50855150432_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-23_50851549277_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-22_50846998533_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-21_50843348311_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-20_50840120742_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-19_50839167043_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-18_50833119523_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-17_50830005042_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-16_50829856092_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-15_50823350932_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-14_50819355487_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-13_50815993071_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-12_50811974693_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-11_50808104118_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-10_50804572498_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-9_50802072996_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-8_50797513963_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-7_50793779171_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-6_50792740237_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ascending-1_50729772828_o.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><p/><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-art">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br><i>The Ascending Series</i> began as a handful of paintings specifically made for the "Recovery" issue of <i>Symposeum</i>. The visuals in the series were a collaborative work influenced by the music of D.C.-based ambient guitarist Tristan Welch, who created instrumental tracks for me to interpret visually. In his songs, Tristan layers distorted guitar loops on top of smoldering, tempo-less bass lines to build what one reviewer called “a mini-soundtrack to a movie about fading memories.” In these pieces, I used color and composition to answer the questions posed by Tristan’s music.<Br><br>
The first five (of thirty) paintings were made with acrylics on thick paper, applied by using a squeegee and palette knife. I created these in my home studio while working remotely as an art teacher. Once in-person classes resumed, I created the remaining pieces digitally, on an iPad.
</br></Br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Sidebar: Treating Tinnitus]]></title><description><![CDATA[In this addendum to Clarity in G-Sharp, author Matt R. Phillips is in
conversation with Christopher Norwood, an expert on the disease and an audiology
extern at UCSF Medical Center.
Matt R. Phillips: As I write about my own tinnitus, I’ve wondered whether my
story is consistent with the experiences of others.
Christopher Norwood: Tinnitus can be so personal and subjective, but at the same
time, it is something that millions of people around the world have. And I think
an interesting part of ti]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/clarity-in-g-sharp-sidebar/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60d0ef10e77d0504782d2eb5</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[The True]]></category><category><![CDATA[Interview]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Christopher Norwood]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 21 Jun 2021 19:58:55 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><em>In this addendum to </em>Clarity in G-Sharp, <em>author</em> <em>Matt R. Phillips is in conversation with Christopher Norwood, an expert on the disease and an audiology extern at UCSF Medical Center.</em></p><p><em><strong>Matt R. Phillips: As I write about my own tinnitus, I’ve wondered whether my story is consistent with the experiences of others.</strong></em></p><p><strong>Christopher Norwood:</strong> Tinnitus can be so personal and subjective, but at the same time, it is something that millions of people around the world have. And I think an interesting part of tinnitus is that it reveals how we don’t just hear with our ears but really with our brain. And different things like stress or psychological makeup make different experiences for different people. We don’t have right now any different medicines or pharmacological treatments for tinnitus.<br/></p><p><em><strong>MP: What does counseling for tinnitus look like?</strong></em></p><p><strong>CN: </strong>When you have a sound in your head, it can be very threatening. Treatment helps with the reduction of tinnitus, but it doesn’t make the problem go away. Still, the same way you wear your shoes and just don’t think about them after a while—just don’t see them as a threat—you can retrain the brain over time, treating the tinnitus just like other sounds that our ears are receiving all day long.<br/></p><p><em><strong>MP: What are some of the recommendations you generally give to patients struggling to cope with this?</strong></em></p><p><strong>CN:</strong> Most often treatment is broken down into something like stress management. Tinnitus patients suffer from a positive-feedback loop where the more you focus on the sound, the louder it gets, and the louder it gets, the more you focus on it. Trying to sort of break that loop is easier said than done. So people use different strategies, trying to keep the brain busy, for example, by avoiding quiet settings.</p><p>But really our medical treatments are sometimes like band-aids. They’re a temporary fix. They’re not really going to get to the root cause, because this isn’t, in essence, another sound that we’re experiencing. We have to change the emotional connection to that sound. And that’s where extra counseling for people who need more support is often recommended, so they can come to terms with managing the tinnitus.<br/></p><p><em><strong>MP: What was your first experience with tinnitus?</strong></em></p><p><strong>CN: </strong>I have tinnitus myself, and I feel like it’s almost like the more I’ve learned about it, the more I can notice it. Like when I’m stressed. It’s wild. It’s almost as if I’ve given it to myself the more I’ve learned about it. It’s not very bothersome for me, but I started learning about it in school, even taking a whole course focused on tinnitus. And during that time, the more I was thinking about it, the more it started raging in my head.<br/></p><p><em><strong>MP: How would you describe tinnitus to someone who doesn’t know what it is?</strong></em></p><p><strong>CN:</strong> I would say that it’s just the sensation of sound that different people experience in different ways. Sometimes it can be on one side, sometimes it can be on both sides. Sometimes people don’t even know like where it is. It’s just sort of the sound that they hear. From the time we’re born, the sensation of sound is something that we can’t really turn off. Your ears are always open. They’re always listening.</p><p>But then sometimes this tinnitus sensation starts. And most often it’s when there may have been some damage along the auditory pathway, changing how sound travels from the external world up to our brains. So a new sensation forms, and for some people it can be really bothersome. It’s very subjective, something that’s hard sometimes for other people to relate to and know about. It is in your head, and we can’t just take some type of meter up to your head and say, “Oh, we see it. It’s right there.” Tinnitus is something that’s invisible but really powerful. And it affects a lot of people.</p><p><strong>[edited for clarity and length]</strong></p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[View from the Old Manse]]></title><description><![CDATA[Location: Concord, MA
Artist’s Note
Transcendental Concord (2018, Radius Books) is a visual interpretation of
transcendentalism—a literary, philosophical, and social movement that developed
from a community in Concord, Massachusetts. Just prior to the Civil War, in the
face of widespread industrialization, the transcendentalists pioneered models of
civil disobedience, communal living, education reform, and environmental
conservation. This ideology is relevant in the present moment. However,
]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/view-from-the-old-manse/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60d0ed99e77d0504782d2ea0</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[The True]]></category><category><![CDATA[Photography]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Lisa McCarty]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 21 Jun 2021 19:52:13 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/lisa.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Location: Concord, MA</figcaption></img></figure><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-art">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br><i>Transcendental Concord</i> (2018, Radius Books) is a visual interpretation of transcendentalism—a literary, philosophical, and social movement that developed from a community in Concord, Massachusetts. Just prior to the Civil War, in the face of widespread industrialization, the transcendentalists pioneered models of civil disobedience, communal living, education reform, and environmental conservation. This ideology is relevant in the present moment. However, nineteenth-century vernacular and lack of visual interpretation often distance contemporary readers from the transcendentalists' prescient texts.<Br><br>
<i>Transcendental Concord</i> combines photographs I made of Concord landscapes with excerpts of texts by the transcendentalists in order to make their ideals more accessible and visual. In order to complete this project, I read the books, journals, and letters of prominent transcendentalists. I also visited several archives in New England to study photographs of Concord landscapes from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. This research allowed me to identify specific locations that were important to the transcendentalists to photograph. The time I spent in the archives also allowed me to analyze how Concord was visually represented in the past, which ultimately inspired my experimental approach.
</br></Br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Ascending I, II, & III]]></title><description><![CDATA[
Ascending I Your browser does not support the audio element. Ascending II Your
browser does not support the audio element. Ascending III Your browser does not
support the audio element. Artist’s Note
In 2010, I was an addict who had experienced homelessness, jails, and
institutions. When I began my recovery process in May of that year, I learned I
had to be "open, willing, and honest." I recorded three songs oriented around
each of these three words. In music, we face the challenge of telli]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/ascending-i-ii-iii/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60d0ec96e77d0504782d2e8d</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><category><![CDATA[Music]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Tristan Welch]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 21 Jun 2021 19:47:47 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><figcaption class="text-gray-700 text-base text-2xl font-sans text-grey-700 tracking-widest pt-8 pb-8">Ascending I</figcaption>
<figure style="margin: 0px;">
<audio controls="" src="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/symposeum-production.appspot.com/o/audio%2FAscending%20I%20(Open)-Tristan%20Welch.wav?alt=media&token=adc8b7ba-e92e-4597-afde-db58c904ff26">
Your browser does not support the
<code>audio</code> element.
</audio>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><figcaption class="text-gray-700 text-base text-2xl font-sans text-grey-700 tracking-widest pt-8 pb-8">Ascending II</figcaption>
</figure>
<figure style="margin: 0px;">
<audio controls="" src="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/symposeum-production.appspot.com/o/audio%2FAscending%20II%20(Willing)-Tristan%20Welch%20(1).wav?alt=media&token=7ed882ec-d5e6-4c3e-b6c7-7de3f0d8533e">
Your browser does not support the
<code>audio</code> element.
</audio>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><figcaption class="text-gray-700 text-base text-2xl font-sans text-grey-700 tracking-widest pt-8 pb-8">Ascending III</figcaption>
</figure>
<figure style="margin: 0px;">
<audio controls="" src="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/symposeum-production.appspot.com/o/audio%2FAscending%20III%20(Honest)-Tristan%20Welch.wav?alt=media&token=f72a5fe5-825a-42ab-810a-654c9cb2c4ed">
Your browser does not support the
<code>audio</code> element.
</audio>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-art">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>In 2010, I was an addict who had experienced homelessness, jails, and institutions. When I began my recovery process in May of that year, I learned I had to be "open, willing, and honest." I recorded three songs oriented around each of these three words. In music, we face the challenge of telling a story without words. By looping and layering effects over electric guitar tracks, I hope to provide a soundtrack to the experience of recovery, whatever that recovery is from.<Br><br>
When making music, my focus is on creating soundscapes with the electric guitar that are then treated with electronics. I am fascinated by minimalism and repetition. Listeners will observe across my music a hypnotic layering of melodics that evolve and dissipate but maintain a steady tone center.<Br><br>
I've been creating, releasing and regionally performing ambient centered, cinematic and atmospheric guitar-based music under my own name since 2015. I am a funeral director and embalmer by trade. I always gives tribute to this by maintaining a clean-cut appearance and dressing in a suit and tie, which I also view as a way to give art the respect it deserves. Frequently, my performances and recording sessions are scheduled directly after working at the funeral home. In my music, I've attempted to portray the emotion and the feelings of struggle without it being overtly dark. My past experience of overcoming a life of drug addiction helps me do this: find hope in despair.
</br></Br></br></Br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--></figure>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Wake]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Your browser does not support the audio element. Reading by the author
evolución inversa: volvemos al mar.
—Raquel Salas Rivera
Meanwhile, wondering what I can say back.
We understand behind the lagoon are mangroves.
Insisting tsunami never happens, whispers.
Inaudibly, maybe the voice of several oceans.
A storm petrel pokes at kelp along the sandbar.
You feel the tide receding by its absence.
God, I wanted to hold and be held here.
Grind wet sand through a closed fist.
How good it is to]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/wake-by-zoe-pehrson/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60d0ec0ae77d0504782d2e80</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Zoe Pehrson]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 21 Jun 2021 19:44:44 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><figure style="margin: 0px;">
<audio controls="" src="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/symposeum-production.appspot.com/o/audio%2FWake_Zoe_Pehrson.mp3?alt=media&token=e7379f26-adf8-49a6-abb3-76319c11934a">
Your browser does not support the
<code>audio</code> element.
</audio>
<figcaption class="text-gray-700 text-base text-2xl font-sans text-grey-700 tracking-widest pt-8 pb-8">Reading by the author</figcaption>
</figure>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br><br><br><em>evolución inversa: volvemos al mar. </em><br>—Raquel Salas Rivera<br><br><br>Meanwhile, wondering what I can say back.<br>We understand behind the lagoon are mangroves.<br>Insisting tsunami never happens, whispers.<br>Inaudibly, maybe the voice of several oceans.<br><br>A storm petrel pokes at kelp along the sandbar.<br>You feel the tide receding by its absence.<br>God, I wanted to hold and be held here.<br>Grind wet sand through a closed fist.<br><br>How good it is to know, to be known.<br>The susurrus reaching out like friendship.<br>Without pretense or carapace.<br><br>The fruit bats are nesting in a papaya tree.<br>The papaya are underripe lately.<br>One of them shrieks with delight.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p><br/></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>This poem occurs between two people on a beach where a tsunami's floodwaters have struck. We dwell, however, in the realm of the surreal and the uncertain. It's not clear whether the text omits another speaker's dialogue or whether the text is even spoken at all. Still, a kind of communion emerges, even as the line depicts trauma that fragments thought, grief that stifles linguistic expression. Kills imagination.<br><br>
In my mind, the location is the Arop-Sissano lagoon on the coast of Papua New Guinea's Sandaun Province, where a tsunami killed thousands of people and displaced ten thousand more on July 17, 1998. As visceral as the scene is, though, it arrives detached and dislocated. They might as well be anywhere.<br><br>
Consuming geography, body, and mind, saltwater becomes the sole reminder of what has already transpired. Still, Frost wrote "It must be I want life to go on living," and here at least the trees show signs of living. I like to believe in a world where it's the papaya that shriek with delight.<br><br>
That they could.
</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[HOME]]></title><description><![CDATA[Chimney Rock (2017) represents said natural rock formation in Morrill County,
Nebraska.
Silo (2018) depicts a silo from a WWII encampment in Phelps County, Nebraska.
Blowing Prairie (2018) shows the windswept plains of Nebraska in Franklin
County.
Cow Scratcher (2018) portrays a device used to keep flies off of cattle in
Harlen County, Nebraska.
Gravel Road: Franklin County Nebraska (2018) depicts the state’s countryside.
Artist’s Note
“Between that earth and that sky I felt erased, blot]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/home-by-shane-booth/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60d0eb94e77d0504782d2e72</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Plain]]></category><category><![CDATA[Photography]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Shane Booth]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 21 Jun 2021 19:42:49 GMT</pubDate><media:content url="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Shane7.jpg" medium="image"/><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-width-full kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Shane1.jpg" class="kg-image" alt="HOME"><figcaption><em>Chimney Rock </em>(2017) represents said natural rock formation in Morrill County, Nebraska.</figcaption></img></figure><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Shane7.jpg" alt="HOME"/><p/><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-width-full kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Shane2.jpg" class="kg-image" alt="HOME"><figcaption><em>Silo</em> (2018) depicts a silo from a WWII encampment in Phelps County, Nebraska.</figcaption></img></figure><p/><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-width-full kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Shane3.jpg" class="kg-image" alt="HOME"><figcaption><em>Blowing Prairie</em> (2018) shows the windswept plains of Nebraska in Franklin County.</figcaption></img></figure><p/><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-width-full kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Shane4.jpg" class="kg-image" alt="HOME"><figcaption><em>Cow Scratcher</em> (2018) portrays a device used to keep flies off of cattle in Harlen County, Nebraska.</figcaption></img></figure><p/><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-width-full kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Shane5.jpg" class="kg-image" alt="HOME"><figcaption><em>Gravel Road: Franklin County Nebraska</em> (2018) depicts the state’s countryside.</figcaption></img></figure><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-art">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>“Between that earth and that sky I felt erased, blotted out. I did not say my prayers that night: here, I felt, what would be would be.” —Willa Cather, <i>My Ántonia</i> (1918)<Br><br>
On February 11th, 2009, I was diagnosed with HIV. Looking for a healthy way to process this flood of emotion, I took to my camera. What started out as self-portraits, soon morphed into landscapes. I saw myself in the Great Plains of Nebraska, anchored to the land, bending with the wind instead of against it—the winds of home. During this conversation between the landscape, the camera, the film, and myself, I realized that the doubt and negativity surrounding my diagnosis were carried away in the images. Now, each time I lift the homemade cap from the barrel lens something happens: the old landscape, ratified as a state in 1867, and the lens, made that same year, reunite. Now, these ancestral plains—five generations—evoke a sense of belonging, of completion. HOME is a body of work that celebrates who I am and where I come from.<Br><br>
When photographing, I let my intuition guide the way. It usually leads me to an isolated subject sitting on the prairie, towering above the waving grass. Then, the real magic happens: the ten second exposure. The wind, which never stops blowing, moves and jostles the camera during the long exposure, creating ghost-like blurs and waves of undefined areas. Instead of traditional apertures found in modern cameras, I use water stops, the edges of which come into view and vignette the images. These aesthetic choices make it seem like those Great Plains go on forever and touch the edge of existence. Ultimately, the blurred grass and softened edges allow our minds to wander into another realm where we commune with our ancestors, bridging past with present and future. This communion has built a stronger appreciation for not always being in control, that beauty can come from chaos—a life lesson I take with me in all aspects. <br><br>
</br></br></br></Br></br></Br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Brood X]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Your browser does not support the audio element. Reading by the author
I.
Rising periodic
into tropic heat—
to bleat, to touch, to die—
scaling these oaks,
whipping their drums
til love, the first intelligence, comes
to save them—
they slip their aspiring offspring
in the split bark and,
before these quit the leaves
for native dark, admit
they’re not long for this world.
Ben’s reading Wikipedia
while their June drone
drugs us in his courtyard
and their brittle shells clutch
the peonies. ]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/brood-x/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60d0eaf3e77d0504782d2e64</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[The True]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Emily Meffert]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 21 Jun 2021 19:40:13 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><figure style="margin: 0px;">
<audio controls="" src="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/symposeum-production.appspot.com/o/audio%2FBrood_X_Final_mixdown.mp3?alt=media&token=7e9c196f-ed47-455e-8bc6-24895d7e84d7">
Your browser does not support the
<code>audio</code> element.
</audio>
<figcaption class="text-gray-700 text-base text-2xl font-sans text-grey-700 tracking-widest pt-8 pb-8">Reading by the author</figcaption>
</figure>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br><br>I.<br><br>Rising periodic<br>into tropic heat—<br>to bleat, to touch, to die—<br><br>scaling these oaks,<br>whipping their drums<br>til love, the first intelligence, comes<br><br>to save them—<br>they slip their aspiring offspring<br>in the split bark and,<br><br>before these quit the leaves<br>for native dark, admit<br>they’re not long for this world.<br><br>Ben’s reading Wikipedia<br>while their June drone<br>drugs us in his courtyard<br><br>and their brittle shells clutch<br>the peonies. Nothing breathes<br>that doesn’t turn on this; <em>extinct</em><br><br>is a dirty word in every language.<br><em>Hollow as a snare</em>, he mouths,<br><em>their bodies</em>—then, dizzied<br><br>in the din, we spoil<br>the insouciant grass<br>and molt our casual wear<br>and work at preservation<br>while vultures loaf elliptically in air.<br><br><br>II.<br><br>Imagine their dreams:<br>hallucinations of a hand-me-down scene<br>from the late generation’s rendezvous—<br><br>a scheme glimpsed before slipping into earth:<br>pink, the immoderate flush; orange on a flame-<br>blue swatch; greens flung in fecund gradients—<br><br>how the loam-blind must ache to recall<br>the lash of wind that clipped them<br>from their origin and switched<br><br>them on—like a light—the brief<br>rhapsodic spell sealed in memory<br>as though it were the mind’s invention.<br><br>None envy their waking: startling to learn<br>they can’t conceive the texture of a smoke tree<br>or the timbre of a woman or the tune of a man.<br><br>But they emerge—they do—<br>bent on raising a population,<br>bent on redeeming seventeen<br>subterranean years. Theirs is,<br>I’ve heard, a deafening debut.<br>They spend their last weeks<br>coupling, maddening the dead,<br>rueing the evolutionary fact—<br>then, sudden as they came comes<br>their vast, august, vital vanishing act.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p/><p/><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>Brood X is one of fifteen broods of periodical cicadas that appear regularly throughout the eastern United States. It has the greatest range and concentration of any of the seventeen-year cicadas.<Br><br>
Every seventeen years, Brood X cicada nymphs tunnel upwards en masse to emerge from the earth, shedding their exoskeletons on trees and elsewhere. The mature cicadas fly, mate, lay eggs in twigs, and die within several weeks. Together, their long underground life, their nearly simultaneous emergence in vast numbers, and their brief period of adulthood enable them to survive even massive predation.<br><br>
Theirs is, without doubt, a recovery: for a couple of weeks after the old generation has become a snack to animals or driven mad with fungus or naturally expired, and before the new generation has hatched, an entire population is vanished. Besides their music—hypnotic and as loud as a lawnmower—the Brood compels me because their recovery is collective and periodic. There is no expectation that this time, at long last, the restoration will be complete. Through observations and personal experience, I've found collaboration and repetition to be essential to recovery, which demands a sustained commitment to a state of health—of individual well-being, of social cohesion or, in the cicadas' case, of survival and endurance of the species—that can never be set down. The singular, climactic moment of healing turns a profit at the box office; in reality, recovery requires nothing if not maintenance—constant, careful attention and a robust network of support. In the context of collective resilience, Steinbeck writes of the human being: "when theories change and crash, when schools, philosophies, when narrow dark alleys of thought, national, religious, economic, grow and disintegrate, man reaches, stumbles forward, painfully, mistakenly sometimes. Having stepped forward, he may slip back, but only half a step, never the full step back. This you may say and know it and know it."<br><br>
Defined differently, to recover is to regain consciousness. I explore this idea through speculation about the cicadas' dreams, which, for seventeen years, perhaps reinvent vestiges of conscious experience inherited from previous generations and saved from the first few minutes after their birth. Ultimately, those vestiges are replaced in their last weeks of life by first-hand encounters with light: something that, for a long time, could only be imagined. Like Plato's allegory of the cave, where emergence reveals the falsity of shadows. If we can endure the initial (authentic, sometimes prolonged, often recurrent) pain of exposure, we might perceive a world beyond the small dark place we'd taken to be the world. This, too, is recovery, that Herculean task.
</br></br></br></br></br></Br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Cartoons on Recovery by Brooke Bourgeois]]></title><description><![CDATA[
Artist’s Note
Brooke is an illustrator and cartoonist who aims to create work at the
intersection of comedy and current events. Her selection of cartoons on the
theme of "Recovery" touches on the exhaustion of change and how very
ill-equipped we are in coping with it: as we go back to "normal" socially, and
also as we challenge the idea of institutionalized norms. She hopes to capture a
comedic side of this shared experience. You can find more of her work in The New
Yorker, The Drift, Pri]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/recovery-cartoons-by-brooke-bourgeois/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60d0ea15e77d0504782d2e57</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Plain]]></category><category><![CDATA[Cartoon]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Brooke Bourgeois]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 21 Jun 2021 19:36:55 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/brooke2.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/brooke1.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/brooke5.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/brooke3.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/brooke8.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><p/><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-art">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>Brooke is an illustrator and cartoonist who aims to create work at the intersection of comedy and current events. Her selection of cartoons on the theme of "Recovery" touches on the exhaustion of change and how very ill-equipped we are in coping with it: as we go back to "normal" socially, and also as we challenge the idea of institutionalized norms. She hopes to capture a comedic side of this shared experience. You can find more of her work in <i>The New Yorker</i>, <i>The Drift</i>, <i>Private Eye</i>, and <i>Wired</i>.
</br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Gold]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Your browser does not support the audio element. Reading by the author
—after Leon Wyczółkowski's painting, “Spring in Gościeradz”
i.
We speak of art, as we make our trip.
We speak against erasure.
You thumb through a tattered volume of lesser-known painters
as we pass one wide, flat field, after another.
Even when only gently, the snow blows,
wiping out the uniqueness of each farmstead,
overcoming even the bulk of hibernating machinery,
John Deere, Massey Ferguson, Kubota.
At times we ha]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/gold/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60d0e99de77d0504782d2e4d</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Plain]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Erin Wilson]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 21 Jun 2021 19:34:27 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><figure style="margin: 0px;">
<audio controls="" src="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/symposeum-production.appspot.com/o/audio%2FGold.m4a?alt=media&token=18fcd1b7-3d03-43fc-a1b8-df6176aa3ad2">
Your browser does not support the
<code>audio</code> element.
</audio>
<figcaption class="text-gray-700 text-base text-2xl font-sans text-grey-700 tracking-widest pt-8 pb-8">Reading by the author</figcaption>
</figure>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br>—after Leon Wyczółkowski's painting, “Spring in Gościeradz”<br><br><br>i.<br><br>We speak of art, as we make our trip.<br>We speak against erasure.<br><br>You thumb through a tattered volume of lesser-known painters<br>as we pass one wide, flat field, after another.<br>Even when only gently, the snow blows,<br>wiping out the uniqueness of each farmstead,<br>overcoming even the bulk of hibernating machinery,<br><em>John Deere, Massey Ferguson, Kubota</em>.<br/></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>At times we have to guess where the road is.<br><br>You were born in this town and we've not been back since.<br>How right it feels to make this trip as a birthday gift,<br>after all your grief and turmoil. <br><br><br>ii.<br><br>History at the antique shop glows, the oil-rich wood of the egg crates,<br>the matrix of cardboard inserts still intact—and this holds something off, doesn't it?—<br>as do the red-handled rolling pins, the sturdy glass of the Fire King bowls,<br>the green and gold to-be-sewn-on badges with emblems of moose and beavers,<br>the time-softened postcards, their precise script, official stamps,<br>the baker's hutches, enamelware teapots, rusted cow bells heavy as human heads.<br>A primitive blue painted cabinet is jam-packed with rolled up carpets, four rugs<br>spilling out onto the floor. We stop, altered by awe, tracing their elaborate patterns.<br><br>We spend hours threading the three levels of furniture, ephemera, bric-a-brac,<br>the smell of homemade macaroni soup stitching us to our own narratives,<br>as the proprietress walks a bowl to her husband (who suffers from dementia)<br>waiting for her at an oval oak gateleg drop-leaf table, in a private, cordoned-off area. <br><br>I watch you thoughtfully touch things, being touched by things, being mended.<br><br>Days after I drop you off at home, the first lock-down begins.<br>Now, still in winter, wondering when we might be together again,<br>I write you, revisiting Wyczółkowski's “Spring in Gościeradz.”<br><br><em>That pear tree outside his window burns, a golden fire.</em><br><em>The flowers in the vase are doused in flame, too,</em><br><em>as are the curtains, the chair's upholstery, the open book resting in the window.</em><br><em>The tapestry burns its brightest where it's most abraded,</em><br><em>and gold leaf, a debris of stars, shines, shaken, an invitation, all over the wood-worn floor.</em><br><br><em>Remember upstairs in that antique shop,</em><br><em>those intricate old rugs we loved, that had been rolled, then lobbed,</em><br><em>a shelf's worth of dark spirals?</em><br><br><em>They're still there, awaiting the light.</em></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>This poem was born from a critical time of international and personal unrest. Climate change, COVID, and political polarization begat a maelstrom in the early days of 2020. At this same time, my son, just turning eighteen, was beginning his recovery from a serious bout of depression. Not an easy time for the healthiest of us to move one foot forward and then the other. On the threshold of the first international coronavirus shutdown, I took my son on a day trip for his birthday to visit the small town he was born in and spend time exploring an antique shop, a pastime we both enjoy. I wanted to touch the fabric of his past with him, to further the dialogue between us wherein—using history, love, and art as evidence of a greater good—I might be able to show him the possibility of a rich life.<Br><br>
From Auden's “Death's Echo,” September 1936,<Br><br>
Not to be born is the best for man;<br>
The second-best is a formal order,<br>
The dance's pattern…<br><br>
We emerge now from the turmoil of the pandemic with those same problems that plagued us at the outset, woven into the dark tapestry of things. But we need not be hopeless. Our work is to construct a new pattern for our dance, through art, policy, love.
</br></br></br></br></br></Br></br></Br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Selected Prints by Claire Lehnen]]></title><description><![CDATA[
Water Truck in Chennai (2020) | Oil on paper | 12 x 18 inches“Water Truck in
Chennai (2020)” captures the intimacy of women—draped in colorful
sarees—joyfully chatting, laughing, and splashing in the water in the hot and
humid July air. The scene takes place in front of a public water truck in a
banyan-lined alley. It depicts a moment when society was just daring to peer out
of their COVID-19 lockdown abodes, slowly coming back to life.
Mylapore (2020) | Oil on paper | 6 x 8 inchesIn “Myl]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/two-prints-by-claire-lehnen/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60d0e8ace77d0504782d2e44</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Plain]]></category><category><![CDATA[Artwork]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Claire Lehnen]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 21 Jun 2021 19:30:35 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p/><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/claire1.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Water Truck in Chennai (2020) | Oil on paper | 12 x 18 inches</figcaption></img></figure><p>“Water Truck in Chennai (2020)” captures the intimacy of women—draped in colorful sarees—joyfully chatting, laughing, and splashing in the water in the hot and humid July air. The scene takes place in front of a public water truck in a banyan-lined alley. It depicts a moment when society was just daring to peer out of their COVID-19 lockdown abodes, slowly coming back to life.</p><p/><p/><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/claire2.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Mylapore (2020) | Oil on paper | 6 x 8 inches</figcaption></img></figure><p>In “Mylapore (2020),” I recreate the feeling of a time when India was recovering from the tension of an intense COVID-19 lockdown. The scene is of a street in the cultural and spiritual epicenter of Chennai, in which a man leisurely rides his motorcycle while wearing a face mask. In the middle of this lively district emerges the sight of Kapaleeshwarar Temple, a focal point for devout Hindu worshippers. Around the temple wind streets and alleyways filled with men and women selling religious items like oil lamps, red and yellow flower garlands, and edible offerings.</p><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-art">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>Throughout 2020, I found myself perched between a fear of the unknown and a craving to connect with people in my community. Through the prism of art, I witnessed the beauty and inner strength of the people of India. I saw the ability of humanity to recover from heart-wrenching adversity in the face of the pandemic. I took this feeling to my workbench and translated it into my art.<br><br>
I made these prints by carving images into a linoleum block, which I then transferred with ink to paper. The firmness of the medium is juxtaposed with the whimsicality of my subjects, and the fragility of life and ephemerality of the moment is made permanent through my linocut.<br><br>
</br></br></br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Hope Is]]></title><description><![CDATA[ In April, we run bloody fingers under sink-water, and tape over our broken
skin.
We hold him in oven mitts, in mittens, in anything we can find. We hide our
hands and feet under sweatshirts and socks. So he bites our necks instead. He
latches onto my lip, my nose. He draws blood from my earlobe.
Ghost looks up at us. The floor is his domain, and we fear him. He’s only a few
inches tall. He has a short, soft body and brown, lambent eyes. In this moment,
he looks like a small, green leaf. He i]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/hope-is/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60cc846d874f6108176bc533</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Lena Mazel]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sun, 20 Jun 2021 22:28:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">I</span>
n April, we run bloody fingers under sink-water, and tape over our broken skin.
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>We hold him in oven mitts, in mittens, in anything we can find. We hide our hands and feet under sweatshirts and socks. So he bites our necks instead. He latches onto my lip, my nose. He draws blood from my earlobe. </p><p>Ghost looks up at us. The floor is his domain, and we fear him. He’s only a few inches tall. He has a short, soft body and brown, lambent eyes. In this moment, he looks like a small, green leaf. He is only a parakeet. But for two weeks, he has kept us under his control in a terrible, fearsome, bloody reign. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Nico and I met in England, but we live in Nashville now. We had three parakeets in the UK, and before COVID hit, we were in the process of shipping them to the US. But in March, international air travel shut down. The parakeets were stuck with his parents, and we began talking about what would happen in the meantime. They were self-sufficient, our English budgies, and wouldn’t miss us. They had a good life in the UK. But Nico thought of another bird here: one we could raise to be a companion.</p><p>Nico was often on the road for work, and I was in the process of rehearsing for a major show with an aerial dance company. The show felt like the culmination of years of hard work: debuting my own piece, and a solo on aerial silks. I was busy, and I was strong. I spent most days flying in the air. He spent two-thirds of his time traveling. We both knew being stuck at home wouldn’t be easy. </p><p>With lockdown approaching, we also knew there would never again be a time when we could spend so much time at our apartment, with little else to do. So we agreed: we would start looking for a new bird. And he was set on finding a lineolated parakeet: a slow, quiet bird from South America, with a croaking song and a love for apples. </p><p>Nico’s last work trip had sent him to an island in South Korea for a few weeks, where he first saw lineolated parakeets at a bird cafe called LIP Parrot. The other birds at the cafe were loud and spirited. Linnies mostly slept and took polite nibbles from pieces of dried fruit. They looked like inquisitive pears. He loved them immediately. Linnies are rare, he discovered when he returned home and began making calls. Most breeders had a waiting list. But just outside of Dickson, Tennessee, we found one. </p><p>In the afternoon, we arrived at a yellow, concrete building next to a Dollar General and a farm supply store, an hour outside of Nashville. The showroom was busy: jumping cockatiels, screaming macaws, and wide-eyed purple finches. Sweet canary-winged parakeets stared at us from baby button eyes, and a silent Amazon parrot sat in a too-small cage. We smiled at them all, taking in the chatter.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>The breeder was a woman named Betty, who greeted us at the door. She was trailed by an assistant with thick glasses and a vague air of confusion. In the corner, a man sat on a white plastic chair. He did not acknowledge us. There was a randomness to the scene I recognized from growing up in the country. It was impossible to tell the role or relationship of anyone in the room; it was as if we had all been thrown into a one-act play without our knowledge. Betty, her assistant, and the man in the corner looked startled to see us, and even more startled to hear we were interested in buying a linnie. Nico reminded Betty that they’d spoken on the phone.</p><p>“I don’t think you want him,” Betty said. “Not a good bird. We have lots of others.” </p><p>But we had driven all this way, Nico said. </p><p>He was a breeder bird, Betty explained. “He’s not a <em>nice </em>bird. I don’t think you’d like him. Some birds just aren’t meant to be family pets,” she said. “Lord knows we’ve tried,” she mumbled to herself. </p><p>But we were determined, we insisted. Betty’s assistant gave her a gentle push into a door behind the register. </p><p>A few minutes later, she returned clutching a plastic butterfly net. At first, I just heard the squeaking. But then I saw him. Inside the net, there was a green feathered blur scratching, biting, screaming.</p><p>“He’s not a tame bird…” Betty began. </p><p>He hardly looked like a bird at all. </p><p>Betty explained that he had been sent to them by accident with a shipment of other parrots they’d ordered. But he was fearful and shy, so they gave up taming him. I looked around the room and saw the small, dirty cages with new eyes. These were temporary set-ups, meant to get parrots in and out, not to accommodate them long-term. But this bird had been there for at least two years. In the two years he had lived with them, he had never known anything but the stale air of Betty’s back room, where she kept the birds they deemed unsellable. He had never flown, had probably never heard a kind word. He had been isolated, stuck. Alone. </p><p>Betty flipped him belly-up and grabbed his wings, pinning them to the counter. </p><p>Before we could protest, Betty took the bird’s wings and cut them roughly with blue kitchen scissors. We told her to stop. “We like our birds to be able to fly,” Nico said. “You don’t need to do that, we’d actually prefer him to keep his wings…” I began. </p><p>“It has to be done,” she said. </p><p>He struggled beneath her hand, but she held him fast. </p><p>“See? A mean bird.” I could feel Nico tense as the bird continued to scream. Betty pointed to the two Canary-Winged parakeets in the other room. “Now <em>they’re</em> sweet. Would you want to take them home instead?” </p><p>At that moment, the bird took a terrific, fleshy chomp of her hand, jumped off the table, and ran underneath a heater. </p><p>Betty yelped. Nico knelt by the heater and spoke softly to the linnie. He cupped his hands and gently picked the bird up. The linnie gave Nico a wide-eyed stare. “Look at him,” Nico said quietly to me. I looked into his hands. </p><p>The bird was round and very small, with bright green feathers and black spots. It hid under Nico’s fingers. When I looked closer, I saw something in its eyes. Not trust, and not anger. Intelligence. “Hey little guy,” I said. “Nice to meet you.” </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>The next day, I rode in the passenger seat of our car on I-40 East, a new bird cage in my lap with the parakeet inside. We didn’t know if he’d make it through the night. We’d discovered that he had an infection, which Betty had left so long untreated it took half of his nose, leaving a gaping hole in his beak. He was quiet, watchful. We agreed that even if he only lived a week, we would make it a good week: good food, toys, music for him to sing to. We named him Ghost.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-width-full kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/lena500-2.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Ghost</figcaption></img></figure><p>Ghost did nothing for a few days. But slowly, things got better. He climbed. He walked. He’d only had a single perch for the first two years of his life, we figured. It would take him some time to learn even basic movements. </p><p>We were relearning too, as COVID hit Nashville in earnest that week. Dance rehearsals became online classes. I went from a spacious rehearsal hall and sixteen-foot aerial silks to a pull-up bar in the doorway. </p><p>At night, I read to Ghost from <em>Wolf Hall</em>, a long and beautiful historical novel. We played him the soundtrack from <em>The Lord of the Rings</em>. He quietly sang along. Sometimes after dark, we’d lie awake listening to him sing the sounds of Betty’s store: the calls of caiques and senegals, of macaws and cockatiels. He sang the soundscape of his past. </p><p>Ghost survived the first week, and soon we could coax him out of the cage with treats. His progress provided the only momentum as our lives ground to a halt. We tried not to focus on the news. I tried to take a walk every day. Nico endured bite after bite. </p><p>The sight of human hands still sent Ghost into a frenzy. I didn’t blame him, given what we’d seen on that glass countertop. A quick movement would send him running underneath the dresser or make him freeze for minutes at a time. But we kept trying. We took him out to our patio and watched him climb the Crape Myrtle tree in our yard. We gave him lots of sunshine. We waited. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Before I was swept up in the dream of becoming a dancer, I wanted to be an ornithologist. I had three parakeets as a kid, and I told my mom that I wanted to go to the rainforest and save military macaws from habitat threats. After that, I said, I wanted to open a bird shelter in my house.</p><p>As I grew older, I still dreamed of having a rescue bird, but it was a private dream, superseded by more urgent, outward-facing dreams. I lived a rich, meaningful, busy life before COVID, full of expression and excitement. But I also recognize now that I was lonely. </p><p>When Nico suggested we find a bird, I felt relieved. My days were full, but I felt invisible long before the pandemic started. I felt useful to the people around me, but not often seen. Nico was on the road a lot, and I came home most nights to an empty apartment.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">“We agreed that even if he only lived a week, we would make it a good week: good food, toys, music for him to sing to.” </p>
<p>I could say that the absence of so much else—of commutes and get-togethers, of public accomplishment and end-of-the-day return home—threw our progress with Ghost into sharper, more dramatic relief. But the first time he climbed onto my arm and fell asleep on my shoulder, it felt significant in a way I hadn’t experienced before. It wasn’t just the lockdown, or the crushing boredom. It was that I knew, unequivocally, that I had shown a living thing what love was.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>In July, Nico went back to Korea, leaving me and Ghost alone in the apartment. He had begun to trust me, but we were still near-strangers: roommates, thrown together by circumstance. </p><p>Still, the lockdown wore on. The days were a gift, the days were a void. All those hours. How did I ever fill them before?</p><p>I began to read parrot behavior training forums online, where I found a wealth of videos. I taught Ghost to stand on my finger. To turn in a circle. To go to where I tapped with my fingertip. To shake my hand with one of his little feet. Like most intelligent animals, parrots want to know the rules. So the tricks were more than tricks. They were teaching him that the world was full of actions and measured consequences. That his life was understandable and regular. </p><p>Ghost held me to the rules of this strange new arrangement, too. In the morning, I had to feed him, or he would bite me. Every afternoon, we trained. We were locked in a desperate battle to create regularity from hours of nothingness. </p><p>The rest of my life continued to unravel. I mourned our lost performance. I mourned the strength and capability of my body. I mourned so many things that I took for granted: commuting, groceries, running into people in town. </p><p>I would sometimes feel acute moments of sadness, and sit on my bed staring at the wall. When this happened, Ghost did not offer comfort like a dog or a cat would. He simply looked up at me, inquisitive, from his brown eyes. </p><p>We kept training. As he learned tricks, I understood his body language more and more: I could tell when he wanted to play and when he’d rather be left alone. In May, he cautiously let me scratch his head. He became more adept at balancing on my shoulder. I took him on the patio and he screamed greetings to our local mockingbird and cardinals. It made me wonder if he needed another bird for company. </p><p>But linnies, I’d learned, were in short supply. Ghost seemed to be the only one in the state, and even he came here by mistake. Besides, I reasoned, how much more companionship could he need? I was home nearly twenty-four hours a day. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Life at our apartment complex had a new rhythm, one I had never noticed before. Every day, I saw a woman walking her gentle, elderly dog across the parking lot. On the way back, she always carried the dog in her arms. In the afternoons, two black cats watched me from a patio overflowing with flowers.By the summer, Ghost spent much of his time next to me as I worked, wrote, sat, watched TV. He nipped at my feet when I did home workouts. He screamed along to the movies we watched. “You’ll hardly recognize him,” I told Nico on the phone. And it was true: he no longer feared my fingers. He sought out my company. He felt safe. </p><p>One morning, he climbed into bed and fell asleep on my chest, like a baby. </p><p>Things got easier that summer. Ghost could roam the apartment freely. I began that new phase of reluctant acceptance alongside so much of the world. </p><p>My dance company began rehearsing outdoors. I saved up for an aerial rig and an aerial hoop to practice on at home. When the hoop arrived, Ghost perched on it as I set it on the floor. The first time I went back into the air and hung upside down, tears in my eyes mingled with the outdoor sweat. </p><p>This new happiness felt like momentum in a new, unknown direction. And sure enough, later that week, I saw a strange message on a Tennessee parrot forum. </p><p><em>There’s a yellow parrot on my fence, </em>the post read. <em>It’s been here for about a week. Does it belong to anyone? I don’t know anything about birds or I’d catch it myself. </em>I studied the blurry photo of a bird. It was like a yellow beacon against the dark fence. <em>Lots of hawks around here. I’m worried it’ll be eaten if someone doesn’t come catch it.</em></p><p>A few hours later, I was en route to Liz’s house, the woman who had posted the bird. The summer air was mild. I could smell magnolia flowers through the open windows. I felt a strange, giddy sense of anticipation. </p><p>When I arrived, Liz led me behind her house to a fenced-in chicken coop. </p><p>We peered inside. There he was, between two chickens: a pet-store budgie, just as she’d described. It looked like one of those kids’ books where you spot the missing object. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">“Like most intelligent animals, parrots want to know the rules.” </p>
<p>The little bird stood there, doing his best chicken impression. As I studied him more closely, he seemed less like an ordinary budgie. He was comical and unearthly, with a too-long tail and two different-colored eyes. It seemed as if he’d snuck through a crack in normal life from an alien dimension.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I had brought a bag stuffed with millet. “Hold on,” I said. “I have a recording of other budgies on my phone.” Liz held the cage door to the coop, and the yellow bird edged towards the chatter. He took a bit of millet from my outstretched hand gingerly, suspiciously. I tried to stay absolutely still, terrified he would fly away. </p><p>I moved the millet farther and farther, until he walked far enough into the cage that I could shut the door. </p><p>Liz and I, perfect strangers just minutes ago, stared at each other with the new intimacy of having shared an uncanny experience. We stared at the budgie. The budgie stared at us. I remembered a line of Elizabeth Bishop: </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote> Why, why do we feel<br>
(we all feel) this sweet <br>
sensation of joy? </br></br></blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>It was silly, ridiculous, heroic. I felt a strange bond to Liz, as I walked the cage to my car. “Thank you for doing this,” she said. “You’ve done a real good thing.” </p><p>I planned on giving the budgie to a shelter. But when I called Nico, he didn’t mention any of the reasons we didn’t need another bird. Instead, he asked “is he cute?” </p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-width-full kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/lena500-1.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Inko</figcaption></img></figure><p>We searched hard for the owners, but none materialized. All signs pointed to an abandoned pet. Budgies are cheap, loud, and easy to come by. Every summer, many people release them into the wild. Most don’t survive. </p><p>“Don’t name him!” my mom said. “Then you’ll never let him go.” </p><p>We didn’t expect the budgie and Ghost to get along. But that first night, I took Ghost over to meet the new bird, who leapt toward us when we approached with keen interest in his sharp little eyes. He faced Ghost, clinging to the side of the cage, and made a perfect, inquisitive chicken cluck. </p><p>We named him Inko, a Japanese word for parrot.</p><p>Inko had brought the summertime indoors. He was wild, he was strange. One of his eyes was deep purple, and he had an air of mystery and wisdom. He flew circles around our living room and landed on my knee, my arm, my head. </p><p>Inko sang songs without meaning or pattern, all day long. He sang the mockingbird’s call, the chickadee, the Carolina wren. He sang the microwave beep, the iPad lock sound, and the harsh <em>ch-ch-ch </em>of his own kind. </p><p>Inko was glued to Ghost from the moment they met. And Ghost surprised us. He loved Inko easily and quickly. Though I offered them separate spaces, they slept huddled together in the dark. </p><p>Something had shifted with Inko’s introduction. Our home felt complete. And in the dead of night, when Inko sleep-talked, we sometimes heard a muffled chicken cluck alongside Ghost’s now-familiar songs. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>In the end, Ghost and Inko were not some metaphor for our lives during the pandemic. They were not a lesson to be uncovered or learned, to neatly wrap up a frustrating and confusing year. Instead, they were themselves: parrots. Confusing, intelligent, surprising. They had as little choice over their strange circumstances as we did. Before he goes to bed, Inko often sits on my pointer finger, closes his eyes, and sings a soft song. He tamed quickly, grateful to be in a safe home. </p><p>Ghost spends most of his days running through the apartment, stealing any noodles and popcorn he can find, sleeping snuggled into my neck. He knows that an outstretched hand means a ride to his favorite spot, or a satisfying head scratch.</p><p>The birds offered something other than comfort to me, because comfort wasn’t what I needed. I needed direction and momentum, and I needed company. I feel immensely lucky. In a year of so much loss and uncertainty, something unexpected happened to me, and it was actually good. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>It’s late December and the morning is warm and lazy. Nico and I sit in our living room, sipping on our coffee. There’s Inko, on his usual flight from the bedroom to the kitchen. It’s a short flight, one he does every day.</p><p>But behind him, there is a buzzing, determined green blur, trying, flapping with all his might, three feet off the ground.</p><p>Ghost, out of nowhere, is flying. Flying across our dining room, skidding to a stop in the kitchen. Running around the corner, whistling gleefully. </p><p>There he is, on our living room floor. Now, he turns his head. Now, he looks at me knowingly, from his small brown eyes. </p><p>I see Ghost. He is there, in Nico’s cupped hands. He is there, as we watch hours of TV together. He is there, as he learns to climb a ladder, as I unwrap my aerial rig, as he meets the new yellow budgie. He is here, ours, something unequivocally good. </p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-width-full"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/lena500-3.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[The Book of Amos]]></title><description><![CDATA[An unbelieving prophet named Amos Caster faces apocalypse after a string of
apparent child murders leaves the twin cities of Auspicion and Calamity
thirsting for blood. Through dreams, visions and memories, Amos searches for
hope in the face of pain and desperation.
CHAPTER 1
God Almighty, how could You forgive me? Despite myself, I have tried and tried
again to see it, hundreds of times since I left Calamity in the spring of my
youth. I have passed many nights praying that You might open wid]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/the-book-of-amos/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60cc8933874f6108176bc554</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[Short Story]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Matthew Everett Miller]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sun, 20 Jun 2021 22:28:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><em>An unbelieving prophet named Amos Caster faces apocalypse after a string of apparent child murders leaves the twin cities of Auspicion and Calamity thirsting for blood. Through dreams, visions and memories, Amos searches for hope in the face of pain and desperation.</em></p><h3 id="chapter-1">CHAPTER 1 </h3><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">G</span>
od Almighty, how could You forgive me? Despite myself, I have tried and tried again to see it, hundreds of times since I left Calamity in the spring of my youth. I have passed many nights praying that You might open wide as the horizon the eyes of my idolatrous heart. Exhale! Send the faint lights of these memories to me, push them back against the current, please God, closer to me, across the slick black waters of time until at last I can see him, more clearly now than I could even then: Peter Price come riding through the mulberry trees, floating through the dark like an apparition, all proud and handsome atop that white horse he called Self-Reliance.
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>He would dismount, patting the shoulder of that gelding, showing no signs of having tired during his long day of ministry. He would look at the horse and then at me, smiling as wide as he ever allowed himself, as if our beauty were shared, proof in his mind of some fundamental rightness with the world. The possibility of justice.</p><p>On this particular night, I had been writing a letter by the light of the moon when first I heard him approach. In those days, I wrote him letters that often read like a list of wants, prayerless petitions to which he only ever responded in person. I would tell him: I want to love you in the daylight, I want to run away, with you, far from the squalor of it all, from the place they call my home. I want with all desperation to believe the way you do: that God is as plain as the sun. I want your eyes on me the way you look at leaves on autumn mornings, taking them in, remembering. I want my head on your chest, my ear to your heart. Every afternoon and every night until death calls my name.</p><p>I wanted these things only a fraction as often as I told him so, and forty times as deeply. But more than that, more than anything I’d written, I wanted to watch his hands, pulled for once from their position in prayer as they grappled for the back of my neck. I wanted to please him, to play whatever part he wanted in the theater of his desires, until I could see his mouth, teeth white like the dust of stars he told me had names (Arcturus, Orion), opening, telling me what he wanted, why he came. He begged me to tell him the things he wanted to hear. He wanted and wanted until at last he had it, breath going slow and quiet until we were left alone with the distant sounds of the orchard: crickets singing, bull frogs loud and bellicose down in the branch.</p><p>But it was not yet finished, my letter. His early arrival disrupted my intentions. Fearing he might read what I had written, I ripped apart the pages at once, quick and secret, and shoved the pieces in my mouth, swallowing my sad attempts at supplication before he drew near enough to see. My body straightened, as was its habit, hoping to fashion itself into something he might take pride in, someone of note, something he could want.</p><p>So when I told him I dreamed of<em> a girl, a little girl dancing all alone in the meadow across the back fence</em>, I had hoped he would ask with a grin if I was making it up, perhaps to impress him.</p><p>But instead he sat up, discarding me in the grass. The sleepy smile there just before was now urgent and serious, almost afraid.</p><p>He said: When?</p><p>Two nights ago, I said: <em>I went out of the house and saw her kneeling there, arms moving as though kneading dough. And when she stood, I could see her holding seven yellow flowers.</em></p><p>He asked: What color was the dress?</p><p><em>Blue like a robin’s egg.</em></p><p>He only nodded. I could see that if he had been a man disposed to it, he would have gasped.</p><p>He stood up and said I should show him.</p><p>I laughed and asked him: Show you what? He looked around as though he might find it himself. It was only a dream, I told him.</p><p>Come, he insisted. Show me the way.</p><p>I took him to the meadow, which looked to be covered in snow, so strong was the moonlight coming down onto it.</p><p>Peter walked through it and past it, walking for a long time through the woods beyond, and just when the thought first entered my head to ask about turning around, Peter’s hand snared my wrist, snatched it up like that of a petulant child in the fist of a father. His skin pressed warm into mine.</p><p>He said nothing but there was a familiar urgency in his eyes. Look, he mouthed.</p><p>Up ahead, set back in those shadowed woods, ground still speckled with glowing patches of white, I could see: a small fire, around which were several small buildings, simple but immaculate.</p><p>Two women walked between the houses, each holding a handle of a large bucket that swung between them. After a while, another emerged from the building nearest us with an ax and went toward the far side of the encampment.</p><p>I told him again it was nothing.</p><p>He shook his head and said there had been a mother. This morning, when first he arrived in Calamity, a woman with a terrible cough told him that two hooded devils, under the curtain of night, had carried her daughter right out the front door, pale hands pressing against her screaming mouth. The girl had been wearing a blue night skirt, ready for sleep.</p><p>Peter told me it must have been that same girl I had seen in my vision.</p><p>A dream, I corrected him. Not a vision.</p><p>We watched in silence until at last he decided we should leave.</p><p>His jaw was clenched, his mind churning. And when we drew close to home, I reached out to touch his hand. He didn’t pull away but he didn’t look at me.</p><p>I pinched his side, which made him laugh. He pressed his palm to my chest to push me away but I reached out to hold it there.</p><p>This heart, he said after a moment. He paused as though thinking what to say.</p><p>Is deceitful above all things? I joked. His favorite verse.</p><p>And desperately wicked, he said, smiling again in his restrained way.</p><p>He touched the back of his fingers to my ear to feel the coolness of my skin, as he did when he was feeling tender. Goodnight Amos, he said at last.</p><p>I set to walking home, alone, wishing the whole way I could remember the end of the verse.</p><h3 id="chapter-2">CHAPTER 2</h3><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">M</span>
y stomach had soured overnight. The letter felt heavy in there, like a stone. My mother saw me clutching my abdomen, bent over the table, and said: Stop worrying so damn much. I already know! A mother always knows.
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>She was already drunk, giggling over by the front window. She said: You think I don’t hear you, baby? Sneaking back in before sunrise most every night? Down in the orchard with that boy from Auspicion, rutting like a pair of stags in January?</p><p>I pretended not to hear.</p><p>Don’t worry, she said. I won’t tell. I’m good at keeping secrets. It’s the Prices who should thank me for that.</p><p>I lacked the strength to argue. I was a fool regardless.</p><p>My father said nothing. He never said anything except to himself. What happened to him was: He came from bourbon barons, but took to horses at a prodigious age. His family spoke of his future with such beaming confidence one could almost see him atop some chestnut yearling thundering toward the finish. So when word made its way back to his family that their youngest son had dug the toe of his gun into the sawdust of their stables and clenched the other end between his teeth, the Casters found it easier to pretend he had succeeded than admit the awful truth. They sent him way out, on the other side of Calamity, where he would live in a house on a little plot of woods with two horses, a woman and their bastard child.</p><p>But my mother wouldn’t marry him, would not even let him see me. This fact was the sole source of his grief, according to the note they found tacked to the stable wall the following morning. The bullet had entered his head but in some terrible miracle failed to exit on the other side, so he remained suspended in a state of semi-dumbness and semi-deafness, doomed to a twilit consciousness the rest of his days.</p><p>He developed a habit—some might call it a symptom—of telling himself stories, murmuring half-coherent to himself, making no effort to whisper. So when he stood staring out the back window that cool spring morning, I thought nothing when he started speaking of pigs in that half-lucid state of his, his eyes fluttering as he said: That momma pig had a litter of three. Only three. A miracle.</p><p>Each piece of the sentence was no longer than a breath, only loosely tied to the pieces before and after.</p><p>He said: Nine, ten, eleven piglets you’d see. But it was just three. All three, they were perfect.</p><p>But she didn’t take to them, he said. Didn’t take, a little rough. One of them was dead by morning. They poured whiskey in the water trough. A jug of whiskey to calm her down. Didn’t work. Another piglet, the second, dead as the first, all that red.</p><p>There was a smack. I opened my eyes again and saw my mother on the other side of the room, looking bewildered at a bee sitting against the window. She was sitting with her legs folded beside her on the floor.</p><p>She laughed as she realized: Oh! It’s on the other side. Her red and tousled hair fanned out from her head, illuminated by the steep slant of late morning light. I wondered how much she had slept.</p><p>The brightness of the window caught in my eyes and set the room to spinning again. My blood surged inside my head as though begging for my attention. I closed my eyes as my father carried on.</p><p>He said: It was raining. They went out. Saving the last of them. Saving the piglet. Gun was swinging at his feet. He shot her dead between the eyes. The sow, right there in the mud. More red, all that red.</p><p>From where I lay, dizzy with my head against the table, I asked after the last piglet, surprising even myself: was she ok?</p><p>My father stopped talking and turned to look at me. His eyes, a brown so dark that in certain light they were often confused for black, were open wide with surprise, his mouth a tight line. For a moment, we looked at each other like we had not done in years. He wiped something from the hair on his face. He studied his palm closely, then turned back to the window. I followed his gaze and could see them grazing in the paddock, those twin blue geldings he once called Charm and Consequence.</p><p>Years ago, before he tried to drain the memories of my mother from his head, he would call them that. Or so I had heard. But now he stood in silent incomprehension, as though trying hard to remember, to recover a dream that had just escaped him after waking with a start from a very deep sleep.</p><h3 id="chapter-3">CHAPTER 3</h3><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap"><i>A</i></span>
<i>hooded figure stood before me speaking low and warbled. A faceless voice cool and urgent as running water. I was leaning forward to listen. Face dipping into the fog of his breath. Seeing suddenly he was gone.</i>
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p><em>Fast wind, low clouds opening. Blanched skies behind, tornado weather. A gold birdcage dropping through it, swinging like a tassel. A young girl inside it, a shadow, clutching the bars of the cage. Eyes full of a wild will to live. A girl I almost recognized. A girl looking just like me.</em></p><p><em>I was walking toward the cage as it lowered. I came across a well. The popping and hissing of fire from deep within.</em></p><p><em>Her frenzied face was lit from below, glowing red. Lowering further. Drawing closer yet to oblivion.</em></p><p><em>The figure appeared again and pulled a copper goblet from his robe. Bidding her to drink. Black contents spilling over the edge.</em></p><p><em>Her gasps winding down. Submitting to the calm.</em></p><p><em>The cage dropping. A hot splash. Streaks of fire arcing and torching houses.</em></p><p><em>Running home. My mother gathering as much as she could.</em></p><p><em>Smoke rolling up from the well. Wind stopping, trees going quiet. Distant, enormous splashes coming from the lake. As though trying to cough up some terrible illness. Like some great beast in the throes of death.</em></p><p><em>My father groaning outside. Saying, horses, my horses.</em></p><p><em>Bolting. Panicked eyes rolling in their head.</em></p><h3 id="chapter-4">CHAPTER 4</h3><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">L</span>
ate the next morning, my mother sent me into Auspicion. I told her I would head for sausage and whiskey straight away, but I planned first to visit the druggist. Two nights of troubled sleep had done nothing to soothe my unrest. I stopped twice to retch by the road, hoping to free myself at last from the paper I had swallowed in my foolishness and shame. I produced nothing beyond wet, desperate gasps.
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>By the time I made it to town, the day was warming, the air growing thick and damp, which added to my nausea. I looked up and saw a river of blackbirds streaming above. I continued and watched their shadows swirling around me on the ground.</p><p>As I approached the alley that fed the market, I could hear the murmurs of a growing crowd.</p><p>The Price mansion had burned. I knew it to be true as soon as I turned up the next street where I could hear the voices echoing: Mrs. Price and her daughter Elizabeth, burned alive with eleven unnamed servants.</p><p>Elizabeth had been the youngest, born twelve years after the rest—a miracle (unexpected, like all miracles)—without the use of her legs. And perhaps because of this fact, the eldest Price, Peter, took a special liking to her. While Father Price occupied himself with affairs of the church, Peter taught her to spell, to count, to name the colors. He listened to her nightmares when they woke her. He carried her on his shoulders and walked through morning fog, down by the lake, where Elizabeth shrieked whenever a raft of ducks would take off, splashing into flight. She called it magic, over and over, magic, magic! Her joy flew to the far bank and back despite her brother’s smiling corrections that there was no magic in this world, only miracles like her.</p><p>Yet there in the street, the people paid no mind to the dead, so focused were they on the culprit. Their vengeful minds in concurrence: there was no such thing as an accident. Perhaps the child was conceived of another man, they speculated—the girl’s condition being God’s judgement for her fornicative pedigree—a man who had decided to silence the woman who had kept his daughter from him all these years. Perhaps it was a servant boy who set the blaze, as revenge on a cruel master. When one man suggested Father Price set the blaze, another absolved the priest: Father Price could not even recognize cruelty, so unfamiliar was it to him.</p><p>It was then I heard for the first time the word <em>cult</em>. A cult had lit the fire as a distraction to kidnap the girl, some were saying.</p><p>I asked the man beside me: What cult?</p><p>He said as many names as there were people in the crowd: disciples of Bamphomet, alchemistic women, a satanic cult. Haven’t you heard? Our town is presently under siege by a concionem of the cursed who spike the heads of the innocent and boil the bodies for their evening meal!</p><p>They increased the stakes, the certainty, with every remark, as though auctioning with glee some secret, wicked truth.</p><p>They continued. They said the Price boy might have done it himself.</p><p>You liar! I shouted from the back of the crowd. Heads turned to meet me.</p><p>They told me: He hadn’t been seen since leaving for Calamity yesterday morning.</p><p>But he loved her, I said. More than himself. More than anyone, perhaps, but God.</p><p>I could see their eyes going angry. One man shoved me with such force that I almost fell. I stumbled backwards, catching myself at last. He yelled that I should leave. So I did, coward that I am.</p><p>I wondered how his people, these hateful gossips, might have begotten sweet Peter, in all his goodness and his grief. I remembered how one day he had come strolling up the wide paths of Calamity to listen to our troubles, believing but not yet knowing how lonely sorrow could be.</p><p>Yet what little comfort his efforts afforded us never impressed my mother, always drunk and vocal in her discontent, saying, Someone who can walk even a mile through this twisted world and find himself smiling at the end of it has not one word of advice I care to hear.</p><p>And I said to her: Perhaps he chooses to smile.</p><p>And my mother said: Well I don’t make a habit of entertaining theatrics. Who does he hope will see him smile? What good does he think it will do?</p><p>I stood there in the plaza, alone in the raw anger of my thoughts, my rage a different breed entirely than the blood-lusting men around me. For who can speak ill of a man they do not know? A good man, I insisted in my thoughts, a good man as entitled to his pride as anyone. Entitled to adoration. Entitled to peace.</p><p>I wanted to be near to him. This feeling clawed up my throat at once. I wanted to be with him in his misery, to feel his heaves as he wept for his sister. I wanted to write promises with my finger on his back.</p><p>I set myself to walking, thinking not of the food and drink for which I’d been sent, nor even the remedy for the dizziness that was again starting to grip me. I was thinking only that maybe he was right. Cult or not, perhaps those women in the woods had taken a girl. Perhaps they had taken another. </p><h3 id="chapter-5">CHAPTER 5</h3><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">I</span>
walked all over, flitting from one corner of Auspicion to the next, following the intuitions of men, whispered to me across gates and through shadowed doorways: speculation as to where Peter might be. At last I went north, toward the lake where Peter had told me he went to pray whenever the temple became too crowded for the deep contemplation that brought him closest to God.
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>The shore of the lake dipped into the water such that it took on the appearance of lips. The whole of it, if viewed from above, might resemble a mouth drawn open in agony.</p><p>I found him hunched by the water, a shadow set against the glassy white of the moon. Six tupelos fanned out above him. The moon came through them, too, dappling white on the grass.</p><p>I stood in silence, savoring those last few moments in which my intentions and desires were free to slosh about in my heart. When I opened my mouth, there would be no turning back, those shapeless wants having frozen into truths.</p><p>Peter looked up. He whispered at length something I could not hear and bowed his body again.</p><p>I stepped into the moonlight. All I said was: There you are.</p><p>He looked outward. His shadow relaxed. He was no longer praying, but he was listening.</p><p>I asked after his memories. I asked which ones he found himself examining, holding up to the light. I knew the way a grieving heart cannot tear its eyes from the past.</p><p>He wept. I knelt beside him and tried to comfort him, but my touch did nothing to soften the violent shudders that followed every sob. Every so often he would look up through brimming eyes, up through blossoming branches, whispering words I could not hear. I was grateful to be there. I did not say it.</p><p>We were looking out over the water. Youthful and ignorant, I decided to speak, thinking my story useful: Did I ever tell you how I almost died? When I fell into the branch and nearly drowned? My earliest memory: that dark blurry hopelessness, a hand plucking me from the water, laying me down on the bright and coughing banks. I opened my eyes and saw the grass standing straight up.</p><p>He said nothing. I could feel a distance between us widening as we knelt, growing like a secret in those long and quiet minutes.</p><p>It was my father, I continued. My empty-headed father saved my life and held me, carried me all the way home where I slept for two days. I didn’t know then that he was dead. That remarkable salvation was the last and only time he led the way. Imagine my disappointment once I was old enough to see him for what he was.</p><p>The night was cool. I had forgotten my coat.</p><p>And so I think I can understand how you feel, I said. Or how you will feel, as time goes by. Having lost someone you hardly had a chance to miss. Walking blind without them, unsure which way to turn.</p><p>I could see his attention slipping. So I said: But perhaps that’s my pride. My pride telling me I can understand. There is an evil inside me, after all. I know you have seen it. I have fought it all my life, moreso since loving you, but I can feel it still, like a shadow dancing on the walls against the flame of my will, trying but faltering in the dark, knowing not in which direction lay the Good. I am a hopeless, unhappy person, Peter. You know this. That’s why I love you. I stand small beside a holy man, a man who sees clearly which way to walk, who is shaken not in his faith by such unfortunate—</p><p>Peter interrupted.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">“All these nights I’ve watched you lying in the grass beside me, wondering why He chose you.”</p>
<p>Unfortunate! He laughed and said: You think you’re the one who’s walking blind in the dark? I couldn’t see it before, but my loving you killed her. I followed my temptations into your orchard. I followed my curiosity. How many times have I thought about that moment? That very first night in your orchard when I still believed I was coming to help you, all sinning and squalid. God never showed me, but I can see now I was lying to myself. I hid the truth from myself, that I was worshiping at the altar of your false promises. I’ve been asking God why He didn’t show me before. Why didn’t He warn me? I didn’t know! I wish I had known! I was tempted! I was tempted by your visions. And I see now it wasn’t as holy as I pretended. I was selfish and impure. I wanted to reach out and touch you as a way of reaching through you. I wanted to feel the pulsing of whatever holy thing God placed inside you. All these nights I’ve watched you lying in the grass beside me, wondering why He chose you. Why would God choose you as His vessel when all my life I have prayed for a gift like yours? A connection like yours. And yet in the face of all my prayers for closeness, for signs, for reassurance, God has kept silent. I’m afraid that speaking it aloud will make it true: I can’t hear Him anymore.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>He jammed his finger hard against his chest, tapping twice with fierce desperation and said: The only Spirits left in me are jealousy and rage. I resent myself for growing unfamiliar with the selfless person I have promised God to be. My spirit is corrupted. Instead of praying for forgiveness, I can only tell God how angry I am. You have been given a gift and never once in your life have you uttered a word of gratitude. Have you? You're either stupid or a liar when you call them dreams. These visions are a miracle, Amos. A miracle you insist on being too dumb and delusional to see.</p><p>I was crying.</p><p>I said: Then why bother with me at all? Why concern yourself with the fate of my soul, as you have claimed all this time? Of course in the beginning, but even more as time went on. You cared what came of me. You wanted me to feel the joy only known to those who draw near to divinity, who press their palms to the warm pulsing gates of heaven. You wanted that for me, do you remember?</p><p>His silence was my answer.</p><p>Did you mean it, I said. Did you mean it, all those nights when you promised you would pray for me always, pray for my soul so that neither one of us would spend eternity anywhere else but in the arms of each other? Why concern yourself with a nobody like myself? What promise do my hands hold for you that cannot be found more easily and more abundantly from those men in the temple, people trying just as furiously as you to press their ears to the windows of heaven, smudging its panes, hoping to hear even a whisper of the voice of God inside? Why do you care, say something, please, answer me, let loose those answers I can see knocking like animals at the cage doors of your teeth!</p><p>You're just like your mother, he said at once, standing. Just the same as your mother: too focused on how miserable and lonely she is. Thinking her sorrow is so unique nobody can know it. She’s looking down into it even now. Weeping into a wishing well.</p><p>He went on: So you say I’m a good person, and I would like to believe that’s true. I keep my eyes turned upward. But I am blind as any sinner. My God is a god of patience and of hope, so I will keep looking just as I’ve promised. But it has always been darkness that meets my eyes. Do you know what that’s like? Though there’s a plan, I don't see it. All I see are the pitiful facts of today.</p><p>That’s not true! I said: You see more than that, you used to. You believe—</p><p>I believe in Him, he said, with every ounce of my anguish, I promise you, but if God had lit my path as bright as you say, if I had known the consequences of our wants, I would have never, never, not even on my final day wandered out. I never—</p><p>His words were crushing me. My vision was blinking out, my vertigo returning and washing over me. I steadied myself and decided I would deceive him. It was the only way out, at least as I saw it: They have her.</p><p>I said: We don’t have time. Those women in the woods, it is a cult, just as they have said. They have Elizabeth. I saw her in a dream—a vision. I saw them in a vision, just now, carrying her, tied up and screaming across their clearing. I saw it, I promise.</p><p>His eyes went wide but his mouth stayed shut, him staring bewildered into the grass beside me, into the shadow of the trees. I had hoped he would forgive me, embrace me, give me a shard of hope, show me the way. For a moment I thought he might kiss me. He looked at me and I hoped.</p><p>But all he did was stand. He did not pause before walking past me. He did not even acknowledge me as he went, not the face nor the hands nor the body that had loved him across so many nights.</p><p>I turned to watch him take the path toward the temple. Then I went to the grass where Peter had been praying. I knelt, inhaled.</p><p>I knew not what to say, so I whispered: Thank you.</p><p>I looked up, my mouth tasting like blood, more so with every blink of my unbelieving eyes.</p><h3 id="chapter-6">CHAPTER 6</h3><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">I</span>
n the early afternoon of the following day, I heard my mother yell. My stomach had been churning a few moments prior, so I had stopped hauling hay to rest beneath a foster holly. It was late enough in the season that the robins had already picked it clean. I closed my eyes and waited for my nausea to subside.
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p><em>Lying motionless there on the long stone pew of the anteroom. Listening to the vast quiet outside. Thin ribbons of lavender light through a crack near the ceiling.</em></p><p><em>Following Peter, not finding him, falling asleep there. Pipe organ weeping up and down the same melody. Highest notes reaching straight up to heaven.</em></p><p><em>It was cold. I was combing through hanging garments. Lifting a frock coat around my shoulders. The organist persisting.</em></p><p>Between these peaceful memories, as I lay resting, I could feel my pulse in the twine burns on my palms.</p><p><em>Hungry, cold, tired beyond belief. Heading home, empty-handed, braced for reprobation. A man in the plaza, those fiendish gossips surrounding on all sides. Jeering. His brown cloak. Passing through, until pushed and wrangled and chained to the gate. The men saying you kidnapper, you murderer. Beating him red. You child-loving demon. His screams, his mouth, looking up and pleading. A scream that looked like a smile. Cutting his ear off. Holding it like a trophy.</em></p><p>It was then I heard my mother gasping loud across the woods. I shot up and set to running, discarding the bales in the grass behind me.</p><p>At the bottom of the hill that sloped down from our house, I drew near enough to see that her scream had been a sharp laugh. My mother and father were there in the paddock. My father holding the lead, Consequence cantering at the other end, my mother holding on as best as her drunk hands could manage.</p><p>I realized I had never seen her ride a horse, not in all these years. From a distance, it seemed in miniature, that lovely scene: a panorama of them both, her whooping wild, him spinning in place as she rode, content in their own ways, together, finally, in the reliquary of our woods.</p><p>For years I had heard my mother crying at night, more so on warmer nights when my father took to sleeping in the stable. And when I would toe the door open to ask what was wrong she would smile, face wet in the dark.</p><p>Her answer came a piece at a time, over so many years: Your father came down from Lexington to party, in between things to do, was always shooting liquor down in the front room of that boarding house tucked away in the hills. I was breezing past one night, down the stairs, past the ruffled dress of Madame Carnation, hoping to step out into the autumn night for some air, to smoke a cigaret, to clear the lonesome scent of sweaty men from my nose when he spotted me. He looked around for some proof it was a dream, that I was a figment. There was a drunken sheen to his eyes. I had seen it often, that lusty look of men, just as suited for the butcher as the brothel. But there was something else in the face of your father, something set, predestiny glistening on his brow.</p><p>She said: he came back later in the week, when it was quiet, when his friends weren’t around, and confessed to it all, a story he thought was true and complete, that of his love. He wasn’t sleeping, he said. The past three nights, he’d lain awake, needing to believe that someday he might know me. He was in <em>love</em>! He deluded himself into thinking he loved me, a nobody, way out here on the edge of nowhere. He didn’t know my godforsaken name, yet still made promise after promise I never asked for him to keep. He told me he would rescue me, but never could say what from.</p><p>She said: Amos, I have never seen God, but I’ve sure as shit seen the devil, right there in his coffee-brown eyes, so dark they were almost black, staring at me through the pipe smoke of the bar, hungry with thoughts of things yet to pass. And so when the doctor said I’d conceived, I left the boarding house. I took nothing. I went into hiding. Your father was obsessed. He told everyone of his misery, making himself out to be a father, a good one, in search of his missing child. The thought that he would take you from me, yank you back into his money, high society, I would have sooner died. So I stole away to protect you, hiding in the backroom of the tanner’s until you were born. Your father blew down just about every door in Calamity looking for you.</p><p>She said: After that, his family was so ashamed of his theatric attempt to die for that whore Penny Calloway that they offered security in exchange for my silence: a nice plot of land down in their woods, some livestock, two horses, a house. What else could I say? What more could I ever need?</p><p>Right then, in the paddock, my mother reached both arms toward the sky in drunken ecstasy, which caused her to fall straight backwards into the dirt. It was as though a rope had been tied across her chest the entire time, fixed at one end, drawn taut in a moment. The horse carried on as before as she jerked back and down, the ground knocking breath from her chest. A shock of red hair fell from under her hat.</p><p>At once, my father led the horse to a post in the fence where he tied him up. He walked back toward the house. My mother was still rubbing her legs and back in search of the locus of the pain when my father came back, the muzzle of his carbine swinging at his side.</p><p>Then it really was a scream. My mother shouting: No.</p><p>My father paused with the short metal barrel pressed already to the skull of the horse, right above the eyes. That same dawning realization as before. As though having just awoken from a dream.</p><h3 id="chapter-7">CHAPTER 7</h3><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap"><i>T</i></span>
<i>he branches of the trees parted like some magnificent curtain, bent against their nature. Twenty-four figures standing in the meadow. Women as tall as cedars. Pale as birches. Cloaked in churning black vestments under midday sun that glinted with streaks of lilac, saffron, copper. Sparkling and hammering lumber into place. A looming tower growing.</i>
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p><em>It was almost too tall to see the top. Taller than any kite or spire in Auspicion. One figure standing atop it all. A distant dot. A blot of ink. Reaching up between the sun and me like a thumb at the end of an arm outstretched. The meadow and woods around us drowned in instant dusk.</em></p><p><em>Something shone silver in her hand. She dropped it. I watched it plummeting toward me. Catching against the tension of the line. Swinging, off-balance. Coming to rest, dead center of the structure’s base. Darker than silver. Pewter. Lead, perhaps.</em></p><p><em>A figure suddenly stood beside me. Tall, but with a voice small and gentle, like that of a boy. Saying over my shoulder: “the day of the Lord is darkness, and not light.”</em></p><p><em>The figure on the tower looking almost black as the sky. Nearly invisible inside it.</em></p><p><em>The boyish voice saying again, quiet, urgent, insistent, closer. “Shall not the day of the Lord be darkness and not light: and obscurity, with no brightness in it?”</em></p><h3 id="chapter-8">CHAPTER 8</h3><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">I</span>
woke in the sun. My stomach turned as soon as the morning light hit my open eyes.
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p><em>We were in the house. It wasn’t right, but we couldn’t say how. My mother saying: The shadows are changing. Curling into crescents of shrinking light.</em></p><p><em>The elm tree outside. The window pane between. My finger on the table. The shadows wilting. Everything going dark.</em></p><p><em>Peter was praying. I wasn’t there but I could see it: Peter praying for God to grant him a blessing for his murderous hopes. Wanting absolution for his sinful vision. The sun disappearing. Peter taking it as a sign. Sprinting as he finished his prayers. Thanking and thanking in sharp bursts. Breath increasingly escaping him. Peter Price come tearing again through the streets of Auspicion. Pursuing with fury whatever demons might dwell in those woods. Flying toward his revenge. Having prayed with such rage that his knuckles shook against each other. Exhaling when he knew his time had come. Standing. Crossing himself. Sprinting to the stable.</em></p><p>My nausea worsened in a moment. I rolled over and emptied my stomach onto the grass at last, pale bits there among so much green. It emptied twice more, nothing in the first, but the second found something catching in my throat.</p><p>I reached into my mouth between the retches and pulled from it a damp paper: a corner of the letter I was writing to Peter all those days ago. All I could see were the faint traces of what I had written at the end, my memory seeing it more than my eyes. Not my wants, but my name: All my love, Amos Caster.</p><p>I could see it again, I remembered: I had dreamed of the darkness and then the darkness had come. The very next morning, it had come. I knew it had been shown to me.</p><p>And now, lying in the road, it was flashing before my eyes, a memory with the weight and sheen of a vision.</p><p><em>I went out of the house and found him by the meadow. Self-Reliance tied to a post in the fence. Peter jumping over it. Throwing his legs like a crusader.</em></p><p><em>Peter, my lover, my life, going across the meadow. Not knowing I was watching. Watching and wanting to cry out to him.</em></p><p><em>But I kept quiet. I stalked up behind him through the brush. He was looking up, searching for the clearing. I looked up, too, remembering but not quite seeing the brown thickets of hair. The back of his head. The warm pulsing veins on the back of his hands.</em></p><p><em>We were peeking through the trees. Those silent women still chopping wood. Peter following the path paved with the dust of my lie.</em></p><p><em>I wanted to stop him. Wanted to sprint after him. Grab him by the wrist. Touch the warmth of his skin and look into eyes that had been averted long enough.</em></p><p><em>But I was bound by fear. That he might see me for what I was: an idolator. A chain. A sickness. A liar.</em></p><p><em>Peter found it at last. Straightening his back. Strolling into the clearing. The hooded heads of two or three shadowed figures turning. Examining. Turning back to their work, indifferent. A saw on a plank. Grit against the grain. Nails fighting hammers in the dark. Those shadowed carpenters toiling on as Peter, my pride and my savior, marched stolid past the neat small rows of building we had spied before. Going straight for the tallest building, twice as tall as the rest. A straw spire thatching up from the wide flat earth-colored building underneath.</em></p><p><em>I watched him. My stomach filling with dread. I decided to take a chance. To make a choice. To hope for once that I might do the saving. Might make up for the sin. The consequences of my false words just now bearing down upon me.</em></p><p><em>I rushed toward the building, that central humble thing. Saw Peter nosing open the door with the muzzle of his gun. Stepping inside.</em></p><p><em>I could see through the window a figure with her hood down. The back of her head smooth and pale. Moon-white hands flickering against the fireplace. Feeding more logs into its mouth. A frameless mirror hanging tilted on the mantle. Peter’s reflection hanging above him. Neither aware of the other.</em></p><p>My mother woke just then, sun behind gleaming red through her hair. I had expected she might burst into sobs, blinking perhaps once or twice before it bore down on her, the weight of all that had happened. I went to her and knelt, running my hand across her back, waiting for the sharp inhales: a gasp for our home, a gasp for my father.</p><p>But nothing came. She looked at me. She did not cry. All she did was smile and say: Good morning, my baby.</p><p><em>Nearer to me by the window, a second figure slept on a low flat cot. Peter noticed her too. A moment of trepidation, eyes closing, a deep breath of prayer.</em></p><p><em>Pulling the long barrel of his weapon from its position at his side. Wheeling around to face the figure lying in the cot, pointing it with mighty vengeance.</em></p><p><em>Peter shouted: Wake up, O sleeper! Rise from the dead.</em></p><p><em>I backed away from the window, startled, almost without knowing it. Fearing what should follow.</em></p><p><em>Both figures stood, facing him, unmoving.</em></p><p><em>My legs nearly gave out. The world went silent when I saw their eyes: thousands upon thousands of eyes, opening in unison, steely gray all over their heads, their hands, their feet and their faces.</em></p><p><em>Peter did not move, standing as the two figures moved forward. I noticed the others from the corner of my eyes. They had been indifferent, completing their tasks across the clearing. But now, standing in unison, they turned toward the central building and set to walking. A quick and smooth and gliding gait. Seeming to levitate. Floating steadily. Accelerating in a moment. Like leaves on water, going over the lip of a fall.</em></p><p><em>Figures streaming past me, paying me no mind as I fled. I could hear the beating of wings, the crunching of wood. Other sounds that faded with distance into my agonal breaths.</em></p><p><em>Crying as I ran. Gasping and choking. Tears blinding me in the dark woods. My feet carrying me by memory and mercy to the house. My mother standing outside. Looking up at the sky. Hopeless. Desperate. Screaming when she laid eyes on me. Running toward me. Us colliding with a force double what either expected. Lifting us up. Our bodies peeling up from the ground.</em></p><p>My mother embraced me for a time so long I thought she might have fallen asleep on my shoulder. When she pulled away, I could see she remembered nothing. It was new to her, all of it: the road where the night before we had collapsed with exhaustion, the thick row of trees pressing in on us, the horses tied up nearby.</p><p><em>I could see them then: more figures than I had counted in the clearing and in all my dreams combined, flowing over each other like birds or like water. Come charging through the woods, descending on us from their hill. A furious cavalry. A swarm of retribution.</em></p><p>She did not even think to ask how we had gotten there. She looked younger, all traces of pain, regret, self-conceit somehow wiped from her face in the gold wash of morning light.</p><p><em>My father. Sprinting out, away, toward the stable. Galloping back on the one horse, lead of the other in hand. Stopping. Leaping off. Grabbing our hands to help us up. Looking at us both with black eyes peeled so wide he did not even have to say that he loved us.</em></p><p>I was trying not to cry. With what little remained of my might, I fought it: I wanted to press my face to her neck, my hand to her ear. I wanted her to tell me it meant something. With all desperation, I wanted her to tell me we could get it back, could somehow recover the things we had lost.</p><p>But instead I chose to smile back, however weak and unconvincing. I said: Good morning, momma.</p><p><em>My mother onto Charm. Myself atop Consequence. Thundering away, down the path and up the road. Away from Auspicion, over the ridge of the valley. Knowing not where we would go. Stealing away into the darkness. Led by blind hope and horses alone.</em></p><p>She knew not what I meant but she nodded all the same when I held her by the wrist and pulled her up from a clump of dandelions she had crushed in sleep beneath the weight of her hip and said: Are you ready to go?</p><p><em>Disappearing into the night. Away from those endless rows of mulberry trees where I used to love him more than I could bear to speak.</em></p><h3 id="chapter-9">CHAPTER 9</h3><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">A</span>
fter that morning I first believed in You, right there in the road with my mother and the sun, we came to a town called Kindling where all the buildings had rabbits painted white over the doors. A kind man with a round shining head gave us a room and asked nothing in return.
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>And here we have stayed, all these years later. My mother is nearly finished with a painting she began some months ago, a scene I recognize more than she: two figures, both cloaked in black. One has a hood drawn over her head, stars and night behind her, looking up at the other who is blank-faced, basking in light.</p><p>As she works, I hope with such fervor that Peter would insist I am praying: that our future here might be filled with slowness, time going by with less force and less fury than before. That I might have the strength to choose what I see, regardless of that which stands around me, in spite of the things I have lost.</p><p>I say: God Almighty, would You tell me what it means? All of that which brought me here? Or am I sinning by the very act of asking? Even now, all these years later, as I lie awake, trying with all my might not to curse Your name for showing me things yet to come, I pray with force just as full that You might show me more even still, those holy things I know now grow best in the shadows, my eyes not yet adjusted from the lights of my memory.</p><p>I indulge even still in that thrill of believing my life to be happening not in the present but the past, my whole life hurtling by me in reverse. Will ever again I look into a mirror and see myself as anything more than the things I have done? Will ever again I see a horse and not think of all that I have lost? At the end of it all, when I see a white horse come riding down from Calvary, will I think of him or of You?</p><p>I find myself looking back, in spite of it all, in spite of myself. A memory shining on the other side of the water. A candle, the sun. The moon behind the trees. I remember it in sin: flocks of birds stippling the trees of the orchards. His breath on my neck. Thinking never again would I be so happy. Thinking: what did I do to deserve so much?</p><p>What was I meant to see, God, when as a sleepless child I crept out to find my parents dancing close and slow by the window? I could see them: my father staring out at the yard, dark beneath a new moon. My mother pressing her face into his shoulder, nose wet with tears, smiling like she had not in years. Was it You who caused me not to sleep?</p><p>And who was it that plucked me from the branch that very same morning, all those years ago?</p><p>I have searched for the Truth in the shadows and the sun, both before me and behind, but tell me God, in my heart and in all these things: who but You can know it?</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[The Transformative Potential of Trauma Recovery]]></title><description><![CDATA[This piece explores the interrelationship between trauma and recovery in
psychotherapy. While it does not discuss any specific details of traumatic
events, it is important to acknowledge that the topic itself may bring up
unwanted memories or reflection.
In my office, I have a framed quote by the poet Morgan Harper Nichols hanging
on the wall: “I am remembering to breathe right here in the chaos of things.”
While it escapes the gaze of most of my clients, I like to highlight it when we
begin t]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/the-transformative-potential-of-trauma-recovery/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60cc87a6874f6108176bc547</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Necessary]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Michael Zuch]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sun, 20 Jun 2021 22:28:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><em>This piece explores the interrelationship between trauma and recovery in psychotherapy. While it does not discuss any specific details of traumatic events, it is important to acknowledge that the topic itself may bring up unwanted memories or reflection.</em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">I</span>
n my office, I have a framed quote by the poet Morgan Harper Nichols hanging on the wall: “I am remembering to breathe right here in the chaos of things.” While it escapes the gaze of most of my clients, I like to highlight it when we begin to discuss coping skills. “It may feel silly to do this,” I tell them, “but let’s take a couple of moments and sit with these words.” We both, then, take a deep breath.
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I am a new psychotherapist. After seven years working in other parts of social work, I decided to make the professional leap to trauma-focused therapy last year. I am still figuring out if I had the courage to make this shift <em>in spite </em>of the COVID-19 pandemic or <em>because</em> of it. On the one hand, I’ve been drawn to work as a therapist since my own healing experiences in therapy as a survivor of trauma. This recognition, in concert with my skill set in clinical work, made the career move to psychotherapy seem like an inevitability. On the other hand, the pandemic shed light on the magnitude of mental health needs and how urgently people needed support. I knew I had the capacity to help. Either way, I entered into the world of my clients at a time when crises of all sorts were coming to a head.</p><p>The past year left many of us feeling whiplashed, our nervous systems vacillating for months between anxiety and dissociation. Furthermore, physical distancing stripped us of typical coping strategies, especially our in-person social interactions. In my work, I find that one of the most detrimental, but often overlooked, effects of this pandemic is how it forces us to view other people not as sources of comfort and community, but as potential threats to our wellbeing. </p><p>The polyvagal theory of psychiatrist and neuroscientist Dr. Stephen Porges posits, among many other claims, that safe relationships are a necessary part of our ability to regulate emotions and stay calm. In isolation, we lose these regulatory abilities. Hypervisibility of systemic injustices paired with additional hardships brought on by the pandemic, like economic uncertainty and shifting relational dynamics due to increased time at home, exacerbated underlying wounds and insecurities. My clients, recognizing the weight of this awareness, sought out my help and invited me into their lives. </p><p>When faced with tragedy, initial responses are often: How do we recover from this? How do we get back to the way things used to be? What I have found in trauma work, however, is that these questions fall short. A return to “how things used to be” would fail to address the gravity of the harm committed and does nothing to center the experiences of those most impacted. In the therapeutic process, we push beyond these initial questions to gently explore the transformative potential of trauma recovery. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">“Trauma, at its core, is about feeling powerless. Reclaiming power is at the core of the healing process.”</p>
<p>This exploration requires an understanding of the nature of trauma. The Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA) in the US defines trauma as "an event, series of events, or set of circumstances” that overwhelms an individual’s ability to cope. There is no threshold for how “bad” something needs to be for it to be considered traumatic. A trauma response is completely individualized: two people can go through the same exact event and one can go on to experience it as traumatic while the other does not. Trauma, at its core, is about feeling powerless. Reclaiming power is at the core of the healing process.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>In 1992, American psychiatrist Dr. Judith Herman, whose work wrestles with questions of trauma, published <em>Trauma and Recovery</em>. It was one of the first books to comprehensively conceptualize and explore the process of trauma recovery. Among those working in psychiatry, Dr. Herman is best known as the developer of the complex post-traumatic stress disorder diagnosis (C-PTSD) and for laying the groundwork for the practical application of trauma theory. </p><p>Her aforementioned book introduces the three stages of trauma recovery: establishing safety; remembrance and mourning; and integration and reconnection. These stages are not meant as checkpoints in a linear process. Rather, by categorizing the type of healing work happening in each phase, we come to understand recovery as a process of transformation, rather than one of trying to return to a pre-traumatic state.</p><p>In order to embody this exploration of trauma recovery, let’s use a case example. </p><p><strong>Establishing Safety</strong></p><p>Meet Rita. She’s in her mid-30s, lives in the suburbs, works for city government, and is a single mother to two school-aged children. Like many of my clients, she reached out to me because she felt overwhelmed, exhausted, and disconnected in her relationships. As with many people, Rita had managed these problems for some time before the pandemic brought them to a head. I asked if she sometimes felt powerless over her emotions, as if we were stuck on “autopilot.” </p><p>She nodded. When faced with a problem, she told me, she rarely knew whether she would fight back or completely shut down. Ten minutes later, she was holding back tears. She stumbled through her responses. She kept apologizing. </p><p>I explained that this space could be whatever she needed it to be.</p><p>She sobbed. </p><p>I nodded and reaffirmed her choice to spend our time together however she needed. In that moment, my work as a therapist entailed validating her emotional response and creating containment. Therapeutic containment is not about ignoring or limiting emotions, but creating a space where the client knows their pain will be held safely with another person in a certain context. I pointed to the quote on my wall and discussed how our breath can help us regulate our emotions when we feel overwhelmed. We started breathing together until she felt calm enough to speak again. </p><p>At our next session, I circled back to this interaction. She shared how she spent her whole life repressing her feelings because, as she said, “showing my emotions never got me anywhere.” Rita explained she experienced abuse and violence throughout her life. The people around her often minimized, dismissed, or exploited her. Rita also named her frustration with feeling stuck on “autopilot.”</p><p>I validated these feelings, sharing that they were common for people who have experienced trauma. Although our nervous system is designed to help keep us safe from harm, I explained, after a traumatic experience, the nervous system can activate survival mode even in non-threatening situations. In Dr. Herman’s words, “the human system of self-preservation seems to go onto permanent alert, as if the danger might return at any moment.” </p><p>Is this phenomenon always helpful to us? No. But it is understandable.</p><p>It’s important for Rita to feel safe in our relationship before we can really process her story together. For some clients, this may take a couple of sessions, whereas for others, this can take months, even years. As the therapist, I support her by staying consistent, by giving her decision-making power as often as I can. I also pay attention to her nonverbal cues, being careful not to recreate a dynamic in which she feels powerless. Outside of therapy, we continue to build her sense of safety by working on asserting boundaries with people who often take advantage of her. </p><p>This stage of recovery—establishing safety—also necessitates that I, as the therapist, recognize how systemic inequities create obstacles to our goals. It is my responsibility to engage in critical self-work to create safe containment for my clients, including attending to my own trauma story and engaging with my identity and privilege.<br/></p><p><strong>Remembrance & Mourning</strong></p><p>As our sessions progressed, I checked in with Rita occasionally to see how she felt about moving into the next phase of processing her story. For about four months, she said she felt unsure. But a short time later, she felt ready to move into the next stage of our work together. She shared that the consistency of our relationship made her feel confident enough to trust me with the most painful aspects of her trauma. It was a small but pivotal moment in Rita’s therapeutic journey. She found the courage to reclaim her story. I was honored that she felt safe enough to share.</p><p>There are many different evidence-based ways that trauma therapists work in this stage. Key to most of them is reconstructing the trauma story. This entails processing the emotional and physical sensations related to the trauma while staying connected to the safety of the present moment. Trauma’s impact on memory makes this particularly challenging. </p><p>Traumatic experiences are stored as fragmented memories and re-experienced as overwhelming emotions or physiological sensations like chronic pain, inflammation, insomnia, nightmares, and even physical distress. Thus, it is often easier to avoid the memories of trauma altogether. Dr. Herman explains this phenomenon when she writes “the conflict between the will to deny horrible events and the will to proclaim them aloud is the central dialectic of psychological trauma.” People often feel stuck between their desire to share what happened to them and their avoidance of the pain, both psychological and physical, that results from doing so. The survivor is torn between their desire to engage with the story and to escape it. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">“Grief always hangs out longer than one would like, but does eventually lose its potency.”</p>
<p>Rita mentioned she was tempted to skip sessions and avoid therapy. She came anyway, because she felt strongly that our time in therapy would help her reclaim the power that was taken from her. Hand in hand with the reclamation of one’s story is also the grief that accompanies the realization of what was lost. I describe to my clients this “crockpot of grief.” Its ingredients often include sadness, anger, frustration, guilt, but also self-compassion, relief, joy, and love. The complexity of these emotions can be confusing as they continue to simmer together over time. It is natural to avoid or rush through these confusing feelings. Grief always hangs out longer than one would like, but does eventually lose its potency. While the process of recovery looks different for everyone, there are commonalities. These include validating and accepting the reality of our loss, allowing ourselves to feel the emotions associated with it, adjusting to present challenges, and reimagining our future.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Rita and I started by creating a timeline of her major life events. This helped us organize, contain, and contextualize the traumatic experiences with what was happening at the time they occurred. </p><p>We then dug into the sensory and somatic information she remembered from the incidents, the body’s memory, and constructed a narrative. Rita engaged with the most frightening pieces of these memories and regained more control of them. This eventually took some of their emotional sting away. Rita was eventually able to acknowledge and regulate her feelings surrounding the event. </p><p>In retelling the story and reconnecting to the safety of the present moment, she was able to differentiate who she is now from what happened to her in the past. Through differentiation, Rita could remember what happened to her without re-experiencing it fully. She was able to remind herself that she is more than what she experienced and that she has the power to author her own story. “Paradoxically,” Dr. Herman writes, “acceptance of this apparent injustice is the beginning of empowerment.” </p><p>Instead of being bogged down by survival mode and its accompanying emotions, Rita felt an increased capacity to engage in her relationships and take ownership of her future. While the remembrance stage was exhausting, Rita shared that it was also energizing to be validated in this way for the first time. </p><p>As Rita confronts new challenges in her life, parts of her trauma story will undoubtedly reactivate. Remembering and mourning the harm are not a one-time event. However, Rita will be able to navigate those recurrences while staying grounded in the present moment.</p><p>She has successfully gone through the stages of recovery before. She can find peace in knowing she can do it again. </p><p>Eventually, Rita reached a place in our work which Dr. Herman described as the endpoint of this stage of recovery: when the individual “reclaims her own history and feels renewed hope and energy for engagement with life.” It was a major breakthrough, a cause for celebration. I brought her favorite snack to our session. Playing “Pomp and Circumstance” on my computer, we both laughed when I described it as her graduation ceremony.</p><p>We both knew the process was not over. Nevertheless, I wanted to recognize her efforts, all those months of painful and intense work.<br/></p><p><strong>Integration & Reconnection</strong></p><p>In the integration and reconnection stage, we focused on replacing her old beliefs that stemmed from trauma with new beliefs that she proactively explored. Primarily, Rita challenged her belief that her emotions and voice do not matter in relationships. This component of her therapeutic recovery was particularly important, as disconnection from other people is core to the experience of traumatization. </p><p>“Recovery can only take place in the context of relationships” wrote Dr. Herman. “It cannot occur in isolation.” </p><p>As always, the pandemic complicated things; Rita was not able to forge and deepen relationships as easily as she might have in the age before physical distancing. Despite that obstacle, Rita was intentional about reaching out and communicating with her social supports on a routine basis. This routine led to confidence. She asserted herself in conversations. She practiced coping skills in preparation for overwhelming emotions that still lay ahead. She even shared parts of her trauma story with a friend. </p><p>With time, Rita deepened her capacity for connection. She no longer feels overwhelmed by all close relationships. Instead, she sees them as a source of hope, something they weren’t before.<br/></p><p>Throughout recovery, but especially in the reconnection stage, people often explore the ethical questions of harm, as well as questions of justice: do I want to hold accountable the people who harmed me? <em>How</em> do I want to hold them accountable? How <em>should</em> they be held accountable?</p><p>For some people, accountability is achieved through formal or legal routes. Others prefer to engage in social action with others. Some simply want to speak their truth.</p><p>For Rita, such questions are pressing and ongoing. To fully explore these questions, Rita must feel in control so she can be empowered to do what she believes is right. No matter what Rita decides, she is reclaiming her story and power. </p><p><strong>The Power of Transformation</strong></p><p>Recovery is complicated. When taken out of context, the idea of trauma recovery can imply a return to how life was before. However, as Rita’s case has shown, recovery from trauma implies transformation, not return. Transformation does not justify traumatization but it does point to resilience and hope in the face of tragedy and suffering. </p><p>Dr. Herman understood that the work of a survivor’s trauma recovery has the potential to transform not only them, but also the therapist and even society. Individual and collective healing are symbiotic and relational. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">“Individual and collective healing are symbiotic and relational.”</p>
<p>While I admit I sometimes struggle to see the transformative potential of trauma, especially as I continue to witness the ongoing perpetration of systemic harm, my own humanity deepens when I bear witness to the trauma and stories of my clients. It begs me to ask myself moral questions and forces me to confront my own fragility, privilege, and experiences of trauma. It deepens my awareness of systemic harm and gives me the courage to work towards the disruption of these systems.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>And when I feel overwhelmed by the magnitude of the work ahead, I start by remembering to breathe, right here, in the chaos of things. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><em>Note: </em>Case examples used are not based on any individual person, but multiple interactions and stories in my clinical work. This piece is by no means a comprehensive example or representative of what all trauma work can look like. Each person is different and will need a different approach in therapy. Any resemblance to actual people and events is coincidental.</p><p/><p><strong>Resources for Support</strong></p><p>National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 800-273-8255</p><p>For additional resources, go to www.michaelzuch.com/resources</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[A Conversation with Steve Loya and Tristan Welch]]></title><description><![CDATA[Symposeum cover artist Steve Loya and cover musician Tristan Welch in
conversation with editor Matt Miller.
This interview was edited for length and clarity. It is a special feature for
the digital edition of Issue 2.
_________________________________________________________
Matt Miller: How did you two meet? How long have you known each other?
Steve Loya: I saw some footage on Instagram posted by a local record collector
of Tristan playing the guitar with a saxophone player. They were playi]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/a-conversation-with-steve-loya-and-tristan-welch/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60cc8248874f6108176bc515</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Necessary]]></category><category><![CDATA[Interview]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Steve Loya]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sun, 20 Jun 2021 22:28:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><strong><em>Symposeum </em>cover artist Steve Loya and<em> </em>cover musician Tristan Welch in conversation with editor Matt Miller.</strong></p><p><em>This interview was edited for length and clarity. It is a special feature for the digital edition of Issue 2.</em></p><p>_________________________________________________________</p><p><strong>Matt Miller: </strong>How did you two meet? How long have you known each other?</p><p><strong>Steve Loya: </strong>I saw some footage on Instagram posted by a local record collector of Tristan playing the guitar with a saxophone player. They were playing at a record store in D.C. and I thought, “Wow…this is pretty cool.” So, I looked Tristan up and I saw he was playing nearby. I contacted him beforehand, introduced myself and explained that I’d been working on a project where I make abstract paintings influenced by music. I asked if he’d be willing to collaborate on a similar project. So, we met up in person online. He was all for it. It happened organically as a low-pressure project that resulted in a beautiful set of music and paintings.</p><p><strong>MM: </strong>What did that look like at the beginning? Were you trying to advertise it, put it out there, get some engagement?</p><p><strong>SL: </strong>There wasn't anything too concrete at first. We thought, let's just see what happens. I'll send you some images, you make some music and vice versa. Eventually, it started to take shape. Halfway through the collaboration, we thought maybe we could make this into some kind of album, maybe a compact disc or a digital format. Something that could be consumed by the public. Some record of our audio-visual, artistic collaboration.</p><p><strong>MM: </strong>This project explicitly references chromesthesia, which is a condition in which sounds evoke color and other visual sensations. Do either of you actually experience chromesthesia? Or is something you were interested in thinking about through this project?</p><p><strong>Tristan Welch: </strong>I hadn't really thought too much about it. But, I should say that a friend of mine was actually working on a similar, synesthesia-based project. I was familiar with the idea when Steve brought it up: synesthesia is when one sense triggers another sense. Numbers or letters may have specific colors to them, you know. Or sounds feel like touch. So chromesthesia is just a specific form of that. </p><p>Anyway, about twelve years ago, I started to play music with people and I wasn’t as rehearsed as a lot of the people I was playing with. One of the guys who was helping me, teaching me some riffs, said, “I think you should think of your guitar as a paintbrush. Think of every note you're playing as a different color.” I've never been interested in playing covers of The Rolling Stones. The idea of my guitar being a paintbrush, creating art, color, vision, was attractive to me. So when Steve mentioned the idea, this memory instantly came to mind. I wanted to jump right in. This is exactly how I approach music: that is, it’s not necessarily about creating a pop tune or something catchy.</p><p><strong>SL: </strong>I remember thinking it was a cool coincidence that your guitar instructor said that about the guitar as a paintbrush. I never really pictured you as someone trying to get in touch with their inner Eddie Van Halen, anyway.</p><p>I have never personally experienced chromesthesia myself. At least, I don't think I have. At one point, Tristan and I were talking about how it could be a learned thing. Sometimes I'd sit down in my basement studio in the dark and I would see things like colors. But, it was never anything explicit or vivid. I have always been fascinated by films like Disney's <em>Fantasia</em>, where they try to illustrate music visually. You see bands and artists do this a lot, trying to put pictures to the music. Tiko, for example, is this musician with very strong visual elements in his live shows and even in his album covers. He's a graphic designer himself. And of course quite a few musicians and artists have collaborated in the past.</p><p><strong>MM: </strong>That's a really organic way to approach it. So, I have to ask: What are your favorite colors? Are there certain sounds that make you think of those colors?</p><p><strong>TW: </strong>Steve works with a lot of colors, but the truth is: I'm a black-and-white kind of guy. If I'm ever doing any graphics on my own, I stick with what's visually appealing to me. But, when it comes to Steve's art, my wife and I have a bluish-green painting of his in our home. What I like most about it is the mesh of color, the combination.</p><p><strong>SL:</strong> I'm really attracted to a teal or turquoise kind of bluish-green. It has an aquatic element to it. I like that in music too: fluid, flowing, aquatic.</p><p><strong>MM: </strong>I sense a lot of that movement that you mentioned, Steve, when I listen to the three tracks that Tristan made for this collaboration. More specifically, I’d like to touch on the titles of the songs: “Open,” “Willing,” and “Honest.” They seemed familiar in a way. And then I remembered these words are also part of the language used in addiction recovery circles. So, I wanted to talk about the idea of recovery, in general, and also how it relates to you. How do you see this idea reflected in your work, technically or emotionally?</p><p><strong>TW: </strong>Originally,<strong> </strong>I started with the title of Steve’s series of paintings: <em>Ascending</em>. I liked the word itself and thought it portrayed an experience of recovery. After I recorded the songs, however, I realized that our understanding of recovery was different. So, I ended up with the titles that you mentioned: “Open,” “Willing,” and “Honest.” To put it bluntly, I was an addict and I needed help. In order for me to overcome my drug addiction, I had to be open to the idea of recovery before I was willing to do it. Then, I felt that I had to be honest with myself and decide that recovery was something that I needed. That's why I titled them the way I did and in that order. My path towards recovery goes along with <em>Ascending</em>—rising above.</p><p><strong>SL: </strong>I find art to be a healing practice. At times, I suffer from some minor depression or anxiety. When the pandemic hit, it really hit me hard. The first month I was in a full on panic. Everything that could go wrong went through my mind. I was trying to sort out: <em>How can we get through this? What's going to happen?</em> The unknown is very scary. I was paralyzed for a bit there, but I kept painting. I have been painting a lot actually. I’ve taken up painting again over the past few years. But I'm going to keep it small, and I mean that literally. Small canvases are simpler to manage. It's a gradual process, getting down into my studio, not thinking of anything else, just focusing solely on the painting.</p><p><strong>MM: </strong>Tristan, I have two questions specifically about the quote from <em>Bandcamp Daily</em> in which contributor Marc Masters called your collaboration with Steve "a mini-soundtrack to a movie about fading memory." Do you think much about memories? How do you think music helps us recover memories?</p><p><strong>TW: </strong>My music is instrumental, so there are no words to give context. But I do try to give themes or at least reference points. For example, I had a record called “40 hours” which was dictated around workers’ rights. That idea came from a direct experience. I was remembering something. Do I think much about memories? Yes, I do. Not in a nostalgia kind of way, though. Our experiences inform who we are, and I think about <em>that</em> a lot. It was a good description or a good analogy—"a soundtrack to memories”—which are experiences that may be fading. Music could be a way to hold on to them or could be a way to cope with them. The latter is more accurate for me, personally.</p><p><strong>MM: </strong>I think<strong> </strong>a collaboration between you two on memory would be really interesting. Steve, the <em>Bandcamp</em> piece says your work is bold and expressive. What kind of adjectives would you use to describe your work?</p><p><strong>SL: </strong>If I had to choose just one, I would say <em>intuitive</em>. I did have some art training insofar as I went to school, so, it is informed by experience. It’s interesting, my schooling, because half of it included very formal art classes and the other half was about how to be a teacher. (I’ve been an art teacher to small kids for twenty years. I myself have been making art since I was a kid.) These abstract works have been very intuitive, maybe even expressionistic as far as color. I worked on a series a while back that featured endangered animals and wildlife. After a few years, all the fine detail was taking its toll on my eyes and my hand. I knew I had to do something different. That’s when I first dove into abstract work.</p><p><strong>MM:</strong> Do you listen to the music as you're creating your visuals or do you consume the music, digest it, think about it, and then circle back to make the visuals?</p><p><strong>SL: </strong>It's a little bit of both. I don't have any musical training or formal understanding of music, but I am an avid listener. It's really the gut feeling I have when I hear Tristan's tracks. They're clearly not party tunes. It’s a more contemplative, more reflective experience. His music has a mixture of emotions: some melancholy, some hope, some optimism, some light. It’s almost like a light beaming through the fog. I found that the music I was listening to was determining, in some ways, the direction of my squeegee, pallet knife, and which colors I was using. The process itself can get pretty messy. You have to use a lot of paint, arrange your set up, and there’s always a lot of cleanup afterwards. I eventually moved towards creating pieces on an iPad, mostly out of convenience. I wanted to try out some different apps, including one called Procreate. It's an amazing, touch-sensitive program. You can control just about anything: opacity, transparency, texture. My paintings for the <em>Ascending </em>series became more and more minimalist as I went along.</p><p><strong>MM: </strong>Tristan, I have a similar question for you. What was the recording process like?</p><p><strong>TW: </strong>For these recordings specifically, I started with deeper sounds and used them as a bassline. Then, I let it grow from there. I also have a guitar effects pedal that, in essence, makes my guitar sound like a synthesizer. As I said before, I’m not a great technical guitar player, but I have a decent ear. I know what works for what I’m trying to portray. It's a lot of layering of different notes in a certain key or a lot of repetition. I wanted it to be ambient in nature, more of an experience.</p><p><strong>MM: </strong>When I listen to the music and click through Steve’s pieces, what I notice most is a move towards resolution. Initially, things are drifting away from each other, past each other, in tension. Then, things gradually thin out, line up, come to a resolution. Steve, you mentioned earlier that Tristan’s music evoked emotions for you, including optimism and hope. What colors or shapes evoke hope in your mind?</p><p><strong>SL: </strong>I'd say a lighter shade of blue. As far as shapes, jeez, I’d have to say circles.</p><p><strong>MM: </strong>Tristan, are there any sounds that you especially love hearing? What do they evoke for you?</p><p><strong>TW: </strong>Somebody once asked me: how do you make your guitar sound like angels? I think he was referring to an arpeggio. When the notes go up into higher octaves, it's very high pitched. I absolutely love that sound in particular. It gives me a sense of, like you were asking Steve, hope. It's a very hopeful, pleasant sound to me. You can add it into the darkest atmosphere imaginable and it brings this slight lift of pleasure.</p><p><strong>MM:</strong> You both added some great color here, as they say. Thanks for sharing. </p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Lost and Found]]></title><description><![CDATA[ For more than seventy years, my grandmother Lilly’s diary sat untouched at the
bottom of a cardboard box stuffed into a tiny closet in my family’s home. The
dark green leather notebook gathered dust, the pages—beginning to yellow around
the edges—unread.
Although I knew much of my grandmother’s life, the years between 1933 and 1945
were a void. I understood the general shape of things—how she had arrived in
America in 1939, fleeing the Nazi death machine—but knew little of the details.
Her min]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/lost-and-found-leah-field/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60cc9a6b874f6108176bc585</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Leah Field]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sun, 20 Jun 2021 22:27:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">F</span>
or more than seventy years, my grandmother Lilly’s diary sat untouched at the bottom of a cardboard box stuffed into a tiny closet in my family’s home. The dark green leather notebook gathered dust, the pages—beginning to yellow around the edges—unread.
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Although I knew much of my grandmother’s life, the years between 1933 and 1945 were a void. I understood the general shape of things—how she had arrived in America in 1939, fleeing the Nazi death machine—but knew little of the details. Her mind and memories had already vanished by the time she died. I was eleven years old.</p><p>The pieces of her life seemed to me like rocks stacked one atop the next: spare and certain. She grew up in Vienna. She escaped to England. She came to America, had her children, and died. Details beyond these basic facts were muddled, recounted to me second- and third-hand over the years. Her feelings and thoughts about these events in her life were now unknown, forgotten.</p><p>After my grandmother’s death, her diary was packed away with a lifetime of papers, photographs, letters, and other belongings. Though I was curious about the diary as a child, I had always been rebuffed by my grandmother’s prose, written in her native Viennese dialect of German and utterly inaccessible to everyone in my immediate family.</p><p>I was eighteen when a German-speaking aunt visited us. With her help, parents, siblings, and cousins crowded into our small kitchen to translate my grandmother’s diary, to hear her story in her words. To recover those lost years of her life.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>As a little girl, my grandmother led a happy life in Vienna. She was her parent’s only child, a rarity in those days. In the summers, her parents rented a cabin in Hungary for vacation. Lilly spent her days talking to Hungarian boys by the pool, returning home with delicious gossip for her friends.</p><p>In 1936, when she was twelve years old, Lilly’s parents went out for a game of cards. Only her mother came home. Her father had fallen across the card table, clutching a hand to his chest as he died.</p><p>Things changed after that. Lilly and her mother moved out of their apartment and into an unpleasant little place with her father’s three<strong> </strong>sisters. The three old women nagged and scolded her for even the slightest infraction. She hated it, but there was nowhere else to go.</p><p>At the same time, the Vienna of her childhood faded into a nightmare. She was fourteen when Nazi Germany annexed Austria. Police officers banged on doors and demanded Jews come outside to scrub the streets. They shuttered her uncle’s cabaret club, along with all the other clubs that were once considered the soul of art and culture in Vienna. People disappeared, committed suicide. Her mother at last secured her passage on a train that would take her to Amsterdam and from there to England by boat. Only children were permitted. Her mother would stay behind. Lilly had only a few weeks in her beloved Vienna before she would be sent away.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><em>Vienna, 20 October 1938</em></p><p><em>My mother said she put my name on a visa list. If I’m lucky, she says, I’ll be able to go to England. I don’t feel lucky about it. I don’t want to go. Yesterday, I walked down the Alten Donau with Lazlo. He was saying that he wants to go to Palestine. I didn’t say anything, but secretly I don’t want him to go. Of course, I want him to leave and go somewhere safe. But if he goes, I’ll probably never see him again. I want him to stay here with me. But maybe that’s too selfish. </em></p><p><em>I’ve been walking with Lazlo almost every day recently. He’s very cute, of course, but also clever. He laughs at my jokes, and he never tells me I should be more friendly and sweet. I’m really worried for him. Right now, he’s working downtown, posing as an Aryan to make a good salary. I know he’s very smart, and he tells me he’s being careful. But what if they find him out? I don’t know what I would do. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I was not close with my grandmother. When she was alive, my family would visit her. I rarely said more than “hello” or “how are you” before running off to play games with my siblings. I never cared to talk to her for long or listen to her stories, which were fragmented by dementia. But looking back, I regretted not taking advantage of the time I had with her. I felt guilty for not knowing more about her life. She was almost a stranger to me. </p><p>So when we discovered the diary, it seemed like a miracle. </p><p>I went in with hopes of redemption, but found that the diary was a much more entertaining experience than I had expected. Hilarious, even. Like many young teenage girls finding their way in the world, my grandmother was full of wit, drama, and flirtation.</p><p>“What in the world is a <em>fratz</em>?” my cousin wondered aloud as we scoured the internet for a good translation.</p><p>“Whatever it is, I doubt it’s anything good,” my aunt replied. “She wrote ‘Martha called me a stupid <em>fratz</em>.’”</p><p>“Hussy!” I announced, barely containing my laughter. I turned the screen around to show everyone the translation I had found. It took a long time before any of us could find the will to stop shrieking.</p><p>In the beginning, almost every entry commented on the boys my grandmother fancied.</p><p>“There are lots of cute boys at the beach,” my aunt read aloud from an entry when my grandmother was on vacation with her family. “I’d like to start something with one of them.”</p><p>My aunt closed the diary, amused and slightly embarrassed by these revelations about her mother. “Oh my god. They really don’t need to keep this at the Holocaust Museum.”</p><p>The diary contained lots of entries like that—scandalous and endearing.</p><p>In some ways, what we were doing was tough work; translating words from a foreign dialect written by a child nearly three-quarters of a century ago is no easy task. But for the most part, it brought us joy. We filled in the blanks with speculation. We traded jokes across the kitchen table, looking over our shoulders and imagining what she might say if she caught us laughing.</p><p>As we read further, we came to care about the characters like we knew them ourselves. We found ourselves enamored with this boy named Lazlo (or Laci, as she often called him). Over dozens of entries, we watched her fall in love with him. She wrote passionately of her crush and her secret hopes that their friendship would become something more.</p><p>By the time we reached the midpoint of the diary, we were all rooting for Lazlo (ignoring, of course, the fact that she married another man in the end, my grandfather). We cheered when my grandmother wrote joyfully of their first kiss. She described her growing feelings for him, how she felt overwhelmed. How she could not stop thinking about him. It all seemed so romantic.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><em>Vienna, 1 November 1938 </em></p><p><em>Yesterday, Lazlo and I kissed. He’s really a good kisser. I want to be with him so much. He said he wants to be with me too, but I’m not sure if I believe him. What if he doesn’t really mean it? Today, I asked his sister to see if she can find out his real feelings for me. I like Iren and I think I can count on her to help me. </em></p><p><em>One thing I know for sure: those kisses I got from Lazlo were not the last. I love him so much. Sunday he gave me a photo and wrote on it: “with lots of love so you won’t forget me. Signed, your Lazlo who will not forget you.” </em></p><p><em>If only he were serious. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>When we arrived at the entry on November 11, 1938, my aunt read the first sentence aloud. “Lazlo is …” She stuttered and stopped. Her smile evaporated. “Fuck. He’s in Dachau.”</p><p>The romantic mood transformed in an instant. We all had heard of the Dachau concentration camp; it was a place where my grandfather had spent many months. With heartbreak, my grandmother wrote of how Lazlo was taken during <em>Kristallnacht</em>, arrested with thousands of others that night.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><em>Vienna, 11 November 1938</em></p><p><em>Lazlo is in Dachau. I was wrong. Those kisses may have been our last. Lazlo was arrested that horrible night, and no one knows how he is. That Sunday was the last time I saw him. I’m desperate to talk to Iren and ask if she has any more information, but mother and the aunts said it’s too dangerous right now to go visit her. I hate that they’re right. Most Jews had their homes and businesses taken away that night. People are being forced to scrub the streets. I miss my friends. Greta and Erna still come by to visit, but the others are afraid to be seen with me. </em></p><p><em>Mr. Zweik confirmed that I will leave for London in two to four weeks. I wish I was gone already. Everything I love here seems to be disappearing. Maybe a new place will be good for me. </em></p><p><em>Mr. Zweik said mother might be able to come to England too- he found her a position as a “kosher cook.” As if she knows the first thing about keeping kosher or cooking! Hopefully everything will work out. Hopefully Lazlo is safe. I pray that the first kisses we shared won’t be our last.</em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>My grandmother wrote of Lazlo often in the following years, frequently with longing or despair, but sometimes with hope. While Lazlo remained in Dachau, my grandmother fled to England with a group of refugee children.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">"As we read further, we came to care about the characters like we knew them ourselves."</p>
<p>The transition was hard. She was placed in a girls’ home with a strict matron who scolded the children often, although Lilly couldn’t understand what she was saying. English seemed to Lilly an ugly language, one she had no desire to learn. She did not get along with any of the other girls. She didn’t need anyone else, she wrote in the diary. She would embrace independence until things changed for the better.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>The transition was hard. She was placed in a girls’ home with a strict matron who scolded the children often, although Lilly couldn’t understand what she was saying. English seemed to Lilly an ugly language, one she had no desire to learn. She did not get along with any of the other girls. She didn’t need anyone else, she wrote in the diary. She would embrace independence until things changed for the better.</p><p>Yet even as she dealt with her own struggles, a refugee child alone in a strange new country, she clung to the memory of Lazlo. The loneliness she felt was palpable. It grew. Whether love or mere idealized fantasy, she longed to be with him. To her, Lazlo seemed the last glimmer of something resembling joy.</p><p>Eventually, she heard through friends that he’d been released from Dachau. Then nothing more. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><em>Burgess Hill, 19 March 1939</em></p><p><em>There are rumors here that all of the camps, including Dachau, will be closed soon. I don’t believe them one bit. It’s so boring here, all I do all day is worry about my poor Lazlo and think of the times we spent together. On last All Saints Day, Lazlo and I were riding on the street car. He told me cemeteries scare him and he doesn’t like them at all. But later, when I told him I was going to visit my father’s grave, he insisted on accompanying me. Maybe he really does like me. I hope so. </em></p><p><em>Yesterday was a beautiful summer day, reminding me of one evening in Vienna with Laci all those months ago. Back then, I didn’t think that fate could be so cruel. But now I think it would be best if I had just dreamt the whole thing.</em></p><p/><p><em>Burgess Hill, 7 April 1939</em></p><p><em>I hate it here at the girls’ home, and I don’t think I can last much longer without going insane. Because I’m one of the oldest girls here, I’m minding one of the little ones, a tiny Hungarian girl who’s only six years old. The Hungarian girl is sweet, and I do have some friends here, but I feel too much like a stranger. Wherever I go, I get the feeling that I don’t belong. I’m so homesick I could die. Last night I cried almost all night. </em></p><p><em>Thank God, my mother got passage to America. Last week she left on an Italian ship, the Vulcania, and will arrive in New York soon. As soon as she gets there, she will begin arranging for me to join her. I’m anxious to go. </em></p><p><em>I miss my mother, my Laci, and my Vienna.</em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>After arriving in America, Lilly’s story grew more pitiful. She moved into a small apartment with distant relatives who resented her “foreignness.” She began dating a man twice her age, who subjected her to insidious manipulations and abuse. She fought with her mother. She felt totally alone in America, that ugly, unfamiliar place. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">"She didn’t need anyone else, she wrote in the diary. She would embrace independence until things changed for the better."</p>
<p>Through all of these hardships, she never stopped thinking about Laci. In diary entries, she mourned her love for him, recalled a memory of him, or regretted that they had ever met. For my grandmother, the memory of Laci melded together with her memory of Vienna. He became more than a girlhood crush, transfigured into a symbol of a happy childhood, a beautiful home, a time before isolation and misery. Laci was hers, just as Vienna had been hers, even as both the boy and the city slipped from her grasp: Vienna was lost to German annexation in 1938, while Lazlo was lost in 1941 to the Mauthausen concentration camp.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Through all of these hardships, she never stopped thinking about Laci. In diary entries, she mourned her love for him, recalled a memory of him, or regretted that they had ever met. For my grandmother, the memory of Laci melded together with her memory of Vienna. He became more than a girlhood crush, transfigured into a symbol of a happy childhood, a beautiful home, a time before isolation and misery. Laci was hers, just as Vienna had been hers, even as both the boy and the city slipped from her grasp. Vienna lost to German annexation in 1938. Lazlo lost in 1941, to the Mauthausen concentration camp. </p><p>Now those memories survive only in her diary, as shadows of her experience. After leaving Lazlo and Vienna behind, she went on with her life. She married a nice Viennese boy, another Jewish refugee who had made it out alive. She had children. Although she still made them Sachertorte and schnitzel, she vowed never to teach them her native tongue. She died in a convalescent home, much like the girls’ home she hated as a child. Through all of this, she kept the memories in her heart and her diary alone, never speaking a word of it out loud. </p><p>Part of me believes she never spoke of Lazlo because she wanted to keep him a total secret as a way of preserving the purity of that memory. Her Vienna had been destroyed. She returned to visit only once, but it was not the same place it had been. It couldn’t have been—it had betrayed her when it embraced the Nazis. But her fond memories of Lazlo were one thing from her youth that remained untainted, pure. </p><p>Yet the existence of her diary makes me think otherwise, that maybe these secret memories were not intended to be kept secret forever. She kept the diary all these years, through marriage, through motherhood, through old age. She did not throw the diary away, but placed it among her belongings. She had to know we would find it. She placed it where, one day, someone else would read it. </p><p>Revealing painful and personal struggles may seem an odd thing for my grandmother, who I’ve learned was mostly a very private person. But one more theory I’ve mulled over is that she left the diary intact and conspicuously placed for Lazlo himself, for his memory. Lazlo’s entire family was killed in the Holocaust. He did not live to have children. She was the sole heir of his memory, and perhaps she chose to preserve it, even if it meant exposing her own private pain.</p><p>For a long time after reading the diary, I thought about my grandmother’s love story, wondering whether she ever shared her loss with anyone. Did she ever mention Lazlo to my grandfather? When I think of her reputation for having a private, withdrawn air, despite the vulnerability of her writing, I find it easy to believe that it was a secret she kept completely to herself.</p><p>My own chest feels tight when I think of her holding the memory of Lazlo all these years, sharing her grief with no one. I think about how, without her words, that sweet boy from Vienna would have been forgotten forever.</p><p>Now that I have read the diary, I feel closer to my grandmother. I know what she was like. As a young girl, she was flirtatious and unapologetic, loved her home fiercely, pretended to be brave in the face of fear. Love to her was a passionate thing. She wasn’t always sure she was worthy of it. She held onto her memories of love like treasures, bringing her comfort on her hardest days.</p><p>Although I’m glad to know my grandmother better, it seems odd to call that feeling happiness, knowing all that Lilly suffered. But it’s fair to say I feel satisfaction, a sort of peace, to know and understand her better. She doesn’t feel like a stranger to me anymore. She was my grandmother, my family. Her story is a part of my own. </p><p>There is a photograph we found, tucked into the yellowing pages of the diary, black and white, of a roguishly handsome young man. Lazlo. When I look at him, I see not just one anonymous face among millions, the way you might at a museum. Rather, I saw a memory, a relationship, an individual who managed to profoundly touch another in his tragically brief life. I can picture him and Lilly strolling down the Alten Donau at sunset, talking about cemeteries and their futures and far-flung places like Palestine and London.</p><p>“Look, there’s a note on the back,” my aunt said. She flipped it over to show us. Scrawled in a clumsy cursive hand: <em>With love, so you won’t forget me, from your Laci who will not forget you</em>. </p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[A Purple Heart Buried on the Rhine]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Under a clear blue sky in Wesel, the sun’s beams hit the Rhine River on Good
Friday. A cargo vessel lumbered by. The soft chatter of adults and contagious
laughter of children’s play filled the air with calm.
There’s virtually no trace of WWII in Wesel today. It was leveled by the war’s
end: ninety-seven percent of its buildings were destroyed by Allied bombing.
Wesel’s train station was one such casualty, where bombs left the train tracks a
tangle of deformed steel. Undisturbed, though, was H]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/a-purple-heart-buried-on-the-rhine/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60cca1fd874f6108176bc5bd</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[The True]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Mara Truslow]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sun, 20 Jun 2021 22:27:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">U</span>
nder a clear blue sky in Wesel, the sun’s beams hit the Rhine River on Good Friday. A cargo vessel lumbered by. The soft chatter of adults and contagious laughter of children’s play filled the air with calm.
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>There’s virtually no trace of WWII in Wesel today. It was leveled by the war’s end: ninety-seven percent of its buildings were destroyed by Allied bombing. Wesel’s train station was one such casualty, where bombs left the train tracks a tangle of deformed steel. Undisturbed, though, was Hitler’s portrait, hanging defiantly below the Wesel station sign. It was Hitler’s seemingly indefatigable Third Reich that brought the largest Allied airborne invasion to Wesel in the war’s final act. </p><p>I arrived at the train station in Wesel a lifetime after it was destroyed. I’d traversed the width of Germany earlier in the day—from Berlin west to the Rhine. Families filled the train, escaping from the city for a long holiday weekend. Crossing the country, I perked up at the many stops I knew too well for never having visited: Hanover, Hamm, Dortmund, Essen. </p><p>I’d first seen these names scribbled on the back of an American Savings and Loan notepad. These were the places that haunted my grandfather for a lifetime, even though he never stepped foot in any of them. Wesel, a tiny town abutting the Rhine an hour north of Cologne, was forty-first on that list. </p><p>At golden hour, I sat on the east bank of the Rhine in Wesel at a buzzing beer garden, sipping a glass of crisp wine, appreciating the two years it took to get here. Across the river, I focused on the remnants of a brick bridge, one of the few traces of what happened here a lifetime ago. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Seventy-four years before I arrived, my grandfather Wallace Truslow, whom everyone called Wally for short, passed above the smoldering remains of this bridge in his B-24 bomber, its freshly twisted iron protruding from the water. Smoke and haze blanketed Wesel that afternoon at the tail-end of WWII. </p><p>Just east of Wesel, seven-year-old Heinz Godde was startled by the terrifying thuds of Allied bombs that reverberated through the tin grain silo he called home. He’d already fled home once as the war closed in on Germany. </p><p>At the end of the Allied air armada stretching four hours long, my grandfather Wally’s ten-man B-24 crew led a formation of heavy bombers during this final invasion of Germany. After crossing the Rhine over Wesel, he faced a barrage of small arms fire from church steeples and hospitals. Machine gun fire tore through the aluminum skin of his bomber, jingling like pop rocks. Bullets tore into his right thigh, unleashing a torrent of blood and pain.</p><p>Flying low, the B-24s were slow, easy targets for enemy flak guns, the anti-aircraft gun that was the bomber’s fiercest predator. From a corn field outside Wesel, a flak battery shot indiscriminately at the formation of B-24s my grandfather’s crew led. Tracer rounds zoomed past Wally’s bomber before the two identical aircraft on either side of him took direct hits. Twenty-year-old Bob Vance braced for impact on enemy soil. The belly of his B-24 bobbed up and down before slamming into a field, breaking in half, and exploding. </p><p>On the other side of the Rhine River, Britain’s Prime Minister Winston Churchill stood on the balcony of the Wacht am Rhein Hotel flanked by Allied top brass. He was hellbent on watching the final invasion of Germany, called Operation Varsity, from the front lines. He’d waited six long years for Allied forces to cross the Rhine into Germany, the heart of the Third Reich, and the symbolic beginning of the end.</p><p>Churchill marked the occasion by urinating in the Rhine and climbing on the rubble of the bridge that I gazed at seventy-five years later, in a very different Wesel. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Wesel was the climax of my journey to find out the role that my grandfather played in WWII. Wally’s fateful mission over Wesel would also prove to be the climax of his internal war—a battle he took to the grave twenty years ago.</p><p>Growing up, nothing about my grandfather was typical. He bled shrapnel from his leg until the day he died. Tiny pieces of lead from the bullets that struck him would surface through his thigh, requiring regular trips to the doctor to be cut free. His family knew neither how nor when this wound was inflicted, only that it happened in the skies over Hitler’s Europe and was the cause of the Purple Heart medal hidden in his sock drawer. </p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-width-full kg-card-hascaption"><img src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/42u02RxvNFz7xGHj8TQllb0bIYbszgH6CfiEr6w-ekJkImkKE9FVUMMZ2zfbMHjwUiCPkiZXf3e1hWuIQmAAVB9AFTvtYb5J2_GtTLNnHo5WGXhJmgzearLXazl2zs8g6Fabhxg" class="kg-image" alt="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/PvheVtT9ZoMXFLu7NtFC_ThNuXUkzxpPELZwluNIo_fiHJ3U8QtP1mXBz4BE9ihfS9bgEQAvJUFEAFVhio2W8oLegpBjuEyaKXGiPWk_4jcMi0Uy7V_bx8lUcucbaTsKKOENuAk4"><figcaption>Wallace Truslow is awarded the Air Medal at Shipdham Airbase during WWII</figcaption></img></figure><p>All that Wally said in his lifetime about the war could be counted on two hands. The short of it was he’d flown on a B-24 crew dropping bombs on enemy-occupied Europe, and he stayed past his tour of duty. His untreated PTSD was an unspoken truth in the family. I knew Wally only after his mind was ravaged by a dozen strokes and dementia that only intensified his psychological condition. He struggled to speak and moved robotically. I was eight when he passed away.</p><p>My own memories of Wally are few, so second-hand memories shared after he was gone colored my opinion of him. Inevitably, these anecdotes highlighted his idiosyncrasies: a penchant for eating cold beans from the can, an insatiable sweet tooth, a distaste for crowds and socializing, and unmatched stubbornness—he once refused to stop for bathroom breaks on a twenty-four-hour road trip. </p><p>In the twenty years after Wally took his war to the grave, I rarely thought of him. But in 2018, his memory resurfaced; his war story asked to be recovered. It was Shipdham, a tiny village in England, that brought Wally front and center in my life. It was a place I’d never heard of when my dad, Wally’s son, mentioned it in passing: “Could we add a side trip to Shipdham during our upcoming European adventure?”</p><p>I’d later learn that no place was more important than Shipdham in Wally’s war. Hailing back to the twelfth century, the quintessential English village of two thousand inhabitants transformed into a B-24 base during the war. Shipdham was where every one of his wartime missions began and ended. It was Shipdham that Wally yearned to see once again when he was shot over Wesel. </p><p>Where Wally’s war began, so too did my journey to find his role in it. Shipdham was the spark—a story he didn’t want told, a story he spent a lifetime trying to forget, a story he took to the grave.</p><p>Planning a side trip to Shipdham left me wondering about the air war fought from this makeshift base. I was shocked by the horrific conditions: unpressurized bombers, negative fifty-degree temperatures on eight-hour missions, anti-aircraft fire that could pinpoint a bomber four miles high, and fighters keen to knock bombers back to earth. It was a hell I could not see Wally in. <em>How did the ordinary man I knew fight this extraordinary battle?</em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">“Wally’s fateful mission over Wesel would prove to be the climax of his internal war—a battle he took to the grave twenty years ago.” </p>
<p>I was desperate to find Wally’s place in the history of the Eighth Air Force, but finding any trace of him in the war was nearly impossible. He kept almost no records from the war; he told the family almost nothing of his service; he’d lost touch with his crew. The ultimate gut punch was learning his military records were burned in a tragic 1973 fire at the National Archives’ Personnel & Records Center in St. Louis, Missouri, along with eighteen million others. I chased Wally’s story for months, navigating through a maze of archives and databases, but I was left empty handed.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>So I leaned into my profession as a data scientist, looking for a needle in the proverbial haystack—Wally’s wartime missions. For over a year, I mined a million data points about the men who served at Shipdham. It began when I found the wartime missions, and it was complete when I was able to match the missions to enlistment records and combat losses from the National Archives for each of the five thousand men Wally served alongside. </p><p>At long last, I found fragments of my grandfather’s war. </p><p>Cleaning and crunching the data, I saw the man I’d pegged as ordinary as something entirely different. His survival in the war was statistically improbable. Wally once revealed he’d flown over forty missions, staying beyond his tour of duty because he didn’t have a wife or children at home. None of his family knew just how impressive a fact that was. The data I mined revealed that Wally flew more missions than over ninety-nine percent of the thousands of men he served alongside at Shipdham. </p><p>When Wally got home from war, like most in his generation, he did his best to put it behind him. But he couldn’t forget it—the black puffs of flak ripping through skin and steel, B-24s engulfed in flames, the smell of scorched skin, and the footlockers of downed airmen emptied in the early evening at Shipdham. Wally survived the war, but he spent a lifetime trying to escape the memory of it. </p><p>Dementia drew bright lines around the war in Wally’s final years—his nightmares intensified. Fifty years after his homecoming, he woke in his California home, put on a baseball hat, and told my grandmother he was going to save the women and children in Germany before bolting out the front door. With the help of police, my grandmother searched the neighborhood for him. Hours later, when Wally was found curled up in the backseat of their car parked in the garage, he laughed and said he’d learned how to escape Wesel, Germany. </p><p>The shrapnel he bled from his leg came from Wesel. <em>What had Wally seen in the war that haunted him forever?</em></p><p>A year before Wally died, a man named Burns called looking for him. There was no one Wally respected more than Burns, the sage, skilled command pilot of his B-24 crew. It had been fifty years since they had last spoken. Despite Burns’ efforts to find Wally, it was too late. The strokes had robbed Wally of speech. When my grandmother asked Burns why the crew hadn’t stayed in touch, he hesitantly shared that they had. Since the war, yearly Christmas calls, reunions, weddings, and funerals brought them together. But they never could find Wally.</p><p>And I was too late to find Wally’s crew, the men who he trusted with life and limb, the men who could have helped piece together Wally’s war better than anyone else. The last of his brothers in arms passed away in 2015.</p><p><em>How could I piece together Wally’s war in vivid color when he took all traces of it to the grave? When those who’d lived it were gone?</em> The data scientist in me said it was statistically improbable, but the months ahead that led me to Wesel would prove otherwise.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>By March 1945, the buildings of Wesel dating back to the Hanseatic League, now Swastika-draped, were replaced by bomb craters. Six-hundred civilians were killed in February alone. Wesel’s population decreased ninety-two percent by the war’s end. </p><p>The few who remember pre-war Wesel have a complicated relationship with the war and their memory of it. Most aren’t keen on memorializing the circumstances of its destruction— toppling Hitler came at the expense of their homes and livelihoods. </p><p>Over a year after I first learned of Shipdham, England and the war Wally fought from there, I stepped foot in Wesel. It was an overnight pitstop on a month-long pilgrimage through Europe retracing the steps of the Forty-Fourth Bomb Group. After a year of emotional archeology, digging for fragments of Wally’s war, I had a better idea of his harrowing moments over Wesel, as well as the forty missions he flew leading up to it. </p><p>It was an unseasonably hot April day when I arrived at the Welcome Hotel Wesel<em> </em>on the east bank of the Rhine. When I handed over my passport at check in, the clerk stared at my name, then made a peculiar motion with his arm. A moment later, a man I did not know appeared beside me. </p><p>His hair was white and wispy, and he dressed sharply in a pressed green sweater and collared shirt. In the lobby cafe, an espresso dotted the neatly folded newspaper where he’d been waiting for the arrival of an American woman.</p><p>“Heinz?” I asked. He nodded his head. I hugged this stranger who’d called Wesel home for a lifetime.</p><p>Heinz led me through the lobby to the back of the hotel, which abutted the east bank of the Rhine. He pointed to the remnants of a brick bridge on the opposite bank. His hands motioned intensely, punctuated by an occasional English word, the language barrier crystallizing. “Montgomery,” he said eventually. That I understood, a reference to the famed British Commander during WWII. The bridge was so nicknamed because German forces destroyed it as Montgomery’s forces approached the Rhine in an effort to thwart the Allied advance at the tail end of war. The exploded bridge was still fresh when Wally crossed the Rhine seventy-four years earlier. </p><p>Heinz led me back through the hotel to his compact VW in the parking lot. Weaving through a maze of country roads, we headed northeast, away from the Rhine. In my lap, I unfolded a map of Wesel with a highlighted route to the crash site that I struggled to follow. Heinz effortlessly navigated the backroads of the place he’d called home for eighty-one years. En route, he tried to piece together, in broken English, French, and Latin, the story of who I was and how I was connected to the WWII crash site where he was taking me. Our words were few, but full of intent. </p><p>Fifteen minutes later, we turned onto a dirt road bifurcating farm fields. To the right, high electric pylons crossed through the crops, and a forested area abutted the manicured fields. When we reached the thicket of trees, Heinz flipped the ignition off. “We’re here,” he said.</p><p>He moved slowly, reflecting the somber nature of this unmarked final resting place for a coterie of American airmen. I followed him on a narrow foot path into the untouched woods. Birds hummed nearby. Heinz left the path and began weaving through the trees. Leaves crunched below my feet. At a copse of birch trees, Heinz stopped, turned to me, and said once more, “here.” </p><p>This hallowed ground looked no different from anywhere else in the woods, other than the fragments of a B-24 I knew were buried beneath my feet, the final resting place for two bomber crews that took off from Shipdham alongside Wally’s crew and never returned. I’d brought with me two plaques to leave here in memory of the sixteen men lost. Heinz looked on as I tucked each under a rock at the base of the trees.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-width-wide kg-card-hascaption"><img src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/rlrWTCFI8BT-quHZttsdsjUWIRcs6rNgRk9QBvrhglJ_g7QPpsFlt-ZQtJ0xVInyUIunmbI5sEbeYnfY38lCKunrPIFHrq5ZXqCO7tUhU2Fw87o_Pym-Cdq2sIhwL8RPvWTAgGQ" class="kg-image" alt="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/YY4b9EhoEKH6tJIw6QNq00NmK9Z-gLSEwQVCruz8qtYbNe-jv2S57mkuxpKkDRuaj-QWJKBU6E72_0wtTdogDGZlHUToZzTZpl6RGWh83C_4KfZhQrhkVhx7bWeO7dIFwPojxVqn"><figcaption>Heinz Godde leads me to the crash site of two B-24 bombers in Wesel, Germany</figcaption></img></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>When Heinz was born in 1938 on the eve of war, the Nazis already had their clutches on Wesel. Swastikas hung at every turn. To get married in Wesel, men had to sport the party uniform. Freedom of the press disappeared and fanatic Nazism flourished. Nazi Party Leader Joachim von Ribbentrop’s Wesel roots were worn like a badge of honor in town. Before Heinz’s first birthday, anti-Semitism fomented, and the Jewish synagogue in Wesel was burned to the ground on <em>Kristallnacht</em>, a nationwide pogrom against Jews. </p><p>In January 1945, Heinz turned seven and celebrated another austere wartime birthday, the only kind he knew. Wesel had been lucky up until then, surviving five years of war relatively unscathed by Allied strategic bombing. But, the final months of war would bring it to total ruin.</p><p>In February 1945, the bombing began. Wesel was consumed in fire and smoke. Heinz’s family fled before their home was leveled. Ten miles east of the Rhine, his family of six, including his pregnant mother and aging grandmother, were housed in the grain silo. German soldiers fleeing the Allied advance camped out on the farm, too. </p><p>On March 23rd, Heinz once again woke to the terrific roar of bombers and watched as flames engulfed Wesel squarely where his father worked as an air raid warden in the basement of a fifteenth century Prussian Fort. His father was responsible for sounding the alarms when enemy planes approached. After the Allied attacks, he pulled dead and wounded from the flames. Heinz looked at the plumes of smoke in horror.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>At Shipdham Airbase in England, twenty-one-year-old Wally and his crew were in the throes of a top secret briefing for a mission unlike any other. With forty missions under his belt, Wally had flown more than nearly every airman on base. His crew had been designated lead of the formation, which was also the position German flak gunners most viciously shot down. </p><p>But the mission to Wesel, Wally learned during briefing, would, unusually, drop no bombs. Instead, the B-24s would carry supplies to Allied airborne troops landing in Wesel just before. </p><p>Instead of flying the typical four miles above earth, Wally’s crew was to fly at treetop level for the supply drop. The Eighth Air Force Headquarters called it a daring mission. In reality, it was reckless. The B-24 bomber wasn’t designed to fly low and crews weren’t trained to do it. </p><p>In the briefing room at Shipdham, the airmen were told to expect light enemy resistance. In reality, sixty thousand enemy troops were positioned in Wesel, waiting for their arrival. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>When the air armada came into view over the Rhine, it appeared to go on forever. The sky was dense with every variety of Allied aircraft—transports dropping gliders and paratroopers, fighters, and bombers. Four hours after the first Allied transports reached Wesel, Wally’s crew crossed the Rhine into enemy territory. </p><p>British Field Marshal Montgomery’s battle cry on the eve of Operation Varsity was conjured: “Over the Rhine let us go. And good hunting to you all on the other side. May the lord mighty in battle give us the victory in our last undertaking.” </p><p>It would be ten minutes of hell for Wally’s formation to reach the drop zone, take a skidding turn, and cross the Rhine once again. Time suspended when the run on a target began. The bomb craters over Wesel were still smoking. If he’d had time to think, Wally would have been stunned by the destruction. Small arms fire caught the B-24 crews by surprise immediately. Wherever a building remained standing, be it a church bell tower or a hospital, a German shot at Wally’s formation. Bullets ripped through the aluminum skin of their bombers from all angles. </p><p>The B-24s were sitting ducks. At fifty feet, they lumbered by the enemy. “A well thrown rock by a one hundred and eighteen pound weakling would present a serious danger to the planes and crews,” reflected an airman on the mission. </p><p>At 1:07 PM on March 24, 1945, Wally’s formation reached the drop zone and shoved out twenty-five hundred pounds of supplies from each bomber in eight seconds flat.</p><p>The first tragedy of the day struck a bomber adjacent to Wally's. During the supply drop, Anibel Diaz, a gunner shoving supplies out the tail of his bomber, got tangled in the static lines attached to the supply chutes and was ripped out. The fifty-foot fall from his bomber to the ground below was swift, but he tumbled like a weed on impact. It was impossible to survive.</p><p>There was no time to dwell on Diaz. It would take unwavering focus to get out of Dodge. Wally’s crew led the formation in a sweeping turn back towards the Rhine, away from the enemy. As the formation straightened out on a direct path off the target, they flew on a trajectory directly above a flak battery concealed in the fields below. The German flak gunners looked up at the incoming stream of “gigantic monsters,” guns readied, waiting for the perfect shot. </p><p>At point blank range, the flak guns unleashed hell on Wally’s formation, scoring direct hits on the bombers on either side of his crew. To the left, the Chandler crew had two engines on fire and part of their tail shot off. To the right, the Crandell crew took a nasty engine hit that unleashed an inferno of flames that ripped the engine from the wing.</p><p>The Chandler crew crashed first. The B-24’s fuselage bounced along a field as Chandler, the pilot, fought to regain control, and just as he did, an electricity pylon laid just ahead. He turned sharply. The wing clipped the ground, pulling the bomber earthward in a violent spin. On impact, the bomber broke in half, then exploded in a tremendous inferno seconds later.</p><p>Meanwhile, Crandell’s crew also fought to regain control. Down an engine, with a mangled wing, they climbed in altitude, almost two-hundred feet vertically. Then, they stalled and dove nose first to earth. The explosion was immediate, a red flash. Then, a plume of black smoke rose like a geyser. Unlike Wally, Crandell had a wife and child he left behind stateside. His two-year-old daughter Jan lost her father in the blink of an eye. </p><p>In five minutes, two bombers and sixteen men from Wally’s formation were gone.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>At the crash site in Wesel, I stood with Heinz on the hallowed ground where the black plumes erupted seventy-four years before. I felt a flood of the past and present. In that copse of trees, the last two years of digging for needles in a haystack that led me here flashed by. I felt the overwhelming sadness of this unmarked place where sixteen young lives were lost, and I wondered why it was them and not Wally. </p><p>Heinz and I walked silently out of the woods. “It was a terrible time, but we are friends now,” he said gently when we reached his car. I felt paralyzed by his words, unsure until that moment how Heinz felt about bringing me here. We were both acutely aware how the scars of war from a lifetime ago still feel fresh today. I looked Heinz in the eyes, recognizing I was not alone in fighting back the emotion bubbling over from a knot of guilt, gratitude, pain, and forgiveness that we were unraveling together. <em>What would Wally think of me touching down in Wesel, finding solace with a wartime enemy, turned friend?</em> </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>The path to Heinz and Wesel was meandering. But, it began in earnest with two earth-shattering findings. First, there was Super 8 color footage of the mission over Wesel captured from a bomber in Wally’s formation. It purportedly showed both crashes. Second, two airmen on Chandler’s crew miraculously survived the crash, even though they’d been thrown from the bomber on impact. </p><p>For the better part of a year, finding either proved elusive. And in a twist of fate typical of this stranger than fiction story, it was connections with the Chandler and Crandell crews that led me to the crash site and the footage I’d long sought.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">“What would Wally think of me touching down in Wesel, finding solace with a wartime enemy, turned friend?” </p>
<p>The first break came when I tracked down and cold-called the younger brother of Crandell, the pilot killed over Wesel. Joe Crandell wove the pieces of his brother’s story to find his crash site with the wartime footage of the mission, visiting shortly after in the year 2000. He agreed to send me a map that would lead me to it, but warned it was difficult to find. When I asked if Joe knew anyone in Wesel who could show me the way, he described a man he’d never met named Heinz.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Crandell received a card from Heinz and his wife some years after he left a plaque at his brother’s crash site in Wesel. The German couple wrote that they’d noticed the plaque on a bike ride, and they were now leaving flowers at the site regularly, which they wanted Joe to know. </p><p>“How did they know to contact you?” I asked. Joe explained he’d left his address on the back of the plaque, and indicated I should do the same if I left something to honor the crew behind. Armed with Heinz’s address, I posted him a letter, hoping this shot in the dark would get me to the crash site in Wesel. Inspired by Crandell’s tale of connecting with Heinz, I created my own plaques in remembrance of the crew to leave at the crash site, including my contact information, wondering if it would lead me to another thread of Wally’s war. </p><p>Finding the footage of the mission over Wesel led me across the country to Ontario, California. After a prolonged search for the two survivors of the Chandler crash, I found a ninety-six-year-old Bob Vance whose details matched that of one of the Chandler crew survivors. I called the phone number listed in the White Pages. A woman answered. When I asked to speak with Bob Vance, I expected her to say I had the wrong number. She didn’t. A moment later, Bob Vance was on the phone.</p><p>A month later, I sat in his living room in southern California on a quiet cul-de-sac framed by the San Gabriel Mountains. We spent two days together. He didn’t much like talking about the war, even now. But he’d kept meticulous records of it. He showed me the POW tag strung around his neck after he was captured in Wesel. From his shed, Bob pulled the flying boots he’d worn when he crashed. </p><p>When Bob gave me the Super 8 footage of the missions I’d long searched for, it was not excitement I felt but nerves at finally seeing the horrors over Wesel in vivid color. In the grainy video, I saw Wally’s bomber come into view for a few sweet seconds. It bobbed in the air, flying low over Rhineland fields. </p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-width-wide kg-card-hascaption"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/85ed0xnxDw45wh1d1QyDewxlmnz6TKhnzwVcLq8oRDfMWV0idsM0G_L3SwvkTHU7CyPcizY56A7sD6IzB27GTVe4qXk-WGHfNE-Xgh75Jvq4zSpOe_myj7AiElcSGhfYxQvz490" class="kg-image" alt="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/bKMJ-jhhrYP3fVVxve5S8BWw_07SpmmJqNa-h44D-69iPYGqXToptlPhEI_7MBPdREXqqm5OTNu0iYTnnxAi4G058qzEl1zr3MdRzaWJqTgysqjBZNZCOPvJ8UFrG8J3c55vwIao"><figcaption>A still from video footage showing Chandler’s B-24 in upper right just before the crew crashed in Wesel, Germany</figcaption></img></figure><p>I could envision inside the silver fuselage Wally’s ten-man crew, still shocked and adrenaline racing: hours from home base, hours deep into the mission, years deep into the war. In fifteen minutes, they’d lost so much.</p><p>For all that I uncovered about those fifteen minutes of hell over Wesel, I never did uncover the exact circumstances of Wally’s Purple Heart. I know 20 millimeter machine gun fire tore into his left thigh, but not precisely where or when it happened. </p><p>The wound would have been messy, bloody, and painful on the ground. In the air, it would be agonizing. With no medical care beyond what his crew could offer, he writhed in pain on the two-hour journey back to Shipdham. </p><p>Wally was lucky to make it back at all, even blood-soaked with bullets and shrapnel lodged in his body. His wounds too serious to be treated on base, an ambulance rushed him to a nearby field hospital that specialized in treating the most gruesome flak wounds.</p><p>On the other side of the Atlantic, Wally’s mother, Helene, received the telegram every mother dreaded: her son had been wounded over Germany. </p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-width-wide"><img src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/pgobTisE4YAvDCYZkv914FBotBPM5LuCDyjYHSwRfaqujHreyDeIIyoeh69Aw--KRPuHjHWZL4JPngQiaHhhRy3kd-pCYcBQACW6B_-PAjlJi8MOeuWpjPtIeL9IkxGF319Tmyo" class="kg-image" alt="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/Se4l1sDLzTE294kDeZeeYC0GCxi7IQPrOZ_sIlPgag-jUYNQixR6CKWDj8yTi2rM3RxrX9y_5PE1x2Ood0E4gh9SfOKccvawI8jnL-46LbgMRWJXsezecfdkhvBz3XhRMmGbAKHD"/></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-width-wide kg-card-hascaption"><img src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/r2bA1Al73SF6FNFfNEjEbM-r8zid2I0vrdeq5zSD5slf0UrMOdybU8aMshDYSQWwVeEGVNVoLZ37z8fbQ5Gq6ccvhlp-rjP3KObe9HnJR2K_WIAU0iYMAY5tP63MdAZbzl_mBp4" class="kg-image" alt="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/yrbXcXXvYCu7nDqSZJ5IX3doH3lHsR--rSMYhdisnG1DgoS54k-ZiTLYZBOz2Lj8e8gAcXW1EvmGdX4XI5WcyKwPmSPh10vvxyFYJeTT6uO9LWkbCLmrcUstVd3uT1ZJ3N6WaHDp"><figcaption>The telegram Helene Truslow received in California after her son Wally was wounded over Germany</figcaption></img></figure><p>The torn envelope and yellowed telegram are one of the few artifacts of Wally’s war. It was this scant Western Union message that was the first breadcrumb back to Wesel, on the hunt for the story behind Wally’s Purple Heart. At first blush, I wondered why Wally had been the unlucky one of his crew to be hit. </p><p>But when I watched the Super 8 footage of the mission that Bob Vance gave me, I saw the war through Wally’s eyes for the first time. It reframed everything I knew about his war and thought about him as a man. Watching the Chandler and Crandell crews shot down within inches of my grandfather’s bomber, I saw Wally as lucky. The shrapnel in his leg didn’t kill him. His survival over Wesel and throughout the war was against all odds. Statistically, he shouldn’t have lived. But he did. </p><p>After the war, Wally’s memories of war intensified with time, cracking him from within. He struggled to survive surviving<em>.</em> Silence was the only weapon left in his arsenal. He evaded his crew’s lifelong bond and their many reunions. He stayed far from the inside of a B-24. He didn’t speak of the war. All in an effort to contain it, to lock it away.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Heinz was newly seven years old when Victory in Europe Day marked the end of war on May 8, 1945. It was the first period of peace Heinz would know in his lifetime. After I left Wesel, Heinz and I corresponded via email about this tumultuous period. </p><p>Despite the calm that peacetime suggests, Germany remained in chaos. Heinz’s family was left homeless by Allied bombings that leveled their Wesel home. Newly-freed POWs, marauding through Germany, took revenge on civilians. Heinz’s family lived in constant fear. </p><p>Ten days after the war’s official end, Heinz’s very pregnant mother gave birth in a cellar. With no medical care available, Heinz’s father—a lawyer—assisted with the birth.</p><p>The first years post-war were replete with suffering and deprivation far worse than wartime. The Reichsmark was worthless. Food rations were catastrophic. Heinz remembers, "The Cardinal of Cologne declared that it was not a sin for people to steal coal from the railways for their heating." Twenty people, Heinz’s family included, crammed into a single home. </p><p>There was no school for three years. In 1948, when he was ten, Heinz finally returned to the classroom. Most vivid amongst his post-war memories is his gratitude for the pea soup and cornbread served by American forces at his school. </p><p>It wasn’t until 1951 when Heinz’s parents were able to rebuild their family home that had been leveled six years earlier. </p><p>For Heinz, in war and peace, Wesel would always be home. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>In the late afternoon, I said farewell to Heinz with a warm embrace and retreated back to the bank of the Rhine. Sipping that glass of crisp wine, I was lost in the barges floating down the glistening river, the laughter of children and parents enjoying the Easter holiday, and remnants of Montgomery’s bridge that hinted at the city that once was. The sun set over the Rhine, and I boarded the train from the platform at Wesel early the next morning. </p><p>The seasons changed. Leaves fell from the copse of trees at the crash site in Wesel, blanketing the plaques I left there six months before. That fall, I received a letter from a woman named Jan, who’d just returned from Wesel. She’d visited the crash site of her father’s crew for the first time, and while there, she found the plaques I’d left for Crandell, for her father who left for war when she was an infant and never returned. She hoped we could talk. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Wally took his war to the grave. A lifetime later, I formed friendships across generations and geographies, bonds formed in the darkest days of war, recovering what he had lost.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[A Natural Recovery: A Book Review of Amy Liptrot’s The Outrun]]></title><description><![CDATA[The Outrun: A Memoir by Amy Liptrot
304 pages, W.W. Norton & Company, 2017
Book review by Ali Kominsky
Drawing by Courtney W. Brothers
“There is one consolation in being sick; and that is the possibility that you
may recover to a better state than you were ever in before.”
—Henry David Thoreau
Energy never expires. It is carried through water and land and passed on
through generations. The energy of water is carried by waves across the ocean;
when a wave encounters shallow water its height c]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/a-natural-recovery-outrun-book-review/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60cc98bd874f6108176bc575</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[The True]]></category><category><![CDATA[Review]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Ali Kominsky]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sun, 20 Jun 2021 22:27:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><strong>The Outrun: A Memoir by Amy Liptrot</strong><br>304 pages, W.W. Norton & Company, 2017</br></p><p>Book review by Ali Kominsky<br>Drawing by Courtney W. Brothers </br></p><p><em>“There is one consolation in being sick; and that is the possibility that you may recover to a better state than you were ever in before.”</em><br><em>—Henry David Thoreau</em></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">E</span>
nergy never expires. It is carried through water and land and passed on through generations. The energy of water is carried by waves across the ocean; when a wave encounters shallow water its height changes and its energy is transferred to the land. This is known as the shoaling process.
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Amy Liptrot’s alcohol addiction drove her into the cliffs, causing lasting physical damage. Her nervous system crumbled. But energy is renewable, and after years of crashing on the rocks, she found a way to direct her force. She uncovered a tonic that would sustain her: the natural world.</p><p>Winner of the PEN Ackerley prize for memoir and the 2016 Wainwright prize for best nature, travel, and outdoor writing in Britain, Amy Liptrot recounts a powerful story of recovery in her ecological memoir, <em>The Outrun</em>. Exploring her native Orkney and the Scottish Isles, Liptrot emerges from a long struggle with alcoholism to discover healing in the rich landscape of her homeland.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">“Liptrot joins women and men whose writings have turned our attention to the environment—emphasizing its wisdom, and reminding us of our responsibility to protect what is valuable and irreplaceable.”</p>
<p>Nature’s restorative power has long occupied the attention of writers across the world, whose works have established an enduring literary tradition. From Biblical narratives of wilderness to the seventeenth century master of haiku, Bashō—from the German and English Romantics to the American Transcendentalists, from Mary Oliver to Cheryl Strayed—the tradition of seeking meaning in the natural world is an undying staple in literature. Liptrot joins women and men whose writings have turned our attention to the environment—emphasizing its wisdom, and reminding us of our responsibility to protect what is valuable and irreplaceable. Her humorous and insightful prose immediately immersed me, revealing what magic may be found when we choose to open our senses to the world beyond ourselves.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>“Recovery is making use of something once thought worthless,” the author writes. “I might have been washed up but I can be renewed.” In <em>The Outrun</em>, recovery translates into healing in the midst of destructive behavioral patterns. Liptrot’s relationship with alcohol was destroying her life: unable to keep a job or maintain precious relationships, she drank to the point of life-threatening tremors. She had tried, with little success, to stay sober in the past. But finally she reached a turning point—multiple court appearances and a violent attack on her life pushed her to enter a rehab program. “I was faced with the reality of doing it for myself,” Liptrot confesses, “which is really the only way.”<em> </em>Choosing herself meant retreating from the world that was familiar to her but could no longer serve her.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/courtneyart.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption><em>Selkie </em>(2021) by Courtney W. Brothers | ink on paper | 12 x 12 inches</figcaption></img></figure><p>The memoir is structured in staccato chapters retelling the author’s journey to find internal healing. Instead of conventional chronology, her narrative weaves scenes from her former experiences of addiction in London, meditations on her childhood, and descriptions of her contemporary environment in Orkney—a series of disjointed vignettes reflecting the complexity of her psychological landscape.</p><p>Replacing the thrill of intoxication with the potency of the sublime, Liptrot transforms herself through an intense process of purification (indeed, “sublimation” denotes the purification of substances in chemistry, or transmutation to a higher state of spiritual existence). Her descriptions of the ecosystem around her reveal an insatiably curious individual making meaning out of mundane materials. She introduces us to ambergris—a rare, valuable substance used in perfumery which originates in the stomachs of sperm whales. Through her distinctive lens we learn about lambing season, the history of global trade routes, corncrakes, selkies, and constellations.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">“Replacing the thrill of intoxication with the potency of the sublime, Liptrot transforms herself through an intense process of purification.”</p>
<p>Liptrot’s intertwining of ecological processes with local lore locates magic in everyday life. In contrast to the illusions and distortions that characterized her long season of inebriety, she tells us of naturally occurring wonders such as the Fata Morgana, which suggests the kind of sober experience that helps soothe her recovery. Almost an ephemeral hallucination, the superior mirage is a phenomenon of light bending as it passes through layers of air at different temperatures. “A Fata Morgana can be seen yet never approached,” Liptrot explains. “It always remains on the strip of the horizon.” Echoing Kant, who characterized the sublime as being uninhibited by limitations, the author’s encounters with the sublime in nature usher her toward a deeper understanding of her potential, replacing the faux sublimity she once sought in the depths of a bottle.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Amy Liptrot’s first day of sobriety fell on the Spring Equinox. Each solstice and equinox since then has marked another quarter year of sobriety. On one particular summer solstice she ran naked circles around a neolithic structure that she’d previously noticed after looking for corncrake. That night, the pile of stones had interrupted her fantasies of spotting the enigmatic bird. Returning on the longest day of the year, she celebrated the cycles that dependably governed the earth, relishing the meteorological pivot that commemorated her own. The witching hour found her far from any nightclub—orbiting rocks much older than addiction, enraptured in the dry core of her being.</p><p>Today, scrolling through Liptrot’s Instagram, I’m perusing pictures of her adventures in nature. I’m comforted to see snapshots of her beautiful family, daily swims in an icy sea, and the seals at Papay, where she found solace time and again.</p><p>Her most recent post features old photos from late nights driving around Orkney, listening for the elusive corncrake. Her caption confirms that these weeks around midsummer still feel full of possibility for her. She’s still looking for night-shining clouds, keeping her ears out.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[On Time]]></title><description><![CDATA[ It’s June 6, 2018, and I’m trying to sleep, but the heart rate monitor is
beeping and the CPAP machine is hissing ceaselessly.
My daughter, Em, is sleeping in her isolette. A well-deserved rest. She’s been
alive for sixty-eight hours, but it feels like weeks. Every second is magnified
when life hangs in the balance.
●This evening, Em’s oxygen saturation levels plummeted and she stopped breathing
for a short while. Within minutes, a dozen nurses and doctors were in her room
to help. The neonat]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/on-time/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60cc9eca874f6108176bc59d</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Plain]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Lyle McKeany]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sun, 20 Jun 2021 22:27:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">I</span>
t’s June 6, 2018, and I’m trying to sleep, but the heart rate monitor is beeping and the CPAP machine is hissing ceaselessly.
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>My daughter, Em, is sleeping in her isolette. A well-deserved rest. She’s been alive for sixty-eight hours, but it feels like weeks. Every second is magnified when life hangs in the balance.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>This evening, Em’s oxygen saturation levels plummeted and she stopped breathing for a short while. Within minutes, a dozen nurses and doctors were in her room to help. The neonatologist intubated her immediately, elevating her saturation. It was almost like reliving her birth. Unbreathing, she had been intubated for the first time, a perilously long moment. Even this time, despite the speed and skill of the hospital staff, my wife Allison and I could only watch, incapable of helping her ourselves.</p><p>Besides the chatter of the hospital machines, it is calm now. My body, though, hasn’t settled. My pulse is quick, my breath unsteady. My anxiousness is feeding itself. I announce I’m going for a walk. “If anything happens,” I instruct Em’s nurse, “please call me.”</p><p>The hospital doors shut behind me, sealing off the trauma I’m leaving inside. I’m consumed by a strange feeling. This moment, so devastating for my little family, is unremarkable to the rest of the world. Forgettable.</p><p>Now that I’m outside, breathing in the cool dark summer air, time settles into a steady, familiar gait. I leave the asphalt and turn left, following the well-lit sidewalk past the hospital’s institutional landscaping: a monotonous row of over-mulched, drought-resistant shrubs. A hundred yards away, a few cars and overnight tractor trailers speed down Highway 101, drowning out the crickets. </p><p>Rounding the west corner of the building, I’m stopped in my path. Ahead of me stands a fence hung with an orange and white sign. WARNING: HELICOPTER LANDING AREA. STAY BACK TWO HUNDRED FEET. I’m struck by the private terror of the last forty-eight hours. This is the spot where, just five hours after she was born, Em arrived at the hospital in a red REACH helicopter. </p><p>The flight delivered the medevac team in fewer than fifteen minutes, whereas my drive to the hospital took forty. It felt like hours, despite the clock on my dashboard telling me otherwise. The scientific definition of speed is distance divided by time. During my drive I imagine new units of measure: times per minute I worried about Em, thoughts per hour of Allison in the maternity ward, trying to recover without me by her side.</p><p>For the two and a half days since Em’s birth, I’ve been clinging to every detail in the present. Even when I tried to take a break from the turmoil inside the hospital, I saw the landing pad, an empty square in the middle of a languid summer evening. I found myself in freefall again.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>We’ll learn later that Em suffers from cerebral palsy (CP), caused by a lack of blood and oxygen to her brain when she was born. We’ll learn that her particular type of CP is called dystonia. It’s marked by involuntary muscle contractions and movements, and typically develops after an injury to the basal ganglia portion of the brain. We’ll learn of the damage to her brain when she’s two weeks old. When it comes, the official diagnosis will feel more like a formality than a big revelation, but that won’t make the consequences any easier to handle.</p><p>CP is a life-long muscle movement disorder. Although the severity can range drastically, for Em, it means she won’t crawl, hold her head up consistently, or even swallow properly. She’ll receive her nutrients through a feeding tube. Her physical and occupational therapies will help, but only incrementally and extremely slowly. It may take her several years to learn to eat or walk or talk—if she ever does.</p><p>Em’s condition will make me acutely aware of the relationship between possibility and time. While she’s young, her brain will have enough neuroplasticity to form new pathways around her injury. For some while, there will be a chance for real improvement. Those pathways, though, will never be perfect, and so we’ll have to throw the typical baby developmental milestones out the window. How long it takes Em to do certain physical activities is not important. Our only goal is for her to be able to do them at some point in her life—if possible. </p><p>I’ll have to adjust my expectations, even to let go of them. It won’t be easy; Em’s limitations will be a daily reminder of the trauma of her birth. Although the intensity of the trauma will fade with time, it will always be in the background, ready to stop the clock at any moment. But now, despite my distorted experiences of time, I find myself hopeful for the value of presence—recognizing the triumph of small improvements.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Nine months after the trauma of Em’s birth, we’re at the Stanford Children’s Specialty Health clinic in San Francisco for a neurology appointment. We are meeting with Em’s neurologist, Dr. Morris, who does a quick evaluation of her reflexes and asks us some questions about her progress. </p><p>Things have been going more smoothly at home lately. Em’s been sleeping better (which means Allison and I have, too). She’s been retching less often. Her therapies have progressed steadily. Time has advanced more normally, giving us room to breathe. But lately, Em’s started doing something new—something that babies usually grow out of by her age.</p><p>When we place her flat on her back, she startles. Her arms fly out wide to her sides. Her hands try to grasp something, and it looks as if she feels like she’s falling. Then she screams. I’ve taken a video of this, though I’m sure it’s nothing to be concerned about. As I show Dr. Morris the clip on my phone, I wait for her to tell us that it’s a phase—that there’s nothing to worry about; that we can drive Em home, eat snacks in the car, let this visit fade behind us.</p><p>But when the video ends, I look at Dr. Morris. Her brow is furrowed. I feel time slipping.</p><p>“Can you show that to me again?” </p><p>I restart the video. It’s as if I’m watching her in slow motion. Her eyes move from my phone to Allison, then to me. She inhales through her nose and exhales from her mouth. After nine months of absorbing the challenges that have followed Em’s birth, I’ve developed an ability to sense the arrival of bad news.</p><p>“I’m a little worried about this,” she says. “There’s a chance that this is something called infantile spasms. They’re a form of seizure and they can be very serious. I’d like to do another EEG study on her.”</p><p>My body feels like it’s heavy and floating at the same time. Like I’m suspended in molasses. But I find words to tether me to this moment and string them together:</p><p>“Okay, when should we schedule that?” </p><p>“No scheduling,” she says. “We’re admitting her for an overnight stay.”</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">“But knowing that it <i>will</i> happen doesn’t mean I know <i>when</i>. Trauma doesn’t wait for permission to reassert itself.” </p>
<p>The crisis of Em’s birth returns in an instant, transforming the room’s silence from banal to threatening. I thought I was an hour from home, but this news thrusts me back into a sea of uncertainty—a present I can’t see beyond. I should have known that something like this would happen; we have a child with an erratic medical condition, and unexpected complications are bound to arise. But knowing that it <i>will</i> happen doesn’t mean I know <i>when</i>. Trauma doesn’t wait for permission to reassert itself. It simply ambushes you.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>When Dr. Morris leaves the room, I notice the clock on the wall has stopped ticking: 11:52 a.m.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Just over two years later, I’m in our backyard relaxing in our new spa with my twelve-year-old stepdaughter, Sara. The jacuzzi was a pandemic purchase. Apparently many other people had the same idea, since it took over three months to arrive. We’re still in the honeymoon period, using it every day.</p><p>Em is asleep in her room. I can see her on the video monitor resting on the patio table. Almost three years after her birth, my constant worry has waned. We’ve gained some semblance of routine. But I can’t help glancing at the monitor, because when trauma returns, I know it won’t knock. It will come barging in.</p><p>I lean my head back in the warm water, thinking about the trip that Allison, Em, and I made earlier today. We drove to San Francisco for Em’s latest eye doctor appointment at UCSF—a routine check-up after her eye surgery three months ago.</p><p>The short trip was remarkable. The drive there, the appointment, and the drive home totaled nearly four hours that Em went without music. Usually she fusses if we don’t play it. Though Em is unable to talk, she spent the ride making happy noises, looking out the window from her car seat. </p><p>In the past, car trips were awful. Em’s uncontrollable muscle movements made riding in the car seat unbearable. I was always the one driving, which meant I couldn’t help while Allison tried to comfort her. The only respite we had from Em’s distress was achieved by playing “Old MacDonald” on a constant loop. Time crawled. </p><p>Lately, my frustration is reduced (though I still have “Old MacDonald” looping in my head the whole drive home). The gaps and intrusions in time manifest more subtly. CP is a life-long disability—I still deal with the trauma of Em’s birth on a daily basis. But I’m learning to adapt, and to understand what our life will look like in the future, even if I can’t predict it. </p><p>Today’s trip wasn’t what most people would call normal. We fed Em meals through a feeding tube and I wheeled her into the hospital in a specialty stroller. But it finally felt like time was passing normally. </p><p>After we got home, we ate dinner as a family. Allison, Sara, and I played a card game while Em played on the iPad. Allison gave Em her medications and rocked her to sleep before heading off to bed. Now, only Sara and I are up, relaxing in the spa.</p><p>“Whoa, check out how pruney my hands are,” Sara says, leaning toward me. </p><p>I look at her hands and then my own. “Yeah, mine are getting pruney, too. We should probably get out. It’s a school night for you.”</p><p>She wipes a bead of water from her brow. “What time is it?”</p><p>“I have no idea.”<br/></p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Four-Letter Prayers]]></title><description><![CDATA[ “What the fuck?!” Pulled over on the side of the road, I dug my fingernails
into the steering wheel and curled my torso around it. “What the fuck?!”
If memory serves me right, these were the third and fourth times I had ever used
the f-word. My Christian upbringing taught me to express myself in more refined
ways than casually slinging expletives. But this was not a casual moment; this
was a moment of desperate prayer. As I sat on the asphalt shoulder of a
Jordanian highway, my baby was lying]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/four-letter-prayers/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60cc9d08874f6108176bc591</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[The True]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Ana Laffoon]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sun, 20 Jun 2021 22:27:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">“W</span>
hat the fuck?!” Pulled over on the side of the road, I dug my fingernails into the steering wheel and curled my torso around it. “What the <i>fuck</i>?!”
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>If memory serves me right, these were the third and fourth times I had ever used the f-word. My Christian upbringing taught me to express myself in more refined ways than casually slinging expletives. But this was not a casual moment; this was a moment of desperate prayer. As I sat on the asphalt shoulder of a Jordanian highway, my baby was lying in a hospital bed, her brain infected and swelling from an illness no one could diagnose.</p><p>Nove—which rhymes with “clove,” and is an Arabic name that means “pinnacle” or “mountaintop”—started presenting symptoms a week before. While meandering through a Christmas bazaar with all five of my small children, I noticed Nove was more wobbly than usual. She was only fourteen months old, but she started walking before she turned one, and was prone to climbing onto tables and scaling bunk-beds in attempts to keep up with her siblings. As I watched her slump to the ground after a few unsure steps, I took note.</p><p>The next day, our family ventured to the mall to see Santa Claus. While waiting in line, a woman next to us screamed.</p><p>“Hey! Hey! Something’s wrong with her!”</p><p>I followed her pointed finger and looked down at Nove, who was strapped to my chest in a baby carrier. Her eyes were rolled back into her now stiff-but-twitching head. One of her arms made abrupt movements away from her body.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">“But this was not a casual moment; this was a moment of desperate prayer.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Jesus. It’s okay,” I reassured myself and the others who were gathering around me. “She’s having a seizure.” The only reason I kept any sense of calm as my baby’s body simultaneously grew rigid and shook is because my son, Abe, had already experienced two febrile, or fever-induced, seizures at this point, both of which were long-lasting and dramatic. Doctors warned me my other children had a heightened likelihood of similar seizures. My husband, Peter, took our older four children home while Nove and I took a taxi to the hospital. On the way, I began praying as if on autopilot, asking God to protect my child and make clear to the doctors whether this was a fever-induced fit.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>“You have nothing to worry about,” the ER doctor assured me, confirming Nove had a low-grade fever and no sign of infection. “Nove will grow out of these febrile seizures by the time she’s five. And it’s likely this is the only one she’ll have.”</p><p>But over the next few days, the seizures kept coming. And they were different from Abe’s, which took over multiple parts of his body. Nove’s seizures, only a few minutes long each, localized in her face and left arm—like rhythmic twitches as she stared, seemingly unconscious, at the ceiling. She also stopped walking. Then she couldn’t sit up without toppling over. And then she started to scream.</p><p>“She has an ear infection,” the next ER doctor confirmed. Worried about the combination of an identified source of infection and repeat seizures—signs the convulsions were not febrile—he admitted Nove to the hospital for a twenty-four-hour observation period. Four days and multiple tests later, we were still there, and no further conclusions had been drawn about the source of the seizures. Nove was deteriorating rapidly. She had lost intentional use of her limbs; they jerked and flew out from her body without apparent cause. She couldn’t reach for her favorite stuffed bunny or clasp her fingers around the doctor’s pen. She was no longer eating solids of any kind, and had barely nursed that morning.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Before stopping on the side of the highway, I had been on my way home to see the four children I hadn’t held in two days, likely the last time I would see them for a while. Nove and I were supposed to be flown out of our home in Amman, Jordan.</p><p>In ten years working with Palestinian and Syrian refugees in the Middle East, my husband Peter and I had multiple experiences with the Jordanian health care system, sometimes with refugees, sometimes for personal needs. We had always been satisfied with the standard of care. But now, four specialists told us we’d exhausted all options when it came to testing and diagnosing our regressing baby.</p><p>“If you can get her out,” our pediatrician said, “get her out. Get her somewhere with more advanced testing.”</p><p>Everything was approved. Multiple specialists signed off on the urgent need of an air-ambulance. A world-class hospital in London approved Nove for immediate admission. Our insurance authorized our request and arranged a medevac company in Istanbul, Turkey to send a plane—one equipped with a doctor, nurse, and the IV set-up Nove required—to shuttle us from Amman to London. But we still had two more days to wait because important people in important offices from all of these aforementioned places needed time to sign important papers. While pages transferred from desk to desk until someone scratched a perfunctory signature, my baby got sicker. And my prayers became more desperate. Desperate for a diagnosis, for a cure, for calm. Desperate for clarity of meaning or purpose to all that was unfolding, for the assurance that it was all going to be okay. Desperate for faith itself. The divine protection I’d been asking for seemed as slow-coming as the bureaucratic scribbles we required to access Nove’s life-giving care.</p><p>I had reached the end of any power held by my American passport or bank account. From the start, I’d been aware of my privilege and what money could buy. The first day Nove underwent her first brain EEG, the nurse informed me the technician required two hundred Jordanian dinar—just shy of three hundred U.S. dollars.</p><p>“Do you still want the test?” she asked.</p><p>I glared at her. “Of course! The money doesn’t matter!”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>My shoulders fell slack as realization crept in. <em>Oh, God</em>. <em>How many parents aren’t able to say “Yes”?</em> Afterwards, I would agree to all of Nove’s following tests with a guilt-ridden gratitude. We had the resources to help keep my child alive, and the thought that other mothers and fathers couldn’t do the same was overwhelming. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I slammed my fist onto the dashboard and unleashed one last guttural roar. I didn’t have time to wait around for God to answer my burning question about why this was happening, or care if He was offended by my obscenity. I had to see my four other children that I hadn’t seen in days, and time was of the essence. In a couple hours I needed to return to the hospital and try to nurse Nove again. Taking a deep breath, I wiped tears from my cheek with the back of my hand and used the neck-line of my shirt to dab my nose.</p><p>Merging onto my neighborhood exit, my longing for my children peaked. I had been so absorbed with Nove the past week that most details of my other kids’ lives were off my radar. I hardly knew which friends were watching what children, had no idea if anyone had eaten a fruit or vegetable in days, and had even forgotten to ask Peter if they were all sleeping through the night.</p><p>Walking up to the front door, I saw my five-year-old, Jed, pressing his face against the window and waving his arms at me. <em>He’s been waiting for me</em>. Two long days had left me pining for my children, and Jed’s innocent excitement revealed he’d felt the same. Swallowing the lump in my throat and pushing down the guilt for those extra minutes I spent crying on the side of the road while my children eagerly awaited my return, I forced a smile.</p><p>“I’m home!” I yelled through the window.</p><p>Within seconds, four affection-hungry babes surrounded me in the foyer of our apartment. Kneeling on the floor, little padded hands rested on my arms and shoulders, small noses brushed against my cheeks, and the chill of the damp, sad December day thawed under the warm embrace of tiny limbs. I wished it could last forever.</p><p>But it didn’t. It couldn’t.</p><p>Driving back to the hospital, I passed the pull-off where, only a couple hours before, I’d flung four-letter prayers towards Heaven. The warmth of being with my big four dissipated, and I steeled my heart as I returned to my hurting baby and the acute reality of questions—both medical and spiritual—that remained unanswered.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Before the triplets were born, Peter and I spent four years working on the Jordanian-Syrian border with thousands of refugees who had just escaped a gruesome civil war. Almost every day, bombs from Syria vibrated the ground beneath our home and painted the night sky an eerie neon green. Day after day, I sat with mothers and fathers who held dying children in their arms before crossing the border. Shrapnel. Stray bullets. Assad’s regime ravaging his own people.</p><p>I knew my shock was secondary. Still, it was painful enough that I developed ways of numbing the graphic tales I heard over and over again. In my stronger moments, I prayed. Turning to prayer for peace and petition was a habit I’d built my life around when times were trying. That’s not to say that the act of prayer dissolved the pain, but it did make discomfort at least a little more endurable, believing that there was some redemptive glory in the mere act of faithfulness, patience, and trust.</p><p>When I couldn’t find relief in prayer, I distracted myself. I blasted music. I cooked. I decorated Pinterest boards. I followed Beyoncé and Ellen on Instagram and suppressed the realities of the people around me, including my own. Distraction proved to be shallow and often ineffective. But ping-ponging between put-together piety and denial of the things coming apart kept me functional enough to do my day job and preserve the familiar shape of my faith—to keep believing that good things would come out of the bad, someday, somehow.</p><p>With Nove in her condition, I didn’t want to numb myself to what she was experiencing. I wanted to be present for all of it. A mother’s love can reach beyond reason, and in a strange way a part of me desired to feel what she was feeling so that I could be close to her, so that I could bear the pain instead of her. If there was a physical way to switch places with her—to take on her suffering for her—I wouldn’t have hesitated. Once again, I was reminded of the faith I was finding hard to grasp: faith that was not just running low and wearing thin, but faith that was hard to grasp in the intangible sense of comprehending the redeeming, sacrificial love of a God that could intervene but wasn’t. Prayer was different for me before Nove got sick. It became more erratic as my concern peaked and understanding waned. My Christian faith upheld that God <em>could</em> take on my suffering for me, that He <em>had</em>. So where was God now? In the midst of my most heartfelt pain? In the midst of Nove’s physical pain? I didn’t see the working hand of the divine. And I certainly didn’t feel it.</p><p>Of course, great thinkers and theologians have wrestled with questions of theodicy for centuries: the coexistence of suffering and a merciful, gracious God. Having been nearly broken at the hands of their own respective suffering, many have arrived at eloquent and profound conjectures about God’s intersection with pain. But at the height of Nove’s suffering, I was incapable of hearing wisdom or taking comfort from the words of philosophers and theologians. In these early hospital days, my pain proved base and unrefined. Gut responses to Nove’s illness—anger, confusion, fear—led my heart, proving to me that the primitive “fight or flight” response isn’t just a physical reaction to a threat but also an emotional and spiritual one, cutting off headspace where logic, reason, or even wisdom might usually prevail. I had no desire to be propelled forward in hope or healing by heralded greats of my faith who’d already done their grappling with God and written about it. I even found it hard to accept consolation from well-meaning family and friends who sent me Bible verses and “thoughts to chew on” concerning the greatness of God.</p><p>My image of God was the only appropriate contender with whom I could enter the ring and wrestle. After a lifetime of “staying the course,” or “fighting the good fight,” to quote the New Testament, I felt owed an explanation.</p><p>During this first week in the hospital in Jordan, in rare moments of stillness, I often thought back to a simple sentence I grew up hearing in church: “Jesus wept.” This was, I believe, the bubbling up of years of my faith training. I had long-practiced the art of choosing to see the light in dark situations. But this was the darkest place I’d known yet, and I wasn’t wishing for any silver lining that didn’t include Nove’s full recovery. Still, these two words found their way into my quiet moments.</p><p>The short sentence—subject of some of the longest interpretive debates and discussions in Christian thought—hails from a passage in the Book of John. My faith tradition holds that two thousand years ago—in a place not far from the Jordanian desert my family called “home”—Lazarus, a beloved friend of Jesus, fell sick and died. In the story, Jesus heard Lazarus was fatally ill but idled for days before making the long journey to visit his suffering friend. By the time Jesus approached the town of Bethany, Lazarus had been dead for four days, buried in a tomb, and mourned by many.</p><p>What follows in the Biblical passage is the account of Mary, Lazarus’s sister and Jesus’s friend, confronting Jesus as he entered the village. She charged at Jesus, threw herself on the ground, clawed at his sandals and cried: “If you had been here, the one I love wouldn’t have died!”</p><p>As I sat in the hospital with Nove, I identified with Mary. I imagined her recorded words having a similarly unbridled tone to my roadside prayers.</p><p>The Bible recounts this response to Mary’s breaking open: Jesus wept. Before this experience with Nove, these words had been a sign to me of Jesus’s love for Mary and her family. A sign that the Son of God had empathy for humanity.</p><p>But I was angry. There’s no plainer way to put it. I didn’t want God’s compassion or tears. All I wanted was for my baby to be better and life to be normal again. Mary’s story pointed to Jesus’s nearness in the chaos. For me, though, nearness wasn’t enough. I wanted an end to the chaos. For my child, who was barely hanging on, I needed a miracle like the life-saving one Jesus granted to Lazarus.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>The next two days at the hospital in Amman were a jumble as we waited to go to London. The quiet moments of Nove peacefully sleeping in my arms flew by; the long, extended periods of semi-conscious screaming and terrible experiences changing IV catheters and still waiting for the medevac team felt unending. The source of infection and swelling in Nove’s brain—encephalitis—remained ambiguous. What we did know was that the encephalitis was causing the seizures and collapse of mental and physical capabilities. I wondered with each passing hour whether she was losing ground she wouldn’t be able to regain.</p><p>Finally, after six days, it was time to leave. The flights to London were smooth, but difficult. I went alone with Nove—Peter and the kids followed later on a commercial flight—and held Nove on my lap for the nearly three hour trip to Istanbul, then the next four hours from there to London. She writhed in pain and confusion. I did my best to comfort her. The hardest part of the trip was the final, hour-long ambulance ride from the small airport where we landed to the hospital in downtown London. Having hardly slept on the plane, Nove was beyond tired. Fire lit up my back from holding an almost-toddler in awkward positions for nine straight hours.</p><p>But my discomfort dissolved when we arrived at the hospital. A team of doctors and nurses were waiting for us at close to midnight with files and clipboards in hand. I’ll never forget the sight of them standing in that hallway.</p><p>“We’ve been studying Nove’s case today, and we’d like to dictate it to you as we understand it,” the leading pediatric neurologist said. “Stop us if we get a detail wrong or leave something out.”</p><p>I didn’t have to interrupt once. The team quoted exact dates, times, and lengths of seizures. They listed each test undergone and what the results had or had not revealed. They told me of their plan for the next seventy-two hours: what additional tests Nove faced, what they had discussed as plausible causes for her deterioration, and what they hoped to learn about her case.</p><p>“Right now,” the doctor wrapped up, “I want you to sleep. Both of you. It’s what you need the most.”</p><p>At his words, my knees buckled and I hunched over my baby. Relief let loose and so did the tears. Multiple hands found my shoulders and back, and someone lifted a sleeping Nove out of my arms.</p><p>“You can let your guard down now,” a nurse whispered while helping me into a chair. “We’ve got you. Both of you.”</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>The next day was Christmas Eve. Peter and the kids made it to London and settled into an Airbnb. My sister-in-law, who had come from the States with her family to support us, strung colorful lights around the room, and I tethered seven felt stockings to the bars of Nove’s crib. Despite the joy of the season, the day felt heavy to me. It was partly due to my own drawn-out displeasure with my crass, doubtful questions I’d been asking of God. Having relied on my faith as a constant despite circumstance, I was beginning to grieve this loss of assurance.</p><p>But the day also felt heavy for another reason: I knew what was happening at midnight.</p><p>Nove was scheduled to receive a slew of tests, ranging from slightly uncomfortable to painful. Because of her age and current medications, she could only receive a light sedation to help her through them.</p><p>At a quarter to midnight, a team of four doctors and nurses entered our room. I was to stay in the parents’ waiting area across the hospital floor. Before I exited, I took one last look at my sleeping Nove. Her golden hair glowed in the soft light opposite her crib. I hovered my hand above her small back, not wanting to wake her, and mouthed, “I love you.” Squeezing my stomach tight, I released a deep breath as slowly and evenly as I could, trying to relax a taut bundle of nerves and guilt from leaving my baby to suffer for her own good.</p><p>For ten minutes I sat in silence in the small parents’ room of the pediatric long-term care unit. Peter and I had decided it was best for him to stay back with the other children, but now I regretted it. I felt alone, helpless. Closing my eyes, I attempted to pray. I tried to get back to the Ana I knew—a person who trusted that God was good and who prayed from a stance of faith, not fear. A person who could lean into the nearness of God and sense Jesus weeping over my child’s suffering and my pain. But since my moment on the side of the road a few days ago—since screaming an over-simplified admittance that God wasn’t showing up for me or Nove the way I believed was within the realm of possibility—I had found it hard to pray. I managed to utter “help her, help her, help her” a few times. But my honest, raw sentiments hadn’t changed, and my questions still hadn’t been answered.</p><p>I glanced down at my phone: three minutes until midnight. Earlier that afternoon, I updated friends and family about Nove’s tests via Instagram and Facebook. I asked anyone who was able to join me in singing “Silent Night” at midnight London time—a song of hope for my baby as she began the challenges this night would bring. At exactly 12 a.m., I started singing. I barely made it through one line before I began choking on the words. Prayer wasn’t the only thing that now felt disingenuous. Singing “all is calm” about a “tender infant” did, too.</p><p>I persevered for Nove, but as I reached the second verse, I heard it: a terrible, chilling scream from down the hall. I pulled my knees into my chest and covered my ears. My carol halted, overtaken by an audible lament.</p><p>Simultaneously, I felt a buzzing from my phone, followed by a series of dings, one after another, growing in number and frequency. Concerned it could be Peter trying to reach me, I took a breath and peeked at the screen. Instead of a single message from Peter, I found dozens of notifications, from photos to videos, of friends and family across the world, sharing that they were singing for Nove: individuals standing and singing in their kitchens, families lifting their voices in front of sparkling trees, entire congregations clutching lit candles and releasing words of hope in honor of my baby.</p><p>That Christmas Eve, Nove endured four lumbar punctures (more popularly known as spinal taps), a handful of throat and nasal swabs, and a tray-full of blood samples. I heard the sound of those tests; it was anything but a “silent night.” And yet, as Nove slept and recovered from her tests, a flicker of unexpected comfort rose in me. It wasn’t a superficial presumption that, in the end, everything would be okay. And it didn’t erase the fact that my child spent an hour of the night screaming in pain. But it was enough hope to last until morning. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Over the next two weeks, we got answers. Nove’s life-threatening bout of encephalitis was caused by the common cold. More specifically, Influenza A and something called “Corona.” For us, clear results meant medication could be tailored to Nove’s needs. She responded quickly and well. Her doctors ran further tests to decipher whether a predisposition to traumatic reactions of this nature existed, and if we needed to be concerned about future life-threatening occurrences. Nothing came back conclusive, but our spirits lifted as Nove recovered her strength. The day after a specialist had told us it might be six months until Nove regained her ability to walk, she pulled herself up to standing. The following day, she took several individual steps. In less than a week, she toddled around the hospital floor, awkwardly bending arms and legs as if she remembered them working for her before, but wasn’t certain she could trust them presently. My baby’s hesitant physical movements served as a visual for what was taking place deep down inside my faith world—trying to recover rhythms and grace of the past, unsure I could trust them to sustain me beyond the moment but hopeful that something was beginning to rebuild.</p><p>Soon, Nove’s rehabilitation surpassed my emotional recovery. Over a few months, with the help of six to nine rehab appointments each week and heavy daily doses of anti-seizure medication, she returned to the Nove we remembered. And yet, pain changes a person. It changed how I perceived God and understood the workings of my own faith. Before Nove got sick, I didn’t have the vantage point to realize how transactional and expectation-laden my belief system was. As often and easily as I had professed the “goodness” or “greatness” of God, I had rarely questioned how I defined or understood good or great. I assumed they meant I served a God who agreed with my interpretation of these words—health, safety, stability, happiness, abundance. In a way, I realized I had approached prayer as a magical incantation, that, if I said the right words the right number of times from the right state of heart (“right” being a relative word), my deepest desires would be granted. One might think that a thorough reading of the Biblical canon and an honest glance at the lives of fellow Christians around me would have abated these rosy presumptions. But it wasn’t until Nove’s illness—and really, my lingering trauma months after her physical recovery—that my faith perspective seismically shifted.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-width-wide kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/nove500-3.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Nove at the hospital in Amman</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-width-wide kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/nove500-1.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Nove today</figcaption></img></figure><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-width-wide kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/nove500-2.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Nove today</figcaption></img></figure><p>In March 2020, two months after we returned to Jordan with our healing Nove, I had a strange and unusually-vivid dream. I was walking on the shore of a long, cloudy beach, staring out at a grey sea. The cold water lapped against my ankles and I was fixated on what looked like people stranded far out in the middle of the ocean. They seemed to be drowning—like the swelling waves were about to overcome them. From behind me, I heard Nove’s voice.</p><p>“Mama, come! Mama, come!”</p><p>I turned to see her standing on a small, grassy slope, rays of sun bouncing off her blonde head, a smile stretched across her face. She held her hand out toward me, beckoning me to join her, to play with her. I longed to leave the sea behind, to run after my joyful toddler. But I was rooted to my spot in the sand, and troubled by what I thought I’d seen in the waters. The dream shifted, and I found myself standing in my kitchen. My five children were seated around our table, eating snacks and laughing freely.</p><p>“Mama, come!” someone called.</p><p>But I couldn’t peel myself away from the window above the sink. In the dream, my line of dusty olive trees was replaced by a swirling sea. Again, I saw people struggling against its violent waters. Torn between beloved babes and struggling strangers, I hesitated before reaching for the latch on the window.</p><p>I don’t know what would have come next. I woke to a weird sensation of longing and helplessness. In vivid pictures, the dream expressed the spiritual restlessness I felt during my waking hours. Like I was living between a tension of genuine thankfulness that, once again, all five of my children were healthy and under one roof, and the newfound awareness of what it actually feels like to live through a first-hand traumatic experience.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>It has been well over a year since that dream, and nearing a year and a half since Nove fell sick. I’ve spent countless hours wading through lingering questions related to suffering, recovery, and faith that follow trauma. Sometimes, I fear I’ve arrived at a more cynical view of faith in general. But more often, I feel like I’ve drawn closer to—and continue to approach—a more authentic and holistic understanding of the God I thought I knew so well before.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">“I feel like I’ve drawn closer to a more holistic understanding of the God I thought I knew so well.”</p>
<p>I’ve recognized that the salve to my soul-suffering began in mourning and tears: fleeting feelings of God’s nearness amidst my audacious grief (even the kind of grief that might communicate irreverence or a lack of propriety), and overtly expressed empathy from my global community. My unanswered prayers for an initial swift and complete healing for Nove forged the possibility of accepting relief in unexpected forms. Despite my initial rejection of it, I’ve reread the Biblical account of Mary and Lazarus over a dozen times in the past year. As time goes by, I feel more and more a sense of completeness at the words “Jesus wept.”
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Truthfully, I’ve settled into these two words as the source of God’s answer. This passage is a partial answer to my prayers, an answer permitting me to stay near to pain, to take comfort in knowing that I do not weep alone, to consider suffering as a necessary—even holy—experience of faith.</p><p>So far, Nove’s story has continued as well as I could hope: my baby has grown into a toddler, refusing vegetables and fighting bedtimes and pointing bossy fingers at older siblings. And while the comforting end of our medical nightmare has undoubtedly altered the course of my life, it is the middle of her tale—the pain, the questions, the vision of a weeping Jesus in the midst of un-silent nights—that roots an ongoing recovery of faith and informs an expanding vision of hope in spite of a world in pain.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[No Justice, No Peace?]]></title><description><![CDATA[On Law Enforcement And Criminal Justice Throughout History
Professor Hadar Aviram interviews Professor Joel Harrington and PhD candidate
Mohammed Allehbi, with an introduction by Symposeum editor, Nissim Lebovits.
Nissim Lebovits: Last year, the murders of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and
George Floyd (and countless others before them) precipitated mass protests—first
in Minnesota, then nationally, then across the globe—against police brutality
and systemic racism. Facing graphic, incontrove]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/no-justice-no-peace/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60cca6c3874f6108176bc5e8</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Necessary]]></category><category><![CDATA[Interview]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Hadar Aviram]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sun, 20 Jun 2021 22:27:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><strong>On Law Enforcement And Criminal Justice Throughout History</strong></p><p><em>Professor Hadar Aviram interviews Professor Joel Harrington and PhD candidate Mohammed Allehbi, with an introduction by </em>Symposeum<em> editor, Nissim Lebovits.</em></p><p><em><strong>Nissim Lebovits:</strong> Last year, the murders of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and George Floyd (and countless others before them) precipitated mass protests—first in Minnesota, then nationally, then across the globe—against police brutality and systemic racism. Facing graphic, incontrovertible evidence of a broken system, Americans began to have unprecedented conversations; after decades of work by activists, debates about defunding or even abolishing the police entered the mainstream, with </em><a href="https://www.reuters.com/article/us-minneapolis-police-poll-exclusive-idUSKBN23I380"><em>39% of Americans in June 2020 in favor</em></a><em> of “completely dismantling police departments and giving more financial support to address homelessness, mental health, and domestic violence.” A year later, a large majority of Americans still support </em><a href="https://www.vox.com/22372342/police-reform-derek-chauvin"><em>at least piecemeal reform</em></a><em> of the police, including reallocating funds to social and mental health services.</em></p><p><em>Yet even as Americans scrutinize the complex entanglements of justice and power, we are too often restricted to a twofold conversation in which law enforcement is depicted by one side as an unqualified force for good and by the other as intrinsically, inevitably oppressive. As </em><a href="https://www.thedriftmag.com/new-sheriff-in-town/"><em>Jonathon Booth has written for </em>The Drift</a><em>, when “deciding which elements of our country’s law enforcement apparatus are necessary, what histories can be unwritten, and what powers must be curtailed or eliminated … we must not simply attack the right-wing ‘thin blue line’ narrative; we must confront our own myths as well.” We can, in other words, advance a reasoned and self-critical vision of better law enforcement and criminal justice without succumbing to </em><a href="https://thefederalist.com/2020/09/04/the-left-doesnt-really-want-to-abolish-the-police-they-want-to-be-the-police/"><em>reactionary fearmongering</em></a><em>.</em></p><p><em>While the prevailing impulse of thinkers, activists, and politicians discussing this issue has been to turn to the future—tacitly acknowledging that </em><a href="https://www.vox.com/policy-and-politics/2020/6/12/21283813/george-floyd-blm-abolish-the-police-8cantwait-minneapolis"><em>many proposals for change are without historical precedent</em></a><em>—this, too, is a form of myopia. To achieve a just system, we must also draw on the counsel of the past—and not just in the West. </em></p><p><em>Below, we have brought together three scholars of criminal justice and law enforcement, each of whom brings very different expertise to bear on the issue at hand. Guiding the conversation is Hadar Aviram, a scholar of contemporary criminal justice and civil rights in the United States. She is joined by Joel Harrington, a historian who focuses on legal and religious aspects of social history in Early Modern Germany, and Mohammed Allehbi, a PhD candidate researching law enforcement in Medieval Islamic cities. Via email they discussed the diversity of historical law enforcement, and what that means for our contemporary moment.</em></p><p/><p><strong>Hadar Aviram: In criminology—as it is taught in the United Kingdom and the United States—the emergence of a professional, specialized police force is usually dated to the foundation of Scotland’s River Police in 1798. And yet your work finds that law enforcement, in a variety of forms, precedes this period. Tell us more.</strong></p><p><strong>Mohammed Allehbi:</strong> The institution of law enforcement reaches far back in recorded history, far earlier than eighteenth century Europe. It existed in societies within the premodern Mediterranean and Middle East, such as Ptolemaic Egypt, the Roman and Byzantine Empires, and the Italian city states. In particular, the Islamic world has had a long tradition of policing from its earliest eras into the late Ottoman period. I look at the formation of dedicated and preventive law enforcement, known as the <em>shurṭa</em>, in the Islamic world, a few centuries after the birth of Islam. In the medieval Islamic Middle East and Mediterranean, cities which had populations in the hundreds of thousands, like Baghdad, consisted of a stratified criminal administrative system which included magistrates, district commanders, and captains of the night watch, wardens, and policemen.</p><p><strong>Joel Harrington:</strong> In contrast to the Islamic world, more interventionist law enforcement evolved gradually in Europe before the eighteenth century. During the Early Modern Period (ca. 1450-1750), the Holy Roman Empire was a highly decentralized entity of some three hundred states of various sizes, each maintaining its own criminal jurisdiction. Emperors attempted to maintain some formal coherence through legal proclamations—most notably the 1532 Criminal Code known as the <em>Carolina</em>—but they had little power over local interpretation and application. The transition in law enforcement during these centuries was a gradual shift from the typical medieval reliance on local custom, lay accusation, and private settlement to a much expanded role for state authorities. In other words, beginning around 1500, we see the foundations for the modern Western model of proactive, bureaucratic, and preventative law enforcement.</p><p>The Early Modern notion of “police” was much more closely related to “policy,” meaning ordinances about public health and safety. While many cities had small numbers of dedicated watchmen or soldiers, there was nothing remotely like the concept of “police” as a body or institution. One of the earliest European examples I know of is the first police commissioner of Paris, appointed in the late 1660s under Louis XIV. That said, there was an alternate form of law enforcement very much at work before then.</p><p><strong>HA: So, Joel, in pre-modern Europe, there’s no visibility of police officers walking the streets?</strong></p><p><strong>JH:</strong> In the German city I know best, Nuremberg, there were maybe a dozen constables patrolling a city of forty thousand people. So visible only if you’re looking hard. “Policing” of criminal offenses from the sixteenth to eighteenth centuries relied almost entirely on either private accusations or paid informers (who were popularly reviled). In other words, law enforcement was highly reactive and sporadic, with just the mildest inklings of some preventive measures. </p><p><strong>HA: Is this any different in the context of the Abbasid empire, Mohammed?</strong></p><p><strong>MA:</strong> Medieval Islamic law enforcement combined preventive, investigative, and responsive roles. Muslim rulers needed criminal justice and policing to exert their royal authority over law and their expanding cosmopolitan cities. The overseer of this law enforcement institution acted as the governor of the imperial capital or the sub-governor in a provincial capital. He and his subordinates searched for and prevented crime with their forces, using patrols, arrests, mass incarceration and often brutal punishments. They presided over the whole criminal process. </p><p><strong>HA: Were these patrols and arrests in any way reminiscent of today’s stop-and-frisk activities?</strong></p><p><strong>MA: </strong>Absolutely! In cities like Baghdad and Cairo, a night watch would routinely patrol throughout the city at all hours, while guards were stationed in various neighborhoods, and their activities were constantly supervised by their superiors. If the crime was significant enough, it would warrant the combined energies of the criminal justice system, resulting in policemen hunting down suspects in the usual places, such as taverns, gambling dens, brothels, and abandoned areas—not too dissimilar from the hangouts described in modern criminal fiction and detective stories. </p><p><strong>HA: It’s difficult to talk about policing without thinking about law</strong>, <strong>and in the periods both of you study, religion and law were not always easily separated. What role did religion play in law enforcement? </strong></p><p><strong>MA: </strong>Similar to European societies during the Reformation and Counter Reformation, imperial Muslim governments used law enforcement to demarcate religious boundaries. Typically, they did so by arresting or punishing individuals—either from rival Muslim sects or other faiths entirely—who acted in a manner that upset the dominant social-religious norm. Similarly, the shurṭa invested and prosecuted heresy or general opposition to the reigning religious orthodoxy.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">“The institution of law enforcement reaches far back in recorded history, far earlier than eighteenth century Europe.”</p>
<p>Religious demographics dramatically influenced criminal justice approaches. For example, since medieval Iraqi cities had Muslim majorities, law enforcement was more focused on stamping out heresy or sectarianism. In the Islamic cities of Egypt, however, a large segment of the inhabitants were Christian, which resulted in instances where Egyptian law enforcement severely policed non-Muslims. The shurṭa often acted according to government orders rather than on religious sentiment, as the nature of these policies were at times impromptu and volatile. Ultimately—though religion was an important component of law enforcement—the shurṭa prioritized fighting crimes of a social and economic nature.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>A fascinating aspect of criminal justice and policing in the premodern Islamic world is that it epitomizes a secular and sacred divide. While the shurṭa dealt with the political-administrative practices of governmental law, a separate juridical system existed to enforce religious law. These two legal systems clashed from time to time—particularly when the shurṭa enforced non-Quranic punishments as deterrents to crime—but this separation of law enforcement into political and religious components is unique to the Islamic world, and adds a new dimension to the history of criminal law. Its influence can still be seen in the modern world.</p><p><strong>JH:</strong> As Mohammed mentions, during the European religious reforms of the sixteenth century, many religious and other moral offenses were criminalized and punished by secular legal authorities, such as fornication, adultery, public drunkenness, “bad housekeeping” (usually involving drunken, spendthrift, and violent fathers), and so on. There was virtually no boundary between secular and religious offenses, except sometimes in questions of jurisdiction. Suicide and homosexuality, both considered crimes against God, were typically punished severely, the former through public shaming and property confiscation, the latter through corporal and sometimes capital punishment. This was generally true in both Protestant and Catholic states. Punishment of such offenses became less severe in the eighteenth century, but legal repercussions and social stigma lingered long afterwards, into the twentieth century.</p><p><strong>HA: In her book </strong><em><strong>Women, Crime, and Character</strong></em><strong>, Nicola Lacey reminds us that pre-Victorian criminal fact-finding relied on reputation, rather than on forensic evidence gathering; accordingly, juries and other actors in the criminal justice system based their decisions on their preexisting perceptions of the accused. How much did law enforcement in Early Modern Germany and the Abbasid empire rely on reputation?</strong></p><p><strong>JH: </strong>Extensively! In deciding whether to follow up on criminal accusations, including through the use of “special interrogation” (i.e., torture), German legal authorities always began with the social status and reputation of the accused. The same is true of subsequent punishment. So in a case of adultery between a married householder and a maid, for instance, the man would likely be given a fine and maybe some public penance, while the single, unmarried (and often poor) maid might be publicly flogged, briefly imprisoned, and then banished. Unemployed vagrants were similarly regarded with more suspicion and punished more severely than property-holding citizens. But sixteenth-century Germans by no means invented such hierarchies and in fact based their valuation of <em>mala fama</em> (bad reputation) on Roman legal precedents. So there was a clear and persistent double standard based on gender, social status, and place of origin.</p><p><strong>MA:</strong> Much like in Germany, law enforcement in the Abbasid empire and the rest of the medieval Islamic world heavily relied on reputation. Some medieval Muslim jurists argued that the shurṭa could, without witnesses, initiate the arrests and/or torture of suspects who were known felons, habitual offenders, or even just came from bad neighborhoods. On the other hand, these same jurists advised that individuals with good family pedigrees and reputations should be merely questioned, and lighter penalties applied.</p><p><strong>HA: In the United States, the FBI has long used psychological profiling to identify likely suspects. In the periods that you study, do you see any interest in the psychology of suspects? For example, trying to extrapolate or estimate why people might behave in a certain way? </strong></p><p><strong>MA:</strong> Honestly, I wish I had more information, as this is a fascinating topic, but sources don’t reveal any interest by law enforcement in trying to understand the behavioral roots of crime. They just wanted to arrest and suppress crime. Perhaps it was still too early in the medieval Islamic period for such ideas to be explored. </p><p><strong>JH:</strong> Early Modern legal authorities clearly made use of psychological pressure in interrogation, but before the seventeenth century, the emphasis was always more on <em>whether</em> a suspect had committed a crime rather than <em>why</em>. The greater influence of physicians during the later seventeenth and eighteenth century resulted in more successful “insanity defenses,” with a noticeable shift in the attribution of direct diabolical temptation to melancholy and other physical factors in certain crimes, especially infanticide. </p><p>That said, there was tremendous popular speculation and curiosity about what motivated some spectacular killers, such as parental child killers or serial murderers. Many colorful pamphlets attempted to get inside the mind of killers, offering some sense to otherwise senseless crimes. The Nuremberg executioner Frantz Schmidt (1554-1634), whose journal I have studied, attempted such explanations during the second half of his remarkable forty-five year career. He theorized about social influences and personal choices among the many criminals he punished. So it’s clearly something that a lot of people thought about, but I’m not aware of it having a significant influence on investigations or punishments before the eighteenth century.</p><p><strong>HA: One of our contemporary debates involves the militarization of the police. In the second half of the twentieth century, we’ve seen the migration of military tactics and technology into the domestic law enforcement sphere. Joel, is there any interaction between these two realms in Early Modern Europe?</strong></p><p><strong>JH:</strong> Some states, like France, had rural military units <em>(</em>the<em> Maréchaussée</em>) specially charged with capturing or killing highwaymen and smugglers, but the function of constables and watchmen in most cities was to raise public “hue and cry” in the event of fire or a fleeing criminal. Some of the latter officials had weapons, but most had no more than a club or other blunt instrument. During the later part of the Early Modern Period, military organization, and, to a certain degree, weaponry, played a key role in the formation of bodies closer to what we think of as “the police.”</p><p><strong>HA: Mohammed, do you see any spillover of military techniques into the realm of policing in the Middle East?</strong></p><p><strong>MA:</strong> Actually, it was the other way around. A significant portion of the military becomes a policing power. In the seventh century, law enforcement duties were given to the elite corps of the Muslim-Arab tribal armies who had conquered the Middle East and had also enforced government authority over the troops. The government increasingly delegated criminal cases to the shurṭa, at the expense of the judiciary, because the shurṭa had the inquisitorial power and coercive force to search for and catch criminals. </p><p>With the rise of city life, the government needed to exert its sovereignty; rulers turned to the shurṭa to maintain public order within this rapid urbanization. Gradually, the shurṭa transitioned from being an elite military corps to the overseers of the criminal justice system. Although the shurṭa were still militarized, and the members taken from army units, they became deeply immersed in municipal law. </p><p>Shockingly, the recruitment of members of the local population into shurṭa was necessary because of a loss of control and diminishment of financial resources which meant that the government could not rely on the considerable army forces of the past. As a result, the Abbasid authorities’ “monopoly on violence” declined (to borrow Max Weber’s famous phrase), as did the effectiveness of law enforcement. </p><p><strong>HA: We are at a pivotal moment in law enforcement policy, in which cultural and political attention is focused on how much and what kind of policing we want and need. Were these debates “political” in the periods you study? Were people concerned with the political and social implications of the role of law enforcement in their lives? </strong></p><p><strong>MA:</strong> In the first centuries of imperial Islam (c. 610–1258), the literate elite of the Islamic world debated whether the nature of criminal justice and its effectiveness was rooted in government policy and action, or in religious jurisprudence. Those who favored an empowered government contended that the shurṭa’s use of coercion, discretion, and excessive violence curbed crime and were essential to administrative tradition. On the other hand, those who argued for religious jurisprudence criticized the shurṭa’s lack of oversight, and their ad-hoc judgements and practices. These critics claimed that disproportionate or extreme penalties escalated crime and contravened sacred law. Instead, they proposed reforms where judges and jurists would have dominant roles in criminal law, and the criminal magistrates would act in accordance with Islamic jurisprudence. Outside of these literate elites, the populace voiced their dissent at the shurṭa’s autocratic methods, using riots and even urban militias, which would attack and exile policemen. </p><p>When we compare these Muslim elites to today’s conversation around policing, we can see parallels to today’s pro- and anti-reform groups. However, the “masses,” so to speak, actually demonstrated against the police and even fought them. Although there was no movement for less police control, I suspect that, had one existed, many of these people would have gravitated toward it.</p><p><strong>JH: </strong>Sixteenth-century political rulers in Europe realized very early on that a key part of the price for achieving their extended territorial ambitions was delivering on their promise to improve law and order. Even politicians in non-democratic societies need popular support at some level. Unfortunately the heightened popular and official expectations for better law enforcement remained hampered by pathetically inadequate means, which contrasts with the well-funded Abbasid system that Mohammed describes. Much of this situation owed to the reliance on traditional methods of accusation and enforcement, with the only “innovation” being the increased reliance on judicial torture. As I mentioned before, even in a highly advanced city-state such as Nuremberg, there was no such thing as “the police,” just a dozen or so “archers” and a handful of begging beadles with ill-defined roles. </p><p>I joke that the popular cry at the time would have been “Fund the police!” but of course back then no one could even have conceptualized an organized body charged with investigating or catching suspected criminals. They just wanted more robbers and killers caught, somehow. The closest analogy is the American Wild West, where the great majority of offenders roamed freely and when some unlucky perpetrators were actually captured, legal authorities made the most political capital of their success with violent public executions, another hallmark of the age.</p><p><strong>HA: Do you see any talk of the excesses of law enforcement? Corruption, violence, abuse of force, and maybe talk of how to prevent this and curb law enforcement overreach?</strong></p><p><strong>JH:</strong> Corruption, violence, and abuse—yes! Most low-level enforcers were poorly paid and thus relied extensively on bribery and extortion. It was a well-known fact in most jurisdictions, and some individuals were punished on this account, but there were no major reforms until the eighteenth century. It was also common knowledge that many such state officials, especially informers, worked both sides of the law, occasionally resulting in some embarrassing public scandals for their employers.</p><p><strong>MA: </strong>In the Abbasid era, we see a similar outcome to what Joel is describing, but for very different reasons. Due to the shurṭa’s high ranking position and their complete control of criminal justice, their activities were rarely supervised by the central government unless they were not producing adequate results in their law enforcement. Corruption, abuse of power, and even callous killings happened regularly. There are a few notable cases where these law enforcers would arrest someone on false charges, steal the accused’s money, and even kill the accused to try to cover up their actions. These law enforcement agents would then even escape retribution with the complicity of the authorities. </p><p>Such actions provoked resentment in the local population and resulted in the formation of urban gangs to enact reprisals against these hated policemen. Furthermore, since some policemen and informers were recruited from former criminals, they were known to engage in criminal activities while in government service. Although there were a few attempts to reform the system, corruption habitually reasserted itself. </p><p><strong>HA: How was policing funded, supported, and legitimized, and what were the effects of this?</strong></p><p><strong>MA:</strong> The legitimacy of the shurṭa, as enforcers of criminal law and policing, emerged from both their prestigious origins as the elite military corps, as well as from pragmatic governmental need of their services. In the eighth and ninth centuries, the shurṭa was salaried by government funds, as they were a recognized extension of imperial sovereignty. However, financial crises caused some governments to give the shurṭa additional duties as urban tax collectors, which allowed members of the force to take a substantial cut of the proceeds, as a substitute for their lack of a salary. This role caused the shurṭa to further lose its respectability in the eyes of the public. </p><p><strong>JH:</strong> Again, the situation was almost the opposite in Early Modern Germany. Since there was very little <em>ex officio</em> policing, there were virtually no costs. This is one of the reasons there was always such a gap between Early Modern aspirations for better law enforcement and actual achievements. I would credit both the stronghold of traditional thinking among authorities and their reluctance to spend more money on something that had long been so cheap. Most systems relied on unpaid and untrained amateurs, local notables, which political leaders attempted to counterbalance by providing law codes and other written instructions—which were often ignored. </p><p>The very notion of proactive, preventive policing remained an alien concept in this time. Everyone was expected to share in the responsibility for “good public order,” but of course political authorities shouldered the blame for failures. As always, frustrations with perceived rising crime rates led to more severe punishments but relatively few procedural or institutional changes.</p><p><strong>HA: Both of you study the complex interactions between urban and state development and law enforcement, which brings up one of the major questions in the history of criminal justice. On one hand, some thinkers (like Norbert Elias and Emile Durkheim) contend that things are getting better as interpersonal violence fades away, people feel safer over time, and social change fuels a shift from repressive to restitutive law. On the other hand, we have the more pessimistic perspective that power has become more pervasive and pernicious, more aimed at the soul (think of Michel Foucault’s work). How do your works illuminate this debate?</strong></p><p><strong>MA:</strong> What I found in my research is that these modernization theories—rooted mainly in generalization of Western legal history—do not fit neatly to the developments of criminal justice in the premodern Islamic world. On the one hand, Muslim narrative sources indicate that militarized control over law enforcement introduced stability and expanded authority over burgeoning cities. Conversely, these autocratic methods (particularly in periods of social and economic crises) in Baghdad only escalated resentment among a substantial portion of the population and actually perpetuated more violence and disorder to the detriment of public order. In essence, the use of coercion and excessive violence by criminal magistrates sometimes had the ironic impact of undermining their overall mission, so ultimately, I believe the diversity of human developments in history demands flexibility in understanding the varied ways in which these social, legal, and political dynamics come about. </p><p><strong>JH: </strong>Right. Like Mohammed said, these theories often lack nuance and aren’t applicable to many non-Western contexts. Personally, I react very poorly to most modernization theories—whether progressive or negative—not just because they are ahistorical, but because they are teleological. Too often, such theories also seem designed to serve current political or philosophical agendas. That said, I think that both Elias and Foucault were on to something, just not in the totalizing way they argued. Clearly physical violence has declined in some ways over the past eight centuries of Western history, mainly as measured by the homicide rate. However, I’m less convinced about other areas (such as domestic violence), and in some respects it has increased dramatically (especially suicide rates among the young). </p><p>What does this all mean for criminal law? I think that it lays bare the persistence of human violence in a variety of forms, as well as the consistently severe limitations of policing, even in a modern society with extensive technological and personnel advantage. I also believe that it does indeed point towards the need for more restitutive approaches—which, ironically, is what European societies had before the Early Modern Period! </p><p>As for Foucault, I believe that he is absolutely right about a significant internalization of disciplining methods around 1800, representing a big change from previous reactive, externalized approaches. But I also think that his interpretation of all social interactions as fundamentally aimed at domination (especially “progressive” and “Enlightened” ones) is a gross mischaracterization of humanity as a whole, based more on his own political, polemical stance than a serious attempt to understand people of the past (or present).</p><p><strong>HA: Much of the work I’m familiar with on Early Modern Europe highlights a power exchange whereby violence is transmuted from an interpersonal problem-solving mode to something that is inflicted, top-down, by the state. Is this idea confirmed by your work?</strong></p><p><strong>MA: </strong>Yes. At the start of the Abbasid empire, the government monopolized the control of violence through the shurṭa, at the expense of the elite families as well as the rest of the civilian population in the major cities. As a consequence, interpersonal violence diminished. In fact, the shurṭa would hunt down anyone who took the law into his or her own hands.</p><p>The Abbasids shifted criminal law from a local Arab tribal form to a vertical, imposed hierarchy exerted by the state over the city. However, the decline of imperial projects resulted in the Abbasids’ successors giving jurisdiction over criminal law to judicial bodies, such as judges, rather than solely to the military enforcers. This change came about because the rulers’ legitimacy now depended on the support and cooperation of both non-military notables and legal scholars. </p><p><strong>JH:</strong> Like Mohammed, I also find a transmutation of violence, although this was a very gradual process in Early Modern Europe. It began in the fifteenth century and became more firmly entrenched by the eighteenth century, but was never absolutely established. Nor did it go uncontested—especially in the gun-loving US. </p><p>The goal of state monopolization of violence is one of the reasons that capital punishment rates spiked from 1550-1620 in Europe, and that the state campaign against feuds and dueling was so intense, even into the Modern period. Notions of personal honor and the perennial “crisis of masculinity” have always been at the heart of resistance at the grass-roots level—even today!</p><p><strong>HA: And of course, it’s impossible to consider violence as state power (especially during the challenging times we are experiencing here and now) without thinking about its main targets. Who do you see as the main targets of state power? Were outsiders—members of marginalized groups—targeted more? Less? Differently?</strong></p><p><strong>MA:</strong> Although there have been recent works examining the influence of ethnic prejudices and hierarchies in the shaping of Muslim societies, the sources I have read haven’t revealed ethnic biases as playing a decisive role in criminal justice. Instead, narratives and treatises on criminal magistrates tended to view criminals and their crimes through a social-economic lens. One text refers to a financially marginalized part of the city as a breeding ground for crime. </p><p>Perhaps the Abbasids viewed things this way because the populations in these Muslim metropolises were multi-ethnic. Although non-Muslim populations could be persecuted by the shurṭa—as could heterodox Muslim sects—they were not the usual targets of state power. In fact, non-Muslim communities generally policed themselves with regards to internal matters, unless there was a need for corporeal punishment of one of their members, whom they then would give up to Muslim authorities. Records from Medieval Egypt reveal that some individuals of the Egyptian Jewish community actually worked actively with the shurṭa, while others were persecuted by them.</p><p><strong>JH: </strong>Since criminal law enforcement, in my opinion, always mirrors the larger society to some extent, it’s unsurprising that a given society’s marginalized individuals and groups are always the most vulnerable to arrest and punishment. In Early Modern Europe, this generally meant “foreigners” (which could include someone from a village thirty miles away), beggars, vagrants, and locally unpopular individuals. With the coming of the Reformation, the distinction often applied to people of other Christian denominations, which I suppose means that religious persecution was more common in Early Modern Germany than under the Abbasids. Jews, of course, were always outsiders, as were Roma, and thus always vulnerable to popular suspicions and accusations. The modern notion of race, based primarily on skin color, was common in American colonies early on—clearly as a means of domination—but was slower to take root back in Europe. So yes, there was always some kind of insider/outsider filter operating, which could be exacerbated at times by law enforcement. </p><p><strong>HA: What about gender? In my own work with Malcom Feeley, I’ve studied how thinking about female transgressions during the Victorian era transitioned “from bad to mad”—their actions were no longer seen as crimes, but rather as pathologies.</strong></p><p><strong>MA:</strong> The role of gender in medieval Islamic criminal justice is opaque because authors rarely discuss female crime besides prostitution and fornication, but a few details can be surmised. In Baghdad, there were separate prisons for men and women with a penitentiary built solely for women, but the sources provide little information. Some texts mention murders and robberies committed by women, but these mentions are rare. However, Muslim authors extensively discussed sexual crimes and the government’s attempts to curb and punish them. Conversely, given the lucrative enterprise of brothels, the chief law enforcers of Baghdad in the tenth and twelfth centuries would often “oversee” brothels as a source of revenue. </p><p>Despite the sharp focus on women and sex in the accounts of crime, one administrative treatise hints at a broader picture: in it, the head of the shurṭa is told to consult with female informants from the criminal underworld, which indicates that there was a greater variety of crimes committed by women than the literary sources would indicate.</p><p><strong>JH:</strong> In contrast to the Abbasids, gender played a very big role in Early Modern law enforcement, although the notion of pathology was really a much later development. Infanticide and witchcraft were the leading causes for executions of women into the eighteenth century. Lyndal Roper has written a fascinating book about the psychology of witchcraft accusations (<em>Witch Craze</em>), and argues that anxieties about the female body and fertility in general played outsized roles in accusations of witchcraft (and of course, infanticide). So there is definitely something going on there.</p><p>The most common non-capital female crimes were similarly focused on women’s bodies and sexuality: prostitution, fornication, and adultery. By contrast, men (then and today) are much more likely to be accused of violent crimes. Obviously the latter statistic has more to do with incidence than perception, but it is interesting to interrogate how the two aspects are intertwined in a society’s criminal law enforcement.</p><p><strong>HA: Finally, historians are rightly cautious about suggesting oversimplified lesson-drawing from historical periods that were very different from what we experience today. But is there anything in the periods you study that can illuminate some of the central dilemmas we face now regarding policing? Mohammed, what can we learn from Muslim rulers about the sustainability of this amount of police power?</strong></p><p><strong>MA:</strong> The period I study reveals an intrinsic link between the emergence of militarized police and the need to extend political authority over huge urban centers, whether they were empires or substantial polities. Furthermore, it highlights the antiquity of the belief that suppression of crime relies on a law enforcement that can effectively dominate cities. </p><p>Yet visions for an expansive authority over streets and human lives always gave way to the limitations of reality, no matter the era and the society. In fact, this level of control could never be sustained, and when combined with the duress and violent constraints that the shurṭa exerted over society, it ironically led to the unravelling of the very order it was attempting to establish. Though it might be a small comfort, our effort to align law enforcement with our own sense of justice is not a new phenomenon, and premodern Muslim rulers, magistrates, bureaucrats, and jurists continually wrestled with this very tension. </p><p><strong>HA: Joel, is it too facile to draw conclusions from Early Modern European policing to today’s world?</strong></p><p><strong>JH:</strong> Right, no easy lessons! But I do think that analyzing both the similarities and differences of past societies to our own can be instructive. </p><p>For me, there are two big insights from the Early Modern Period. The first is that despite modern societies’ much greater legal sophistication and various powerful new technologies (forensic, surveillance), criminal law enforcement itself remains largely reactive to problems caused by deeper individual and collective ills. I personally believe that some kind of policing will always be necessary, but we should unburden ourselves (and members of law enforcement) from the expectation that some refinement of our detection and punitive methods can eliminate the deep social dysfunctions underlying most crime. </p><p>Second, on a related note, I see the modern reliance on prisons (which Early Modern officials<strong> </strong>deemed a cruel and unusual punishment—this from the people who practiced drawing and quartering!) as merely the latest example of short-term political solutions to long-term and deep social issues. Meaningful law enforcement reform should obviously thoroughly reconsider our society’s sad dependence on this “remedy,” as well as ways to curb the police violence, but it should also adopt a broad and holistic approach that considers not just restorative justice, but needs in mental health, education, social work, etc. Obviously this is far from a new or unique opinion, but I’m hopeful that finally running out of punitive options (or at least discarding our illusions about them) has made such a monumental social shift possible.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[‘Voy a hablar de la esperanza’]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Your browser does not support the audio element. Reading by the authorRuth, you
are angry at the world
for its miscarriages. It is early November
and we are walking again in the Haagse Bos,
wondering at the rusty-headed ducks,
the yellowing of the common beech,
the noon light on the pond.
For three days you have spoken
only of Loujain, waterchoked
& raped in a Saudi prison, pummeled
into vanishing. The hawthorn trees
are bare now, except for their fruit:
bright red, closer to wine after rain]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/voy-a-hablar-de-la-esperanza/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60ce1b1d874f6108176bc722</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Necessary]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Nissim Lebovits]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sun, 20 Jun 2021 22:27:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><figure style="margin: 0px;">
<audio controls="" src="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/symposeum-production.appspot.com/o/audio%2FVoy_a_hablar_de_la_esperanza_June_13.m4a?alt=media&token=e0f4635f-03ea-4006-bf70-c439d9c2e7ad">
Your browser does not support the
<code>audio</code> element.
</audio>
<figcaption class="text-gray-700 text-base text-2xl font-sans text-grey-700 tracking-widest pt-8 pb-8">Reading by the author</figcaption>
</figure>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Ruth, you are angry at the world<br>for its miscarriages. It is early November<br>and we are walking again in the Haagse Bos,<br><br>wondering at the rusty-headed ducks,<br>the yellowing of the common beech,<br>the noon light on the pond.<br><br>For three days you have spoken<br>only of Loujain, waterchoked<br>& raped in a Saudi prison, pummeled<br><br>into vanishing. The hawthorn trees<br>are bare now, except for their fruit:<br>bright red, closer to wine after rain. <br><br>Bob Hass says it is a gift, this human<br>incapacity to sustain wonder. ‘We’d never<br>have gotten up from our knees if we could.’<br><br>And as for the sustenance of despair—</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:right;">In the underbrush by the path home <br>
the wood piegeons mottle the leaves. <br><br>
Silent, I picture Gramsci, beating his head<br>
bloody against the walls of Mussolini's jails. <br>
'I am a pessimist by intelligence,' <br><br>
he wrote, 'but an optimist by will.'<br>
Above us, on a dead limb, a woodpecker<br>
goes back to feeding: <i> tok-tok-tok-tok</i>.
</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>One of the first poems I ever felt attached to was Wendell Berry’s “The Peace of Wild Things”, which begins:<Br><br>
  When despair for the world grows in me<br>
  and I wake in the night at the least sound<Br>
  in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be<br><br>
In the lines that follow, Berry describes finding temporary salve in the natural world—but not, crucially, lasting reprieve. Lately his poem has been on my mind, despair being a familiar emotion to me over the last year and a half (from the French <i>désespoir</i>, meaning a lack of hope). My own poem arrived at one such moment, when I was wrestling—not for the last time, I am certain—with the question of what we may do when our narratives of progress are incontrovertibly dashed.<br><br>
Some references, explained: “Voy a hablar de la esperanza” is the title of a poem by César Vallejo. It translates to “I am going to speak of hope.” Loujain al-Hathloul is a prominent Saudi women’s rights activist. In 2018, the government of Saudi Arabia arrested her, imprisoning and torturing her for nearly two years before sentencing her in a sham trial. She was released from prison in early 2021 following a hunger strike and the application of international pressure, though she remains trapped in the country under a travel ban. Antonio Gramsci was an Italian Marxist. He was intentionally denied medical care during his eleven-year imprisonment by Mussolini’s fascist government, and died in 1937 as a result, at the age of forty-six. The quote comes from his <i>Prison Letters</i>.
</br></br></br></br></Br></br></br></Br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Two Poems by Nina Murray]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Your browser does not support the audio element. Reading by the author
In my great-grandmother's time
there was a tool for everything
and for every tool—a toolbox
hers
was not an ill-fit universe—worn yes
but orderly
in her room I played
with progressively smaller things:
an hourglass
a hand-held balance with its weights
of ten and twenty grams
the five and one
that could make all the difference
i think of the smooth
hollowed piece of flotsam
shown by a museum man
it is a tool he said
to ch]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/in-my-great-grandmothers-time/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60ce10c4874f6108176bc66f</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Plain]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Nina Murray]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sun, 20 Jun 2021 22:26:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html-->
<figure style="margin: 0px;">
<audio controls="" src="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/symposeum-production.appspot.com/o/audio%2FMurray_Symposeum_Recording.m4a?alt=media&token=d6759c35-4357-46f5-b896-8e694f8dd43f">
Your browser does not support the
<code>audio</code> element.
</audio>
<figcaption class="text-gray-700 text-base text-2xl font-sans text-grey-700 tracking-widest pt-8 pb-8">Reading by the author</figcaption>
</figure>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><p><strong>In my great-grandmother's time</strong><br><br>there was a tool for everything<br>and for every tool—a toolbox<br>hers<br>was not an ill-fit universe—worn yes<br>but orderly<br><br>in her room I played<br>with progressively smaller things:<br>an hourglass<br>a hand-held balance with its weights<br>of ten and twenty grams<br>the five and one<br>that could make all the difference<br><br>i think of the smooth<br>hollowed piece of flotsam<br>shown by a museum man<br>it is a tool he said<br>to channel holy water<br>when a healer casts a spell <br><br>my great-grandmother held<br>equal faith in St. John's wort<br>and codeine<br>could hit the vein when she<br>could no longer thread a needle<br><br><br><br><strong>dream sequence</strong><br><br> white lace<br> sentry cyclamen<br> in window boxes<br> like Lilliputian cyclops<br><br>kiss<br>catacombs<br> the corner pharmacy<br> a step inside<br> my childhood self<br> a curio<br> held cool<br> inside its dark rectangle<br> of curved glass<br><br>things that swim</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p/><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>"In my great-grandmother's time" began as a response to Charles Simic's poem "Autumn Sky":<br><br>
 In my great grandmother's time,<br>
 All one needed was a broom<br>
 To get to see places<br>
 And give the geese a chase in the sky.<br><br>
We think of our ancestors' time as a mythical era, but what if it's a different relationship they had with time itself that made fantastic things possible? <Br><br>
The poem began as a recovery of a childhood memory: My great-grandmother and I are playing badminton. She is seated in a chair in her room that was always just a little too dark. Here, the time she inhabits also warps the space—it is the fact that we are in <i>her</i> room, <i>her</i> time that makes the birdie fall short or fly long.<Br><br>
My great-grandmother was born in 1900. She would eventually die in that room, in the cavernous, tile-stove-heated apartment in Lviv. She was trained as a pharmacist's assistant which, in the wars that followed, was as good as a pharmacist. Her room was a fascinating place. Things there smelled funny, had funny names (aside from medicines in amber-glass bottles there were her small stiff purses which she referred to exclusively as <i>ridicules</i>), or were kept out of a child's reach altogether. Her glass syringe in its neat sterilizer box. Her ampule cutters. <Br><br>
"dream sequence", by way of an imagistic scatter-shot, accesses another experience from my childhood: my great-grandmother would take me with her when she went to the pharmacy across the street. Pharmacies were often equipped with uncommon furniture and dispensed things that adults thought would fool me into thinking they were something other than themselves: <i>hematogen</i>, for example, which is not chocolate (look it up), or dime-sized ascorbate pills which are not candy.<Br><br>
I'll let you guess what those things that swim were.
</br></Br></br></Br></br></Br></br></Br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br/></p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Clarity in G-Sharp]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Ioften sit on a stool at the long bar-top counter in my favorite coffee shop.
From here, I can see everyone. Theoretically, I could speak with them, too,
although these days only a few will leave the glow of their screens or the beat
in their earbuds. Few enough, anyway, that we tend to shy away from those who do
talk, as though we suspect there must be something a little wrong with them.
What kind of sociopath speaks to strangers?
Me, apparently. My tinnitus, the slight but constant ringing I]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/clarity-in-g-sharp/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60cca018874f6108176bc5b1</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[The True]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Matt R. Phillips]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sun, 20 Jun 2021 22:26:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">I</span>
often sit on a stool at the long bar-top counter in my favorite coffee shop. From here, I can see everyone. Theoretically, I could speak with them, too, although these days only a few will leave the glow of their screens or the beat in their earbuds. Few enough, anyway, that we tend to shy away from those who do talk, as though we suspect there must be something a little wrong with them. What kind of sociopath speaks to strangers?
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Me, apparently. My tinnitus, the slight but constant ringing I hear, prevents me from wearing headphones comfortably. And that leaves me vulnerable to the chatty and the lonely, the people who just want to talk. I’ve conversed several mornings with a local Raleigh man. He’s a little nutty, prone to conspiracy theories and deep suspicions. Climate change is probably a hoax, he told me during our first chat. QAnon is going about it the wrong way, he added, but they may be on to something.</p><p>These are not the kind of discussions I have in graduate school, or anywhere else for that matter. It was just a surprisingly enjoyable conversation with a smart, peculiar, and misinformed man—with a human being of a kind I don’t meet often. Our conversations have continued. They’ve ranged from the weakness of the dollar to his difficulty dating as a forty-year-old. And I would never have spoken to him if my ears didn’t ring. My damaged hearing has helped me listen to strangers. The need to shift my focus away from the persistent high-pitched ringing, the need to be intentional with my attention, has had the curiously reverse effect of expanding my awareness of the surrounding world. I notice more by forcing myself not to notice my tinnitus.</p><p>About forty-five million Americans have tinnitus, according to the American Tinnitus Association. Some sufferers hear a pulse, their heartbeat sounding in their ear. Others, the most common type, hear a constant high-frequency tone. In its most severe forms, the perception of sound is interpreted by the brain as music or even language—aural hallucination of a song or a monologue with no end.</p><p>I’m lucky enough to have the mild form, a faint but steady tone somewhere around 830 hertz (about G-sharp in the second octave above middle C). Tinnitus is not a disease exactly. It’s more a symptom, caused sometimes by hearing loss, obstruction in the middle ear, trauma, or ototoxic drugs. Often there is no known cause at all. And there is no cure.</p><p>I first noticed my tinnitus while in college. Having become interested in astronomy, I convinced a date to drive with me out to a distant field, far from the light-polluted cities with a telescope and blanket in the trunk, so we could view the Milky Way. As we focused on the red supergiant Betelgeuse, shoulder of the hunter Orion, I became aware of a noise increasing in volume until it occupied all my attention.</p><p>“Do you hear that ringing?” I asked. My date gave me a puzzled look.</p><p>“What ringing?”</p><p>I doubt I developed tinnitus that night. It was likely just the first time I was in a space quiet enough to notice. I can’t be certain what caused the ringing. It may be genetic, since my parents both have the symptom. More probably, it derives from years of competitive soccer, where being able to block a fast soccer ball with our heads was a sign of status. We looked down on those who protected themselves with cushioned headguards or refused to head the ball. Even if these serial concussions didn’t contribute to my tinnitus, they didn’t help. The acne medication I took a year before my tinnitus became noticeable is another possible culprit. But if the medication is to blame, the ringing went unnoticed at first. In those days, I worked near loud machines and lived in a noisy low-rent frat house.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">“I've had to learn to accept tinnitus as part of myself. It is no longer a symptom. It is permanent. It is me, and it shapes how I perceive the world.”</p>
<p>I recognize that I do not suffer the way people with life-threatening illnesses and physical disabilities do. Most of the time my tinnitus is simply annoying, like the mosquito that finds its way into your room at night while you are trying to sleep. On some occasions, however, the annoyance has pushed me into a feedback loop of negativity. The difficulty has been to find ways to limit the effect. I study in places with enough background noise to mask the G-sharp. I reduce my exposure to noise a few hours before I go to sleep. I’ve had to learn to accept tinnitus as part of myself. It is no longer a symptom. It is permanent. It is me, and it shapes how I perceive the world. The best way I have found to manage the condition is a kind of deliberate inattention, training myself to turn away from the inner noise and out toward the genuine sounds of the world.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>In Kurt Vonnegut’s well-known story, “Harrison Bergeron,” a boy genius is required to wear a radio in his ear as an artificial impairment that scatters his thoughts every twenty seconds. But I’ve found that my own inescapable noise has become almost the opposite of an impairment. It has forced me to expose myself to aspects of life I would have missed if I were absorbed in the images on my phone or the melodies in my earbuds.</p><p>In their way, my peers, wrapped up in their hyper-personalized videos and music, suffer from a kind of artificial tinnitus. You see them everywhere, harmonizing to one of thousands of songs in their playlist while driving, listening to an audiobook at the grocery store, or catching the latest episode of a true-crime podcast while on their morning walk. They distract themselves from the sound of the world by the noise in their ears.</p><p>Over the past few years, I find myself rarely using my earbuds in the hope of protecting the hearing I have left and preventing the ringing from growing louder. This choice often leaves me as one of the few people on an airplane available to converse with other passengers. Or to chat with a Raleigh eccentric in a coffee shop. One of my friends even worries that I’m becoming a sociopath, to use their words, by not listening to music while lifting at the gym.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">“I have opened myself up in ways that often seem all but lost. I now have chances to form small connections with those around me.”</p>
<p>But in meeting other people, most who are older than me, who for whatever reason remain AirPod-free, I’ve laughed about Don Quixote’s adventures with a theologian from Loyola on a flight to Denver. I’ve learned while sitting in a cafe about a barista’s dream to open her own coffeehouse. While waiting together at the counter of a car mechanic’s shop, I’ve spoken with a plumber about the difficulty of finding reliable workers. Such conversations are not novel or notable but they are human. Rather than being wrapped up inside my head, listening to a playlist on repeat, I have opened myself up in ways that often seem all but lost. I now have chances to form small connections with those around me.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>This past year, I took a spill on my bicycle, slamming my head on a Raleigh street. Worse than the concussions I used to get while playing soccer, this latest concussion forced me to isolate myself in darkness for two weeks. In this isolated state, I became even more aware of the tintinnabulation in my head. The mental fog eventually lifted but the ringing did not fall back to its prior volume. It was louder, much louder, and the chatting with others I had learned to appreciate became more difficult. Even my thoughts were harder to hear.</p><p>A friend gave me a copy of Evelyn Waugh’s novel, <em>The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold</em>. While I read Waugh’s story of a writer on a sea voyage driven to the point of insanity by his severe tinnitus, I had to listen to my own tinnitus. Fortunately, I never reached the condition of Pinfold, hearing the voices in his head plot his demise. But I can at least understand why the character (and Waugh himself, in the experiences he fictionalized) did everything he could to flee the ship and evade his mental stowaways. I have worked hard to eliminate distractions from my workspace and my life, but I am left with one: the noise I cannot cast off.</p><p>Maybe all of us have noises in our heads we wish weren’t there. It’s easy to be consumed by the noise, making it central to experience and allowing negative thoughts to take hold. <em>Recovery</em> isn’t quite the right word for managing conditions that don’t go away, but there is a kind of <em>getting better</em> through acceptance, a way of easing the effect. The first step is being intentional with our attention.</p><p>Turning away from the hallucinatory noise in the mind generates awareness of the sounds of the real world. By limiting internal attention—for me, deliberately excluding the ring of the tinnitus—we can produce an increase of external attention.</p><p>From earbuds to COVID masks, communication barriers seem to define our times. My experience of tinnitus has been debilitating at times, especially since my bike crash. But dealing with the condition has also proved, in its way, a good thing. Listening, even the willingness to listen, seems rarer than it used to be. Though my condition has grown worse, the tinnitus has at least given me one gift. I feel more human. And that, in its own way, is a kind of recovery.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Bill's Lorica]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Your browser does not support the audio element. Reading by the author
Let Go the Burden of Being Upright (The Purple Quilt) (2021) by Margaret Sloan |
Watercolor on paper | 11.5 x 11.5 inchesin the sparkling northwoods blue-green
today we gather
warmth of the longtime sun
to make a blanket for your bones
thick purple-brown twining grapevines
to knit a secret room of shade
a closed space without fear
to lie a long body down
to let go the burden of being upright
here in the crushed green
of f]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/bills-lorica/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60ce13c3874f6108176bc6a5</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><category><![CDATA[Artwork]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Erin Robertson]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sun, 20 Jun 2021 22:26:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><figure style="margin: 0px;">
<audio controls="" src="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/symposeum-production.appspot.com/o/audio%2FBills_Lorica_by_Erin_Robertson_May_28.mp3?alt=media&token=4c640e73-2685-4147-a574-cf7c02a000a6">
Your browser does not support the
<code>audio</code> element.
</audio>
<figcaption class="text-gray-700 text-base text-2xl font-sans text-grey-700 tracking-widest pt-8 pb-8">Reading by the author</figcaption>
</figure>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Let-Go-the-Burden-of-Being-Upright.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Let Go the Burden of Being Upright (The Purple Quilt) (2021) by Margaret Sloan | Watercolor on paper | 11.5 x 11.5 inches</figcaption></img></figure><p>in the sparkling northwoods blue-green<br>today we gather<br>warmth of the longtime sun<br>to make a blanket for your bones<br><br>thick purple-brown twining grapevines<br>to knit a secret room of shade<br>a closed space without fear<br>to lie a long body down<br>to let go the burden of being upright<br><br>here in the crushed green<br>of fiddlehead and jewelweed<br>trilliums silently go crimson<br>binding our carmine blood<br>and this bit of wood<br><br>in the still pulpit, jack sits,<br>a silent preacher with nothing left to judge<br>only to witness you rest<br>welcoming hard scars that will turn to moss<br>your angular bones to be rounded with time<br><br>we bring the pull of purple magnetite<br>the charged ions/counterbalance<br>positive/negative canceled/reconciled<br>all accounts settled<br><br>we gather the echo in the steep shale walls<br>leaves written with pressure in time’s patient book<br>shut now<br>nothing more to be illuminated<br><br>we call on the grosbeak’s brilliant rose-petal stained breast<br>his love sung not said<br>his flashy plumes and sure song a fine cover<br>for his deep abiding shyness<br><br>we call upon the restless waves:<br>smooth the jagged past like beach glass<br>ready the sunset canvas<br>curving to calm in a still quiet bay<br><br>today we weave these ragged fragments together<br>a last quilt of protection<br>you pull to your chin<br><br>then you split down the middle<br>and turn to deer<br>as the jester’s gavel drops<br>on the hours of needing<br>to be more</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p/><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>A <i>lorica</i> (Latin for armor) is a prayer of protection. I first learned the term through St. Patrick’s Lorica, which also goes by St. Patrick’s Breastplate or The Deer’s Cry (<i>Fáed Fíada</i> in Irish, which can also be translated as “mist of concealment”). The legend goes that St. Patrick had a dream warning that Druids lay in wait for his traveling party. He woke and told his followers to chant this lorica, and as they passed by, the Druids saw only a doe and twenty fawns. You may already be familiar with St. Patrick’s Lorica as the invocation (based on James Clarence Mangan's “St. Patrick's Hymn before Tarah”) that Charles Wallace recites several times in Madeleine L’Engle’s <i>A Swiftly Tilting Planet</i>, one of my favorite books from childhood.<br><br>
On the plane to see my deathly ill father at the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota, I thought I would write a lorica to steel myself. Things had always been strained between us, and my sister and I had recently learned that despite our belief that he had been a recovered alcoholic for over thirty years, he had secretly drunk at home and was dying of cirrhosis of the liver. It felt like I was flying straight into darkness.<br><br>
I surprised myself by writing a sun-filled poem to protect him, instead. I called upon the plants and places of northwestern Pennsylvania, where I had grown up with him, to welcome him home. I had finally come to an understanding about the distance that had always been between us: it’s hard to welcome another in when you have so much to conceal. I think I’m more aligned with the Druids than St. Patrick these days, but even Patrick knew how much strength and comfort we can draw from the more-than-human world.
</br></br></br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>This illustration is a visual representation of Erin Robertson’s poem, “Bill’s Lorica.” I had never heard of loricas—prayers recited for protection from evil—until Erin told me about them, but the concept is very like the “charms” I draw when my loved ones are in crisis. For me, drawing and painting are like praying.<br><br>
My work centers on nature and portraiture, and my guiding principle is to forge connections between people and nature. The animals and plants mentioned in the poem—(counter-clockwise from top left) jewel weed, fiddlehead fern, trillium, Jack-in-the-pulpit, and grosbeak—are in this illustration as witnesses and protectors to the passage of a life. The spiral of the fiddlehead fern is the central portal through which the spirit, represented by a stag, finds release and freedom along the strand. The images are framed by the border of a purple quilt, in reference to the lines "today we weave these ragged fragments together / a last quilt of protection."<br><br>
This artistic collaboration between Erin and me grew from an online book club, where a group of women meet weekly during the pandemic to study books that connect natural science, spirituality, and life. Those weekly discussions threaded this path where words and watercolor met.
</br></br></br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Put the girl on the shore]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Your browser does not support the audio element. Reading by the author
Let her alone with
the currents to the
eager tide’s, pull of
ebb and gift of flow
to prayers of driftwood
and seaweed notes.
Leave her to the lash of
marram, sting of salt
to the wind-whipped
waves where the
drowned return and
skyline’s rise and fall.
Leave her side-stroke
out of rip currents, feel
the cold gasp of water
the soft tread of sand.
Let her fall, deep
from dislocation
into the subtle art
of breathi]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/put-the-girl-on-the-shore/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60ce12f3874f6108176bc695</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Plain]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Ness Owen]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sun, 20 Jun 2021 22:26:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><figure style="margin: 0px;">
<audio controls="" src="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/symposeum-production.appspot.com/o/audio%2FNess_Owen_Put_the_Girl_on_the_Shore.mp3?alt=media&token=8cdcd95c-c5eb-4542-b044-672b618da0c7">
Your browser does not support the
<code>audio</code> element.
</audio>
<figcaption class="text-gray-700 text-base text-2xl font-sans text-grey-700 tracking-widest pt-8 pb-8">Reading by the author</figcaption>
</figure>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><p>Let her alone with<br>the currents to the <br><br>eager tide’s, pull of<br>ebb and gift of flow <br><br>to prayers of driftwood<br>and seaweed notes.<br><br>Leave her to the lash of<br>marram, sting of salt<br><br>to the wind-whipped<br>waves where the <br><br>drowned return and<br>skyline’s rise and fall.<br><br>Leave her side-stroke<br>out of rip currents, feel <br><br>the cold gasp of water<br>the soft tread of sand. <br><br>Let her fall, deep<br>from dislocation<br><br>into the subtle art<br>of breathing out.<br/></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>After many years of working without a sick day, I fell to a mystery illness where for a long time I could only manage a short walk up my driveway. I began to avoid many things and over-protection became a habit.<br><br>
I live on a small island, which means that you are never far from the shore. Visiting the sea daily, whatever the weather, would put me back on the way to recovery and teach me a little about facing whatever the day would bring. Some days I would simply dip my hands and feet in the water. Other times I would swim when I could tolerate the cold.<br><br>
The title of the poem is taken from a rumoured quote by Dylan Thomas about his writing process. That is, sometimes we should just “put the girl on the shore” and let the story happen. I wanted to make it a simple poem of couplets that mimics the ebb and flow of the tide.<br><br>
</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Dawn in a Grove]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Your browser does not support the audio element. Reading by the authorAs light
reenters
the forest space:
a slow, steady rousing
to consciousness.
The thin liquid of
night stirs, lifting.
Silence, the stately
forms of trees.
The low ferns
flutter slightly,
wafting skyward,
towards morning,
on a low cloud
transuding from
the damp earth.
Wider and ever
more palpable grows
the gray air: the low shroud
rising to hang upon
itself, suspended
until the evocation
strengthens. A fine
mist on ]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/dawn-in-a-grove/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60ce0e2f874f6108176bc64b</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Plain]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Abi Harrelson]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sun, 20 Jun 2021 22:26:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><figure style="margin: 0px;">
<audio controls="" src="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/symposeum-production.appspot.com/o/audio%2FDawn_in_a_Grove.m4a?alt=media&token=988023b9-df38-41eb-9126-1ddc068c4ce0">
Your browser does not support the
<code>audio</code> element.
</audio>
<figcaption class="text-gray-700 text-base text-2xl font-sans text-grey-700 tracking-widest pt-8 pb-8">Reading by the author</figcaption>
</figure>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>As light reenters<br>the forest space:<br><br>a slow, steady rousing<br>to consciousness.<br><br>The thin liquid of<br>night stirs, lifting.<br><br>Silence, the stately<br>forms of trees.<br><br>The low ferns<br>flutter slightly,<br><br>wafting skyward,<br>towards morning,<br><br>on a low cloud<br>transuding from<br><br>the damp earth.<br>Wider and ever<br><br>more palpable grows<br>the gray air: the low shroud<br><br>rising to hang upon<br>itself, suspended<br><br>until the evocation<br>strengthens. A fine<br><br>mist on the petals of<br>a white wild rose.<br><br>A soft wisdom<br>awakening. And then,<br><br>with obscurity lifted,<br>the ground sings.<br><br><br><br/></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>Since the beginning of the pandemic in America, I have been writing with the hope that I can capture peace on the page and leave it there, within four corners from where it could never escape. Though this is ultimately untenable, this is the poem in which I came the closest. I grew up in a rural area and because of that, have always felt deeply connected to and in awe of nature. This poem describes those precious moments when, as the sun rises, the previous night’s condensation has just begun to evaporate from the foliage. Every morning, there’s a span of a few minutes where the rising mist appears to stop itself from continuing its ascent, asif wondering whether to return earthward again—but it rises.
</br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Digression]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Your browser does not support the audio element. Reading by the author
The temple’s mystery is this:
somehow, I remembered
the same music for ten years.
Not its notes—
I could only play the right keys
if playing fast enough;
if giving up
to the flesh,
which knew with no telling.
Meaning: I might be an ecosystem—
a collection of dependent instincts, echoes.
If
I am mostly an unbidden translation;
If
these elements tumult too close to their own asymptote;
I owe myself
to strip d]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/digression/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60ce177b874f6108176bc6cb</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Marissa Davis]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sun, 20 Jun 2021 22:26:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><figure style="margin: 0px;">
<audio controls="" src="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/symposeum-production.appspot.com/o/audio%2FMarissa_Davis_Digression_Reading_May_27.m4a?alt=media&token=60301de6-40b4-4500-be84-a834be866cb7">
Your browser does not support the
<code>audio</code> element.
</audio>
<figcaption class="text-gray-700 text-base text-2xl font-sans text-grey-700 tracking-widest pt-8 pb-8">Reading by the author</figcaption>
</figure>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><p>The temple’s mystery is this:<br>somehow, I remembered<br>the same music for ten years.<br><br>Not its notes—<br>I could only play the right keys<br>if playing fast enough;<br><br>if giving up<br>to the flesh,<br>which knew with no telling.<br><br><br><br><br><br><br>Meaning: I might be an ecosystem—<br>a collection of dependent instincts, echoes.<br><br><br><br><br><br>If<br> I am mostly an unbidden translation;<br>If<br> these elements tumult too close to their own asymptote;<br>I owe myself<br><br><br><br><br>to strip down to the line of me:</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:right;">girl-river, wolf-gaze, incendiary season, wild-eyed harvest, land’s black heart.<br>
Look too closely & it’s half a death. <br>
Look too closely & it’s clover honey. or psychopomp <br>
vein ferrying my blue life back to provenance.
</br></br></br></p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br><br><br><br><br><br>I call the blood<br>to travel in its proper direction, defiant<br><br>of the cardinal, red as it, as plume & pomegranate, homeland<br>sunset cymbaling winter ice<br><br>until the necessary fracture. Revival under<br>sun blaze, little springtime or inferno mine,<br><br>little Pentecost, the tongue in my mouth<br>a fresh & native muscle,<br><br>roused rightly wicked,<br>anarchic as the origins of song:<br><br><br><br><br><br>a spell. a bond. a wailing.<br>an imitation of the sparrows.<br><br><br><br><br><br>The root of organic, being:<br><em>serving as an instrument</em>.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:right;">(I listen for the organ—figuration <br>
for something I can’t quite hold. But the flesh of me      <br>
is surely the cathedral it shouts in.) <br>
</br></br></br></p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br><br><br><br><br>I remembered the song<br> through my hands, only:<br>a knowledge outpacing<br> my mind, that had to outrun the mind<br>to save itself, otherwise<br> descent, otherwise murderous<br>undertow, & gone<br> that vital beating<br>like a bat’s black wing,<br> like the maelstrom of an orgasm,<br>which carried the melody<br> in it, tucked away<br>until quickened, until lifted<br> straight out—a minor comet<br>coal-lit with the body’s fire—straight out<br> those rare hours when I was able<br>to surrender, meet myself<br> at the bellowing border, there—<br>do you understand?—there<br> at my most animal—</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p><br/></p><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>Superficially, this piece was inspired by my pandemic-panic-impulse decision to buy a used piano keyboard, even though I have next to no knowledge of piano. I can play about two-thirds of just one song (“Once Upon a December” from <i>Anastasia</i>), which I learned over a decade ago. I can’t read music, so the latter third evades me, but in practicing the beginning, I found myself fascinated by the body’s ability to remember in a way that seems almost totally independent of the mind. If I miss a note while playing, I generally have to restart the whole song. I don’t really “know” the music. The sequence is held in my hands alone, which somehow, after all this time, can run through it on autopilot.<br><br>
This poem reflects on what it means to follow one’s instinct in the process of artmaking. I had recently written a few poems I was unhappy with; I’d known how I’d wanted them to end when I started them, and as a result, the works sounded stiff, even vaguely didactic. “Digression,” written in the wake of those pieces, is a reminder to myself to allow the poem the freedom to unfurl in the process of its own writing. The poem itself often knows more than me—can reveal its own path to me—and its blooming requires, as the piano did, a surrender of mind to body. Along with that understanding comes a musing on the act of creation as something primitive, innate, capable of drawing us into a layer of ourselves that is more natural and intuitively connected.
</br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Wake]]></title><description><![CDATA[I.
My living room smells of the marsh
at low tide, seaweed arid in the sun.
Hermit crabs recede in the silt as the salt
water runs back to its home, leaving
a layer of detritus and sludge
on my mom’s favorite rug.
I mop the kitchen linoleum, absorbing
as much of Long Island Sound as I can,
wringing the soaked ropes into
the yellow bucket we used to clean
our toys in when I was young.
(push mop - soak water -
wring dry - repeat)
No end to the water pouring
from the cabinets. The bucket
overfl]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/wake-by-kirsten-robinson/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60ce1923874f6108176bc6f5</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[The True]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Kirsten Robinson]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sun, 20 Jun 2021 22:26:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><strong>I.</strong><br><br>My living room smells of the marsh<br>at low tide, seaweed arid in the sun.<br>Hermit crabs recede in the silt as the salt<br>water runs back to its home, leaving<br>a layer of detritus and sludge<br>on my mom’s favorite rug.<br><br>I mop the kitchen linoleum, absorbing<br>as much of Long Island Sound as I can,<br>wringing the soaked ropes into<br>the yellow bucket we used to clean<br>our toys in when I was young.<br><br>(<em>push mop - soak water -</em><br><em>wring dry - repeat</em>)<br><br>No end to the water pouring<br>from the cabinets. The bucket<br>overflows with brackish water<br>or sewage muck—no telling them<br>apart. The sea has turned on me.<br><br>Outside my parents and neighbors<br>pile an endless graveyard: couches,<br>coffee tables, lamps, books,<br>photo albums, hand-knit blankets.<br>Tomorrow, the trash trucks<br>will haul them off.<br><br><br><strong>II. </strong><br><br>Our beach town had been warned, but<br><br>no weatherman can forecast <br><br>the loss Nature leaves behind.<br><br>Came hurtling in, screaming, the rain.<br>In droves. Drowning: trees, gardens, drains,<br>homes. Everything was loud <br><br>and then it was not; the quiet eye,<br>waiting. Destruction when the waves<br>came. They did not<br> stop<br> did not stop<br> did not stop<br>until they reached four feet<br>above my living room floor.<br><br>Four days later my father<br>kayaked the river road<br>to get to our front door.<br><br><br><strong>III.</strong><br><br>My childhood floor is gone. All the rotten<br> wood has been stripped, just the bones<br> to breathe, to wait. My parents are living<br><br>with my grandmother until the house<br> is fixed, until their hearts are fixed.<br> They tell me there will be no Thanksgiving<br><br>this year. My family needs me<br> to help while new foundations are poured.<br> I drive to the empty beach parking lot,<br><br>stare at the ocean and scream. I beat<br> my fists against the wheel like tumbled<br> glass against rocks until I can’t feel <br><br>my fingers. I hate the sea, the body<br> that betrayed me. I hate that I love<br> it still and always—salt in the heart.<br><br><br><strong>IV.</strong><br><br>In Manhattan my living room<br>blooms, a gifted bouquet of roses. <br><br>Next to the flowers are shells<br>from home, arranged: respite <br><br>from living in solitude<br>alongside so many millions.<br><br>Back in Connecticut, my mother<br>dreams about flowers while<br><br>our house is lifted and rebuilt.<br>She loved her gardens dearly.<br><br>She taught me their varieties,<br>how some of the prettiest petals <br><br>belonged to weeds. I think about<br>her devastation when the flood—<br><br>its chemical, septic legions—<br>made the soil barren.<br><br>The summer after was silent—<br>even the evergreens were dead—<br><br>until a single rose dared to bloom.<br><br><br><strong>V.</strong><br><br>My family’s living room glows gold<br> in the noon’s summer light as it streams<br><br>through the open windows. The walls<br> and floor are new, yet hung<br><br>with old familiar photos. My mother’s laugh<br> is carried from the garden, where<br><br>she packs soil around seedlings<br> (they are her children now that I<br><br>am grown). My father mows the lawn<br> and hums while my dog turns green<br><br>from rolling in the grass. “Well?”<br> my mother asks. “What do you think?” <br><br><em>there are flowers blooming every-</em><br> <em>where we dance in the salty ocean air</em></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p/><p/><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>In October 2012, Hurricane Sandy pummeled the Atlantic shoreline, causing extensive destruction across the board. My coastal hometown in Connecticut was flooded by Long Island Sound. The water reached four feet above the floor in my family’s home. At the time, I was living and working in New York City, quite naïve to the true damages that had been sustained. It was only within the aftermath and ensuing road to recovery that I fully came to understand the difference between a house and a home. I grew up going to the beach to find moments of inner peace and solitude. My most vivid memories of this time are saturated with feelings of rage, sadness, loss, and betrayal. This poem is an homage to many different aspects of my life: my parents; the house I too often took for granted; the home they built inside; the process of not only rebuilding a residential structure, but also family bonds; the simultaneous beauty and trauma of nature; and the changing tides of the ocean helping me to better embrace the changing tides within myself.
</br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Letter to Readers]]></title><description><![CDATA[Dear Reader,
One hundred and eighty-one years ago this summer season, in his inaugural
Editorial Introduction to The Dial, Ralph Waldo Emerson outlined the
publication's aims (which have inspired ours) “to draw thoughts and feelings
which, being alive, can impart life.” It was a radical goal for a magazine born
in a mercurial decade: engaging readers in a collective act of recovery. The
etymology of the word recovery suggests a renewal of life, as Emerson likely
meant, both metaphorically and ]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/issue-two-letter-to-readers/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60ce417a874f6108176bc74c</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[Letter]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[The Editors]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sun, 20 Jun 2021 22:25:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>Dear Reader,</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">O</span>
ne hundred and eighty-one years ago this summer season, in his inaugural Editorial Introduction to <i>The Dial</i>, Ralph Waldo Emerson outlined the publication's aims (which have inspired ours) “to draw thoughts and feelings which, being alive, can impart life.” It was a radical goal for a magazine born in a mercurial decade: engaging readers in a collective act of recovery. The etymology of the word <i>recovery</i> suggests a renewal of life, as Emerson likely meant, both metaphorically and physically. On the surface, the word evokes an orientation toward the past, coming as it does from the Medieval Latin <i>recuperare</i>, meaning “to regain.” Yet foresight and imagination are equally inherent in recovery; what is re-gained is rarely identical with what was had.
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>More than a century and a half later, and a year and a half since we conceived of our own <em>Dial</em> project, our world is entering into a period of recovery: the beginning of the end of a once-in-a-century pandemic. In the United States, forty-four percent of the country has been vaccinated. Business are reopening, faces are being unmasked, and there is talk of resuming travel as the world emerges from muffled retreat.</p><p>This is not to downplay the very real incompleteness of our recovery. We remain confronted with global economic disruption, exacerbated racial and geographic disparities in well-being and wealth, concern that herd immunity will remain out of reach, the threat of a more deadly COVID variant, ongoing political polarization, atomization of individuals and communities, and trauma brought on by death, dying, and denial of the same.</p><p>But recovery begins, unsurprisingly, with <em>beginning.</em> And all beginnings entail juxtaposition, being at once a commencement and culmination. The word <em>recovery</em> is itself a paradox, just as <em>delight</em> or <em>awful.</em> Deconstructed, recovery (re-gaining) literally suggests its opposite—a re-covering, or concealment—whereas figuratively we understand recovery as exposing, rescuing, even redeeming.</p><p>With this in mind, we're excited to bring you Issue 2 of <em>Symposeum:</em> a curated anthology of more than twenty-five original works addressing the theme of recovery. We chose this motif not only because it is timely, but also because it is timeless—which is also how we think about hope. Collected here are stories, essays, photographs, poems, music and more, all generated by reflections on the inevitable tension of recovery: the push-and-pull between regaining and reimagining. Grounded in knowledge gleaned from experience, this is our most personal issue yet.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="margin-left: 30px; margin-right: 30px;">
In <i>Hope Is, </i> Lena Mazel colorfully describes adopting two parakeets and nursing them back to health.
In <i> The Transformative Potential of Trauma Recovery</i>, social worker Michael Zuch explains through first-hand experience and case studies the sometimes contentious relationship between trauma and recovery in psychotherapy.
In <i> Lost and Found </i> and <i> A Purple Heart Buried on the Rhine </i>, authors Leah Field and Mara Truslow narrate physically recovered memories of grandparents who endured love lost in a concentration camp and friends lost in battlefields.
In <i> No Justice, No Peace?</i>, an interview with academics from Vanderbilt and the University of California at Hastings engages with the long history of police reform and lessons for today.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><em>Symposeum</em> is a publication of The Dial project: a twenty-first century creative, collaborative community dedicated to elevating rational optimism in public discourse. It draws on the commitment of our nineteenth-century predecessor to exploring works of “the Necessary, the Plain, the True, and the Human.”</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="margin-left: 30px;">
By <b>Necessary</b>, we mean works of critical inquiry.
By <b>Plain</b>, we mean works of novel insight into ordinary occurrences.
By <b>True</b>, we mean works of empirical investigation.
By <b>Human</b>, we mean works of intimate experience.
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><p>Just like an authentic symposium, our quarterly issues examine single topics through a variety of perspectives. We trust you'll enjoy how each piece uniquely connects to this issue's theme as much as we enjoyed the unique challenge of putting Issue 2 together. Of course, none of this would be possible without our contributors' talent and freely lent time, the dedication of our leadership team, or our readers' support. Thank you.</p><p>In hope,</p><p>The Editors</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Ça va me changer (This is going to change me) (2018)]]></title><description><![CDATA[Acrylic on canvas | 36 x 48 inches Artist’s Note
"Ça va me changer" is the second painting in a string of three that, together,
form the Ça Series. The French utterance “ça” is multifaceted in its use: a
pronoun, an interjection, and a noun at once. The substantive form, always
capitalized, has a psychoanalytic root. It is the French derivation of Sigmund
Freud’s concept of the id, which governs our unconscious, instinctual impulses.
As follows, each one of these works taps into an artistic w]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/ca-va-me-changer/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60ce4243874f6108176bc75b</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 2 - Recovery]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Plain]]></category><category><![CDATA[Artwork]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Meghan K. McGinley]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sun, 20 Jun 2021 22:25:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/image.png" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Acrylic on canvas | 36 x 48 inches</figcaption></img></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-art">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>"Ça va me changer" is the second painting in a string of three that, together, form the <i>Ça Series</i>. The French utterance “ça” is multifaceted in its use: a pronoun, an interjection, and a noun at once. The substantive form, always capitalized, has a psychoanalytic root. It is the French derivation of Sigmund Freud’s concept of the id, which governs our unconscious, instinctual impulses. As follows, each one of these works taps into an artistic well that champions intuition over reason. Color acts as a language of the senses, one that is felt before it is studied—a language recovered.<Br><br>
These pigmented fields are the product of a single brush, a rhythmic kaleidoscope achieved with only red, yellow, blue, and white. I seldom clean my instrument when I shift between hues, preferring to exhaust the colors against the canvas and inside each other. This language is one of guts, desire, fury, and future. It is one that drove an aching future, an imagined future, a failed future that changed me. A dialogue between the “recovered” and the act of recovery—getting better—now informs my waking life. This dream-in-being shapes me, colors my perception, and, most of all, urges me forward.<br><br>
</br></br></br></Br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Vital Arrogant Fatal Dominant: On Poems, Attention, and Relation]]></title><description><![CDATA[Why poetry matters in times of great global change.]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/vital-arrogant-fatal-dominant-on-poems-attention-and-relation/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__602a004cb05cdb0477316598</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 1 - Transition]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Necessary]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Emily Meffert]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 16 Feb 2021 02:10:00 GMT</pubDate><media:content url="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/jr-korpa-6NxBoLP5gIE-unsplash--2-.jpg" medium="image"/><content:encoded><![CDATA[<img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/jr-korpa-6NxBoLP5gIE-unsplash--2-.jpg" alt="Vital Arrogant Fatal Dominant: On Poems, Attention, and Relation"/><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><style>
.indented
{ padding-left: 0pt;
padding-right: 0pt;
}
</style>
<div class="indented">
<i>And where that language does not yet exist,<br> it is our poetry which helps to fashion it.<br>
Poetry is not only dream or vision, it is the skeleton architecture of our lives.</br></br></i><br>
—Audre Lorde, “Poetry Is Not a Luxury”
</br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">I</span>
n recent conversations I’ve asked friends whether they read poems and why not. The question is generally <i>why not</i>; aside from a handful who read them often, I’ve found little enthusiasm. Among the replies have been several who preferred reading nonfiction, several who said they didn’t understand poems or found them inaccessible, several who claimed proclivities for linear thinking and aversions to ambiguity; “pretentious” and “esoteric” were thrown around.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>An execrable ex wanted to enjoy poetry but hadn’t found a writer whose poems resonated consistently. I asked him what anticipated reward moved him to engage with a piece of writing. “Learning something new,” he replied. “Whether a new fact, a new perspective, a new word, a new idea, or a new way to articulate an old idea.” Well.</p><p>An Austin psychonaut refracted and dispersed my question into three. Noting that poems were slow in a fast world, she wondered why she might slow down to engage with them—whether she would get left behind. Observing that she had traditionally approached literature to receive, she asked how poems actually gave—whether they gave as much as they took. She questioned—finally—whether there were value in poetic meaning, which seemed to proffer few definitive answers.</p><p>Well. I had no definitive answers.</p><p>I should have defined <em>poem</em> when I asked the question. Before proceeding as though discussing something sole and whole, I should have pointed at the thing to confirm we didn’t have the same name for two different flocks of birds. American poet and essayist Adrienne Rich wrote that “in the wash of poetry the old, beaten, worn stones of language take on colors that disappear when you sieve them up out of the streambed and try to sort them out.” A thing reveals its identity through its relations to other things. Verse—be it rhymed, metrical, or free—may be identified by its divergence from prose, which is applied toward ends that are often distinct from the aims of a poem.</p><p>The aims of poems are manifold and nonessential to my definition. The crucial thing is that successful verse <em>makes</em> sense. Successful prose, by contrast, <em>adopts</em> sense. We know it adopts sense because when we encounter effective prose we can usually read it quickly. It doesn’t demand sustained scrutiny to decide how words within the body of text relate to each other. They simply do. They aren’t tasked to create sense where none has been assumed; neither are we.</p><p>When prose is well-written the result is that we construe language as a medium; it conveys some objective fact or situation or idea that is independent of language. Verse isn’t so sure. Poems hand us a down blanket burping feathers and call it <em>shish kebab</em>. Then, if we can agree that <em>shish kebab</em> signifies this thing that keeps us warm and ticklish, we can relate. This is not for the sake of confusion. This is to draw attention to language as a function of social agreements. Which is to underscore that words do not convey facts, situations, or ideas, but create these.</p><p>Imagine <em>yellow</em>. What is it? <em>Yellow</em> isn’t a canary or the paunch of an egg, but it may describe these. Light with a dominant wavelength of 580 nanometers isn’t <em>yellow</em>, but it is a condition that makes <em>yellow</em> possible. You might spend hours pursuing the meaning of <em>yellow</em> without once mentioning candlelight on the kitchen ceiling, though your omission wouldn’t make it less <em>yellow </em>than that goldfinch with the scrap wing you tossed into traffic, as a kid, on a hunch it might fly. All this to say that <em>yellow</em> is the consensus reached when two individuals neglect the dishes and turn their attention upward, to the warm glaze leaping across beams, and point, and tongue their low incisors, then round their lips just so. <em>Yellow</em>, they agree. <em>Yes</em>.</p><p>Which is to say that we are, in our daily lives, responsible for making decisions about the meaning of words, and for taking pains to understand each other. I once heard the rules of the road in America contrasted with the rules of the road in Nepal, where there are none. In Nashville, following established laws allows drivers to focus on their individual safety almost exclusively. They don’t need to be especially mindful of other drivers; they won’t be held accountable if others fail to heed those laws. In Kathmandu, with few enforced rules to structure traffic, everyone is responsible for everyone else. Pedestrians cross anywhere; drivers must pay attention. In their freedom, each motorist is inextricably bound to all others. This is to define <em>poem</em> analogously: an approach to verbal expression that is lawless and contextual, that demands careful attention, that stimulates relation. It is the thing that floods dry contrary stones until their colors bleed a fresh, athletic logic.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:center;">✵
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I’ve been thinking of poems lately. There’s a sense, now, of contracted possibility on a grand scale. I don’t mean in theory. The reality of what is possible in our daily lives is more limited than it was in February of last year. I have been shut in small rooms, hushed by terrors biological and political. I have interpreted power and appeased those who flaunt it structurally. I’ve gone days speaking no words except the ones they made.</p><p>We are suffering, now, in old and new ways. (This is not projection, but an observation.) An awareness of our ancient hurt grasps even those for whom it’s news. In America—this peculiar ecosystem, as the myth goes, where individual parts may act without disturbing everything else—we’re daily confronting the centuries of violence that we’ve rationalized, closeted, and rewritten for as long. We’re lying in the bed we’ve made and made.</p><p>In their responses to my question about poems, my friends have led me to consider whether the possibility exists of conceiving new circumstances in a tired idiom, which seems ill-suited for engagement with disruptive ideas. The problem, to my mind, is evident.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote"> “My hunch is that this era—of scrutinizing collective priorities, of forging new arenas for solidarity—clamors for somethings poems are uniquely positioned to supply.”
</p>
<p>Austrian-born philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein famously declared that the limits of his language were the limits of his world. Illustrating this idea, English novelist George Orwell wrote that the aim of Newspeak—the language of the totalitarian superstate in his too-familiar dystopia—is “to narrow the range of thought.” Through reducing the vocabulary available to Newspeakers, the state would make free thought “literally impossible, because there [would] be no words in which to express it.” We hardly need an imagined politics to exemplify this danger; we have witnessed persons of enormous influence frame the world within a stiflingly meager set of terms. The enmity they’ve sewn has yielded intractable divisions. Has made us deaf to divergent camps. Has killed us in our homes and neighborhoods. Now we’re thousands innocent and dead. This isn’t metaphorical. This isn’t biological. This is the reign of words, the images they engender, the situations they originate.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>My hunch is that this era—of scrutinizing collective priorities, of forging new arenas for solidarity—clamors for somethings poems are uniquely positioned to supply. Those are: an exercise in paying attention, an idiosyncratic approach to relation, and an idiom to inaugurate the arriving world.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:center;">✵
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>American philosopher Richard Rorty has described the evolution of literal language as a result of “people who did happen to find words to fit their fantasies,” creating “metaphors which happened to answer to the vaguely felt needs of the rest of the society.” Sex and gender, for instance, caught on—were invented then associated by vocabularies that codified power by shortchanging biological nuance. Historically wielding metaphors to equate human beings and animals, architects of genocide haven’t needed to corrode whole populations’ capacities to instinctually recognize the value of human life; they have needed merely to combine words that stuck. By the same token, the progress of civilization may be told as the story of wild vocables being successfully (and often, as it were, unwittingly) translated into broad tongues. Rorty notes that the Romantic poets—like William Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and Percy Bysshe Shelley—contributed to the development of an ethical consciousness that would inform the culture of political liberalism. Adrienne Rich, whose poetry and essays have influenced feminist thought and sexual politics, observed that in radical exploration there is “a difficult and dangerous walking on the ice, as we try to find language and images for a consciousness we are just coming into, and with little in the past to support us.” On this point, I say to my friend the psychonaut that the best poems give much; among their gifts is a way to reconcile the vastness of experience with a mode of expression that has not previously accounted for certain kinds of experience. The evolution of Rich’s career reveals a poet who first assimilated the conventions of a male-dominated craft, then ceaselessly pursued new styles, structures, and vocabularies for centering and empowering the perspectives of women—a poet who reconstituted the world and encouraged us to tread as boldly.</p><p>Rich and the Romantics answer to the apparent dearth of certitude in poems. Whatever they are, they emerge precariously, as saplings from the cracks of a rock face. If works of prose are written to convey known information coherently, then poems are penned to record the pulse of something that is not yet fully understood. The full scope of a poem’s meaning is recognizable only after it has, across decades, conversed with other poems and other arts, refracting lines of public discourse and informing common speech. Every poem extends a contribution to a much larger project, making both the writing and reading of poems a fundamentally collaborative endeavor. Rich renders this as a kind of continuous shared exertion in her poem, “Turning,” affirming that “Finally, we will make change.” She describes this process as</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><style>
.indented
{ padding-left: 400pt;
padding-right: 0pt;
}
</style>
<div class="indented">
leaving superstition behind—<br>first our own, then other’s—<br>that barrier, that stream<br><br>where swimming against the current will become<br>no metaphor: this is how you land, unpurified,<br>winded, shivering, on the further shore<br><br>where there are only new kinds of tasks, and old:<br>writing with others that open letter or brief<br>that might—if only—we know it happens:<br><br>no sudden revelation but the slow<br>turn of consciousness, while every day<br>climbs on the back of the days before:<br><br>no new day, only a list of days,<br>no task you expect to see finished, but<br>you can’t hold back from the task.
</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>In periods of societal transition, old modes of expression don’t just fail to address the unique needs of our historical moment; they maintain harmful attitudes that continue to instigate old forms of violence. Conventional vocabularies, comprising metaphors that have crystallized over time, evoke a more or less distant past. It isn’t the individual poem that provokes a “sudden revelation,” but the collective exercise of reading and writing poems that signifies our commitment to the diversification of language and to linguistic fluidity across time. “The subject is how to break a mold of discourse,” Rich writes, “how little by little minds change / but that they do change.” This “slow turn of consciousness” produces the potential for inclusive thought and institutions that are increasingly sensitive to historically marginalized perspectives. Gradually we discover ways to articulate—then nuance and validate—our traumas, joys, priorities, fears, and hopes.</p><p>I reply to my friend the psychonaut that this task—finding modes of expression suited to address our unanticipated needs—is indispensable and, yes, necessarily slow. Our objective is to craft language that will, in Rorty’s words, “strike the next generation as inevitable.” Highlighting the evolution of language as the continuous creation and gradual literalization of metaphors, he acknowledges the centrality of the poet within efforts to redescribe ourselves. What matters—to our collective understanding of historical and contemporary narratives, and thereby to the values we share and the institutions we build to support those values—is how we choose to describe the things that populate our public and private lives. Thus emerges the poet’s work.</p><p>The poet’s work varies with the age in which she writes. I’ve heard twenty-first century poetry critiqued for its failure to speak, as Walt Whitman did in the mid-nineteenth, for “the female equally with the male…[for] every hue and caste…[for] every rank and religion.” It avoids claiming that “these are really the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands” and that “if they are not yours as much as mine they are nothing.” Writing on the cusp of Civil War, Whitman’s emphasis on the commonalities that united members of a bitterly divided nation appealed to an audience that might have had limited terms for discussing solidarity, and that was receptive to an imagined national identity that could transcend political boundaries.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote"> “The full scope of a poem’s meaning is recognizable only after it has, across decades, conversed with other poems and other arts, refracting lines of public discourse and informing common speech.” </p>
<p>The contemporary situation demands a different poetic orientation. “The universal is a fantasy,” writes Claudia Rankine in her introduction to <i>The Racial Imaginary</i>. “What we want to avoid at all costs,” she explains, “is an opposition between writing that accounts for race and writing that is ‘universal.’ If we continue to think of the ‘universal’ as the pinnacle, we will always discount writing that doesn’t look universal because it accounts for race.” Rankine’s observation, which could not have emerged from the chapter of American history that produced Whitman’s comprehensive attitude (there existed no frame of reference or body of works to make it sensible), may be contemplated even beyond the scope of race. Continuing to hold poems to an unattainable standard of universality diminishes writing that explores the perspectives of any except the most privileged identities in our society. Such a nonviable expectation hinders poems from affecting what Whitman sought to facilitate through the structural and subjective inclusiveness of his verse, but which must be attempted by contemporary poets through alternative means. That is, solidarity. </p>
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Rather than sharing a common language or nature that might be adapted as a basis for unity, we are essentially alike, Rorty argues, <em>just</em> in our susceptibility to pain. “Human solidarity,” he writes, “is not a matter of sharing a common truth or a common goal but of sharing a common selfish hope, the hope that one’s world—the little things around which one has woven into one’s final vocabulary—will not be destroyed.” Words like <em>kindness</em>, <em>decency</em>, and <em>dignity</em>, he argues, are not reflections of human nature, but ultimately lead to “a heightened awareness of the possibility of suffering.” The role of readers and poets, now, is to create language that will help us to suffer less than we have suffered in the past. If their work aspires to solidarity, it must replace universal postures with sensitivity to the nuances of personal—and, in particular, traditionally devalued—experiences. On Whitman’s search for a poetic correlative to an idealized American political project, the poet and novelist Ben Lerner has noted the remoteness of its realization, speculating that “Whitman comes to stand for the contradictions of a democratic personhood that cannot become actual without becoming exclusive.” In this century, many poets are embracing both: actuality and exclusivity are central to their project, which is dedicated to recording suffering and validating its own amorphous vocabulary.</p><p>In this sense, exclusivity is not opposed to inclusiveness; instead, it seeks to include individual members of a whole by first establishing their “irreducible otherness.” Justin E. H. Smith, a Professor of History and Philosophy at Paris Diderot University, has considered the term “relatable” in the context of esotericism and learnéd traditions, identifying it as a misnomer in its common use. Taken as synonymous with <em>familiar</em>, <em>relatable</em> forgets that the work of establishing meaningful relation requires serious contemplation, that is, a recognition of otherness. Relieved of the myth of universality, we can shed illusions of breadth to attend the depths of our singular, irreplicable experiences. Most astoundingly, we may peek into the depths of others.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:center;">✵
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Outwardly, my childhood bears little resemblance to that of the poet Robert Hayden. I have to strain to imagine what it must have been like growing up as a black boy in an early twentieth century Detroit ghetto, ostracized by peers and subjected to parental abuse. Yet, for all the differences in circumstance between us, I note similar physiologic responses each time I read his poem, “Those Winter Sundays.” While Hayden recalls the mornings his father woke early to thanklessly heat their home, a bright wave washes my vertebrae, snakes along my collar and jaw bones, touches the base of my skull, wakes the spots behind my ears. It chills the backs of my legs and pricks the insides of my knees and I cry. I let it come. He yields insight for which there is no solace. “What did I know,” he writes, and again, “what did I know / of love’s austere and lonely offices?”</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote"> “What matters—to our collective understanding of historical and contemporary narratives, and thereby to the values we share and the institutions we build to support those values—is how we choose to describe the things that populate our public and private lives.” </p>
<p>His words are none too extraordinary; they are “labor,” “splintering,” “chronic,” “angers,” “indifferently.” I sieve them up; their colors slip. Together, though, they make a banked fire blaze in the blueblack cold. Before I’m able to consciously pair feelings I’ve experienced with feelings I intuit through the poem’s speaker, my central nervous system responds. Drawing me into relation with a perspective that varies widely from my own, his words elicit an emotion that is yet deeply familiar. I could have traced its contours in a cave. I could have placed it on a spectrum between terra cotta and turmeric but until I’d read “Those Winter Sundays” no words had so precisely touched it. Hayden’s enabled me to articulate a persistent internal conflict: that in a world of scarcity, love and pain are cyclically bound. In my ignorance, I’ve been responsible for both; beyond my ignorance, I’ll be responsible for both. In and beyond my ignorance I am and will be formed by each, round and around. I mention this because poems—which involve fewer kinds of sensory information than other mediums that exercise empathy in audiences, like movies and music—demand more imaginative work than perhaps any other art, giving readers space to more fully inhabit the perspective of an other. It is exceedingly difficult, in turn, to neglect the concerns of anyone who can feel what you have felt—particularly something as devastating as pain, which touches everyone. In an essay Rich explains that </p>
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><style>
.indented
{ padding-left: 50pt;
padding-right: 50pt;
}
</style>
<div class="indented">
[S]omeone writing a poem believes in, depends on, a delicate, vibrating range of difference, that an “I” can become a “we” without extinguishing others, that a partly common language exists to which strangers can bring their own heartbeat, memories, images. A language that itself has learned from the heartbeat, memories, images of strangers.
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Among myriad forms of cruelty, incuriosity may be the most intolerable. Habitually reading poems teaches us to be attentive—not just to language, but to all things. Let us attend one another, then, we who are strange. Let us buzz in the space between two hopes, bizarrely vocalizing, listening, making sense. Now is the hour for walking on ice. We have interpreted the old masters all of our lives, have over-interpreted for fear of misinterpretation. Let us now be interpreted. Let us speak now, finally, in our own tongues. We will know who is committed to the arriving world by their courage to become disoriented in an unfamiliar idiom because it moves them closer to genuine relation.</p><p>To my friend the psychonaut I reply that, no, there is no one way to think about any poem. There is no correct answer here; you cannot discover it. An approximation of the answer volleyed between a couple of neurons in the writer’s brain a long time ago; you’ll never inhabit the machinery that processed the information that produced it. So that’s that. As with poems, so with life: attention yields meaning. And meaning—arranged among the symbols of whatever name you like—offers a source of consolation while suffering persists among we who are finite (we who, inexplicably, can imagine <em>infinite</em> and yearn for it).</p><p>You—I address you not generally, but reverentially—<em>You</em> have to create the poem’s meaning. Not for the sake of explaining it to someone, but because your pain may become penetrable insofar as you can describe it—can assign it a story, a justification, an origin, a name. Because your propensity for cruelty may be corroded to the extent that you can relate to the suffering of an Irreducible Other Precious Life.</p><p>I assure my friend that these are not tools in any traditional sense. You pick up an axe until the task is done but this task will never be done. Take up these lines at your leisure. Here is your opportunity to visit the most private room a person has. This is the gift.</p><p>Finally, I admonish the poet, do not surrender yourself easily. I am sacrificing my time and energy to meet you in your living room, this puzzling place, this house of mirrors. I’m yielding somethings precious—my comfort and my control—to be with you, to understand you<em>. </em>I arrange these affirmations like sweet rice and marigolds in the doorframe of this lyric and come, now, into your language, to know your inalienable light. ◘</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Bridging the Gap: Women in Engineering]]></title><description><![CDATA[ In the Black Hills of South Dakota there’s a highway interchange made of wood
that might stand as a test for engineers. It might also tell us something about
the way we educate girls in this country, and thus something about the puzzle of
women in engineering.
Called the Keystone Wye, the interchange stacks up three layers: a paved road on
the ground level, a straight bridge through the middle, and a high bridge
arching over the top. The whole construction blends into the surrounding trees;
pa]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/bridging-the-gap/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__602af4f2b05cdb0477316648</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 1 - Transition]]></category><category><![CDATA[The True]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Faith Bottum]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 15 Feb 2021 22:38:46 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p><span class="dropcap"> I</span>n the Black Hills of South Dakota there’s a highway interchange made of wood that might stand as a test for engineers. It might also tell us something about the way we educate girls in this country, and thus something about the puzzle of women in engineering.
<!-- drop-cap -->
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Called the Keystone Wye, the interchange stacks up three layers: a paved road on the ground level, a straight bridge through the middle, and a high bridge arching over the top. The whole construction blends into the surrounding trees; passing tourists might not even notice it. But to someone with an engineering interest, the mind and eye of an engineer, the Keystone Wye is <em>cool</em>. The bridges are made of lumber, after all. The heavy highway traffic is supported by nothing more than wooden beams, trusses, and arches. When it was built in 1968, the wooden construction was chosen so that the interchange would fit with its forested Black Hills setting. But the bridges were also made of wood because those 1960s designers wanted to build something special: something that differed from the ordinary concrete and steel-beam bridges that make up the nation’s highway overpasses.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>Three arches support the Keystone Wye’s upper bridge. Formed from laminated wood, each arch has two pieces, sixty-six feet long and curved to roughly 90 degrees of arc, with a steel hinge in the middle to absorb shock. The footings took 650 cubic yards of concrete and half a million pounds of steel, while the wooden arches began as stacks of two-inch-thick planks, scarfed to length before being curved and glued together.<sup>1</sup></p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Certainly, there are numerous engineering feats that fascinate ordinary people who rarely think about construction projects. Take for instance the Falkirk Wheel in Scotland, a pair of giant Ss that rotate to lift canal boats. Or the Millau Viaduct, a delicate-looking cable-stayed bridge that crosses eight hundred feet above a valley in southern France. Or the Bailong Elevator in China, a glass elevator running up a thousand-foot cliff. The more modest Keystone Wye, in contrast, requires something more to pique interest: an engineering mindset in the observer.</p><p>That unassuming highway interchange in the Black Hills can provide more than infrastructure. It can also serve as a test to identify people who have the natural ability and early education to see the world as an engineer sees it: not exactly as an artist and not exactly as a scientist, but as something in between—someone whose first impulse is to fix a problem in the most elegant, compelling way possible. And with something like the Keystone Wye test in hand, we can begin to work our way through the situation of women in engineering.</p><hr><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>There is a puzzling situation for women in engineering. In 2018 (according to the most recent full report by the American Society for Engineering Education), women received 21.9% of new bachelor’s degrees in engineering from US institutions. The graduate school numbers are slightly higher, with women earning 26.7% of master’s degrees and 23.6% of doctorates.<sup>2</sup> Engineering ranks even worse than physics as the STEM field with the lowest participation rate for women.<sup>3</sup></p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>These figures are improvements over the 18% of undergraduate engineering degrees granted to women in 2006, and the 20% in 2016. Back in 2011, science education researchers Kacey Beddoes and Maura Borrego noted “Despite a thirty-year history of initiatives and interventions, . . . women remain a minority in engineering,” with “enrollments of female engineering students” declining.<sup>4</sup> But the situation has improved somewhat since those observations. Women now make up 16% of the engineering workforce in America, compared to 12% in 1990.</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote"> “Our problem is not so much in the discipline of engineering itself or how we teach engineering in college. It starts much earlier, with the way we introduce engineering to the very young.”
</p>
<p>
Those numbers still remain far under women’s 50.8% of the American population<sup>5</sup> and the more than 56% of college students who are women.<sup>6</sup> Yet somehow, the numbers prove worse than the American Society for Engineering Education’s initial statistics might suggest. Generally speaking, women tend toward the disciplines with clear social purposes. Environmental engineering, with 50.6% women, is arguably one of the most important disciplines, as are biomedical (45.4%) and industrial engineering (32.3%). But some of the engineering specialties (and often the ones with the most promising career opportunities) show much lower numbers for women: petroleum engineering, for example, at 16.9% women. Fields like mechanical engineering (14.8%) electrical engineering (14.2%) show similarly abysmal figures. Aerospace (14.6%) and computer engineering (13.3%) are equally low.
</p>
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>Participation rates are not the only troubling statistics for women in engineering. Women tend to leave the field at higher rates, too, although the actual numbers are challenging to interpret. As Anne E. Preston pointed out in 2004, engineers in general—men and women alike—quit their profession four times more often than doctors and over three times more often than lawyers.<sup>7</sup> A 2008 study discovered that over 40% of all engineering undergraduates change to other majors.<sup>8</sup> Still, a Google query for why women leave engineering produces over 250 million results, and the Harvard Business Review’s 2018 “The Subtle Stressors Making Women Want to Leave Engineering” is only one of dozens of articles with similar titles.<sup>9</sup></p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>In 2011, the Department of Energy issued a ten-chapter report titled “Stemming the Tide: Why Women Leave Engineering.”<sup>10</sup> Women, the report concluded, “are the most underrepresented in the engineering disciplines.” And around 40% of the women engineers the report surveyed “have left the field of engineering.” One-third of those who left responded that they did so because of workplace climate or culture, while a quarter left to spend time with their families. Among those who did not enter the field after graduation, a third reported a perception of engineering as inflexible and not supportive of women.</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>The problem with “Stemming the Tide” is that it lacks equally exact numbers for men who leave the field, which is needed to draw useful conclusions about women in engineering. This problem runs through the literature. In 2015, MIT issued a study called “Persistence Is Cultural,” which used diary entries from forty students over four years to describe the pressures and indignities young women felt.<sup>11</sup> Although the MIT study is often cited as evidence of women’s departure from engineering, it directs most of its attention to self-reporting from new graduates who immediately leave or do not enter the profession. The lack of contrasting statistics for men makes it difficult to form an accurate, more complete picture of engineering as a whole.</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>The 2007 “Retention Study” by the Society of Women Engineers remains a more useful source.<sup>12</sup> According to that study, the gender gap is small in some instances. Men and women with engineering educations had equal unemployment rates (just 1%), for example. Other statistics, however, showed larger gaps. Fewer women at the time were going into the profession straight out of school, with 60% of women and around 70% of men reporting that “they were employed as engineers within the first three years of finishing college.” For those eighteen to twenty years out of college, “only about one-third of women but about half of men were still in engineering jobs.” Overall, 48% of women stayed in the profession their whole careers, as opposed to 58% of men. The study also found that 22% of women with engineering degrees were “not in the labor force or employed outside engineering,” but only 10% of men could say the same.</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>The anecdotal evidence is even more convincing, pointing to low-level but persistent discrimination against women. It’s worth mentioning that oppression has not always been so low-level, even in the recent past. Any account of discrimination faced by women in engineering has to mention the massacre of fourteen female students in Montreal, which became a defining feature of an entire culture.<sup>13</sup></p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>Late on the rainy gray afternoon of December 6, 1989, a disturbed twenty-five-year-old Canadian man walked into the École Polytechnique with a rifle and a hunting knife. He opened fire, killing six of the women engineering students he targeted, then walked through the building, killing eight more women and injuring ten women and four men before shooting himself.<sup>14</sup></p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Nothing of this magnitude has occurred in the thirty years since, which has tempted some to argue that a madman’s actions on a single occasion have been taken as the defining feature of an entire culture. To accept this line, however, would be to miss something important: the women who report ongoing discrimination in engineering now are not pointing back to the 1989 Montreal massacres as the model for what they encounter. They know they are not being killed, not suffering to the extent that women engineers have in the past. Nonetheless, they testify to something real in women’s experience.</p><p>“I’ve always felt discriminated [against] because I was a female at an engineering school,” Mindy Ravnaas, one of my classmates at the School of Mines, told me recently. On several group design projects, she found it assumed that “since I was a female, I wasn’t intelligent enough to have an idea.” Mindy stormed out of a computer-coding class her freshman year after the male professor made her “feel degraded” for asking basic questions. “I ended up dropping out of this class in the middle of lab because I felt alone and stupid with no way to figure it out. I felt completely defeated.” The professor “ruined my interest for computer science, and I felt like I wouldn’t be able to become an engineer, which was my dream.”</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>Mindy’s description is echoed by many in engineering. A Google engineer told Gizmodo reporter Melanie Ehrenkranz that she gets fewer questions at code reviews when she contributes under a genderless or masculine ghost name.<sup>15</sup> In “The 5 Biases Pushing Women Out of STEM,” a 2015 study in the Harvard Business Review, Joan C. Williams reported that two-thirds of the professional women she surveyed felt they had “to prove themselves over and over” because they were women.<sup>16</sup> A 2016 study by undergraduates found that women’s contributions to open-source coding sites are accepted more often than men’s, but only when their gender is not identified.<sup>17</sup></p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>It’s true that some women feel that these stories of oppression do not reflect their own experiences in engineering. A British chemical engineer calling herself “Po the Person” took to YouTube to echo concerns that the tales of woe she reads don’t ring true for her: “Maybe my parents are just much more egalitarian than I give them credit for, but nobody in my life tried to discourage me from studying engineering.” Every relative and teacher, “even the ones who are not progressive,” offered nothing but support in her pursuit of an engineering degree.<sup>18</sup> When I asked Kayla Gagen, my classmate at School of Mines, how it feels to be a woman in engineering courses, she offered similar sentiments, replying laconically: “I usually don’t notice.”</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>In July 2017, a Google engineer named James Damore generated weeks of controversy when he posted a memo claiming that while discrimination does exist, not all of it can be ascribed to oppression. Most commentators rebuked Damore, but economics columnist Megan McArdle took a contrarian line based on her experience at a tech job early in her career. “I liked the work,” McArdle wrote. “But I was never going to like it enough to blow a weekend doing more of it for free. Which meant that I was never going to be as good at that job as the guys around me.”<sup>19</sup></p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Nonetheless, the fact remains that a majority of women in STEM fields report having experienced put-downs and harassments. Asked for examples, Caitlin Lardner, another of my engineering classmates, insisted that she had “nothing super serious or really worthy of writing about.” She had spent her summer internship in an engineering-design department of “primarily young women.” And yet, Caitlin also almost casually mentioned that “the one time I wore a dress in North Dakota, the superintendent of the subcontractor on our job site (who was staying in the same hotel) asked me what corner I was working that night.”</p><p>Mindy Ravnaas added that during her early undergraduate years at the School of Mines, “I didn’t give my input very often” when in groups with male classmates. Now, “going into my senior year of college, I’ve learned . . . to keep speaking up and be somewhat persistent.” She has realized that “we as women have to work harder to be heard, but if we give up we will never change the industry. Thankfully I have been surrounded by many other women with the same mindset, and together we will slowly improve this discriminating culture.”</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>Among the diary entries quoted in the “Persistence Is Cultural” study, several show women undergraduates experiencing a loss of confidence during their college years. A student named Ashley wrote: “The biggest problem I seem to be having [is] self-doubt. I would look at a problem, and think of a way to solve it, but then I would second-guess myself, and convince myself that my way of answering the question must be wrong. . . . I don’t understand why I keep doubting myself so much. . . . Lack of confidence has never ever been a problem for me, even when I was a little girl.”<sup>20</sup></p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote"> “The one time I wore a dress in North Dakota, the superintendent of the subcontractor on our job site asked me what corner I was working that night.”
</p>
<p>This sense of continuing mistreatment is supported by studies that collect self-reporting. According to a large-scale 2018 Pew survey, for example, 50% of women in STEM report having experienced discrimination. Of the women who work mostly with men, 48% said their gender has made it harder for them to succeed, while only 14% of women who are not surrounded by male colleagues reported anything similar. “The most common forms of gender discrimination,” the Pew study concludes, “include earning less than a man doing the same job (29%), having someone treat them as if they were not competent (29%), experiencing repeated, small slights in their workplace (20%), and receiving less support from senior leaders than a man who was doing the same job (18%).”<sup>21</sup>
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>In the 2018 Harvard Business Review article on women leaving engineering, M. Teresa Cardador and Brianna Barker Caza note that even apparent promotion can reinforce a sense of gender discrimination. Often with a good will, engineering firms move women upward into managerial roles. “If you have ten engineers in a room, from our company,” explained one male executive, “they’re all going to be smart, but it’s the one who can communicate well, the one that can get people behind them . . . they’re stereotypically female.” The result is that women have been promoted to engineering managers in recent years, but Cardador and Caza go on to suggest that managers are not actually much respected among engineers. “When women disproportionately occupy roles that are less valued or unwanted,” they conclude, “it can reinforce stereotypes about female engineers being less technically skilled, make them feel less respected, and create the illusion that they are not a ‘real engineer.’”<sup>22</sup></p><!--kg-card-end: html--><hr><p>Among the many students I have met, there are some young women who possess, or are possessed by, the engineering mind. They spend their free time reading about new techniques for extracting 0.001 percent more gold from ore blends. They send me texts about the “dope” engineering that creates the harmonics of a grand piano. They get excited explaining the internal gear systems of the Falkirk Wheel. They love driving past the Keystone Wye.</p><p>Generally speaking, these are also the young women who don’t seem to notice low-level sexism. The discrimination has to be major to intrude on their thoughts. In their not-quite-science, not-quite-art fascination with the physical world, they spend their time seeking the most efficient and elegant method to solve engineering problems.</p><p>I am engineer enough to recognize that I am not an engineer in the way these women are—failing to work, for instance, on a captivating design for an ultralight airplane in my spare time, just for the fun of it. Maybe I should be doing such things, but I think of the work I <em>want </em>to do in terms of how engineering can alter and advance society and how it can change the world. I believe I have at least a little of the engineering mind, but I am still concerned about the social problems of American professions, and the condition of women in engineering fascinates me.</p><p>Still, the literature on women in engineering tends to ignore or even diminish those whose primary interest is engineering itself. Kayla Gagen, for example, who emailed me about how cool it is to see the engineering “drone on the fly” to complete the Millau Viaduct in France. Or my friend Mariya Sachek, who recently urged me to study the 1980s construction techniques used to build the Lotus Temple in Delhi. How do these women fit into the picture of women in STEM? Something here needs to be protected: a simple love for the physical world and how it works, among women who care most of all about engineering and do not focus much on social politics.</p><hr><p>The greatest puzzle in all of this may be that, over recent decades, American colleges and businesses have undertaken a major campaign to increase the number of women in engineering. Yet, percentages in the United States remain at a level that even the most optimistic among us would describe as miserably low.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>Our failure to develop a more inclusive workforce in engineering stands in contrast to many non-Western countries, where percentages recently surpassed those of more developed nations, despite starting with a much worse situation for women. In 2019, the World Bank reported that thirteen of the fifteen countries with the lowest rates of women in the workforce are in the Arab world,<sup>23</sup> and yet, according to a 2018 UNESCO report, eleven out of eighteen Arab states have women as the majority of their new STEM graduates, raising the participation of women to nearly 37% of working researchers.<sup>24</sup> “Jordan, Qatar, and the United Arab Emirates are the only countries where women test better and feel more comfortable in mathematics than men,” notes Saadia Zahidi in her 2018 book, Fifty Million Rising. According to the Economist, women make up 35% of internet entrepreneurs in the Arab world, compared to 10% worldwide.<sup>25</sup> “If the narrative of American expansion was ‘Go West, young man,’” Zahidi writes, “the new narrative for up-and-coming women in the Arab World may well be ‘Go Digital, young woman.’”</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>Meanwhile, Finland, Norway, and Sweden—the Scandinavian countries with the three highest measures of opportunities for women—have among the lowest rates of women STEM graduates in the world, according to a 2018 study in Psychological Science.<sup>26</sup> “The issue doesn’t appear to be girls’ aptitude for STEM professions,” Olga Khazan noted in the Atlantic. “In looking at test scores across sixty-seven countries and regions,” the authors of the study “found that girls performed about as well or better than boys did on science.”<sup>27</sup> It seems odd to have Algeria and Tunisia lead the world in percentages of women in STEM fields while Scandinavia lags behind. The result may derive in part from the fact that technical fields provide one of the few ways for women to advance in male-dominated countries. But the Psychological Science report matches several older studies that show economically developed cultures can actually end up with larger gender imbalances in some fields, given the greater number of opportunities available to women.</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>These statistics are unstable, conflicting, and divergent. The United States has tried to cover varying possibilities, attempting both to increase opportunities for women in general and to raise the number of women in STEM fields in particular. The cultural and financial investment has been enormous.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote"> “If the narrative of American expansion was <i>Go West, young man</i>,” Zahidi writes, “the new narrative for up-and-coming women in the Arab World may well be <i>Go Digital, young woman</i>.”
</p>
<p>In its 2019 college rankings, U.S. News & World Report named what it judged the nation’s 206 best engineering schools.<sup>28</sup> Every single one of those 206 schools has a program exclusively for women in engineering, encouraging them to enroll, helping them graduate, and supporting them in their future careers. Take the Colorado School of Mines (43rd on the U.S. News & World Report list). In February 2019, it hosted a “Girls Lead the Way” conference to encourage high-school students to come to the university and choose STEM majors. The motto was “Boldly Go Where No Woman Has Gone Before.”<sup>29</sup> Duke University (tied for 18th) names as a priority in its Academic Strategic Plan the need to “aggressively recruit and support women and underrepresented minorities in STEM fields.”<sup>30</sup> And down toward the bottom of the list, the University of North Texas (ranked 205th) announced in February 2019 that it had received a $30,000 grant from the Texas Women’s Foundation for increasing the number of women in engineering and science.<sup>31</sup>
</p>
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>The field-wide assistance for women often continues into their careers. Take Cargill, an agricultural-engineering conglomerate and the largest privately held company in the United States, with revenues of $115 billion. In 2014, Cargill began collaborating with CARE in the Ivory Coast and Ghana to help poor cocoa-growing communities with a project called “Empowering Women,”<sup>32</sup> and in 2015, it became a “Gold Sponsor” of an organization called “Million Women Mentors,” which praised the company for being “truly committed to developing female STEM talent.”<sup>33</sup> In 2017, Cargill was a founding signatory of the Paradigm for Parity pledge to achieve gender equality in management by 2030.</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>Similarly, General Electric, which built the power plants producing a third of the world’s electricity,<sup>34</sup> supports a networking organization for its women employees, and in 2017 “set a goal of having 20,000 women fill STEM roles throughout the company by 2020.”<sup>35</sup> Caterpillar, which manufactures construction machinery and ranks 264th on Fortune magazine’s list of the world’s largest companies,<sup>36</sup> promotes WIN, its “supportive network” to help women “act as catalysts for global and local change.”<sup>37</sup> One of its senior figures, Stacey DelVecchio, was president of the Society of Women Engineers, and in 2018 the company released a promotional video bragging that “Women in engineering at Caterpillar develop cutting-edge technologies, lead product groups, and make a difference in the world.”<sup>38</sup></p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>The projects for women at computer-tech firms are even more ambitious, perhaps in part because of such complaints as Brotopia: Breaking Up the Boys’ Club of Silicon Valley, a 2018 book in which Emily Chang writes, “the environment in the tech industry has become toxic,” with women “systematically excluded from the greatest wealth creation in the history of the world and denied a voice in the rapid remolding of our global culture.”<sup>39</sup> Loretta Lee, an ex-Google engineer suing her former employer for discrimination, adds, “The reason there are so few women in tech is because it sucks to be a woman in tech.”<sup>40</sup></p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>Despite these complaints, executives at Intel sponsor “Diversity at Intel,” having pledged to reach gender parity among its engineers by 2020.<sup>41</sup> Microsoft has its “Global Diversity and Inclusion” program, promoting what it claims are “over twenty years of committed diversity and inclusion efforts.”<sup>42</sup> IBM offers a “career re-entry program” for women two or more years out of work in technology.<sup>43</sup> Apple hosts a similar program,<sup>44</sup> and the company “is committed to helping more women assume leadership roles across the tech sector,” claims CEO Tim Cook.<sup>45</sup></p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>Extensive programs also exist for girls before college. Begun by the National Academy of Engineering, “The Engineer Girl” website names around forty national college scholarships only for girls.<sup>46</sup> “Scholarships for Women” lists many more.<sup>47</sup> Meanwhile, in 2017, the Society of Women Engineers praised twenty-five of the nation’s best girls-only programs for K-12 students.<sup>48</sup> Partnering with the Girl Scouts, AT&T sponsors “Imagine Your STEM Future,” which brings women scientists and engineers to school classrooms, acting as STEM mentors for girls. The National Science Foundation’s “Imagine Engineering” lets “girls from low-income and underserved communities” visit science labs. Motorola and Google are among the sponsors of girls’ “FIRST Robotics” teams, while Dell offers “Journey and Connect Through Technology,” helping girls explore robotics and other fields. The Girl Scouts who earn science and engineering badges are asked to pledge to help “add 2.5 million girls to the STEM pipeline by 2025.”<sup>49</sup></p><!--kg-card-end: html--><hr><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>Who can deny that this huge cultural investment of money and time has had disappointing outcomes? We seem to have arrived at the point of harshly diminishing returns: every new dollar spent, every new appointment of a recruiter for women, yields smaller and smaller returns. Women made up just one percent of engineers in 1960,<sup>50</sup> a figure which rose fairly quickly over the next decades. But in the years since, that growth has flattened.</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>This lack of women, despite all our efforts, has led some thinkers to conclude that we need to change the whole discipline of engineering, especially the way we teach it. If gender parity cannot be achieved by pouring money into recruitment and reforming college culture, they argue, then there must be something sexist about the idea of engineering itself.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>Back in 2001, the historian of science Pamela E. Mack could observe that “promoters of women in engineering” have generally “steered away from the broader feminist critique.”<sup>51</sup> In the years since, however, theorists have turned much of their attention to that feminist critique. Prominent among them is Donna Riley, who heads the School of Engineering Education at Purdue, a college program with the mission to “radically rethink the boundaries of engineering and the purpose of engineering education.”<sup>52</sup></p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>In 2017, Riley published “Rigor/Us,” a much-discussed essay that demands the complete reformation of engineering, taking aim at the idea of rigorous engineering education.<sup>53</sup> Rigor, she writes, “has a historical lineage of being about hardness, stiffness, and erectness; its sexual connotations—and links to masculinity in particular—are undeniable.” As a result, the idea of rigor in engineering “accomplishes dirty deeds.” It primarily serves the purposes of “disciplining,” “demarcating boundaries,” and “demonstrating white male heterosexual privilege.”</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>And thus, she argues, rigorous math and science must be eliminated from engineering. Against those who want merely to open existing engineering education to greater numbers of women, Riley insists that “this is not about reinventing rigor for everyone, it is about doing away with the concept altogether so we can welcome other ways of knowing. Other ways of being.” We need to move “from <em>rigor</em> to <em>vigor</em>,” replacing engineering colleges with “a community for inclusive and holistic engineering education.”</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote"> “If we eliminate rigor from the education of engineers, we cannot expect rigor in what those engineers go on to do.”
</p>
<p>Others have traced out somewhat similar lines, responding to the unsatisfactory percentages of women in STEM fields by rejecting current ideas about science, math, and technology. “It is not unusual,” Kacey Beddoes and Maura Borrego write, for people unaware of recent feminist literature to join issues of “feminism in science” with issues of “women in science.” This older approach produced the increase-the-numbers “Women in Engineering” initiatives adopted by so many colleges and businesses. But, as Beddoes and Borrego note, such initiatives are often criticized by more recent feminists, who reject a focus “on attracting women to (and retaining them in) the current masculine culture.” Women in Engineering initiatives prove “problematic if they do not address the biases and limitations of that culture.”<sup>54</sup>
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>Math professor Bonnie Jean Shulman writes that “quantification, comparison, and measurement are in themselves cultural activities, whose assumed values are not universally shared.”<sup>55</sup> In a 2013 essay, Linda Bergmann argues that we must cease to cater to the kind of engineering education that college men prefer “based on formulaic instructions, hierarchical classroom structures, and right/wrong answers.” The “feminist approaches to learning—which rely heavily on collaboration, the dissolution of hierarchies, and the encouragement of personal learning—defy both the institutional traditions of engineering schools and the personal inclinations of the students who dominate them.”<sup>56</sup></p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>The problem with such critiques is that rigorous math and science are integral to the discipline. Engineering failures are how bridges fall down and planes tumble from the sky. Whatever the merits of arguments against objectivity, we have an objective measure by which to judge an engineering project: Does it work? If we eliminate rigor from the education of engineers, we cannot expect rigor in what those engineers go on to do.</p><p>When I asked her about the 1970s at the School of Mines, Joan Howard, a 1976 graduate, told me tales of the overwhelmingly “men’s world” that engineering used to be. Although much has changed in the four decades since, engineering programs remain a world of men in many ways. Any woman who has experienced an American engineering education can attest that further changes that need to be made.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>Expand the curriculum to require engineering ethics? Certainly. Include in that coursework a section on feminist ethics? Absolutely. As a feminist, I would welcome such changes. In fact, the balanced approach the philosopher Caroline Whitbeck uses in her 1998 Ethics in Engineering Practice and Research could serve as a model for teaching ethical theory. Asking engineers to think of ethical problems as subject to the same kind of multiple constraints that engineering-design problems have. She titles an important chapter in her textbook “Ethics as Design: Doing Justice to Ethical Problems.”<sup>57</sup> But along the way, as we implement such changes, we cannot allow math and material science to be stripped of the rigor needed to seek meaningful techniques, the compelling methods, for solving engineering problems.</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><hr><p>Maybe the best way to increase the number of women in engineering is to drive your fifth-grade niece up to see the Keystone Wye, explaining the features that make the overpass so cool. Or, perhaps, to demonstrate to a seventh-grader the harmonics of a grand piano. To walk her through the workings of the Falkirk Wheel. The problems solved in building the Millau Viaduct. The construction of the Lotus Temple.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>Our problem is not so much in the discipline of engineering itself or how we teach engineering in college. It starts much earlier, with the way we introduce engineering to the very young. In 2008, the National Academy of Engineering concluded, “Every year, hundreds of millions of dollars are spent in the United States to improve the public understanding of engineering.” And yet, “despite these efforts, educational research shows that K–12 teachers and students generally have a poor understanding of what engineers do.” The result is “a strong sense that engineering is not ‘for everyone,’ and perhaps especially not for girls.”<sup>58</sup></p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>The absence of long-term, longitudinal studies, following girls from elementary school to adulthood, makes definitive judgment impossible. But the available evidence points toward the necessity to promote engineering early in girls’ lives. A 2018 Pew study found that Americans with postgraduate STEM degrees complained most of all about pre-college schooling, with a majority thinking their own K–12 education was below average,<sup>59</sup> failing to inspire them with the love for science that they only developed later.</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>Such initiatives can be surprisingly simple. “Even a single-day event” about engineering “can be effective,” noted a 2014 study of short-term presentations to middle-school girls and their parents. “Reshaping attitudes,” “exposing young minds to the world of engineering,” and forming “a vision” of how young people might become engineers.<sup>60</sup> Similarly, in 2008 researchers tested high-achieving girls who attended presentations about engineering. A follow-up two years later found eighty percent (of the girls available for response) still considering engineering as a career.<sup>61</sup> And a 2009 report showed an increase in middle-school girls’ interest in engineering after only a “twenty-minute narrative” about “the lives of female engineers and the benefits of engineering careers.”</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>The “inclusion of female role models at all levels (high school, college, and professional),” the report concluded, has genuine impact on middle-school girls’ ability to imagine “becoming an engineer.”<sup>62</sup> Based on this suggestive evidence, the American Association of University Women concluded, “Exposure to women in science and engineering fields can provide a major impact on middle and high school girls’ perceptions.”<sup>63</sup></p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>The question, however, is what perceptions we are giving them. “I don’t want the number of female engineers to go up because it’s seen as a feminist choice to enter a field in which we are so poorly represented,” explained the biomechanics professor Michelle Oyen in 2013. “I want the number of female engineers to go up because more girls hear about engineering when they’re young and realize what a great career it would be for them.”<sup>64</sup></p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>There are limits, in other words, to telling girls they should enter engineering because it will make them representatives of women’s advancement. Down that path lies the strong potential for later disappointment in their careers. A feeling for women’s cultural progress is a good thing for a woman engineer to have, but the first and most important reason for entering the field is a love for the strange not-quite-science, not-quite-art fascination with the physical world that is engineering.</p><p>And the answer to the puzzle of women in engineering requires awakening that fascination in girls. The Keystone Wye in the Black Hills is not just a test to discover which students have the engineering mind and eye. It is also a test for those who hope to inspire them. Can we explain what makes an engineering problem interesting to solve? Can we teach what makes it cool? ◘<br/></p><p>REFERENCES</p><p>1.<a href="https://sddigitalarchives.contentdm.oclc.org/digital/collection/government/id/215/"> Keystone Wye documentary</a></p><p>2.<a href="https://www.asee.org/documents/papers-and-publications/publications/college-profiles/2018-Engineering-by-Numbers-Engineering-Statistics-UPDATED-15-July-2019.pdf"> ASEE’s Engineering by the Numbers</a></p><p>3.<a href="https://www.aauw.org/research/why-so-few/"> Why So Few? AAUW study</a></p><p>4. <a href="https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/abs/10.1002/j.2168-9830.2011.tb00014.x">Beddoes and Maura Borrego’s 2011 study</a></p><p>5. <a href="https://www.census.gov/quickfacts/fact/table/US/LFE046217">Census numbers</a></p><p>6.<a href="https://www.theatlantic.com/education/archive/2017/08/why-men-are-the-new-college-minority/536103/"> Why Men Are the New College Minority</a></p><p>7.<a href="https://issues.org/preston/"> Preston’s Scientific Workforce</a></p><p>8.<a href="https://www.researchgate.net/publication/253511257_Persistence_Engagement_and_Migration_in_Engineering_Programs"> Persistence, Engagement, and Migration in Engineering Programs</a></p><p>9.<a href="https://hbr.org/2018/11/the-subtle-stressors-making-women-want-to-leave-engineering"> HBR Subtle Stressors</a></p><p>10.<a href="https://www.energy.gov/sites/prod/files/NSF_Stemming%20the%20Tide%20Why%20Women%20Leave%20Engineering.pdf"> Stemming the Tide</a></p><p>11.<a href="https://dspace.mit.edu/handle/1721.1/104002"> Persistence Diary Study</a></p><p>12.<a href="https://www.researchgate.net/publication/298546057_SWE_retention_study_and_worklife_balance"> SWE Retention Study</a></p><p>13.<a href="https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/mass-shooting-reshaped-canadian-debate-about-guns-and-political-identity-180962013/"> Smithsonian Magazine on Canadian Shootings</a></p><p>14.<a href="http://www.diarmani.com/Montreal_Coroners_Report.pdf"> Montreal Coroners Report</a></p><p>15.<a href="https://peerj.com/preprints/1733/"> Undergrad Coding Study</a></p><p>16.<a href="https://hbr.org/2015/03/the-5-biases-pushing-women-out-of-stem"> Joan C. Williams essay</a></p><p>17.<a href="https://peerj.com/preprints/1733/"> Undergrad Coding Study</a></p><p>18.<strong> </strong><a href="https://www.mic.com/articles/181968/women-engineers-get-real-about-the-worst-sexism-theyve-experienced-at-work">Ehrenkranz’s Gizmodo article</a></p><p>19.<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oF1jW7I6hXQ&t=10s"> YouTube Engineering video</a></p><p>20.<a href="https://www.bloomberg.com/opinion/articles/2017-08-09/as-a-woman-in-tech-i-realized-these-are-not-my-people"> McArdle column</a></p><p>21.<a href="https://www.pewsocialtrends.org/2018/01/09/women-and-men-in-stem-often-at-odds-over-workplace-equity/"> 2018 Pew Study</a></p><p>22.<a href="https://hbr.org/2018/11/the-subtle-stressors-making-women-want-to-leave-engineering"> HBR Subtle Stressors</a></p><p>23.<a href="https://data.worldbank.org/indicator/SL.TLF.CACT.FE.ZS"> 2019 World Bank report</a></p><p>24.<a href="https://www.researchgate.net/publication/323402194_Is_the_Gender_Gap_Narrowing_in_Science_and_Engineering"> 2018 Unesco report</a></p><p>25.<a href="https://www.economist.com/business/2013/07/13/untraditional-choice"> Economist on Arab entrepreneurs</a></p><p>26.<strong> </strong><a href="https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/abs/10.1177/0956797617741719?journalCode=pssa">Psychological Science study</a></p><p>27.<a href="https://www.theatlantic.com/science/archive/2018/02/the-more-gender-equality-the-fewer-women-in-stem/553592/"> Khazan’s Atlantic piece</a></p><p>28.<a href="https://www.usnews.com/best-colleges"> US News College rankings</a></p><p>29.<a href="http://gscoblog.org/2018/11/girls-lead-the-way-conference-at-colorado-school-of-mines/"> Colorado girls program</a></p><p>30.<strong> </strong><a href="https://today.duke.edu/2019/04/women-stem-duke">Duke strategic plan</a></p><p>31.<a href="https://engineering.unt.edu/news/cultivating-women-stem"> University of North Texas news</a></p><p>32.<strong> </strong><a href="https://www.cargill.com/sustainability/cocoa/empowering-women">Cargill’s Empowering Women</a></p><p>33.<a href="https://myemail.constantcontact.com/MWM-Bi-Weekly--Breaking-News-from-MWM---BP--Cargill--Johnson---Johnson--RSVP-Now-for-Upcoming-AAUW-TownHall-and-News-on-Women-in.html?soid=1107600698499&aid=NjorrZYqVt4"> Cargill’s Million Women Mentors</a></p><p>34.<a href="https://www.reuters.com/article/us-ge-power-exclusive/exclusive-ges-push-to-fix-power-turbine-problem-goes-global-idUSKBN1O60F4"> GE’s share of world energy</a></p><p>35.<a href="https://www.ge.com/reports/word-power-see-storytelling-inspires-women-pursue-stem-roles-careers/"> GE’s STEM women</a></p><p>36.<strong> </strong><a href="https://fortune.com/global500/2017/caterpillar/">Fortune on Caterpillar</a></p><p>37.<strong> </strong><a href="https://www.forconstructionpros.com/latest-news/news/20859741/caterpillar-incs-womens-initiative-goes-global">Caterpillar’s WIN network</a></p><p>38.<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DJ7umgJDxKc"> Caterpillar’s video</a></p><p>39.<a href="https://books.google.com/books?id=W8CGDwAAQBAJ&pg=PA14&lpg=PA14&dq=%E2%80%9Cthe+environment+in+the+tech+industry+has+become+toxic,%E2%80%9D&source=bl&ots=Dx9f_ZzxFa&sig=ACfU3U0U3fmtaE5TF7qrxrooWy21tXTIig&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwji3eay2c_jAhXQK80KHS61D_gQ6AEwAHoECAMQAQ#v=onepage&q=%E2%80%9Cthe%20environment%20in%20the%20tech%20industry%20has%20become%20toxic%2C%E2%80%9D&f=false"> Chang’s Brotopia passage</a></p><p>40. <a href="https://gizmodo.com/former-engineer-suing-google-it-sucks-to-be-a-woman-in-1824184100">Loretta Lee</a></p><p>41.<strong> </strong><a href="https://www.intel.com/content/www/us/en/diversity/diversity-inclusion-mid-year-report.html">Intel report</a></p><p>42.<a href="https://www.microsoft.com/en-us/diversity/default.aspx"> Microsoft report</a></p><p>43.<a href="https://www.ibm.com/employment/inclusion/techreentry.html"> IBM report</a></p><p>44.<a href="https://www.sfchronicle.com/business/networth/article/With-talent-scarce-some-firms-offer-13746195.php"> SF Chronicle on Apple</a></p><p>45.<a href="https://www.cnet.com/news/apple-starts-entrepreneur-camp-program-to-help-female-ios-app-developers/"> Tim Cook on women leadership</a></p><p>46.<strong> </strong><a href="https://www.engineergirl.org/9539/Scholarships">Engineering Girl on scholarships</a></p><p>47.<strong> </strong><a href="https://www.scholarshipsforwomen.net/"> Scholarships for women</a></p><p>48.<a href="https://alltogether.swe.org/2017/10/25-girls-steam-programs-love/"> SWE on girls’ programs</a></p><p>49.<a href="https://www.girlscouts.org/en/about-girl-scouts/girl-scouts-and-stem.html"> Girl Scouts engineering report</a></p><p>50.<strong> </strong><a href="https://www.aauw.org/research/why-so-few/">Why So Few? AAUW study</a></p><p>51.<a href="https://books.google.com/books?id=vjafSiPZUP8C"> Pamela E. Mack essay</a></p><p>52.<a href="https://engineering.purdue.edu/ENE/AboutUs"> Purdue description</a></p><p>53.<a href="https://www.researchgate.net/publication/321457303_RigorUs_Building_Boundaries_and_Disciplining_Diversity_with_Standards_of_Merit"> Rigor/Us</a></p><p>54.<a href="https://www.academia.edu/676388/Feminist_Theory_in_Three_Engineering_Education_Journals_1995-_2008"> Beddoes and Borrego, 2nd paper</a></p><p>55.<a href="https://books.google.com/books?id=9obFtmhcCNsC&pg=PA414&lpg=PA414&dq=%22comparison,+and+measurement+are+in+themselves+cultural+activities,+whose+assumed+values+are+not+universally+shared.%22&source=bl&ots=6cuhJkQJ-z&sig=ACfU3U1XVvANl0MexVRJsIvtK5oDJbbQFA&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwj6-YPc2M_jAhXVHM0KHW8jC6EQ6AEwAHoECAEQAQ#v=onepage&q=%22comparison%2C%20and%20measurement%20are%20in%20themselves%20cultural%20activities%2C%20whose%20assumed%20values%20are%20not%20universally%20shared.%22&f=false"> Bonnie Jean Shulman essay</a></p><p>56.<a href="https://books.google.com/books?id=wDNQ4c-zYz8C&pg=PA17&lpg=PA17&dq=based+on+formulaic+instructions,+hierarchical+classroom+structures,+and+right/wrong+answers.&source=bl&ots=ECr86lGEq6&sig=ACfU3U1N4PUY7uyOxd_wvOiXcLk8Xj7adw&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjtyLf72M_jAhWZGs0KHXzFDF4Q6AEwAHoECBUQAQ#v=onepage&q=based%20on%20formulaic%20instructions%2C%20hierarchical%20classroom%20structures%2C%20and%20right%2Fwrong%20answers.&f=false"> Linda Bergman essay</a></p><p>57.<a href="https://books.google.com/books?id=S0xi8OXuRn0C&pg=PA53&lpg=PA53&dq=%E2%80%9CEthics+as+Design:+Doing+Justice+to+Ethical+Problems.%E2%80%9D&source=bl&ots=howoGpSy9p&sig=ACfU3U38rPuWlj30XDGU60GdccoCcq9PNQ&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwi7msyU2c_jAhWHZs0KHTvwBnYQ6AEwAHoECBYQAQ#v=onepage&q=%E2%80%9CEthics%20as%20Design%3A%20Doing%20Justice%20to%20Ethical%20Problems.%E2%80%9D&f=false"> Caroline Whitbeck chapter</a></p><p>58.<strong> </strong><a href="https://www.nae.edu/24985/Changing-the-Conversation-Messages-for-Improving-Public-Understanding-of-Engineering">NAE Changing the Conversation</a></p><p>59.<a href="https://www.pewsocialtrends.org/2018/01/09/women-and-men-in-stem-often-at-odds-over-workplace-equity/"> 2018 Pew study</a></p><p>60.<a href="https://www.asee.org/public/conferences/32/papers/9747/download"> Short-Term STEM Intervention</a></p><p>61.<a href="https://www.aauw.org/research/why-so-few/"> Why So Few? AAUW study</a></p><p>62.<a href="https://www.aauw.org/research/why-so-few/"> Why So Few? AAUW study</a></p><p>63.<a href="https://www.aauw.org/research/why-so-few/"> Why So Few? AAUW study</a></p><p>64.<a href="https://reimaginingengineering.wordpress.com/2013/11/04/engineering-and-feminism/"> Michelle Oyen column</a><br><br><br/></br></br></p></hr></hr></hr></hr></hr>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Conception to Delivery of the COVID-19 Vaccine]]></title><description><![CDATA[ After nine months of clinical trials, the COVID-19 vaccine is finally being
delivered. This breakthrough marks the end of a tragic era of unprecedented
financial and logistical burdens. For many, the vaccine is an inoculation
against both the virus and despair, a shot of hope for a new life outside the
confines of home, a light at the end of this long and terrible tunnel.
Yet, the time in which we now find ourselves—nearly but not yet delivered from
our trial—is frightening and dangerous. Deep]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/conception-to-delivery-of-the-covid-19-vaccine/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__602aed74b05cdb047731660d</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 1 - Transition]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Necessary]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Gregory D. Sepich-Poore]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 15 Feb 2021 21:59:02 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">A</span>
fter nine months of clinical trials, the COVID-19 vaccine is finally being delivered. This breakthrough marks the end of a tragic era of unprecedented financial and logistical burdens. For many, the vaccine is an inoculation against both the virus and despair, a shot of hope for a new life outside the confines of home, a light at the end of this long and terrible tunnel.
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Yet, the time in which we now find ourselves—nearly but not yet delivered from our trial—is frightening and dangerous. Deeply entrenched in quarantine, Zoom, and mask fatigue, as well as misinformation about the vaccine, we face numerous threats that might prolong the pain we are hoping to escape. We cannot yet declare victory. Just as crucially, we cannot embrace defeatism. We are in desperate need of rational optimism to move from where we are to where we want to be.</p><p>In a time where social unity has been strained to the brink of collapse, we must ask ourselves how we want to shape this forthcoming reality. How we proceed will shape future generations and form our generation’s legacy.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><html>
<style>
sup {
font-size: 0.8em;
line-height: 0;
position: relative;
vertical-align: baseline;
top: -0.5em;
}
</style><p>
Scientists began thinking about a COVID-19 vaccine as soon as the virus was identified. Although still controversial, early data suggested that the novel beta-coronavirus gained the ability to jump from animals to humans on or around December 1, 2019, at or near the Huanan Seafood Wholesale Market in Wuhan, China.1 This cross-species transmission was most likely due to mutations in the virus’s RNA that codes for its “spike” protein, which is the portion of the virus for which it is named (“corona” for its crown of spikes). These modified spikes enabled the virus to infect humans, generating the terrible pandemic that dominates our time.<sup>2</sup></p>
</html><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">“In a time where social unity has been strained to the brink of collapse, we must ask ourselves how we want to shape this forthcoming reality.”
</p>
<p>The disease’s high degree of transmissibility from human to human caused an exponential rise in cases in China, leading to a nationwide epidemic of thousands of cases by mid-to-late January.<sup>2,3</sup> During this time, the inciting pathogen perplexed scientists, remaining unidentified until genomic sequencing of the virus’s ribonucleic acid (RNA) by two Chinese laboratories revealed a genetic code similar to other coronaviruses in late January.<sup>2,3</sup> The genomic studies garnered enough detail about the modified spike protein mentioned above that pharmaceutical companies now had a target around which to develop a vaccine.<sup>2</sup>
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>SARS-CoV-2, the virus that causes COVID-19, is the seventh coronavirus known to cause human disease.<sup>3,4</sup> The closest genetic relatives of the novel Wuhan-derived coronavirus are strains circulating in bats. The prevalence of this virus in wild animals suggests a zoonotic origin, and supports the idea it was first transmitted from animals to humans around a wholesale market.<sup>2,3</sup>
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
Even more importantly, publication of the virus’s entire genetic code proved to be the crucial step in the race to develop a vaccine. To understand why, we need to go back to 1796, when modern vaccinology began. While smallpox ravaged the Western world, English physician Edward Jenner observed that dairymaids who contracted cowpox (a similar but non-fatal virus) appeared resistant to smallpox.<sup>5</sup> To test this idea, Jenner took fluid from a dairymaid’s cowpox pustule and scratched it into the skin of an eight-year-old boy, crudely but effectively inoculating him. He then later inoculated the same boy with smallpox. When the boy failed to develop smallpox, it demonstrated the first intentional vaccine (which derives its name from vaccinia, the Latin word for cowpox).<sup>5</sup> Although it had been known for several centuries that prior inoculation with smallpox could protect against future smallpox infection, a technique known as variolation,<sup>6</sup> Jenner had critically shown that people could develop immunity without ever having to suffer from the same virus. In other words, exposure to a similar but less deadly virus could train the host’s immune system to recognize and destroy the deadlier pathogen. This process was eventually modified by supplying non-pathogenic viral proteins to the host. For the next two centuries, conventional vaccinology used this basic paradigm to design vaccines that could prevent population-wide infectious diseases ranging from polio to measles to cervical cancer.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>Nearly two centuries later, in 1990, a seemingly unrelated study provided a theoretical foundation for the fourth major type of vaccine, after demonstrating successful injection of messenger RNA (mRNA) into the host and production of its encoded protein.<sup>7</sup> Broadly speaking, mRNA is the intermediate molecule between DNA and proteins. It can be thought of as a recipe that provides a list of ingredients for protein production inside cells. The 1990 study marked the first time synthetic mRNA, a “recipe” from outside the body, produced a protein “dish” using the cell’s own machinery.<sup>7</sup> Later studies showed that proteins produced by synthetic mRNA could induce a specific response in the host.<sup>8</sup> Applied to vaccinology, this discovery could allow exogenous (from outside the body) mRNA to incite production of endogenous (from within the body) proteins, including non-pathogenic viral proteins within the host. Production of these harmless viral proteins could then allow the body to develop antibodies against the associated virus, thereby providing immunity without requiring an infection.</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>This technology could also simplify vaccine design. Rather than laboriously creating a virus’s antigenic proteins in the laboratory, researchers could inject a small, non-pathogenic piece of the virus’s genetic code—a much easier feat. This development meant that vaccines could be designed in a matter of days, rather than years. Applied to a COVID-19 vaccine, this approach could enable vaccine development based solely on the virus’s genetic code. In practice, vaccine manufacturers selected a snippet of mRNA that encoded the coronavirus’s spike protein. Injecting this mRNA into the body created many little spike proteins, which could not cause disease but could teach the immune system how to recognize and quickly destroy the full coronavirus if later exposed.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>Unfortunately, despite the promise of this approach, mRNA is unstable and easily degraded. Furthermore, mRNA can activate the host’s immune system to a dangerous extent, dampening enthusiasm for this vaccine development technique.<sup>9,10</sup> It would take another twenty to thirty years for genetic engineering to identify clever ways of controlling mRNA’s degree of immune activation,<sup>11</sup> increase its molecular stability,<sup>12</sup> and improve its absorption by the host.<sup>9,10</sup> The hard work behind these innovations should not be taken for granted, as they provided a way to translate the genetic sequence of SARS-CoV-2 into a human vaccine.<sup>2,3</sup></p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">“Even more importantly, publication of the virus’s entire genetic code proved to be the crucial step in the race to develop a vaccine.”
</p>
<p>Two companies had been working on the development of mRNA treatments and vaccines prior to the pandemic: Moderna (USA) and BioNTech (Germany). Armed with the publicly released genetic code of the virus in January 2020, they rapidly designed potential mRNA vaccines based on the part that encoded the virus’s spike protein. BioNTech’s co-founder, Ugur Sahin, reportedly made ten mRNA vaccine candidates on his computer over “a few hours” in one weekend, one of which became the successful design (BNT162) given first emergency authorization by the US Food and Drug Administration (FDA) eleven months later.<sup>13</sup> Moderna tells a similar story, designing their successful mRNA vaccine candidate (mRNA-1273) in just two days in January 2020, at a time when many in the United States were not even paying attention to the proliferating epidemic in China.<sup>14</sup> The breakneck pace of vaccine development happened only because of a convergence of thirty years of mRNA technology research.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>There are over ninety COVID-19 vaccines in development.<sup>15</sup> Notably, two of these vaccines—one by Johnson & Johnson, the other by Merck-IAVI—are based on the same technology as their Ebola vaccines. Undoubtedly, this pandemic has led to the greatest vaccination effort in the history of the world. Newfound success with the mRNA technology may usher in a golden era of vaccinology.<sup>9</sup>
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>Nonetheless, designing a successful mRNA vaccine was only one piece of a very large puzzle. Translating this computational design into an injectable vaccine took Moderna another 40 days (mid-March 2020), making theirs the first vaccine to reach Phase 1 clinical trials.<sup>16</sup>
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>The most grueling work, however, came during the nine months from mid-March through mid-December, when vaccine candidates from Moderna and Pfizer-BioNTech were tested in three independent clinical trial phases. Under normal circumstances, clinical trials run sequentially. Preclinical animal testing comes first, followed by Phase 1 dose escalation safety trials involving a few dozen subjects. Phase 2 expands trials to a few hundred people. The last phase, Phase 3 efficacy trials, involve many thousands of people, and compare vaccinated people against those who are randomly selected to receive a placebo control.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>However, due to FDA emergency authorization, trials were allowed to partially proceed in parallel,<sup>17</sup> meaning that the Phase 1 trial did not have to be fully complete before initiating the Phase 2 trial. For example, the FDA cleared Moderna to start their Phase 2 study on May 6, 2020, just before positive data from the Phase 1 study were announced on May 18, 2020.</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>While this accelerated procedure saved time, it did not take shortcuts that compromised the end result. The clinical trial process still relied on efficacy and safety data from more than 67,000 subjects between Pfizer-BioNTech and Moderna before the FDA delivered emergency use authorization on December 11 and 18, 2020, respectively.<sup>18–20</sup> (For comparison, two Phase 3 studies for Gardasil, a vaccine against human papillomaviruses that cause cervical and anogenital cancers, collectively enrolled 17,622 patients,<sup>21,22</sup> just over a quarter of the patients in the Moderna and Pfizer-BioNTech trials, to obtain FDA approval.) Additionally, both Pfizer-BioNTech and Moderna are still tasked with continuing data collection and trials to gain full regulatory approval, a process that does not stop with emergency-use authorization.</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">“Despite a resounding success for science, the distributional challenges remain, and the public’s willingness to take the vaccine is in constant flux.”
</p>
<p>Analysis of the efficacy and safety data from either vaccine revealed astounding results. Each vaccine demonstrated more than ninety-four percent efficacy in preventing infection with minimal adverse effects (pain at injection site, headache, fatigue, muscle aches).<sup>19,20,23,24</sup> Subgroup analysis of the Moderna cohort further revealed that none of the eleven individuals in the vaccine group who contracted the virus developed severe disease, whereas thirty of the 185 placebo-group individuals who contracted the virus did develop severe disease, including one death.<sup>23</sup>
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>By all possible measures, these vaccines are miracles of science that shattered past records for vaccine development. The mumps vaccine, which previously held the speed record, took four years from viral sampling to approval.<sup>25</sup> Although questions remain about the use of COVID-19 vaccines in several groups—children, pregnant women, the immunocompromised, and those with histories of severe allergic reactions<sup>26–29</sup>—the high overall degree of vaccine efficacy and safety suggest that herd immunity may indeed be possible by late summer 2021 if uptake is high enough. (The personal experiences of four family members of mine who have already received their vaccines have revealed no serious side effects except an abundance of hope that this dark and lonely season may soon be over.)</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>Despite a resounding success for science, the distributional challenges remain, and the public’s willingness to take the vaccine is in constant flux. Some of these issues were anticipated and planned for, such as the requirement that the Pfizer-BioNTech and Moderna vaccines be refrigerated at negative eighty and negative twenty degrees Celsius, respectively, to maintain stability during transport.<sup>30</sup> Other challenges have been surprising, including shocking numbers of American healthcare workers who are unwilling to take the vaccine (e.g. forty percent of healthcare workers at Chicago's Loretto Hospital said they would not get vaccinated), despite an abundance of peer-reviewed literature and multi-national regulatory body documentation on its safety and efficacy.<sup>31</sup></p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>The Wall Street Journal reported that despite more than thirty million doses distributed in the United States, only eleven million doses had been given as of January 14, 2021.<sup>32</sup> These figures point to an unacceptable waste of material and financial resources, as the vaccine doses expire rapidly, especially after being thawed. They cannot be refrozen. Meanwhile, the pandemic raged on with ferocious intensity, surpassing more than 300,000 new daily cases in the US on January 8, 2021, just one day after a record-setting 4,000 national daily deaths (January 7, 2021).<sup>33</sup> Simultaneously, Los Angeles alone had an average of ten patients testing positive for COVID-19 every minute. With a death every eight minutes, intensive care units were overloaded to the point that ambulances were circling for hours, waiting for hospitals to accept more patients.<sup>34</sup> Failing to recognize that we, as a society, are not yet victorious threatens the outcome that we have worked so hard to achieve.</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>Declaring victory requires reaching herd immunity, which is the point at which enough people are immune to the virus through either vaccination or infection that it cannot easily spread in communities.<sup>35</sup> To calculate what fraction of people need to be immune to reach herd immunity, we need to understand a value called R0, also called the reproduction number. R0 represents the average number of people a COVID-positive individual infects.<sup>36,37</sup> R0 can also be thought of as the “infectiousness” of the virus while accounting for human behavior. Strict quarantining and masking reduce R0 while partying and hanging out in large groups raise R0. Importantly, the herd immunity required to end the pandemic is largely determined by R0. A high R0, brought on by reckless behavior, might mean that 75-80% of people need to be immunized before herd immunity is reached. On the other hand, a low R0 brought about by strict distancing, masking, and stay-at-home measures might mean herd immunity is achieved at just 60% immunization rates. Responsible behavior does not just keep you and the people you care about from getting sick, it directly reduces the amount of time until the pandemic is over.</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>Even two record-breaking, highly efficacious vaccines cannot fix human behavior that disregards public health guidelines. Those who suggest we can achieve herd immunity via mass infection are propagating a defeatist attitude and false hope that would result in one to two million unnecessary deaths in the US alone.<sup>37</sup> Furthermore, this cold, passive approach may not even result in herd immunity, as viral mutations may eventually evade current immunity, effectively resetting the count of immunizations to zero and obliterating hope of herd immunity arriving any time soon.<sup>38</sup></p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>The situation really boils down to this: are we all willing to get vaccinated and support those trying to get vaccinated? Are we willing to endure stricter quarantine now to end the quarantine sooner?</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">“Undoubtedly, this pandemic has led to the greatest vaccination effort in the history of the world.”
</p>
<p>The longer we wait, the higher the likelihood that new mutations will continue to appear within the viral genome, including those better able to evade host immunity. Take Manaus for example, the capital of the Amazonas state in Brazil, where the virus spread unmitigated, leading to an estimated seventy-six percent of the population getting infected of nearly two million people in October 2020.<sup>39</sup> At this rate of infection, Manaus should have reached the herd immunity level, which was estimated to require about sixty-eight percent of the population to be immune to the virus.<sup>40</sup> They should have been done with COVID-19 for good. But hospitals started filling up again in December 2020. As scientists rushed to figure out why, they identified a mutated viral strain named P.1 among roughly forty-two percent of thirty-one new samples, suggesting that the new strain may be able to evade prior immunity.<sup>41</sup> This means that viral mutations may prevent the end of this pandemic if we try to rely passively on enough people getting infected to reach herd immunity. It also means that we need to end the pandemic via vaccination as quickly as possible.
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>Variant P.1 joins other worrying strains, including B.1.351 from South Africa and B.1.1.7 from Great Britain that mutated the spike protein. B.1.1.7 is suspected to be fifty to seventy percent more transmissible, thereby raising the threshold for herd immunity.<sup>42</sup> B.1.351 is also suspected to be more transmissible and, problematically, may be able to escape the host immune response, similar to the P.1 variant.<sup>43,44</sup> While Moderna has shown preliminary results that its mRNA vaccine still provides some degree of immunity against the B.1.1.7 and B.1.351 variants, the efficacy was reduced six-fold against the B.1.351 (South African) variant.<sup>45</sup> Also, while Pfizer-BioNTech published results showing protection against the UK variant,<sup>46</sup> preliminary data suggest up to an eight-fold reduction in efficacy against the South African variant.<sup>47</sup> Unfortunately, data from Johnson & Johnson, Novovax, and Oxford-AstraZeneca vaccines reported severely diminished efficacy against the South African variant as well.<sup>48,49</sup> South Africa even banned further testing and distribution of the Oxford-AstraZeneca vaccine because it performed so poorly against the B.1.351 variant.<sup>49</sup> Although new vaccines can be developed against one or more mutant strains, the time to do so will prolong the pain and death count of this pandemic. We do not have much time left to use vaccines that do show some efficacy against these variants.</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>This is a dangerous game of cat and mouse that we do not have to play. We have all the tools needed to end the pandemic, but we need to use them <em>now</em>. Every decision to refuse a vaccine or appropriately quarantine rolls the dice with viral evolution, putting potentially thousands of lives at risk. While current mutated strains are addressable with existing vaccines, even with reduced efficacy, they may not be six months from now. We desperately need an all-hands-on-deck attitude to reduce vaccine stigma and get doses into the arms of patients.</p><p>As a society, we have watched the most aggressive, most phenomenal vaccine development campaign in human history unfold before our eyes. Despite all the social disarray and pain experienced in 2020, the Pfizer-BioNTech and Moderna emergency-use vaccine authorizations provided justified and well-needed hope. Nonetheless, we are still in the midst of a difficult delivery and in need of a desperate, unified push to let the science do its work. For what lies ahead, let us consider the kind of world we want, a world that guards against the next pandemic and does not take for granted the social interactions we cherish. Our transition into a post-COVID world must be marked by courage and compassion, leaving a legacy for future generations to come. ◘</p><p/><p><strong>REFERENCES</strong></p><p>1.<strong> </strong>C. Huang <em>et al.</em>, <em>Lancet</em>. <strong>395</strong>, 497–506 (2020).</p><p>2.<strong> </strong>P. Zhou <em>et al.</em>, <em>Nature</em>. <strong>579</strong>, 270–273 (2020).</p><p>3.<strong> </strong> N. Zhu <em>et al.</em>, <em>N. Engl. J. Med.</em> <strong>382</strong>, 727–733 (2020).</p><p>4.<strong> </strong>K. G. Andersen, A. Rambaut, W. I. Lipkin, E. C. Holmes, R. F. Garry, <em>Nat. Med.</em> <strong>26</strong>, 450–452 (2020).</p><p>5. S. Riedel, <em>Proc. </em>. <strong>18</strong>, 21–25 (2005).</p><p>6.<strong> </strong> A. Boylston, <em>J. R. Soc. Med.</em> <strong>105</strong>, 309–313 (2012).</p><p>7.<strong> </strong> J. A. Wolff <em>et al.</em>, <em>Science</em>. <strong>247</strong>, 1465–1468 (1990).</p><p>8.<strong> </strong> G. F. Jirikowski, P. P. Sanna, D. Maciejewski-Lenoir, F. E. Bloom, <em>Science</em>. <strong>255</strong>, 996–998 (1992).</p><p>9.<strong> </strong> N. Pardi, M. J. Hogan, F. W. Porter, D. Weissman, <em>Nat. Rev. Drug Discov.</em> <strong>17</strong>, 261–279 (2018).</p><p>10.<strong> </strong> K. J. Kauffman, M. J. Webber, D. G. Anderson, <em>J. Control. Release</em>. <strong>240</strong>, 227–234 (2016).</p><p>11.<strong> </strong> K. Karikó, H. Muramatsu, J. Ludwig, D. Weissman, <em>Nucleic Acids Res.</em> <strong>39</strong>, e142 (2011).</p><p>12. K. Karikó <em>et al.</em>, <em>Mol. Ther.</em> <strong>16</strong>, 1833–1840 (2008).</p><p>13. S. Neilson, The co-founder of BioNTech designed the coronavirus vaccine it made with Pfizer in just a few hours over a single day. <em>Business Insider</em> (2020), (available at <a href="https://www.businessinsider.com/pfizer-biontech-vaccine-designed-in-hours-one-weekend-2020-12">https://www.businessinsider.com/pfizer-biontech-vaccine-designed-in-hours-one-weekend-2020-12</a><a href="http://paperpile.com/b/7dXVOn/zThKM">).</a></p><p>14.<strong> </strong> S. Neilson, A. Dunn, A. Bendix, Moderna’s groundbreaking coronavirus vaccine was designed in just 2 days. <em>Business Insider</em> (2020), (available at <a href="https://www.businessinsider.com/moderna-designed-coronavirus-vaccine-in-2-days-2020-11">https://www.businessinsider.com/moderna-designed-coronavirus-vaccine-in-2-days-2020-11</a><a href="http://paperpile.com/b/7dXVOn/0LTZo">).</a></p><p>15. C. Zimmer, J. Corum, S.-L. Wee, Coronavirus Vaccine Tracker. <em>The New York Times</em> (2020), (available at <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2020/science/coronavirus-vaccine-tracker.html">https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2020/science/coronavirus-vaccine-tracker.html</a><a href="http://paperpile.com/b/7dXVOn/10yva">).</a></p><p>16.<strong> </strong> J. Saltzman, Cambridge biotech Moderna leads in the race for a coronavirus vaccine. <em>The Boston Globe</em> (2020), (available at <a href="https://www.bostonglobe.com/2020/02/28/business/cambridge-biotech-moderna-leads-race-coronavirus-vaccine/">https://www.bostonglobe.com/2020/02/28/business/cambridge-biotech-moderna-leads-race-coronavirus-vaccine/</a><a href="http://paperpile.com/b/7dXVOn/neFIa">).</a></p><p>17.<strong> </strong> News Division, HHS Accelerates Clinical Trials, Prepares for Manufacturing of COVID-19 Vaccines, (available at <a href="https://www.hhs.gov/about/news/2020/03/30/hhs-accelerates-clinical-trials-prepares-manufacturing-covid-19-vaccines.html">https://www.hhs.gov/about/news/2020/03/30/hhs-accelerates-clinical-trials-prepares-manufacturing-covid-19-vaccines.html</a><a href="http://paperpile.com/b/7dXVOn/8kf4C">).</a></p><p>18.<strong> </strong> J. Cohen, “Absolutely remarkable”: No one who got Moderna’s vaccine in trial developed severe COVID-19 (2020), (available at <a href="https://www.sciencemag.org/news/2020/11/absolutely-remarkable-no-one-who-got-modernas-vaccine-trial-developed-severe-covid-19">https://www.sciencemag.org/news/2020/11/absolutely-remarkable-no-one-who-got-modernas-vaccine-trial-developed-severe-covid-19</a><a href="http://paperpile.com/b/7dXVOn/fIqCo">).</a></p><p>19. Office of the Commissioner, FDA Takes Key Action in Fight Against COVID-19 By Issuing Emergency Use Authorization for First COVID-19 Vaccine (2020), (available at <a href="https://www.fda.gov/news-events/press-announcements/fda-takes-key-action-fight-against-covid-19-issuing-emergency-use-authorization-first-covid-19">https://www.fda.gov/news-events/press-announcements/fda-takes-key-action-fight-against-covid-19-issuing-emergency-use-authorization-first-covid-19</a><a href="http://paperpile.com/b/7dXVOn/fLwSl">).</a></p><p>20.<strong> </strong> Office of the Commissioner, FDA Takes Additional Action in Fight Against COVID-19 By Issuing Emergency Use Authorization for Second COVID-19 Vaccine (2020), (available at <a href="https://www.fda.gov/news-events/press-announcements/fda-takes-additional-action-fight-against-covid-19-issuing-emergency-use-authorization-second-covid">https://www.fda.gov/news-events/press-announcements/fda-takes-additional-action-fight-against-covid-19-issuing-emergency-use-authorization-second-covid</a><a href="http://paperpile.com/b/7dXVOn/7lqbt">).</a></p><p>21. S. M. Garland <em>et al.</em>, <em>N. Engl. J. Med.</em> <strong>356</strong>, 1928–1943 (2007).</p><p>22. FUTURE II Study Group, <em>N. Engl. J. Med.</em> <strong>356</strong>, 1915–1927 (2007).</p><p>23. L. R. Baden <em>et al.</em>, <em>N. Engl. J. Med.</em> (2020), doi:<a href="http://dx.doi.org/10.1056/NEJMoa2035389">10.1056/NEJMoa2035389</a><a href="http://paperpile.com/b/7dXVOn/3nD3M">.</a></p><p>24. F. P. Polack <em>et al.</em>, <em>N. Engl. J. Med.</em> <strong>383</strong>, 2603–2615 (2020).</p><p>25. P. Ball, <em>Nature</em>. <strong>589</strong>, 16–18 (2021).</p><p>26. J. de Vrieze, <em>Science</em>. <strong>371</strong>, 10–11 (2021).</p><p>27.<strong> </strong> B. Kampmann, <em>Nat. Med.</em> <strong>27</strong>, 8 (2021).</p><p>28.<strong> </strong> A. Mandavilli, R. C. Rabin, Pregnant Women Get Conflicting Advice on Covid-19 Vaccines. <em>The New York Times</em> (2021), (available at <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2021/01/28/health/pregnant-women-covid-vaccines.html">https://www.nytimes.com/2021/01/28/health/pregnant-women-covid-vaccines.html</a><a href="http://paperpile.com/b/7dXVOn/AcPSD">).</a></p><p>29.<strong> </strong> B. Sonani, F. Aslam, A. Goyal, J. Patel, P. Bansal, <em>Clin. Rheumatol.</em> <strong>40</strong>, 797–798 (2021).</p><p>30. S. Simmons-Duffin, Why Does Pfizer’s COVID-19 Vaccine Need To Be Kept Colder Than Antarctica? <em>NPR</em> (2020), (available at <a href="https://www.npr.org/sections/health-shots/2020/11/17/935563377/why-does-pfizers-covid-19-vaccine-need-to-be-kept-colder-than-antarctica">https://www.npr.org/sections/health-shots/2020/11/17/935563377/why-does-pfizers-covid-19-vaccine-need-to-be-kept-colder-than-antarctica</a><a href="http://paperpile.com/b/7dXVOn/B6tvz">).</a></p><p>31. T. Beer, <em>Forbes Magazine</em> (2021) (available at <a href="https://www.forbes.com/sites/tommybeer/2021/01/02/large-numbers-of-health-care-and-frontline-workers-are-refusing-covid-19-vaccine/?sh=52fbb9e33c96">https://www.forbes.com/sites/tommybeer/2021/01/02/large-numbers-of-health-care-and-frontline-workers-are-refusing-covid-19-vaccine/?sh=52fbb9e33c96</a><a href="http://paperpile.com/b/7dXVOn/N8pc1">).</a></p><p>32. Newly Reported U.S. Covid-19 Cases Top 200,000 for Ninth Straight Day, (available at <a href="https://www.wsj.com/livecoverage/covid-2021-01-14">https://www.wsj.com/livecoverage/covid-2021-01-14</a><a href="http://paperpile.com/b/7dXVOn/Y5RDO">).</a></p><p>33. Paulina Villegas, Antonia Noori Farzan, Erin Cunningham, Kim Bellware, Siobhán O’Grady, Taylor Telford and Lateshia Beachum, U.S. surpasses 300,000 daily coronavirus cases, the second alarming record this week. <em>The Washington Post</em> (2021), (available at <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/nation/2021/01/08/coronavirus-covid-live-updates-us/">https://www.washingtonpost.com/nation/2021/01/08/coronavirus-covid-live-updates-us/</a><a href="http://paperpile.com/b/7dXVOn/pcA4w">).</a></p><p>34. U. L. McFarling, H. Branswell, L. Facher, A. Joseph, A. Hogan, In Los Angeles, ambulances circle for hours and ICUs are full - STAT (2021), (available at <a href="https://www.statnews.com/2021/01/15/los-angeles-ambulances-circle-for-hours-icus-full-is-this-what-covid19-has-in-store-for-rest-of-the-country/">https://www.statnews.com/2021/01/15/los-angeles-ambulances-circle-for-hours-icus-full-is-this-what-covid19-has-in-store-for-rest-of-the-country/</a><a href="http://paperpile.com/b/7dXVOn/V1vy5">).</a></p><p>35. L. S. Rogers, JH Bloomberg School of Public Health, What is Herd Immunity and How Can We Achieve It With COVID-19? (2020), (available at <a href="https://www.jhsph.edu/covid-19/articles/achieving-herd-immunity-with-covid19.html">https://www.jhsph.edu/covid-19/articles/achieving-herd-immunity-with-covid19.html</a><a href="http://paperpile.com/b/7dXVOn/zRS6O">).</a></p><p>36.<strong> </strong> D. G. McNeil Jr., How Much Herd Immunity Is Enough? <em>The New York Times</em> (2020), (available at <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2020/12/24/health/herd-immunity-covid-coronavirus.html">https://www.nytimes.com/2020/12/24/health/herd-immunity-covid-coronavirus.html</a><a href="http://paperpile.com/b/7dXVOn/TFLMP">).</a></p><p>37. C. Aschwanden, <em>Nature</em>. <strong>587</strong>, 26–28 (2020).</p><p>38. J. Fox, Covid-19 Mutations Make Immunity Math Incredibly Daunting (2021), (available at <a href="https://www.bloomberg.com/opinion/articles/2021-02-03/covid-19-mutations-make-immunity-math-incredibly-daunting">https://www.bloomberg.com/opinion/articles/2021-02-03/covid-19-mutations-make-immunity-math-incredibly-daunting</a><a href="http://paperpile.com/b/7dXVOn/gktFZ">).</a></p><p>39. L. F. Buss <em>et al.</em>, <em>Science</em>. <strong>371</strong>, 288–292 (2021).</p><p>40. W. M. de Souza <em>et al.</em>, <em>Nat Hum Behav</em>. <strong>4</strong>, 856–865 (2020).</p><p>41. K. Kupferschmidt, New coronavirus variants could cause more reinfections, require updated vaccines. <em>Science</em> (2021), (available at <a href="https://www.sciencemag.org/news/2021/01/new-coronavirus-variants-could-cause-more-reinfections-require-updated-vaccines">https://www.sciencemag.org/news/2021/01/new-coronavirus-variants-could-cause-more-reinfections-require-updated-vaccines</a><a href="http://paperpile.com/b/7dXVOn/kiw0P">).</a></p><p>42. E. Volz <em>et al.</em>, Transmission of SARS-CoV-2 Lineage B.1.1.7 in England: Insights from linking epidemiological and genetic data. <em>bioRxiv</em> (2021), , doi:<a href="http://dx.doi.org/10.1101/2020.12.30.20249034">10.1101/2020.12.30.20249034</a><a href="http://paperpile.com/b/7dXVOn/sAATs">.</a></p><p>43.<strong> </strong> H. Tegally <em>et al.</em>, Emergence and rapid spread of a new severe acute respiratory syndrome-related coronavirus 2 (SARS-CoV-2) lineage with multiple spike mutations in South Africa. <em>bioRxiv</em> (2020), , doi:<a href="http://dx.doi.org/10.1101/2020.12.21.20248640">10.1101/2020.12.21.20248640</a><a href="http://paperpile.com/b/7dXVOn/SwLRu">.</a></p><p>44. C. K. Wibmer <em>et al.</em>, SARS-CoV-2 501Y.V2 escapes neutralization by South African COVID-19 donor plasma. <em>Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory</em> (2021), p. 2021.01.18.427166.</p><p>45. K. Wu <em>et al.</em>, mRNA-1273 vaccine induces neutralizing antibodies against spike mutants from global SARS-CoV-2 variants. <em>Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory</em> (2021), p. 2021.01.25.427948.</p><p>46.<strong> </strong> <a href="http://paperpile.com/b/7dXVOn/dNwDE">A. Muik <em>et al.</em>, <em>Science</em> (2021), doi:</a><a href="http://dx.doi.org/10.1126/science.abg6105">10.1126/science.abg6105</a><a href="http://paperpile.com/b/7dXVOn/dNwDE">.</a></p><p>47. <strong> </strong>P. Wang <em>et al.</em>, Increased Resistance of SARS-CoV-2 Variants B.1.351 and B.1.1.7 to Antibody Neutralization. <em>Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory</em> (2021), p. 2021.01.25.428137.</p><p>48. A. Joseph, M. Herper, H. Branswell, K. McLaughlin, L. I. Sederer, What scientists know about the new variants and the Covid-19 vaccines (2021), (available at <a href="https://www.statnews.com/2021/02/05/what-scientists-know-variants-covid-19-vaccines/">https://www.statnews.com/2021/02/05/what-scientists-know-variants-covid-19-vaccines/</a><a href="http://paperpile.com/b/7dXVOn/sSpX4">).</a></p><p>49. J. Cohen, South Africa suspends use of AstraZeneca’s COVID-19 vaccine after it fails to clearly stop virus variant (2021), (available at <a href="https://www.sciencemag.org/news/2021/02/south-africa-suspends-use-astrazenecas-covid-19-vaccine-after-it-fails-clearly-stop">https://www.sciencemag.org/news/2021/02/south-africa-suspends-use-astrazenecas-covid-19-vaccine-after-it-fails-clearly-stop</a><a href="http://paperpile.com/b/7dXVOn/94hxe">).</a></p></div>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Banjo Heritage: The Unlikely Survival of a Southern Folkway]]></title><description><![CDATA[What follows is a conversation between George Gibson, Clifton Hicks, and
Symposeum editor Nissim Lebovits. This interview has been edited for length and
clarity.
George Gibson and Clifton Hicks are saving music. Both are traditional banjo
players, two of only a handful of descendants of a particular musical heritage
that dates back more than two centuries. As the last cultural institutions that
birthed this music fade away, these men have been helping to preserve the story
and the place of tr]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/banjo-heritage/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__602ae945b05cdb04773165d6</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 1 - Transition]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><category><![CDATA[Interview]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[George Gibson]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 15 Feb 2021 21:42:23 GMT</pubDate><media:content url="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/cliftongeorge25.jpg" medium="image"/><content:encoded><![CDATA[<img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/cliftongeorge25.jpg" alt="Banjo Heritage: The Unlikely Survival of a Southern Folkway"/><p><em>What follows is a conversation between George Gibson, Clifton Hicks, and </em>Symposeum<em> editor Nissim Lebovits. This interview has been edited for length and clarity.</em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">G</span>
eorge Gibson and Clifton Hicks are saving music. Both are traditional banjo players, two of only a handful of descendants of a particular musical heritage that dates back more than two centuries. As the last cultural institutions that birthed this music fade away, these men have been helping to preserve the story and the place of traditional banjo in American history.
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>George, a now-retired business executive, has been working for more than fifty years to save the music of eastern Kentucky. In the process, he’s become a key figure in efforts to preserve the history of the banjo. George plays and collects antique banjos, which he uses to record traditional music. He has also published numerous articles on banjo history, and has designed exhibits in various non-profit museums dedicated to the conservation of American folk heritage.</p><p>Clifton has taken up the same cause, after beginning to study banjo under George’s tutelage more than twenty years ago. Using digital media platforms like YouTube and Patreon, Clifton passes on George’s lessons, songs, and historical information to thousands of monthly viewers. Together, they form the backbone of a growing online community that is preserving banjo music into the twenty-first century. As the pandemic has made Spotify and live-streamed concerts even more important, and traditional in-person banjo gatherings nigh on impossible, I spoke with them about the banjo, its history, and its future.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/cliftongeorge1.jpg" class="kg-image" alt="Banjo Heritage: The Unlikely Survival of a Southern Folkway"/></figure><p><em><strong>Nissim Lebovits (NL):</strong> You both grew up in very different times and places. How did you get into banjo playing?</em></p><p><strong>George Gibson (GG):</strong> I was born in 1938 in rural Knott County, Kentucky. By the late 1940s the advent of commercialization, radio, and out-migration accelerated by World War II led to the demise of traditional folk activities; community events like dances at school openings and closings, box suppers, quiltings, and bean stringings were no longer held. As traditional music vanished, the many locally composed banjo songs that reflected the area’s history also disappeared. My older sisters told me that our father, Mal Gibson (1900-1996), played banjo and sang for them in the 1930s. By the late 1940s, however, he had ceased playing banjo. This was true for the majority of the traditional musicians in Knott County that did not join the march north. The effects of cultural disintegration led to psychological problems in some, and also to an enormous cultural loss. An internalized awareness of this loss was one of the reasons that I eventually tried to save songs that reflected the history of the area, and although I managed to save some, many were lost.</p><p>By the time I began playing banjo around 1950, most aspiring banjoists had switched to learning the style of three-finger picking pioneered by Earl Scruggs, who in the 1940s popularized what came to be called “bluegrass.” However, I had a neighbor, James Slone, who still played traditional banjo. There was no formal method of teaching banjo in the rural South, so I learned banjo as Southern musicians always had: by emulation. I listened to Slone’s playing, watched what he did, and tried to reproduce the sounds his banjo made. By doing this I ended up with my own style, which is not a copy of Slone’s playing. Most people today learn by imitation from teachers or tablature in books or magazines. This has led to the spread of the standardized style popular today, known as “round peak,” and to a loss of diversity in Southern playing styles, which were never homogenized in any way.</p><p>After learning to play banjo I persuaded a few neighbors to play and sing for me. However, I noted they could rarely remember all the verses to their songs. This led me to search for lost verses, particularly for the songs that were local to the area, for they were a part of the history of the area. I pieced a few songs together with verses from different sources, one song of this type was “Old Smokey.” I got a few verses from my mother and some from John Hall, who sang a verse or two for me. I then selected a banjo tuning I thought fitted the melody and played and sang the song for them; both said the song I performed was close to what they had heard previously.</p><p>After college I taught school locally before leaving Kentucky for better opportunities in the north. After leaving teaching I became an executive at a Fortune 500 company in Philadelphia, but resigned after thirteen years to pursue business interests in Florida. During this time, however, I spent as much time as I could in Knott County engaging with people who had knowledge of our vanishing folk culture. <br/></p><p><strong>Clifton Hicks (CH):</strong> My earliest musical experience came from an old man who sold watermelons out of a wheelbarrow. He lived around the corner, near a full-service gas station where he bought ice. Every summer he paced up and down the streets and alleys connecting the neighborhoods, singing at the top of his lungs a simple song about his produce: </p><!--kg-card-begin: html-->
<style>
.indented
{ padding-left: 100pt;
padding-right: 0pt;
}
</style>
<div class="indented">
Watermelon<br>Ice cold watermelon<br>Coldest watermelon<br>In Georgia
</br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>When I was thirteen, my father paid a hundred dollars for a second-hand banjo at Bill's Music Shop & Picking Parlor in West Columbia, South Carolina. He also bought three metal fingerpicks and a “bluegrass banjo” instruction manual. We both tried to play it, but after a few months we lost interest. At the end of the summer I carried the banjo to my mother’s new home in Florida, where I was enrolled in middle school.</p><p>Later that year, I happened to meet a man named Ernie Williams, who was something of a local folk personality. Ernie taught me how to play the banjo using the ball of my thumb and the back of my forefinger—a style he’d learned from an older man in Sand Mountain, Alabama, who called it “rapping the banjo.” Ernie was the first person I ever saw who sang with the banjo, and he encouraged me to sing with mine.</p><p>The next year, my mother came home with a cassette tape album titled <em>Last Possum Up the Tree</em> by George Gibson. I had never, and have never, heard anything like it. Like Ernie, George could sing and play the “rapping” style, but he also fingerpicked beautifully, sometimes with two fingers, sometimes with three. And sometimes, he made sounds so remarkable that my ears couldn’t comprehend how he’d made them. In those days, George had his mailing address printed on the back of the liner notes, so I wrote him a letter introducing myself and requesting an in-person meeting. He accepted.</p><p><strong>GG:</strong> Clifton was already a good banjo player when he began coming to see me in Florida, and is now a better banjo player than I am. I emphasized that he ought to learn the songs and techniques, but develop his own style. I believe he is now using this approach when teaching banjo.<br/></p><p><em><strong>NL: </strong>So much of American folk music is a synecdoche for American history. The banjo in particular is wrapped up in this. Could you tell us a bit about its history?</em></p><p><strong>GG:</strong> The banjo was brought to North America by enslaved Africans who were carried across the Atlantic against their will. During the 1700s, it became a part of white folk culture in colonial east Virginia and Maryland where slaves and white indentured servants socialized together, resulting in unions between free Blacks and white female indentured servants. The descendants of these families moved south and west on the early frontier as racial hierarchies were increasingly codified and enforced by colonial governments. In the process, they spread their creolized culture—including the banjo—to their neighbors.</p><p>Northern blackface minstrelsy, which began in the 1840s, is popularly believed to be responsible for planting the banjo in white southern folk culture. White minstrel entertainers blacked their faces and played the banjo on stage while stereotyping, parodying, and intentionally demeaning African Americans. These grotesque acts were the beginning of musical theater in America. It is assumed the banjo was brought south by soldiers returning from the Civil War, where they are presumed to have seen the instrument for the first time, or by northern blackface entertainers after the War. Those who support this argument do so by citing the well documented history of the banjo in minstrelsy and not by citing southern folklorists or historians, which would be inconvenient. In fact, as I proved in my essay in the book <em>Banjo Roots and Branches</em>, the banjo was widespread in white folk culture before the Civil War, from the Carolinas to Arkansas, and in Kentucky, from the western flatlands to the Appalachian mountains.</p><p>Finally, it’s worth noting that the term “folk music” is confusing at best. I prefer using “traditional music” or “traditional banjo” to separate the older music in the South from the term “folk music.” Prior to the 1930s, folk music meant the in-home music of ordinary people, as opposed to commercial or art music. The early in-home banjo use in the South consisted of traditional music learned from various sources and played for family, friends, and neighbors. When the folk revival began in the 1930s, however, this definition became amorphous; it came to include the music of people in the 1940s and later who sang commercialized versions of folk songs. Today, “folk music” has grown even more imprecise—it now includes the music of people who write their own songs and perform commercially. The use of the term today is therefore typically ambiguous and often inaccurate. <br/></p><p><em><strong>NL:</strong> How was it that popular perception of the banjo’s history came to be so different from the instrument’s actual social history?</em></p><p><strong>GG:</strong> The banjo remained nearly invisible, restricted to southern Black and white folk cultures, until the 1840s. During this time, white southern musicians Joel Walker Sweeney and Archibald Ferguson introduced the instrument to the burgeoning minstrelsy culture, which was concentrated in the north. Claims that minstrel entertainers learned their music directly from slaves was a marketing ploy meant to lend credence to their acts. However, these claims helped spread the false notion that the banjo was exclusively a slave instrument before the 1840s.</p><p>The reason many embraced the minstrel origin is the lack of contemporaneous citations of the banjo in white southern folklife before 1840s minstrelsy. Folklorists know, however, that people do not comment contemporaneously regarding folk activities common in the home. A good example is the southern ballad tradition that was “discovered” by ladies at the Hindman Settlement School in Knott County, Kentucky, in 1902. Students boarding from outlying areas of the county brought their in-home <em>banjo playing</em> and <em>ballad singing</em> to the school. Although there are practically no contemporaneous citations of southern ballad singing in the home prior to the 1840s, no one doubts that this tradition was brought to Kentucky by pioneers from Virginia and Maryland. The origin of the traditional banjo, however, has been erased.</p><p>Looming in the background is the hillbilly stereotype, which is so pervasive that most do not realize that it influences their thinking about southern mountaineers. A few urban revivalists, who fell in love with traditional banjo, decided that mountaineers could not have possibly created the music they liked. It was convenient to say that the mountaineers were taught not by African Americans, but by northern minstrels strutting in blackface while imitating African Americans. So certain were they of this that none did any extensive historical research into the social history of early America.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html-->
<div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote"> “As traditional music vanished, the many locally composed banjo songs that reflected the area’s history also disappeared.”
</p>
<p>
Those who lack Appalachian roots—and even some who don’t—fail to recognize the harm the hillbilly stereotype has inflicted, and continues to inflict, on Appalachia and its residents. Oil, gas, and coal companies have relied on the hillbilly stereotype, which is ubiquitous in American popular culture, to conceal the extent of their environmental destruction. This stereotype is responsible for many people believing that the people of Appalachia are themselves responsible for the many problems they face, including health issues, decreased longevity, and a blighted environment. To this day, people outside Appalachia are amazed when I tell them that gas well fracking and coal mining have destroyed over 80% of the water table in east Kentucky. How does one explain this? The best answer is the hillbilly stereotype, which is the band-aid that covers the sores of Appalachia, and lives on in media, in popular movies, plays, and books.
</p>
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Having grown up in a southern folk culture that included the banjo, I recognized that the minstrel origin of the southern folk banjo was both counterintuitive and improbable. I began researching the banjo’s history by consulting historians, folklorists, and oral history as well as original sources in journals, newspapers, and magazines. I found citations of the banjo in white southern folklife prior to the 1840s. However, most are not contemporaneous; they are from people nostalgically recalling their youth, or repeating what their grandparents recalled about their youth.</p><p><strong>CH: </strong>I’ll add that anyone who learns from me must come away with the understanding that the past two centuries of banjo history are characterized by a vast, indescribable, dazzling array of styles and customs. What exists today is only a remnant of a culture which has survived countless near-extinctions, each destructive event creating a narrow bottleneck through which only a fraction of the tradition has passed.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/cliftongeorge3.jpg" class="kg-image" alt="Banjo Heritage: The Unlikely Survival of a Southern Folkway"/></figure><p><em><strong>NL: </strong>Speaking of popular banjo perceptions, where do associations with bluegrass and “hillbilly” stereotypes come from?</em></p><p><strong>GG:</strong> In the first half of the twentieth century, southern folk traditions underwent dramatic changes. Banjo playing by both Black and white musicians became increasingly professionalized in venues like minstrel shows and vaudeville. The use of the banjo for home entertainment declined as a result. Square dances, which featured the banjo prominently, lingered in the mountains but disappeared in areas where commercialization brought new instruments and dances. This fostered the idea that the banjo was a “mountain” instrument.</p><p>Ultimately, it was radio that helped preserve the banjo in the south. Traditional music still existed in some areas of the south when radio stations found that string band music featuring the fiddle and banjo was popular with their listeners, Black and white. Shows like the Grand Ole Opry, a Nashville radio station formed in 1925, helped promote this style of music. At the same time, however, stereotypes promoted by writers like John Fox, Jr. helped cast the banjo as a “hillbilly” instrument. Then, in the 1940s, Earl Scruggs brought radical change to the southern banjo: he introduced a new style employing steel finger picks and a unique three-finger approach. This style became known as “bluegrass,” and by the 1970s was the dominant banjo technique, isolating the remaining southern banjoists who still played in traditional styles. Today, bluegrass music is the sound most associated with the banjo in popular culture.</p><p>Meanwhile, in the north, an urban banjo revival had begun in two waves, first in the 1940s and then again in the 1960s. The first phase stemmed from a broader folk revival beginning in the 1930s, while the second coincided with the counterculture revolution of the Vietnam era. Like northern minstrels, however, urban revivalists adopted an instrument foreign to their culture. As a result, they created a homogenized banjo culture disconnected from the instrument’s southern roots. Their style became the dominant style taught through books and magazines, and now the internet. While remnants of older southern banjo traditions linger in some mountain areas of the south, most people who learn banjo today do so in the culture created by the urban banjo revival. <br/></p><p><em><strong>NL: </strong>Folk music has long been tied up in American popular memory and protest, not just during Vietnam, but also in westward expansion, the Civil War, Jim Crow, and so on. Clifton, you’ve talked before about being a conscientious objector. Is that in any way connected to the music that you play?</em></p><p><strong>CH:</strong> Most people experience some kind of violence in their lives. My own life has, at times, been exceptionally violent. My youth was spent fighting, so when I became a “man,” it seemed practical to make violence my profession. With my family’s consent I enlisted at the age of seventeen in the U.S. Army. I carried my banjo, and George’s songs with it, through the battlefields around Baghdad where I served in an armored cavalry squadron during the early years of the Iraq War. It was here that I first played songs like “Darling Cora” and “Old German War” for strangers, and soon these songs (especially “German War”) became favorites of the men and boys I fought alongside. Every night, whenever the situation permitted, I would lay my rifle down and pick up the banjo, and a small group would assemble to hear the songs I’d inherited from George.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html-->
<style>
.indented
{ padding-left: 20pt;
padding-right: 0pt;
}
</style>
<div class="indented">
I’ve been in the midst of battle I know its hardships well<br>I’ve been across that great ocean and I’ve rode down the streets of Hell<br>I’ve lived a life of misery and I’ve been where Death he roams<br>I’ll tell you from experience boys, you had better stay at home.
</br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Although I was a member of an armored cavalry squadron, trained and equipped with high-tech weaponry, most of the violence that we inflicted was accomplished without firing a shot. We beat people with clubs, kicked and stomped on them, struck them with our rifle muzzles, and sometimes crushed their bodies with our vehicles. Many times I was shot at; many times I dove into the earth as mortar and rocket shells burst around me; but only once did I ever fire my rifle directly into someone. When I did, the man collapsed out of sight. I have no idea what became of him.</p><p>On a U.S. Army base in Germany, between deployments and away from the battlefield, we found ourselves suddenly with ample opportunities to reflect on what we had experienced. It wasn't until I'd been in Germany for a few months that I realized the gravity of what had taken place, and of what I would be expected to do on the <em>next </em>deployment, which was imminent. I came to the realization that the pain and terror I’d inflicted during the course of my life had, in most cases, been unjust. That realization became the impetus behind my transition from the life of a professional killer to that of a conscientious objector.</p><p>These events affected my relationship with music in ways that are not easily described. Whereas before, as a youth, I took great pleasure in singing violent murder ballads like “Frankie & Albert,” “Pretty Polly,” “Stagolee,” or “Wild Bill Jones”—reveling in the recitation of each bloody verse—I now find lyrics like these less attractive:</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><style>
.indented
{ padding-left: 100pt;
padding-right: 0pt;
}
</style>
<div class="indented">
“He stabbed her through the heart<br>And the heart's blood did flow,<br>And down in the grave<br>Pretty Polly did go.”<br><br><br>“Stagolee shot Billy<br>He shot him with his forty-four,<br>Billy fell back from the table<br>Crying, ‘Stag, don’t shoot me no more.’”
</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>While these songs are still of great interest and value to me from a cultural and historical perspective, the act of singing them has become something of a burden, and I only do so when asked by a friend or a student of mine. It requires me to purposefully detach myself from some of the lyrics, no longer daring, as I did in my youth, to welcome the gruesome imagery into my mind. In that sense, I don't know many people who would be able to sing these songs with my level of conviction—where these images had once been artificially projected by my childish imagination, they are now conjured up from bitter memory.</p><p>I survived the war, became a conscientious objector, and was honorably discharged from the U.S. Army on December 26th, 2005. A number of my friends did not survive.</p><p>In November of 2018, George asked me to play “German War” for him. I did, and I have not played it since.</p><p><strong>GG: </strong>The “Old German War” is a song unique to Knott County, Kentucky, which had many volunteers in World War I. My father had a close friend, Jonah, who served overseas. After the War, my father’s friend became alcohol dependent; although he raised a large family, he was often drunk. He did not share his war experiences with his family or friends. However, I accidentally learned what haunted him when visiting his home.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html-->
<div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote"> “[T]he digital, online medium—though deeply anachronistic in the context of traditional banjo—may, in the right hands, be used to create something approaching an authentic experience.”
</p>
<p>
Jonah was drinking with a friend and both were inebriated. Jonah was holding his reading glasses in his hand when he became agitated. He beat his glasses on the arm of his chair and said to no one in particular: “He had his arms up, he said ‘comrade, comrade,’ he wanted to surrender, but I shot him, I shot him, he was just a boy.” The Germans had boys as young as fifteen serving before the war ended. Jonah had evidently shot one of these boys in the heat of battle; this haunted him for the rest of his life. At sixteen, Jonah entered the army, only a boy himself. Although he’d been a banjo player, he likely didn’t write the “Old German War” song. I believe it was his neighbor, Mel Amburgey, who also served in the First World War. I also knew veterans of World War Two who had demons; one was a banjo-playing cousin of mine who eventually died of his war wounds. For many people, war never ends. Unfortunately, we continue to elect leaders, with disastrous results, who are oblivious to this.
</p>
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/cliftongeorge2.jpg" class="kg-image" alt="Banjo Heritage: The Unlikely Survival of a Southern Folkway"/></figure><p><em><strong>NL:</strong> It seems a bit paradoxical to have a digital forum for folk music. It’s a genre that tends to be best experienced live and in-person, right? How have new technologies changed that, and what role have they played in disseminating folk music?</em></p><p><strong>GG:</strong> Musicians have always managed to take advantage of new technology. My father told me he played over the telephone with a fiddler for neighbors on Little Carr Creek in 1916. I initially doubted this because I didn’t think we could have had telephones in 1916, since I didn’t see a telephone in our home until the 1950s. I had seen remnants of old telephone lines in the area when I was a boy. However, these lines were abandoned sometime in the early 1930s as the Depression deepened. I once found a book of poetry by William Aspenwall Bradley, entitled <em>Singing Carr</em>, in which he described walking to Carr Creek in 1916 and seeing residents of a log home listening to hymns sung over the telephone. Bradley named his book <em>“Singing” Carr</em> because of the number of traditional singers he found there.</p><p><strong>CH:</strong> The idea of staged banjo performance—ascending the stage, peering down at a ticket-holding audience, and singing through a microphone—is counter to the banjo songster tradition. On the other hand, the digital, online medium—though deeply anachronistic in the context of traditional banjo—may, in the right hands, be used to create something approaching an authentic experience. As songsters, we can film our performances in a traditional setting (such as the outdoors, a barn, or the fireside), upload it, and plainly present it to the eyes and ears of the observer. More often than not, our audience is at home—the place where traditional music has always been performed—and more and more often, viewers are visiting digital platforms to <em>learn</em> the tradition, not merely to enjoy it as entertainment. Digital platforms also welcome a broader audience: like festival goers, my viewers often hail from urban centers (various cities in California, Texas, and Ohio currently top the list), and the majority are scattered across North America, Europe, and Australia. </p><p><em><strong>NL:</strong> Clifton, speaking of technology helping disseminate folk music, your banjo heritage project brings banjo history and technique to viewers online. Can you tell us more about how this project got started?</em></p><p><strong>CH: </strong>My long-term learning/teaching project, which doesn't really have a name but may be referred to as Banjo Heritage, began in the former Wehrmacht barracks I lived in as a twenty-year-old soldier outside of Büdingen, Germany in 2005. I purchased a refurbished laptop computer and a cheap microphone, and I began recording all of the songs I'd learned from George. My squadron was preparing to return to Iraq, and I was concerned that I might be killed without leaving any trace of this musical inheritance. By 2007, I was out of the army, and recording segued into filming. I began by filming other musicians, especially after 2008 when I moved to Boone, North Carolina, and immersed myself in the remnants of that area's “old-time” folk music scene.</p><p>When my mother killed herself in 2012, a few months shy of my college graduation day, I entered into something of a musical hiatus. The morning I learned of her death I walked straight home from campus, took her old guitar off the wall, and played “Will the Circle Be Unbroken”:</p><!--kg-card-begin: html-->
<style>
.indented
{ padding-left: 100pt;
padding-right: 0pt;
}
</style>
<div class="indented">
I told the undertaker<br>Undertaker please drive slow,<br>For that body you are hauling<br>Lord I hate to see her go
</br></br></br></div> <!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I hung the guitar back up in its place, and I didn't touch it, or a banjo, again for many months. In 2014 I met my wife, and with her encouragement began to play and sing more frequently. In 2018 I launched the Banjo Heritage project in earnest, and have been filming and sharing music, music lessons, and historical information relevant to banjo culture ever since, mostly through YouTube. The stated goal of this project is to spread the musical and cultural inheritance that I have received mostly from George, but also from Ernie Williams and others. I will continue to share this heritage with as many people as I can, until I am physically prevented from doing so.<br/></p><p><em><strong>NL:</strong> George, it seems like Clifton’s approach to this musical heritage has mostly focused on its propagation online. Can you elaborate on your approach?</em></p><p><strong>GG:</strong> In an interview for the Winter 2017 issue of <em>Western Folklore</em>, I laid out the idea of “cultural strip-mining,” regarding the extraction of southern music for commercial purposes. Cultural strip-mining occurs when people from outside a culture distort its history and appropriate its music for commercial purposes without properly attributing that music to its source. A good example is a performance I heard on the stage at the Mountain Dance and Folk Festival in Asheville, North Carolina. A well-known academic, who moved south during the countercultural revolution of the Vietnam era, performed a banjo song on stage, word for word, that was unique to an extraordinary Kentucky banjo songster, Rufus Crisp. He did not mention Rufus Crisp or the source from which he acquired this song. A few in the audience may have known where this song originated, but most would not. I let him know that I thought this was inappropriate. Also inappropriate is claiming a connection to southern music by exploiting the hillbilly stereotype, such as naming your band “moonshine holler.” Some musicians, however, have used elements of traditional southern music to create their own music. I admire musicians, such as Gillian Welch and David Rawlings, who have done this.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html-->
<div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote"> “Our tradition does not exist on paper, nor on the stage, nor in the classroom.”
</p>
<p>
Back in the 1960s, which was the peak of the American folk revival based in Greenwich Village, one of my sister’s friends owned a publishing company in New York. When she learned I played banjo, she saw an opportunity to discover another folk star, or at least make some money from publishing new music. She insisted that I audition for her. I did not want to, but I had no easy way to escape. I felt protective of the little music I had, and thought it had limited relevance to the folksongs and folksingers of the day. When I auditioned, I sang in the worst possible manner and mangled the banjo accompaniment. After this, she never mentioned my banjo playing again.
</p>
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><p><em><strong>NL: </strong>What do you think of the work you see from other banjo players and musicians interested in banjo heritage?</em></p><p><strong>CH:</strong> Most other musicians have learned their craft from tablature books and university music courses. Those who’ve taught them (often in formal, paid settings) learned from the same inauthentic sources. Furthermore, these musicians tend to associate exclusively with others who regurgitate the same music, and the baseless dogma which accompanies it. Consequently, their music bears little resemblance to the actual tradition.</p><p>For my own part, I rejected tablature and formal music lessons from an early age. Instead, I sought out flesh-and-blood tradition-bearers such as George Gibson. When I couldn’t find people like George, I found others who, like me, sought the tradition at its source, and I learned from them. This process follows the archaic tradition by which banjo songsters, for more than two hundred years, have passed their secrets between one-another. Our tradition does not exist on paper, nor on the stage, nor in the classroom.</p><p>Of all the younger people who have learned George's music, none have attempted to copy his style. Although we’re all certainly influenced by him—and by many other traditional banjo players, too—none of us would ever try to imitate his playing note for note. This value is one that George has actively hammered into all of his students’ minds since we first encountered him, and it's a value that I think was harshly instilled in him from his earliest years. In all of my dealings, either privately with students or with the public, I have endeavored to make that value central to the experience. </p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/cliftongeorge4.jpg" class="kg-image" alt="Banjo Heritage: The Unlikely Survival of a Southern Folkway"/></figure><p><em><strong>NL: </strong>After all these years of history, what is the future of traditional banjo music in the twenty-first century?</em></p><p><strong>GG:</strong> Traditional music, which is meant to be shared with friends and family, will change in the twenty-first century, as it always does. The traditional music I knew as a boy is now splintered. The culture that supported it collapsed long ago. Some of this music is lost forever, but some of it is being preserved and distributed digitally like what Clifton does. Furthermore, some community groups in the South have created organizations to teach young people to play traditional music. The success of these efforts leads me to believe that some portion of traditional music will survive well into the twenty-first century.</p><p><strong>CH:</strong> As of this writing, many of us are living under the burden of government- and socially-mandated lockdowns in response to COVID-19. Where I live, in rural Georgia, little has changed. Daily life for my family and most of my neighbors continues much as it did before the pandemic. I’m still free to express my culture by carrying the banjo and a few cans of beer to visit a neighbor. That being said, I am aware that many of my online banjo students live in densely-populated urban and suburban areas. People in these places are suffering in new ways, and many are seeking new ways to connect with culture. Of the thousands of people who view my banjo performances and instructional material, many hundreds live outside of the United States. This is proof not only of the banjo's internationalist character and its unlimited value as a human artifact, but also of our natural human desire to know and to belong.</p><p>On the one hand, I feel no obligation as a conduit of this heritage. I see myself as one of the millions of banjoists who will live, die, and ultimately amount to very little. If during my brief life I have musically conveyed one genuine emotion, or passed on one endangered folkway, then I will have done more than was expected. On the other hand, it's easy to saddle oneself with weighty obligations to ideas of culture, family, ancestors, young people, the truth, and so on. The old music, and the old instruments themselves (especially the homemade examples) are a window into the essence of what it means to be human across time and space. Having inherited the knowledge and ability required to open such a window, I find myself deeply obligated to in some way maintain it, so that it may remain open after I am dead. ◘</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Da 5 Bloods Movie Review: Spike Lee Takes on Double Consciousness]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Spike Lee’s latest and critically acclaimed film, Da 5 Bloods, released
direct-to-Netflix in June 2020—less than three weeks after the murder of George
Floyd and only two months before the death of starring actor Chadwick Boseman.
While Lee’s previous films like Blackkklansman and Malcom X portray American
racism at home, Da 5 Bloods marks the director’s examination of how these
oppressions are wrought on an international scale. It offers an alternative
interpretation of U.S. colonialism, war, ]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/da-5-bloods-movie-review/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__602a008db05cdb04773165a0</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 1 - Transition]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Necessary]]></category><category><![CDATA[Review]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Chidozie Alozie]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 15 Feb 2021 15:11:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">S</span>
pike Lee’s latest and critically acclaimed film, <i>Da 5 Bloods,</i> released direct-to-Netflix in June 2020—less than three weeks after the murder of George Floyd and only two months before the death of starring actor Chadwick Boseman. While Lee’s previous films like <i>Blackkklansman</i> and <i>Malcom X</i> portray American racism at home, <i>Da 5 Bloods</i> marks the director’s examination of how these oppressions are wrought on an international scale. It offers an alternative interpretation of U.S. colonialism, war, and occupation in Vietnam from the perspective of Black Americans fighting for a country that doesn’t love them back.
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>True to Spike Lee’s directorial bent, <em>Da 5 Bloods </em>is packed with action, subplots, and political commentary. It bends traditional genres of American cinema by blurring the lines between comedy and tragedy, documentary and drama, love and war. But its most radical innovation is its reclaiming of the Vietnam War movie for Black Americans. Despite the fact that Black soldiers comprised thirty-two percent of American troops in Vietnam, they were virtually erased in Hollywood’s accounts of the war. <em>Da 5 Bloods</em> is therefore as much a story about identity exploration as it is an exploration of how we tell stories. Furthermore, this shift in focus allows Lee to focus on the multiplicity of Black experiences of the war. He does so masterfully, bringing the experience of double consciousness—how Black Americans navigate simultaneous Blackness <em>and </em>American identity—to the foreground in <em>Da 5 Bloods</em></p><p>The titular Bloods are Paul (Delroy Lindo), Otis (Clarke Peters), Melvin (Isiah Whitlock Jr), Eddie (Norm Lewis), four Black American vets who served together in Vietnam, and their erstwhile squad leader, “Stormin” Norman (Chadwick Boseman), who was killed in action. More than forty years after the war (the movie’s cultural references set it somewhere in the wake of Trump’s election), the four surviving Bloods return to Vietnam in search of their fallen squad leader’s remains and a buried treasure. The treasure, once property of the U.S. government, is a shipment of gold bullion that was intended as payment for a pro-American Vietnamese militia. It accidentally fell into the hands of the Bloods, who buried it just before the war ended. Now, the surviving Bloods intend to retrieve it, explicitly referring to the gold as reparations rightfully owed to them and to Black Americans as a whole.</p><p>As the Bloods make their way to the gold’s hiding place, Norman is ever-present, embodied in flashbacks and the Bloods’ daily conversations. It is clear that they have romanticized him; while the other four Bloods appear even in flashbacks as their present, aged selves, Norman is always depicted as youthful, composed, and powerful—somewhere between Christ and Shaka Zulu. But it is also clear that Norman was genuinely the platoon’s moral compass, a Black revolutionary in the cut of Martin Luther King, Jr.. Despite the bitter irony of being sent to Vietnam to fight a war launched by white America, Norman believed it was an extension of his American duty to free people.</p><p>Norman’s stance on the war sets him at odds with the headstrong Paul. If Norman represents the incrementalist approach in Black revolutionary ideology, Paul is a radical separatist revolutionary. He cannot see past the plain fact that the same American government that has sent him to fight its war refuses to give him and his fellow Black American soldiers their rights back home. In the juxtaposition of these two characters, Lee addresses the issue of double consciousness, advocating neither assimilation nor separatism, but a third path: fight for the country that doesn’t love you back, but resist the reasons it doesn’t love you.</p><p>The mere arrival of a film like <em>Da 5 Bloods</em> reveals immense cultural change. Had it been made twenty years ago, it would have been a different movie. Paul’s signature MAGA hat might have featured an NRA logo instead. Norman might have been replaced by a white savior character. And perhaps most tellingly, Paul would have been used not to illustrate a reasonable reaction to the intolerable life situation of racial injustice, but rather as an “angry black man who wants to burn it all down.” The fact that these tropes were <em>not</em> employed speaks to the growing importance of the new Black cinema that Lee and others have pioneered, and to the revelatory possibilities of Black people telling their own stories on their own terms. ◘</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Review of A Journey to the Underworld: From Here to Eternity]]></title><description><![CDATA[
FROM HERE TO ETERNITY:
Traveling the World to Find the Good Death
By Caitlin Doughty
Illustrated by Landis Blair. 248 pp. W.W. Norton & Company.
Book Review by Alexandria Kominsky | Drawings by Courtney W. Brothers
In From Here to Eternity: Traveling the World to Find the Good Death, Caitlin
Doughty tackles death positivity: the idea that cultures of silence and shame
around death do more harm than good to society. As a practicing mortician,
podcast host, entrepreneur and now author, Dou]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/a-journey-to-the-underworld-from-here-to-eternity/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__6029ff79b05cdb047731657f</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 1 - Transition]]></category><category><![CDATA[Review]]></category><category><![CDATA[The True]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Ali Kominsky]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 15 Feb 2021 15:04:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><br><strong>FROM HERE TO ETERNITY: </strong><br><strong>Traveling the World to Find the Good Death</strong><br>By Caitlin Doughty<br>Illustrated by Landis Blair. 248 pp. W.W. Norton & Company. <br><br>Book Review by Alexandria Kominsky | Drawings by Courtney W. Brothers</br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">I</span>
n <i>From Here to Eternity: Traveling the World to Find the Good Death</i>, Caitlin Doughty tackles death positivity: the idea that cultures of silence and shame around death do more harm than good to society. As a practicing mortician, podcast host, entrepreneur and now author, Doughty has devoted over a decade to encouraging audiences to adopt healthier end-of-life attitudes. She founded The Order of the Good Death in 2011, a self-described “group of funeral industry professionals, academics, and artists exploring ways to prepare a death-phobic culture for inevitable mortality.”
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Caitlin Doughty’s book is an anthropological expedition across the world, examining how different cultures treat their dead. She engages an otherwise serious, solemn subject with curiosity, awe, and humor. Observing unfamiliar funeral rites, Doughty offers new possibilities to reconcile with death. Death is hard to grapple with, and Western culture tends to value stoicism over mourning. With the goal of debunking stigmas towards death in her mind, Doughty sets sail around the globe on her search to "find the good death."</p><p>We learn about myriad practices to prepare bodies for their final rest—like mummification, cremation, embalming, and natural decomposition. In South Sulawesi, a remote region in Indonesia, mummification is common. Unearthing a corpse years after its burial might seem spine-chilling, but reading about a mother’s elation upon unwrapping her mummified son who died at sixteen compels us to recognize that our sources of joy are framed by cultural context.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-width-full kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Screen_Shot_2021-02-16_at_1.53.10_PM--1-.png" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Courtney Brothers, “Death Head”</figcaption></img></figure><p>Travelling next to Mexico, Doughty acquaints us with the traditional festival commemorating deceased friends and family, <em>Día de los Muertos</em>, or “The Day of the Dead.” The multi-day holiday featuring marigolds, skulls, and bright colors is held annually in November and gathers whole communities to grieve collectively. It is a celebration. “Each year,” Doughty writes, “The border between the living and the dead thins and frays, allowing the spirits to transgress.” Families leave offerings to symbolize a promise that they’ll be there, year after year. If they show up, so will the spirit.</p><p>In Spain, Snow White-esque corpses rest in glass box displays. In Bolivia, human skulls called <em>ñatitas </em>are thought to possess distinct personalities and powers to bless those that take care of them. In Japan, where almost all bodies are cremated, family members use chopsticks to transfer bones from ash into an urn. These customs give mourners a space for communal grieving.</p><p>Turning her attention to marine mammals, Doughty takes us to depths to investigate whale falls—the descent of whale carcasses to their final resting place on the ocean floor. Their remains in the bathyal (midnight) zone of the ocean offer fertile grounds for an ecosystem that benefits from the rich nutrients for decades. Forensic researchers at Western Carolina University are interested in whether human cadavers might supply a similar kind of sustenance. Planting bodies in mounds of earth—“turning corpses into compost”—is a process of transformation they’ve named <em>recomposition</em>.</p><p>Of course, the reader increasingly wonders how a death expert thinks about her own eventual death. Doughty is drawn to the Tibetan custom of sky burial. Practiced exclusively in the mountains of Tibet, sky burials are performed by a <em>rogyapa</em> who expertly slices a body’s skin and muscle and feeds it to Himalyan griffon vultures. “I spent the first thirty years of my life devouring animals,” Doughty observes. “So why, when I die, should they not have their turn with me? Am I not an animal?” I’m with her. Rather than rotting in an overpriced casket, I like the idea of returning to the natural world.</p><p>COVID-19 has taken millions of lives. Though death has not stopped for us—to adapt the famous Dickinson line—we may at least stop for it. <em>From Here to Eternity</em> is an opportunity to reflect on the ageless reality of loss. Hospitals, mortuaries, morgues, and funeral homes are overwhelmed with the dead. Nightmarish images of bodies rotated in refrigerators, kept in “mobile morgues,” or in cardboard caskets push us to reckon with the fact that our current system for handling the dead is, at minimum, ill-equipped. Amidst this scale of global loss, Doughty’s work provides meaningful alternatives to care for the dead.</p><p>To learn how cultures honor their dead is illuminating. It reminds us that the transition into whatever is next is important, as is celebrating life. <em>From Here to Eternity: Traveling the World to Find the Good Death</em> is an affirmation that death doesn’t signify the end of connection. ◘</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[I consider a chestnut]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Your browser does not support the audio element. Reading by the author
There is a project for the sun. The sun
Must bear no name, gold flourisher, but be
In the difficulty of what it is to be.
—Wallace Stevens, “Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction”
I.
Darkening and it grows late.
The rain comes cold and
slow. The wind is thick,
the blackbirds lilting. All
the wood is sound and
motion. Then a chestnut:
impressions of the thing,
appearances, dark limbs
against a grey Dutch sky.
II.
When ]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/i-consider-a-chestnut/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__6029fff2b05cdb047731658a</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 1 - Transition]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Plain]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><category><![CDATA[Artwork]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Nissim Lebovits]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Mon, 15 Feb 2021 15:00:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><figure style="margin: 0px;">
<audio controls="" src="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/symposeum-production.appspot.com/o/audio%2FI_consider_a_chestnut_Feb._15_Final.m4a?alt=media&token=27834883-e48d-42cc-b2e9-df30cd175b82">
Your browser does not support the
<code>audio</code> element.
</audio>
<figcaption class="text-gray-700 text-base text-2xl font-sans text-grey-700 tracking-widest pt-8 pb-8">Reading by the author</figcaption>
</figure>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:right;"><i>There is a project for the sun. The sun<br>Must bear no name, gold flourisher, but be<br>In the difficulty of what it is to be.<br>—Wallace Stevens, “Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction”</br></br></br></i>
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><p> I.<br><br>Darkening and it grows late.<br> The rain comes cold and<br>slow. The wind is thick,<br> the blackbirds lilting. All<br>the wood is sound and<br> motion. Then a chestnut:<br>impressions of the thing,<br> appearances, dark limbs<br>against a grey Dutch sky.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="split-center">
<p>
II.
<br/>
<br/>
When ere I saw the chestnut first, I took
<br/>
From that botanic garden as my own
<br/>
The image of its form—for it had grown
<br/>
There at the taxis of the bridge and brook.
<br/>
<br/>
Grey was its bark, and fissured; in the crook
<br/>
Of branchtips palmates sprawling outwards shone
<br/>
With greeny serrate leaves; therein were sown
<br/>
White panicles, pink-tongued, fair upon to look.
<br/>
<br/>
As Adam out among the beasts, I assayed
<br/>
To name and take this object of étude
<br/>
And fix its roots in that syntax of clades.
<br/>
<br/>
<i>Aesculus</i> it was by essence, or by name,
<br/>
For there it stands in the System construed
<br/>
By Carolus, which makes universal claim.
<br/>
</p>
<img src="https://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/isabella1-2.jpg"/>
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p> III.<br><br>They were in Acre, that frayed<br> crusader stronghold, walking<br> down the alleys of the market,<br><br>the limestone slick with rain,<br> past the seacatch and the blue<br> tarps rattling in the wind.<br><br>The city smelled of brine<br> and smoke, and everything<br> was grim, except the copper<br><br>pans and bagatelles turning<br> slowly in the rafters. The seagulls<br> shrieked overhead, the air cold<br><br>and grey as the water. She<br> was hungry, so they ate<br> chestnuts from a paper sack<br><br>beside the Mandate-era prison.<br> They were dry, crumbly,<br> vaguely sweet; bits of shell<br><br>caught stiffly in his teeth.<br> “When we get to Haifa,” he said,<br> “Let’s spend just a night.”</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="split-center">
<p>
IV.
<br>
<br>“High in air,” writes Melville,
<br> “the beautiful
<br> and bountiful
<br>horse-chestnuts,
<br> candelabra-wise,
<br>proffer the passer-by
<br> their tapering
<br> upright cones
<br> of congregated blossoms.”
<br>This is New Bedford,
<br> whence the Pequod sallies forth,
<br>bearing Ishmael & Ahab
<br> out
<br> to have that precious oil,
<br> and Ahab on his hunt
<br>for vengeance ‘gainst the whale
<br> who had so maimed
<br>& torn his leg asunder.
<br> And on the way
<br> seeks Ishmael to rectify
<br>old, gross delusions
<br> of the whale by mounting intimate
<br> account of it, correcting
<br> knowledge. He gives
<br> the hoary histories,
<br> the Bible
<br>and before.
<br> He tells the second hand
<br> accounts, and discourses
<br>on failings
<br> of sophistricated portraits.
<br>He penetrates the whale,
<br> expounding down its bones.
<br>He tells of how it came to be
<br> and of it what will come—
<br> sempiternal.
<br> And it is the killings,
<br> his too-pedantic lance,
<br>that stimulate these sermons! that manifest
<br> cetaceous nets,
<br>not wise but merely
<br> otherwisely flawed,
<br> for he himself is seeking
<br> for this whale now to wrest,
<br>to cast claim o’er
<br> & own
<br> what never can be held—
<br> in such Socratic struggle
<br> no gnosis will suffice
<br>and must the whale therefore go
<br> unfathomed.
<br>
</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p>
<img src="https://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/isabella2-2.jpg"/>
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><p> V.<br><br>Often in that autumn, but before it was familiar,<br>he’d trace the trails of the Haagse Bos<br>in search of fallen chestnuts. <br><br>Fall’s woods were still enfoliate,<br>caught in the nearby thrum of traffic & peppered<br>through with pale, broken trunks of birch. <br><br> They went together once.<br>He stumbled on a clutch of conkers and thought<br>to gather them, but as she pointed out,<br>they had no bag to carry them, so they went<br>back to the pale yellow of the midday kitchen, where he swept<br>coffee nubs & flour as they played etymologies.<br><br>“Convergence,” he proposed. “A shared sense<br>of vertigo” (which was false). She scrubbed <br><br>a wooden spoon and set it down to dry<br>beside the blue Delftware. “To distinguish<br>is to separate by pricking” (which was true). <br><br>Later he read the field guide and she scored<br>the shells of chestnuts from the market.<br>The book said <em>Castanea</em> and he was puzzled<br><br>by the artifice of even nature. Though it fruits<br>earlier, the horse-chestnut is not edible,<br>unlike its sweet faux cousin the <em>sativa</em>—<br>next time he’d seek shorter leaves<br>and spines that would antagonize his fingers.<br><br><br> VI.<br><br> Having land-<br>ed, Penn set out the corners of my home<br>three hundred and sixteen years before I was born </br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="split-center">
<p>
into that stretch of schist and green. The white<br>
-tailed deer that roamed his woods mingled<br>
with the mountain laurel and the upswept oaks.<br><br>
The soil was dark for all the planting he could do. He would<br>
have wandered as I did in those dense pockets, the maples<br>
in the understory young and lithe, and fattened, too,<br><br>
his hogs on chestnuts—those keystones whose ribs assured<br>
the split-rail fences and the houses rectitude,<br>
resisting any form of rot. I ate sassafras<br><br>
and did not stop to think of loss, nor sense<br>
my very casual unknowing (having not yet turned to verse<br>
to know of <i>l’absence</i> in Rilke’s grand & positive intent).<br><br>
Instead I tripped in nettle by the Schuylkill,<br>
its water coursing toward the city & the port<br>
like in farther north Manhattan where, amidst the bristling,<br>
sylvan smokestacks, a ship bore blight up to our shores<br><br>
and at the birth of the last century, hurled it over all<br>
the eastern seaboard, cleaving forty million chestnut trees<br>
down to some sparse dozens.
</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p>
<img src="https://s3.us-west-2.amazonaws.com/secure.notion-static.com/dfcf6243-98f0-4689-a375-1b5220856af5/Screen_Shot_2021-02-16_at_3.58.34_PM.png?X-Amz-Algorithm=AWS4-HMAC-SHA256&X-Amz-Credential=AKIAT73L2G45O3KS52Y5%2F20210216%2Fus-west-2%2Fs3%2Faws4_request&X-Amz-Date=20210216T205858Z&X-Amz-Expires=86400&X-Amz-Signature=7a1fd3adcd2196c9e84bcc6661cdbcee83fc20513eb0f24d2b9e9dde1ec6ff7a&X-Amz-SignedHeaders=host&response-content-disposition=filename%20%3D%22Screen_Shot_2021-02-16_at_3.58.34_PM.png%22"/>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br> VII.<br><br>In the earth hour your myriad self,<br><br>your myriad self present and unfolding, <em>du bist.</em><br>Your gothic arms, your multitudinous self, loosened <br><br>“by the lees of both,” the currents of the air, the whole<br>eye, <em>bist du</em>. In October the yellowing, <br><br>the spined pods dropping to mulch with the orange<br>beech leaves, <em>du bist und bist</em>,<br> the lichen & moss<br>climbing over the greengrey bark and the yellow-beaked<br>blackbirds turning over leaves in the undergrowth,<br><em>du bist, du bӓumst</em>.<br> Attend, woodnode—the upper sky<br>is blue the light filtering the green<br>lichen the blackbirds’ madrigal (<em>du bӓumst, du bist</em>),<br><br>looking us into one, unthinking,<br><em>du bist, du bist, du bist.</em><br/></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p/><p/><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet’s Note </h2>
<br>The theme of this poem is knowledge & its sundry forms. Specifically, I am concerned with the epistemic gaze, and with the impact of historical and contemporary discourses on knowledge of the natural world. On a literal level, these verses examine chestnuts of three different kinds—the horse chestnut (<i>Aesculus hippocastanum</i>), the European chestnut (<i>Castanea sativa</i>), and the American chestnut (<i>Castanea dentata</i>). The central storyline at work is my own discovery of the natural world: until very recently, I not only had never seen a sweet chestnut tree, but did not know that there was a distinction between the mildly poisonous horse-chestnut (related to the lychee) and the American and European varieties of the sweet chestnut (cousins of the oak and beech). Layered over this unknowing were the historical and cultural problems that contributed to it; for me, like for most residents of “developed” countries, my relationship with nature had grown increasingly abstract, commodified, and, of late, screen-mediated. It took my gradual consideration of various chestnuts—and in particular my horror upon learning of the fungal blight that essentially obliterated the American chestnut in my home state of Pennsylvania—for me to fundamentally reconsider how I thought about, spoke about, and interacted with the natural world.<br><br>
Each section in the poem represents a different way of knowing, and thus adopts a different discourse, ranging from the most void and without form to far more domineering lexicons. I have tried to speak in various languages, borrowing from Wallace Stevens, Herman Melville, and other fonts of inspiration that seemed appropriate to the mode of thought that I was trying to represent. Finally, central to the resolution of the poem (and its ethic, too) is the German Jewish philosopher Martin Buber’s notion of I-It and I-Thou relationships (the poem’s title is a play on a quote from <i>I and Thou</i>, his most famous book). Buber explains that the <i>I</i>’s merely seeking knowledge objectifies the recipient of its gaze, the <i>It</i>. Only by an unbounded willingness to relate to the Other as <i>Thou</i>, a true coequal, can we step beyond this solipsistic and self-serving conception of the world. This, then, is a poem about hubris and humility, about blindness and sight.
</br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>As for the three illustrations, the first two are of <i>Aesculus hippocastanum</i> (image 1 is a horse chestnut seedling whereas image 2 is a seed pod). The third drawing is of <i>Castanea sativa</i> (sweet chestnut seed pod). I used black ink Micron pens on 140 lb. watercolor paper for all three illustrations.<br><br>
When illustrating “I consider a chestnut”, I chose to employ pointillism within the botanical line drawings. In this way there exists both certainty and uncertainty, both lines and impressions of lines, an image rising or a shadow falling in a tight collection of dots on the page. I invite you to consider the latter half of the first stanza: “Then a chestnut: / impressions of the thing, appearances, dark limbs / against a grey Dutch sky”. Here lies the stark contrast between inky darkness and negative space.
</br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Drawing from the Music of Benjamin Britten]]></title><description><![CDATA[I think in pictures. Like a single seed that eventually forms an arbor, this
particular trait has determined the entire infrastructure of my practice as an
artist and has continued to shape my life in many other ways.
Hopeless with verbal directions, I am an excellent navigator with a map (in the
shapeless expanse of my mind, without visual signposts it’s hard to see the way
ahead). As a champion list-maker, my morning ritual of writing down the pile of
tasks that accumulated in my sleeping bra]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/drawing-from-the-music-of-benjamin-britten/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__602921a6b05cdb0477316506</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 1 - Transition]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Plain]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Amber Kempthorn]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sun, 14 Feb 2021 13:14:42 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p><span class="dropcap">I</span> think in pictures. Like a single seed that eventually forms an arbor, this particular trait has determined the entire infrastructure of my practice as an artist and has continued to shape my life in many other ways.</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Hopeless with verbal directions, I am an excellent navigator with a map (in the shapeless expanse of my mind, without visual signposts it’s hard to see the way ahead). As a champion list-maker, my morning ritual of writing down the pile of tasks that accumulated in my sleeping brain becomes crucial visual evidence of my thoughts. The act of recording them, akin to the act of drawing, makes those thoughts more concrete to me. In both cases, the internal visual becomes something externally physical, a tangible thing that I can look upon again, reinforcing, confirming the existence of the other. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">"For nearly a decade I have been making still pictures of things as they pass through time, attempting to capture with drawing what is ephemeral. Now, rather than stopping time, I am activating it."
</p>
<p>When I read books or listen to music, the words appear to me in images. I <i>see</i> what they’re singing, what they’ve written. The words are vehicles that take me across the pictorial narrative of my own life. As an artist I pick my way across this landscape, using a combination of processes to create my work. I begin with the use of an airbrush to create an atmospheric base on paper, then the narrative objects and landscape are constructed in layers with graphite, ink, gouache, stencils, and collage. For over a decade I have used drawing to translate interior images for the outer world, creating densely layered, melancholic, and playful reflections of the mind’s life.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>The first time I heard English composer Benjamin Britten’s orchestral piece <em>Moonlight </em>was a powerful occasion because of what I saw. Unique, in a way, because I saw sounds, not lyrics. The haunting, crawling strings became an incandescent full moon dragged across a night sky. The flute became flickering fire flies and street lamps. An entire narrative began to unfold.</p><p>For years I would listen to Britten’s “Four Sea Interludes,” eager to return to <em>Moonlight</em>, the third interlude, because my visual mind had begun to imagine more than still pictures. <em>Moonlight</em> had become a “place,” harboring a story that grew more elaborate with each visit. The same desire that compels me to make drawings now had a new dimension. Something else was required. The music had to be translated into moving pictures.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Moths--1-.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Drawings for Animation (compilation) (2019/2020) | gouache & watercolor on paper</figcaption></img></figure><p>Britten’s “Four Sea Interludes” was written as orchestral scene changes for his opera, <em>Peter Grimes.</em> Maybe his most famous opera, <em>Peter Grimes</em> was inspired by <em>The Borough</em>, a poem by George Crabbe, which details several narratives in a small seaside village inspired by the coastal landscape of Suffolk, England. The “Four Sea Interludes” reflects Britten’s ardent attachment to the sea and Suffolk, his childhood home. Sonorous and compelling, the interludes are often performed on their own. <em>Peter Grimes</em> is a powerful example of Britten’s own affinity for interpretation, spending much of his career translating the written word into music. He composed scores for theatre and cinema, as well as orchestral pieces based on the works of W.H. Auden, Emily Bronte, and Thomas Mann. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">"To draw is to record. In its most poetic sense, drawing is evidence of the presence of life: the first footprints in fresh snow, the arc of white cloud behind an airplane, a signature, a fossilized fern in bedrock."
</p>
<p>Britten is also known for his contribution to children’s music education with the beloved <i>The Young Person’s Guide to the Orchestra</i> from 1945. Broken into sections, beginning with a full orchestra, the composition goes on to isolate families of instruments into themes and variations, audibly demonstrating the unique job of each of the parts that make up the whole. It is in this spirit that another famous orchestral piece written for children was structured. In <i>Peter and the Wolf</i>, a childhood favorite, Prokofiev’s narrator begins, “Each character in this story is represented by a different instrument.”
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>After years of contemplation, I began to nurture my desire to translate <em>Moonlight </em>into an animation. This formula, of assigning characters to musical instruments, became a formative idea. As I turned my thoughts to making the animation, I was surprised at how, seemingly undetected, the interludes had become four fully formed narratives in my mind. The process of translating instruments/sounds into unique visual elements would anchor my approach as I wrote each of the scripts. In<em> </em>the first interlude, <em>Dawn</em>, I began to see<em> </em>a predawn conversation taking place between a lone lightbulb hanging from a kitchen ceiling and the distant sun hidden beneath the horizon. The lightbulb, embodying the violins, appeared to “call” to its counterpart; the horns and timpani became the sun’s response, its eventual rise. An intermittent clarinet turned into a Luna moth making its way across the landscape, drawn to the glow of the light. Over time, another wish took shape. I dreamt not only of creating the animation, but also that its completion would culminate in a performance, a screening with live accompaniment by an orchestra.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Bulb.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Drawings for Animation (compilation) (2020) | acrylic, gouache & graphite on paper</figcaption></img></figure><p>The John S. and James L. Knight Foundation makes funding available bi-annually for art projects in my hometown of Akron, Ohio and other major US cities as part of their Knight Arts Challenge (KAC). The process is tiered and opens with a community-wide call for people’s “best idea for the arts.” The starting prompt was simple enough: describe your “best idea” in 150 words or less. The process led me from that succinct description to a final application that ultimately included partnerships with a local orchestra and digital production studio, the creation of an administrative support team, a $150,000 project budget, and a feasible plan to raise the $50,000 that the KAC would hopefully match.</p><p>In September 2019, I was awarded a $54,000 matching grant from the Knight Foundation for the creation of my project, “Ordinary Magic: A Sunday in the Cuyahoga Valley.” In collaboration with a production studio, I am creating a fifteen-minute animation that visually interprets Britten’s “Four Sea Interludes” which will be screened with live accompaniment by the Akron Symphony Orchestra in the autumn of 2022. <br><br>When I received the congratulatory call from the Knight Foundation I was stunned. In a flash, each of the thoughts that led to that moment synthesized into a sudden realization of the daunting task ahead. I would have to move forward without a map into a field for which I have deep affection but no expertise.</br></br></p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-width-full kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Kempthorn_compass-comp--1-.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Drawings for Animation (compilation) (2020) | gouache & watercolor on paper</figcaption></img></figure><p>As I reflect on the past year of work on my first animations, the nature of my relationship with time is changing, causing my practice to undergo a visually subtle but perceptively radical transition. For nearly a decade I have been making still pictures of things as they pass through time, attempting to capture with drawing what is ephemeral. Now, rather than stopping time, I am activating it. </p><p>To draw is to record. In its most poetic sense, drawing is evidence of the presence of life: the first footprints in fresh snow, the arc of white cloud behind an airplane, a signature, a fossilized fern in bedrock. In novelist and playwright Christopher Isherwood’s “A Berlin Diary” he wrote:</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote> I am a camera with a shutter open, quite passive, recording, not thinking. Recording the man shaving at the window opposite and the woman in the kimono washing her hair. Some day, all this will have to be developed, carefully printed, fixed.</blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>As Isherwood mentally recorded pictures to develop later, with each drawing I set out to record or fix what is fleeting. When I begin a drawing, what I hope or intend to communicate is planned, sketched in advance. As I work, I treat each drawing’s rectangular borders like an aperture that opens when I make the first mark and closes when I complete the last. Each drawing is an accumulation of images, culled from mental scraps and observations, interwoven with visual evidence of the time in which it was made. An artifact of that time might be represented by a pine cone I collected on a walk, or a particular bird I spotted at the feeder. Like a glass jar full of ocean water and sand marked with the date of collection, the artwork is simultaneously a time capsule and a story. Finally, aperture closed, the drawing is a winding, layered, nonsensical narrative that both reflects and captures something of the world.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/NoOrdinaryBlue_150--1-.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>No Ordinary Blue (after Guston) (2019) | acrylic, gouache, watercolor & graphite on paper | 44 x 30 inches</figcaption></img></figure><p>As I’ve transitioned from making still drawings to moving images, what has been most remarkable is learning the mechanisms it takes to create the <em>perception </em>of movement. Drawn elements are no longer singular; they are “frames” strung together to create action. Human vision processes roughly twelve frames per second, turning them into motion. The more frames, the more fluid the movement. Individually, these frames are almost invisible to the eye; ultimately, they are understood by the viewer through accumulation rather than contemplation. For over a decade I’ve used drawing to capture thoughts and moments, to concretize them, to immobilize them for examination. Now my efforts, my drawings, succeed in a way, when they can’t be individually perceived.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">"the artwork is simultaneously a time capsule and a story. Finally, aperture closed, the drawing is a winding, layered, nonsensical narrative that both reflects and captures something of the world."
</p>
<p>In animation, the term “onion skinning” refers to the transparent layering of image onto image to visualize movement by seeing several frames at once. Each drawing is like an apparition that the mind registers as it disappears into another drawing. This conjures something Britten is supposed to have said: “Composing is like driving down a foggy road toward a house. Slowly you see more details of the house—the color of the slates and bricks, the shape of the windows. The notes are the bricks and mortar of the house.”
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>This quote leads me to think of the moment Britten’s music first passed through my ears, entering my mind, which formed it into pictures, becoming the foundation for this new experience. A seemingly unremarkable event that I will now spend years carefully working to capture, grateful for the moonlight on the foggy road ahead. ◘</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[another kind of maiden voyage]]></title><description><![CDATA[
Your browser does not support the audio element. Reading by the authorit might
have been
a menacing sky that greeted him
in new york
in 1938.
if it spoke in english
he did not understand.
his tongue was
polish
polish
polish. he didn’t stop
at go but high-tailed it
to chicago.
his brother had just moved there.
on the train
the other passengers
might have remarked
on his thick, dark hair
& his poet’s eyes.
they might have talked
about his leaving,
about the war. it was rumbling
and thundering]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/another-kind-of-maiden-voyage/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__602920f2b05cdb04773164ee</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 1 - Transition]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Rachel Brooke]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sun, 14 Feb 2021 13:10:59 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><figure style="margin: 0px;">
<audio controls="" src="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/symposeum-production.appspot.com/o/audio%2Fanother_maiden_voyage_(1).mp3?alt=media&token=275c1b1a-4887-413b-935e-dcd596049ee7">
Your browser does not support the
<code>audio</code> element.
</audio>
<figcaption class="text-gray-700 text-base text-2xl font-sans text-grey-700 tracking-widest pt-8 pb-8">Reading by the author</figcaption>
</figure>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>it might have been<br>a menacing sky that greeted him<br>in new york<br>in 1938.<br><br>if it spoke in english<br>he did not understand.<br>his tongue was<br>polish<br>polish<br>polish. he didn’t stop<br>at go but high-tailed it<br>to chicago. <br><br>his brother had just moved there.<br>on the train<br>the other passengers<br>might have remarked<br>on his thick, dark hair<br>& his poet’s eyes.<br>they might have talked<br>about his leaving,<br>about the war. it was rumbling<br>and thundering.<br>they overtook cities<br>as the fields passed by<br>in the new country.<br>they might have said<br>that he’d have been dead<br>if he had stayed—<br>a rush of smoke<br>as the train creaked to a stop,<br>the conductor yelling<br>“maintenance.” <br><br>later he would decide to americanize<br>his name. dangerous<br>to keep the polish<br>surname, with a j<br>in the middle.<br><em>nie tutaj,</em><br>no hebrew,<br>no polish spoken here—<br><em>lo po</em>.<br>to live in america<br>one ought to act like it. <br><br>and was the statue<br>of liberty his own to claim—<br>the words that lazarus wrote?<br>is this a world where jewish words can breathe?<br><br>the train started moving<br>slowly<br>slowly<br>slowly. he saw<br>the city by the distant lake,<br>the tall buildings<br>so unlike the <em>shtetl</em>.<br>here,<br>he thought, away from foreign boots<br>and anxious neighbors<br>and preludes of war,<br>the sky is blue.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p/><p/><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet's Note </h2>
I hesitate to say that I have a style because I think that it is constantly evolving. However, in a narrative poem like this, I wanted to make it sound like the speaker’s inner thoughts. We don’t have a filter on our thoughts. They often race by, as fast as it must feel when you're literally running for your life. I chose lowercase because I imagined a lump in the speaker’s throat with a tentativeness reserved for the unsure and the scared. This poem was a matter close to my heart because over the COVID-19 period, I have been doing a great deal of family research. For this family member’s story, as he barely escaped to the United States, I imagined what he was thinking, and I knew I had to put pen to paper. Or rather, key to computer.
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Winter Garden After Rain (2020)]]></title><description><![CDATA[Ink on paper | 18 x 12 inches Artist’s Note
This painting depicts the change of season in a cold room after a cold winter. I
painted it at a time when I did not know what was next, just that I would be
going soon. I completed it over a year later when my life was warm, full, and
exciting. It’s nice to not always finish things. The color palette was a
reflection of the rainy day the painting was started. The bare trees and dead
hydrangeas in the garden stood out brilliantly against a gray mist]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/winter-garden-after-rain/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__602920a0b05cdb04773164e1</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 1 - Transition]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Plain]]></category><category><![CDATA[Artwork]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Courtney W. Brothers]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sun, 14 Feb 2021 13:08:09 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Winter-Garden-After-Rain.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Ink on paper | 18 x 12 inches</figcaption></img></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>This painting depicts the change of season in a cold room after a cold winter. I painted it at a time when I did not know what was next, just that I would be going soon. I completed it over a year later when my life was warm, full, and exciting. It’s nice to not always finish things. The color palette was a reflection of the rainy day the painting was started. The bare trees and dead hydrangeas in the garden stood out brilliantly against a gray misty sky.<br><br>
I find that almost half of what I make will stay in the in-between because I often start the piece by asking a question. I love the layer of depth that comes from finishing the piece when you might know some of the answer.
</br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Two Maidens (2020)]]></title><description><![CDATA[
Mixed media collage on canvas | 36 x 24 inches Artist’s Note
In my final year of college, a professor prompted me to re-imagine an image from
the school’s archives. I was enthralled by the idea of translating a piece of
art into a new form.
The women depicted in the original print looked exposed, vulnerable,
Ophelia-esque; I wanted to give them cover. So I adorned them with leaves and
flowers, imagining them as nymphs tucked quietly away from the world. I chose
bright contrasting colors of]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/two-maidens/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60292031b05cdb04773164d3</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 1 - Transition]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Plain]]></category><category><![CDATA[Artwork]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Courtney W. Brothers]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sun, 14 Feb 2021 13:07:27 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p/><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-width-wide kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Two-Maidens.jpg" class="kg-image" alt="Two Maidens"><figcaption>Mixed media collage on canvas | 36 x 24 inches</figcaption></img></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>In my final year of college, a professor prompted me to re-imagine an image from the school’s archives. I was enthralled by the idea of translating a piece of art into a new form.<br><br>
The women depicted in the original print looked exposed, vulnerable, Ophelia-esque; I wanted to give them cover. So I adorned them with leaves and flowers, imagining them as nymphs tucked quietly away from the world. I chose bright contrasting colors of blues, greens, and pinks in sharp texture to place the maidens in a dreamscape rather than what had before looked to me like a quiet state of death.
</br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p/>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Thermodynamics of Cybersecurity]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Outside my apartment window, piles of snow lay coated with an icy sheen formed
overnight. Inside, the warm air condenses on the windows. Droplets form and
break free, running down the foggy glass in the morning light. I am fortunate to
have a job that I can do from home but, like many, the long year of social
distancing and working from home has taken its toll on my ability to focus. So I
stare off into the distance, half gazing at the rivulets forming on my window.
Distraction might not be suc]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/thermodynamics-of-cybersecurity/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60291f80b05cdb04773164c1</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 1 - Transition]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Necessary]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Robert Terrin]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sun, 14 Feb 2021 13:04:05 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">O</span>
utside my apartment window, piles of snow lay coated with an icy sheen formed overnight. Inside, the warm air condenses on the windows. Droplets form and break free, running down the foggy glass in the morning light. I am fortunate to have a job that I can do from home but, like many, the long year of social distancing and working from home has taken its toll on my ability to focus. So I stare off into the distance, half gazing at the rivulets forming on my window. Distraction might not be such a problem, but I work in cybersecurity. While the world grapples with one kind of public health crisis in a physical space, another is taking place online.
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>The internet is over fifty years old and the World Wide Web is in its late thirties, yet 2020 was the worst year yet for cybersecurity. The painful transition to a digital economy has been accelerated by remote work, robotic process automation, and other no-touch solutions, all of which are compounded by the precarious political state of the world. Moving toward this new economy has dramatically increased the impact of criminal and nation state cyber incidents. For example, up to eighteen thousand customers were affected by last year’s SolarWinds breach. The incident was one where adversaries hijacked customers’ systems, including multiple U.S. federal agencies, by infiltrating SolarWinds, a software company that sells security monitoring products. Another example of the difficult transition is the pronounced uptick in ransomware, which is a kind of attack that encrypts critical data and holds it hostage for payment. This all occurs in a milieu of misinformation and rampant social media misinformation campaigns. Previously uninterested friends are beginning to ask, “How can we fix cybersecurity?” Instead we should be asking, “Where can we improve cybersecurity?”</p><p>It is difficult to know where to start. On a practical level, most organizations don’t even know all the devices (phones, laptops, web servers, email servers, TVs, door sensors, refrigerators, wearables, etc.) on their networks (home networks, office networks, intranets, etc.). What’s more, the high cost and low (no) revenue generated by security activities make solving many basic tasks a nonstarter. More philosophically, security can’t be fixed any more than temperature can be fixed. Temperature, like security, is a property of a system, by which scientists mean it is a description of a system at a point in time. It is a difficult idea to conceptualize, which gives us something in common with the scientists who studied thermodynamics two hundred years ago.</p><p>Sadi Carnot, the “father of thermodynamics,” led a brief but incendiary life. Born in Paris during the tumultuous French Revolution, Carnot graduated from the prestigious École Polytechnique and became an army officer in the last days of the Napoleonic Empire. He was not well suited for military life, however, and began dedicating more time to the study of scientific pursuits, particularly the steam engine. At the age of twenty-seven he published <em>Reflections on the Motive Power of Fire</em>, the founding text of thermodynamics. Just eight years later, he was interned in an asylum for “mania,” caught cholera, and died, leaving behind him a legacy far greater than he could have imagined.</p><p>Not only did Carnot’s work explain and improve upon the steam engine, but his theory of heat introduced the concept of dynamic systems. He published two breakthrough insights that would be elaborated on by Lord Kelvin and Rudolph Clausius to become the first two laws of thermodynamics. The first insight was to consider the heat engine as a closed system. This system could be described as a series of transitions from one state to another. The second was the observation that heat moving from high temperature to low produces work. By measuring changes in heat and work, scientists could measure the internal energy of a system. These facts about heat engines had profound implications for science and engineering that led to the second industrial revolution. Today, they remain the intellectual bedrock for what we know about systems thinking.</p><p>Information systems, like thermodynamic systems, are in a constant state of flux. They are created to accept, transform, and emit information under certain conditions. The Second Law of Thermodynamics, which Carnot discovered in 1824 and Clausius expanded upon in the 1850s, states that “heat can never pass from a colder to a warmer body without some other change, connected therewith, occurring at the same time.” He named this dissipation of energy “entropy,” from the Greek ἐν (pronounced “in” and meaning “content”) and τροπή (pronounced <em>tropē </em>and meaning<em> “</em>transformation”). This “transformation content,” or energy leakage, creates some loss of energy in a thermodynamic cycle. Engineer and cryptographer Claude Shannon, often called the father of information theory, proposed a similar relationship for information. Just as the thermodynamic systems leak energy through entropy, information systems leak information through information entropy.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">“It is incumbent upon good people doing hard work to stay at the frontier of technology.”
</p>
<p>Knowing that an information system in use inevitably leaks information and that security is a property of a system, should we simply expect cybersecurity—not to mention all of the information age institutions we have constructed on top of it—to get worse? It is tempting to take a nihilistic view, but the transition from “how can we fix cybersecurity?” to “where can we improve cybersecurity?” is reason for hope, not despair. It’s easy to take systems for granted. Computer scientists and programmers are routinely impressed that anything in technology works at all. When you think about the level of undirected coordination necessary for the internet to work, much less the hardware and software required to build the internet, it is a technological miracle. Milton Friedman has used the simple example of a pencil to describe the complex system of cooperation for the creation, distribution, and maintenance of consumer products and services: “Look at this lead pencil. There’s not a single person in the world who could make this pencil. Remarkable statement? Not at all.”
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>That systems so routinely fail or fall victim to attack and that resilience, redundancy, and resolve keep our institutions afloat, is cause for optimism. So far, while we have managed to avoid a cyber Pearl Harbor, we will not be so lucky in the future unless we reframe our perspective on cybersecurity. To improve security without naively hoping to “fix it,” we will have to reinforce weak points in the system. These weak points are often points of transition, such as software development, patching systems in production, and software end-of-life.</p><p>Software development is the process of gathering requirements, designing, implementing, testing and documenting software. Few risks manifest at the design stage because the system is not yet in use. Security, however, is a property of a system, not simply a feature that can be added on later. Therefore, development is the most critical stage to determine a system’s security. Other properties of systems like convenience, scalability, safety, quality, usability, and reliability have to be designed in as well. Similar to launching a ship or flying an airplane, it is when systems are put into production that shortcomings in any of these properties may become apparent, as unexpected problems may occur due to an inhospitable environment.</p><p>Production software is where most cybersecurity effort is spent. Like healthcare, ninety percent of cybersecurity costs are incurred after people are “sick” <em>despite</em> preventative care being a more affordable and more effective first line of defense. Fixing design flaws in production is expensive, but many flaws are only discovered during the transition. Furthermore, software developers may have higher priorities such as convenience and usability. As computer security expert Dan Geer wrote, “Installing the patch in a production machine can be like changing the tires on a moving car. In the best case, it is a delicate operation—and only possible if you plan ahead.” Systems that survive deployment, avoid significant changes in use, and depend on relatively few other systems can remain secure in production for a long time. This is both a blessing and a curse; a blessing, because they appear robust and a curse in the sense that many systems may come to depend on these long-lived systems, creating potential failure cascades.</p><p>While systems that make it through the treacherous transition from design to production may operate securely for years or even decades, developers often take these legacy systems for granted. For example, Internet Protocol version 4 (IPV4), the system of assigning every website a numerical address (e.g. http://172.217.11.14 is equivalent to http://google.com, just try it in your browser!), is currently being replaced with IPV6, a much larger set of internet addresses, to confront the issue of a limited number of IPV4 addresses. Although intended to expand the number of available addresses, this transition (like all transitions) comes with unintended consequences. IT professionals transition to the new protocol, opening up the system to all sorts of attacks and brand new security flaws.</p><p>Another type of transition, when systems move from production to end-of-life, is even more dangerous than the transition from design to production. Deploying a flawed system may leave that system open to attack, but deprecating software may affect many systems built on top of it. Most ATMs still run Windows XP, even though official support for the operating system ended in 2014. As our society becomes even more dependent on computer networks and as systems complexity increases, the risks associated with end-of-life software grow exponentially.</p><p>The improvements needed to address transitional weak points in systems are going to require massive investment of resources, time, and intellect. Most of the focus has been on mitigating risk, which is an understandable focus just to maintain workable systems. Software engineering curricula increasingly requires engineers to learn security best practices. Advances in machine learning, cloud computing, and cryptography will provide defenders with ever improving tools to prevent, detect, and correct vulnerabilities.</p><p>To simply believe we can innovate our way out of this problem would, however, be naïve techno-utopianism. There will be new tools that use advances in machine learning, cloud computing, and cryptography, available for developers and attackers as well. It is incumbent upon good people doing hard work to stay at the frontier of technology. So far, that arrangement has been possible, and it is my great hope that it continues. Yet, a technological solution poses one further and more insidious risk.</p><p>To quote science fiction author Arthur C. Clarke, “Any sufficiently advanced<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Technology"> </a>[antivirus] is indistinguishable from<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Magic_(supernatural)"> </a>[malware].” It is a cliche that security software is both a shield and a weapon. As the SolarWinds breach showed, surreptitiously gaining access to administrative tools is as good as (if not better than) being able to exploit a vulnerability. Although a greater dose of technology has proven the medicine to its own sickness thus far, we cannot count on that holding true in the future.</p><p>So where does my tentative optimism come from, if not technological risk mitigation? It comes from the fact we have hardly begun to apply the three other approaches to risk management: avoidance, transfer, and acceptance. The first of these will be the easiest for society to implement. The second will be an evolution, not a revolution. The third will require a fundamental reconceptualization of norms and privacy.</p><p>Risk avoidance means eliminating hazards by not engaging in risky activities. This can be encouraged by imposing costs on organizations that do not fully bear the burden of the risks they take. Regulations are already beginning to have an effect. For example, Europe’s General Data Protection Regulation, demands organizations state the explicit purpose for data gathering. The California Consumer Protection Act requires disclosure of consumer data collection. Governments can then begin to price the costs of negligence or willful data mismanagement to citizens. Even more promising than regulation is consumer pressure. For example, products like Apple’s facial recognition or Signal’s encrypted messaging app do not even send sensitive data to a central location.</p><p>Providing open code review and guarantees about the minimum necessary data collection obviates the information asymmetry between developer and user. This asymmetry is usually the sticking point that prevents any consumer-led reform. Comparing the pay-for-use business model with advertising and other data collection business models is a helpful juxtaposition that can punish data collectors. However, some sectors, such as finance and healthcare, are legally obligated to collect and store sensitive data. For these industries, there are still two more approaches: transfer and accept.</p><p>Risk transfer is a powerful tool for aligning incentives. It shifts risk from one party to another, thereby creating an advocate that has a clear incentive to minimize risk. For many organizations, missing out on an opportunity may be more painful than the potential risk incurred. To return to our comparison with thermodynamic systems, consider the steam boiler. In the early hours of April 27, 1865, three of the four massive coal-fired boilers on the steamboat <em>Sultana</em> exploded. The Mississippi paddle steamer burned to the waterline, just north of Memphis, Tennessee, killing over eleven hundred passengers and crew members. It was forty-one years after Carnot published his <em>Reflections on the Motive Power of Fire;</em> the steam engine, no longer a novelty, was not yet a mature technology. The Hartford Steam Boiler Inspection and Insurance Company was founded one year later, during a period in which one steam boiler exploded every four days.</p><p>Over the next fifty-five years, insurers inspected, standardized, and supported the engineering of steam boilers to ensure their safety. Where risk cannot be avoided and where it has not successfully been mitigated, it can be useful to provide an incentive for oversight, research, and development. Yet, risk avoidance and transfer will not work for organizations that must collect sensitive information but are not responsive to market forces.</p><p>Risk acceptance is the last sanctuary of these organizations. Governments and NGOs face particularly vexing cybersecurity problems. Their adversaries are the most sophisticated, their goals are the least clear, and their organizational challenges are the greatest. For them, there are only two choices: mitigate risk or accept it. Risk acceptance does not indicate defeatism. Acceptance, rather, means a sober analysis of the consequences with a plan for responding to an event. The result may be releasing information voluntarily or operating in public to meet the potential consequences head on, rather than being surprised in the future. The necessity of secrets will always be a feature of some institutions but minimizing the need to dissemble can be far more powerful than imperfect mitigation.</p><p>In my apartment, my attention has turned from window-mediated heat transfer back to Zoom meetings, terminal windows, and emails on a tiny laptop screen. It is afternoon now, and the sun has heated the air outside to a temperature that does not cause condensation. Some heat still escapes through the glass, but so much less now that the temperature inside verges on stifling. Rising from my chair to turn off the heat, I pause to reflect on what kind of world I hope to see in five, ten, or fifty years.</p><p>Will the extreme of tech idealism lead to immolation, or will the icy chill of cyber nihilism freeze all progress? How do we tread the moderate path and launch the second information revolution? In any case, cybersecurity won’t be “fixed,” but we <em>can</em> build a world in which it won’t need to be. Returning to information theory founder Claude Shannon, he once wrote that “We may have knowledge of the past but cannot control it; we may control the future but have no knowledge of it.” Fewer secrets better protected is a way to control the future, even though we won’t know what that future will look like until the transition has already happened. ◘<br/></p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Cartoons on Transition by Brooke Bourgeois]]></title><description><![CDATA[
Artist’s Note
When the tropes of time before COVID-19 went into hibernation, Brooke shifted to
mining the strangeness of the now-hackneyed ‘new normal’ for cartoon
inspiration. She looks to draw connections between common experience and stories
in the cultural cannon, ranging from the Bible to Winnie the Pooh. Single-panel
cartoons have become an important form of comedic expression in the era of
sharing over Instagram and online publication, especially as humor has drifted
]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/cartoons-on-transition-by-brooke-bourgeois/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__6028217ab05cdb04773164a6</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 1 - Transition]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Plain]]></category><category><![CDATA[Cartoon]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Brooke Bourgeois]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sat, 13 Feb 2021 19:01:29 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/pooh.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><p/><p/><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/bed.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><p/><p/><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/bread.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><p/><p/><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/marathon.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><p/><p/><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Whale.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>When the tropes of time before COVID-19 went into hibernation, Brooke shifted to mining the strangeness of the now-hackneyed ‘new normal’ for cartoon inspiration. She looks to draw connections between common experience and stories in the cultural cannon, ranging from the Bible to Winnie the Pooh. Single-panel cartoons have become an important form of comedic expression in the era of sharing over Instagram and online publication, especially as humor has drifted almost exclusively online. Brooke is looking forward to the days when she will be able to exploit the transition period into a post-COVID society.
</br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p> </p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Mondays at One o'Clock]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Iwas seven years old when I began visiting Lenore. Having recently relocated to
Spokane, Washington from Charlottesville, Virginia, I finally had an opportunity
to meet some of my dad’s family. Lenore was my eighty-nine-year-old fourth
cousin. She had no children and had been widowed decades earlier. When my
parents phoned her asking if she’d be interested in spending some time with me,
she was delighted. I was homeschooled, and my schedule was flexible. So it was
decided: Monday at one o'clock]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/mondays-at-one-oclock/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__602820feb05cdb047731649a</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 1 - Transition]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Ana Laffoon]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sat, 13 Feb 2021 18:57:38 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">I</span>
was seven years old when I began visiting Lenore. Having recently relocated to Spokane, Washington from Charlottesville, Virginia, I finally had an opportunity to meet some of my dad’s family. Lenore was my eighty-nine-year-old fourth cousin. She had no children and had been widowed decades earlier. When my parents phoned her asking if she’d be interested in spending some time with me, she was delighted. I was homeschooled, and my schedule was flexible. So it was decided: Monday at one o'clock.
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Originally, the idea of making friends with an elderly woman excited me. I never had the opportunity to know either of my grandmothers well. And, as the first of four children all born within five years, I craved attention. I wanted to know and be known.</p><p>When Monday arrived, I felt slightly unsettled about visiting a stranger by myself. I began to doubt if I was up for such an adventure. <em>What’s a fourth cousin really mean, anyway? Will she even like me?</em> But I kept my uncertainties to myself and climbed into our wood-paneled Jeep Wagoneer for the drive across town.</p><p>“This is it,” Mom chimed twenty minutes later. I looked up and took a deep breath, surveying the scene from the backseat. Perfectly perched on a large corner lot stood a buttercup-yellow cottage. Red roses danced over and through a white picket fence that, with the help of a few apple trees and a handful of towering pines, trimmed in the rest of the manicured yard. Billowing bunches of lavender and tidy groupings of pansies, marigolds, and petunias lined the stone walkway to the carved oak door. Hugging all four sides of the house were countless overgrown lilac bushes: vibrant, fist-sized bursts of pink, white, and purple. Stepping out of the car and accepting my mom’s extended hand, the swirling in my tummy slowed. Lenore had already made a good first impression.</p><p>My fourth cousin proved to be as becoming and welcoming as her blooms, and our connection developed quickly. For several years, I visited Lenore every Monday at one o’clock. She adorned her neck with silk scarves and large statement necklaces, and I wore my “dress shoes”—faux patent leather slip-ons with big black bows affixed to the front. We drank tea from delicate, floral porcelain and sat in emerald green wingback chairs, playing double solitaire. We rummaged through treasure-filled drawers and cabinets. We coated ourselves in various hues of lipstick and pumped thick, musky scents from ornate bottles. By the time I was eleven and Lenore ninety-three, we had established quite the bond. Both our journals from those years tell tales of bus rides around Spokane, hunts for the city’s most delicious slice of cherry pie, and names of all the boys that had made our hearts flutter throughout my limited—and her ample—years.</p><p>Several years into our friendship, Lenore gave me a precious gift: a transplant from one of her lilac bushes. She knew how much I loved her garden and she wanted me to enjoy it more than once a week. I stood next to my dad as he carefully shoveled deep and wide around the plant’s roots, lifted the shoot from its known soil on Glass Avenue, and replanted it in its new home on Rebecca Street. In the coming months, that gangly shoot dug in deep and grew strong. Sitting on the edge of our property, I passed it often as I trekked across the yard to my piano lesson or to play with friends. And each time I walked by I gently patted it on the leaves. “Hey, Lenore,” I whispered.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/image0.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><p>The evening my parents entered my bedroom with watery eyes and told me Lenore had transitioned from this world to the next was the first time my heart experienced something deeper than surface-level sadness. I had never lost anyone I really loved before. It was disorienting. I reached for the heart-shaped pillow decorating my bed, a gift Lenore had given me years before when I commented how pretty it looked on her couch. Clinging to that lace-trimmed cushion night after night, I mourned the loss of my sweet friend, my first truly-known relative, my first relational tether to a city that was once so foreign. I felt like I’d been pruned. Like a part of my childhood, my family, and my identity had been cut away.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">"Tears of grief watered our growing roots, bouts of joy snipped off and bundled up in life’s most glorious bouquets."
</p>
<p>For several months after Lenore died, I regularly slipped out the front door to visit my lilac bush. I needed to touch it, smell it, and feel close to it. Rubbing the velvety green leaves between my fingers, I thought of wingback chairs and double solitaire. The fragrance of the blossoms transported me to puffs of perfume and toiletry treasure hunts. The soft purple blooms reminded me of the lilac tint of my friend’s wispy, gray curls. That bush acted like a bridge, allowing me to travel back to my beloved past and helping me stretch forward into a new reality of no more Mondays at one o’clock.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Over time, my need for the little purple bush waned. Pulling up to the house after a day of high school, I often looked over at it and smiled, thankful for memories of my dear friend and the grounding she brought to my early years. But I no longer sat in front of it just to gaze at the blooms.</p><p>And then I went to college.</p><p>And then I got married.</p><p>And then I moved across the world.</p><p>New people and memories and meanings filled my life and heart, lessening my need for the lilacs and softening the once-sharp longing for my friend. A couple summers ago, my mom mentioned the lilac bush had died several years back. A wave of emotion surfaced, and I felt a jolt of shame that I’d never realized my lilacs were gone.</p><p>More than a decade after Lenore’s death, I moved, once again, to a foreign city. This time, quite literally, to Amman, Jordan. I was one month into marriage and excited to join my husband, Peter, in his NGO work with refugees.</p><p>From the backseat of dingy, smoke-filled taxis, Peter and I explored Jordan’s rocky hills, covered in white, limestone apartment buildings and dotted with dusty palms and weathered pines. Compared to the greenery of the Pacific Northwest, Amman was a world of dull sepia tones and monotonous neutrals. But something in my heart cut through all the brown, and I predicted the coming of colorful desert blooms.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">"Jordan taught me to build friendships outside of similar upbringings. She forced me to extend myself further than I thought I could go, to push forward just a little more."
</p>
<p>After three days in the country, I pulled up to a beige four-story building for my first Arabic lesson. Apprehension seized my gut. I’d never been good at learning languages; maybe I wasn’t cut out for this. But I wanted to show myself strong. Matching footsteps to the cadence of my thudding chest, I wound up and around the dusty, trash-littered steps to the third floor. Reaching the center, I pushed the door open. Light and laughter flooded the landing. Rich, full-bodied laughter. Involuntarily, my shoulders relaxed.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Entering, I saw the source of the mirth standing straight ahead of me at a large wooden table. It was a young woman adorned in bright clothes and a floral-print head scarf. She turned to me and smiled.</p><p>“<em>Ahalan, ahalaaaaan</em>,” she welcomed. “<em>Ismi</em> <em>Ruba</em>. I am a teacher here.” And, as if she sensed my nerves, she reached for my arm.</p><p>“Come. Make tea.”</p><p>She led me to the small kitchenette in the corner, where she poured boiling water over a bag of Lipton Yellow Label and two heaping spoonfuls of sugar. Her magenta-painted lips smiled as she stirred the cyclone of sugar crystals. My apprehension dissolved.</p><p>In the coming years, Ruba morphed from Arabic teacher to friend and from friend to sister.</p><p>She got married. I learned Arabic.</p><p>She birthed a beautiful baby boy. I had a string of miscarriages.</p><p>The ups and downs of our lives seeded the soil of both our hearts. Tears of grief watered our growing roots, bouts of joy snipped off and bundled up in life’s most glorious bouquets. Our friendship flourished through each season.</p><p>As was the case with Khitam. And Ilham. And Ghada. And Dua. Women of Jordan, Palestine, and Syria, who tilled and worked the ground of friendship with me for over a decade.</p><p>Last spring, I sat working in the bedroom of my Amman apartment. I listened to my five children—five under five, including one set of triplets—through the window driving toy dump trucks through our dusty garden and picking apricots from one of our trees. Amidst that sweet calm, Peter burst into our room.</p><p>“Guess what?” His eyes widened as his teeth shone through a big grin.</p><p>I studied him intently. “Wait. No!”</p><p>“Yup!”</p><p>“What? Really?” Excited tears pooled in my eyes as I leapt off the bed and flung my arms around my husband. “You got the email?!”</p><p>“Got it!”</p><p>After thirteen years working in humanitarian aid and relief in Jordan and Palestine, Peter was leaving the NGO world to join the State Department and serve as an American diplomat. It’s a transition he’d been growing towards for years, one our entire family anticipated with glee. And today was the day he got the message beckoning him to Washington, D.C. My cheek against his shoulder, I glanced toward the garden and thought of the tiny, dirty feet of those who called this place <em>home</em>.</p><p>“How long do we have?” I whispered.</p><p>“Three weeks.”</p><p>Squeezing my eyes closed, tears of joy now mingled with those of loss. Three weeks felt like an impossibly short window of time to uproot from the people and land who had been our home for so long. To break and pull away from this familiar soil.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">"As a plant finds new soil and nourishment to thrive, the human heart extends its roots in search of fresh sustenance. We push on, adapt, relearn how to flourish."
</p>
<p>Jordan grew me into the woman I am. She was the earth where I laid my barely-adult roots. My marriage sprouted in her dusty plains. My children were born into her hospitable arms. Her language, her culture, her people colored the way I view the world, expanding my capacity to love and be loved. Jordan taught me how to engage in and build friendships outside of shared interests and similar upbringings. She forced me to extend myself further than I thought I could go and, when I reached my perceived limit, to push forward just a little more. To say such a quick goodbye was inadequate and painful.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Precious relics from Jordan, Palestine, and Syria bridge my way into the new. Proofs of a past season well-lived and people well-loved: a small, wooden <em>maamoul</em> press for making traditional Eid cookies; a hand-embroidered table runner evoking flashes of my neighbors’ radiant dresses; dozens of Polaroids of families who filled a decade’s worth of my days.</p><p>It has been over twenty years since I lost Lenore. And an unknown amount of time since I last patted the leaves of my lilac bush. It’s been more than six months since I watched Jordan disappear from my airplane window. And only ten minutes since studying the faces in my beloved Polaroids. It feels heavy to walk into the future without these dear ones at my side. And I am scared of the day when, like the lilac bush, I realize my Jordan relics are no longer necessary for my heart to feel at home.</p><p>But <em>hope</em> pulls the weighted soul forward. Hope that the impressions made by the people and places my family and I love will always be with us. Hope that life follows transplant. As a plant finds new soil and nourishment from which to thrive, so the human heart extends its roots in search of fresh sustenance. We push on, we adapt, we relearn how to flourish. And somehow, we manage to do it without losing our tenderness toward who and what came before.</p><p>Today, in the midst of transplant, my youngest daughter bridges me from what was to what will be. Her first name, Nove, is an Arabic Bedouin name meaning “mountaintop” or “pinnacle.” It is fitting, as Jordan was such a perspective shifting force in my life. And her middle name, Lenore, is a daily reminder of friendship, lilacs, and Mondays at one o’clock.</p><p>Root deep, root wide, root anew. Bloom onward, dear one. ◘</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Silicon Prairie]]></title><description><![CDATA[Holberton School Tulsa Executive Director, Libby Ediger Sometime between 1828 and 1836, after being driven out of Alabama, Muscogee
tribe members settled under a large burr tree along the Arkansas River in
Oklahoma. They called their territory “Tulasi,” meaning “old town” in the Creek
language. Years of mispronunciations by white settlers eventually gave the city
the name for which it is known today: Tulsa.
For some, “Tulsa” conjures images of these early Indian settlers. For others,
images of ]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/silicon-prairie/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60281f65b05cdb0477316488</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 1 - Transition]]></category><category><![CDATA[The True]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Libby Ediger]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sat, 13 Feb 2021 18:51:29 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/7BJl3COA-copy.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Holberton School Tulsa Executive Director, Libby Ediger</figcaption></img></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">S</span>
ometime between 1828 and 1836, after being driven out of Alabama, Muscogee tribe members settled under a large burr tree along the Arkansas River in Oklahoma. They called their territory “Tulasi,” meaning “old town” in the Creek language. Years of mispronunciations by white settlers eventually gave the city the name for which it is known today: Tulsa.
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>For some, “Tulsa” conjures images of these early Indian settlers. For others, images of cowboys, outlaws, tractors, or the Great Plains on the horizon. But for most, I’d wager that “Tulsa” brings to mind its prevailing industries: oil and gas.</p><p>Born and raised in Oklahoma, I can understand the common misperceptions about Tulsa’s evolving identity. The city was, after all, firmly established as the Oil Capital of the World after its second surge of oil discoveries between 1915 and 1930. Until just a few years ago, I would have described my city’s economy in terms of oil, too.</p><p>Tulsa may have looked a lot like an “old town” in its early days, but today the town boasts of newness in almost all directions. Over the past decade, Tulsa’s economy has been shifting in significant ways. These shifts are largely the result of a group of passionate people executing their vision to set the city on a new course. With the goal of reducing Tulsa’s exclusive dependence on the energy sector, their vision seizes the promise of a new industry: technology. The seismic shifts happening in my community are significant not just for Okies (a title proudly reclaimed from derogatory Dust Bowl origins) but also for Americans across the United States.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">"Hindsight has only affirmed a belief I’ve held all my life: the coasts don’t have a monopoly on opportunity."
</p>
<p>The city’s rapid evolution coincided with a transition of my own, one which I never expected. I was given an opportunity to participate in and to bear witness to the city's transformation by serving as Executive Director of Holberton Tulsa, an innovative school for computer science and software development. After spending over five years at a political technology startup in Washington, D.C., I had moved back home to Oklahoma. I had planned to take a position at another startup or to seek a role in traditional startup ecosystem-building (venture capital, incubator, etc.), but instead, I found myself connected to the George Kaiser Family Foundation (GKFF).
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>The Foundation’s sole beneficiary and longtime Tulsa native, George Kaiser, made his wealth in the oil and gas industry through his management of the Kaiser-Francis Oil Company, and in the banking sector through his ownership and expansion of the Bank of Oklahoma. For the last two decades, the Kaiser family has invested much of their wealth in the Tulsa community. George Kaiser alone has donated more than $4 billion to his charitable foundations. Much of his philanthropy has focused on early childhood education because, as he puts it, “no child is responsible for the circumstances of his or her birth.”</p><p>The Foundation is tackling institutional challenges as well: Oklahoma’s highest-in-the-nation incarceration rates, and its forty-seventh-ranked education quality, for example. An organization called Women In Recovery (WIR) is using funds from the Foundation to reduce Oklahoma’s highest female incarceration rate in the country. As a result, WIR has contributed to a 54% drop in imprisonment among Tulsa County women between the 2010 and 2019 fiscal years.</p><p>After decades of building opportunities for Tulsa children and families, the Foundation turned to a new challenge: building up the city itself. By making Tulsa a better place to live and work, they hypothesized, they could attract new business and talent, creating jobs and stimulating economic growth. They wanted to transform Tulsa into an alluring place that would entice people to stay here. And it’s working.</p><p>From the largest U.S. park ever built with private funds, to countless entrepreneurial resources and economic incentive, the city of Tulsa is a more vibrant place to live than it was a decade ago. So in late 2018, when partners at GKFF met with a new coding school headquartered in Silicon Valley, the stars seemed to align. Enter Holberton, a software engineering school helping motivated and talented people to succeed in their dream career as software engineers, regardless of their background. In 2019, Holberton was looking to further expand its bicoastal presence, and GKFF convinced them that Tulsa was the perfect fit.</p><p>After just a few cups of coffee with people from GKFF and Holberton School, I was sold on their vision. I jumped in, head first, launching Holberton Tulsa later that year.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Holberton_Tulsa_0427.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>"100 Days of Code" challenge at Holberton Tulsa</figcaption></img></figure><p>Leaving the startup world for my role as a school administrator was not something I planned. In fact, I didn’t enjoy most of the academic aspects of my own post-secondary experience. I started working at a public affairs software startup, Quorum, only a few months into my sophomore year of college. Back then, you could hardly even call Quorum a company. I was one of a handful of kids interested in a specific, difficult problem and was excited by the prospect of winning funding from pitch competitions to tackle it head-on. By the time I graduated, I had managed to maintain my grades enough to keep my scholarship and my job at Quorum, which was just starting to take off.</p><p>Decisions often make the most sense in hindsight. Leaving a growing company in bustling D.C. to go open a coding school an hour from my hometown in Stillwater may not have seemed a sensible career move. And yet, hindsight has only affirmed a belief I’ve held all my life: the coasts don’t have a monopoly on opportunity.</p><p>In January of 2020, I launched our first cohort with a few dozen students. At Holberton, we scrap traditional lecture halls in favor of hands-on experience. We throw students off the deep-end into projects, offering them a learning framework that enables them to master problem solving. Not only are my students exposed to the fundamentals of software engineering, but they also have access to content on topics like augmented reality and machine learning: something not previously available in Oklahoma.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Holberton_Tulsa_0871.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Through Holberton's Augmented Reality and Virtual Reality program, students create 3D games and animations, handle asset management, utilize textures and materials, and publish applications for a variety of platforms and devices.</figcaption></img></figure><p>To ensure our programs build pathways for students who wouldn’t otherwise be able to learn to code, we offer a deferred tuition model, allowing students to pay tuition upon gaining employment rather than requiring them to shoulder the financial burden upfront. This model has generated a unique student body, the vast majority of which would not have been able to afford a traditional four-year degree. Most of our students, who average 29 years of age, chose to enroll at Holberton Tulsa to pivot their careers, build skills, and seize opportunities in the technology sector that are only just starting to emerge. A vast majority would not be able to afford a traditional four-year degree in computer science.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote"> "By starting locally, Tulsa will improve life for its own residents while serving as a model for others across the country."
</p>
<p>Tulsa’s budding technology ecosystem extends far beyond Holberton. The city already has many startup incubators and public-private partnerships. Talent relocation incentives are also underway to stimulate its emerging technology economy, including the Tulsa Remote program, which pays remote workers $10,000 to live here for a year. But it would be a grave oversight to create these substantial investments for new arrivals only. Life-long Tulsans want in on that action, too. As our city continues to innovate and grow, it’s critical that we cultivate our own startups and ensure that Tulsans of diverse backgrounds may benefit from the technology sector’s economic advantages. By starting locally, Tulsa will improve life for its own residents while serving as a model for others across the country.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Other cities seeking to promote technology-enabled economies will benefit both from developing talent in their own communities and from providing resources to build companies of scale. One is hard to do without the other. How do you bring in capital or recruit startups without a talent pool? Conversely, it’s difficult to justify investing in a large technical talent pool if most people need to leave your city to find a job.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Holberton_Tulsa_0615.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Holberton students rapidly adopt new skills and methodologies to prepare them for success in the ever-evolving tech industry.</figcaption></img></figure><p>Tulsa’s response is to place a big bet on engaging these strategies simultaneously. Tulsa Remote, for example, has attracted over 500 remote workers just in the last two years. Black Tech Street is building a coalition of Black talent and businesses. Tulsa Innovation Labs is growing economic development programs aimed at establishing Tulsa as the nation’s most inclusive tech community. And, of course, Holberton now joins the mix as an example focused on producing the next generation of software engineers. I’d tell any city looking to replicate Tulsa to focus on a simple, twin set of goals: build and recruit both talent and businesses.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">"We must meet not only the demands of the moment, but also the demands that lie ahead."
</p>
<p>Amidst this fourth industrial revolution, automation is eliminating the need for human intervention. Artificial intelligence and augmented reality technologies are rapidly evolving, becoming even more accessible to consumers. The need for software development talent is pressing on our current economy, and we face the potential for a real shortage in the next decade if the United States neglects workforce development in this sector. We must meet not only the demands of the moment, but also the demands that lie ahead. The Bureau of Labor Statistics projects eight percent job growth for software engineers in the next decade, which would require 130,000 people or more to fill these roles. A challenge of this magnitude requires a talent pool that exceeds the outputs of Ivy League universities and established technology hubs like Silicon Valley.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Tulsa is a city to watch. Undeniably, it is a city in transition, something anyone who has been here over the past decade can tell you. Once the Oil Capital of the World, today it may be described as a place where people flock, collaborate, innovate, build, and dream as big as its skies. Students at Holberton are some of the first taking the plunge. ◘</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Empire Twilight: The End of the Day (2020)]]></title><description><![CDATA[Mixed media collage and acrylic paint on canvas | 24 x 36 inches
Artist’s Note
In keeping with this issue’s theme of transitions, my painting, “Empire
Twilight: The End of the Day,” is part of an ongoing painting series using my
officially declassified diplomatic reporting cables. These “cables"—State
Department parlance for official diplomatic correspondence—covered historic
transitions such as the end of the Soviet Union and the birth of fifteen new
countries.
When I got these cables dec]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/empire-twilight/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__602586407f94114c3ec2bad9</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 1 - Transition]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><category><![CDATA[Artwork]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Rosemarie Forsythe]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sat, 13 Feb 2021 18:45:05 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Empire-Twilight-The-End-of-the-Day.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Mixed media collage and acrylic paint on canvas | 24 x 36 inches</figcaption></img></figure><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>In keeping with this issue’s theme of transitions, my painting, “Empire Twilight: The End of the Day,” is part of an ongoing painting series using my officially declassified diplomatic reporting cables. These “cables"—State Department parlance for official diplomatic correspondence—covered historic transitions such as the end of the Soviet Union and the birth of fifteen new countries. <br> <br>
When I got these cables declassified through the Freedom of Information Act many years ago, I spent a long time thinking about how to share these eyewitness accounts of some of the most significant global transitions of the twentieth century. I was certain no one wanted to read another memoir of that period, so I was inspired to create a memoir in art. After the fall of the USSR, I participated in major events: from the 1994 ceasefire in the Nagorno-Karabakh conflict between Armenia and Azerbaijan to denuclearization in Kazakhstan, Ukraine, and Belarus. I used memorabilia from that time to add other elements to my works in the series. <br><br>
On the surface, this painting appears to be a landscape. On closer inspection, however, the backdrop is text from declassified cables capturing my observations and interviews with government officials, dissidents, youth, religious leaders, and opposition figures. Today, America and the world face another era of transition. Though my painting is subtitled "The End of the Day," it seems fitting for an issue born at the beginning of a new one.
</br></br></br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[The Rhythms of Time]]></title><description><![CDATA[ Afew weeks ago, amidst a global pandemic, I subjected my ninth-graders to the
classic nostalgia-fueled E.B. White essay “Once More to the Lake.” No one had
done the assigned reading, and then a fire drill took up the first fifteen
minutes of class. When we finally returned, I had the students skim the text
before we talked about White’s intentions. Every year that I teach the essay, I
tell the kids that I experience a bit of White’s duality because I still
remember reading it for the first time]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/the-rhythms-of-time/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60281679b05cdb0477316406</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 1 - Transition]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Adam Syty]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sat, 13 Feb 2021 18:37:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">A</span>
few weeks ago, amidst a global pandemic, I subjected my ninth-graders to the classic nostalgia-fueled E.B. White essay “Once More to the Lake.” No one had done the assigned reading, and then a fire drill took up the first fifteen minutes of class. When we finally returned, I had the students skim the text before we talked about White’s intentions. Every year that I teach the essay, I tell the kids that I experience a bit of White’s duality because I still remember reading it for the first time in Mr. Starr’s AP Language course in eleventh grade. I don’t remember much else from that class, but the essay always lingered in the back of my mind, and White’s final, sardonically foreboding interjection on his son’s independence—“my groin felt the chill of death”—returns to haunt me anatomically and metaphysically every new school year.
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>When I was in high school, I never understood and possibly refused to accept the finality of White’s last line. Young and naïve, I simply saw the essay as a work of grand outdoorsy imagery. It’s a bit unnatural to consider the mortality of our parents while we’re still young, and I’m sure the younger White never imagined that his solitary excursion into the water represented some larger metaphor of parental disassociation for his father. Throughout the essay, the elder White struggles to separate himself from his son. He repeatedly wonders if it’s him or his son holding the fishing pole and experiencing the sights and smells of the lake they’ve retreated to. So when I was teaching the essay again this fall, I began to reckon with my own legacy of denial. I began to wonder if I, like White, was denying my own forward momentum. I now have three younger daughters, and, like White, I have begun to struggle with the duality of the past colliding with the present.</p><p>As I sat at my work desk pondering this struggle, I twirled my pen between my fingers while staring ahead at the blue glow of the laptop. I wondered, what stories could I share with my daughters? What shared experiences could I pass on? As I sat fidgeting with the little red button on my laptop, I realized I was holding the answer in my right hand.</p><p>Six years ago, during a fit of basement reorganization, I decided to search through the plastic drawers of an old college-era bin. I mostly found a few elementary school armaments, including a metal protractor with that sharp point and a ruler that swung out like a switchblade. But under these academic arms was a worn-down and empty blue pen I hadn’t seen since college. I momentarily gazed at the pen, picked it up, twirled it between my fingers, and let the sensation of its raised lettering bring back memories like a long-lost picture of a first girlfriend.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">"There’s even a little magic and vulnerability to rediscovering writing from the past—especially writing from those formative years of emotional discovery and limitless potential.” </p>
<p>The pen was a blue Pilot BP-S Medium. Between fourth grade and college, I exclusively used this pen to compose, create, and annotate my way through my academic journey. After college, I somehow lost contact with the pen and eventually forgot its name. I occasionally looked longingly and wistfully in the pen aisle of Staples for that exact model, but I never stumbled serendipitously on it. I tried to have an open mind and experimented with other varieties, but something about the sheen, weight, and plastic of the others never quite recreated the tactile sensations of the BP-S Medium. Eventually, most of my work migrated to the computer and I gave up hope of ever reuniting with my old fling.
</p>
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Now, as I held my rediscovered weapon of mass annotation, the memories of the past poured back in. These memories grew so strong that I excitedly carried the pen upstairs and commenced an internet search for the precise name of the pen. Presto! The pens, buried somewhere in the long-forgotten ether of Amazonian databases, appeared again, phoenix-like, in my mailbox two days later. The reunion was as satisfying as I imagined. A piece of me had been missing and now it had returned. My academic life, and maybe my whole identity, had been intertwined with this pen. Now, that life could resume.</p><p>Coincidentally, my first daughter, Sarah, arrived at roughly the same time my pens had returned to my life, strangely uniting and interweaving this tool of my past with this DNA-driven form of me in the present. For the first few years of her life, I felt it best to not pass on a pen with a detachable cap to a toddler, but on her fifth birthday—overcome with mounting English-teacher visions of symbolically uniting the past with the present—I finally gave one of these cherished pens to her. I even wrote a card for her with the pen and explained its significance. She now keeps the pen in her room and uses it to draw pictures that she’s always trying to give away to her Zoom classmates.</p><p>When I was younger, I used to draw elaborate, action-packed stories and offer them to my neighbor. Years later, after he passed away, his wife handed me an envelope with all my drawings he kept. “He loved the stories,” she said. “He thought you’d become a builder or an engineer like your father.” Dazed and a bit surprised, I accepted the envelope. What else had he seen in my stories, and what other fragments of my past would be uncovered as if they were embers of old stories, covertly waiting to reignite the next fire?</p><p>The pen’s return seemed to spark that fire. Each time I picked it up, memories tried to bleed from my past to the page, but the problem was that I hadn’t written much by hand in years because, let’s be honest, it’s hard not to be a computer man these days. Typically I take impersonal notes on my phone, but every so often I find myself buying a sturdy notebook and writing down a few story ideas before letting it gather dust under my nightstand. There’s a tranquility, a permanence, and a personalization to handwriting that the sterile text of a computer can never replace. There’s even a little magic and vulnerability to rediscovering writing from the past—especially writing from those formative years of emotional discovery and limitless potential.</p><p>When I was younger, I used to write poems on roughly coded <em>Geocities</em> websites. Later, I anonymously blogged emo-like <em>LiveJournal</em> entries for no one in particular. But at one point, in a frantic realization of the infinite nature of the internet, I hastily deleted it all. I’m sure they exist in some Russian data locker, but otherwise they’re gone and will never return. Life is fleeting, and writing, which captures life, should slowly evaporate like an Andy Goldsworthy sculpture<strong> </strong>giving itself back to the world that created it. Writing is a letting go with no promise of return. It can be like death, but it can also be like life, growing the way a seed scattered by the wind sprouts at an unbeknown location.</p><p>So with this whimsically romantic ideal in mind, I was helping my students improve their writing recently when a brain-burst suddenly came over me, and I felt the pull of blue pen to notebook paper. I wrote a few neat sentences of resilience, ending: “Our past does not dictate our future!”</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">"Writing is a letting go with no promise of return. It can be like death, but it can also be like life, growing the way a seed scattered by the wind sprouts at an unbeknown location.” </p>
<p>I had planned to convey this to the cross-country team that I coach before their next race, but I forgot the notebook at school. We eventually finished in sixth place, and now that I think about it, maybe our past does dictate our future. In class, I ask my students to reflect on Gatsby's failure to climb a metaphysical and social ladder he did not create. We can try to deny the past, but none of us can remove ourselves from it. My runners will need to embrace who they are now to race up the ski hill of death they’ll face twice at our final meet, and later, metaphorically, in life. Walt Whitman, who once admired a long-distance runner from afar, would revel in the idea of sinewy boys channeling his calls to focus on the now as they climbed, clinging to the present. </p>
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>As a young runner and a Whitman neophyte, I started to log my running exploits. I still have the fluorescent-green spiral notebook with daily entries written in blue ink. Today, no one keeps that kind of log because their watches and phones automatically do it for them. I often worry about my runners’ ability to look back and measure these times, so I encourage them to use the app <em>Strava</em> to socially document their runs. At least once a week the orange GPS line indicates they’ve spent less time running and more time jumping into the local creek. Sometimes they post pictures of themselves during a photogenic moment of the run. I can see my friends doing the same goofy pose, except we didn’t have phones back then so those moments only exist in my mind, but really they are the same moments relived time and time again, ever repeating and circling back, ceaselessly, like the tides.</p><p>The first time I took Sarah for a run she sprinted the first fifty meters and then made it another hundred feet before we had to walk. I attempted to explain the concept of pacing to her and eventually we got going again until she gleefully sprinted down the final hill back to our house. Someday she’ll find my now-digital running log and come across this first moment of breathless exhilaration and remember that this was really her first entry as well. Maybe she will remember that everyone we passed on that summer run gave a cheerful wave or made a wry comment about me having to keep up. But will she remember the recognition in their eyes? I’ve come to recognize this expression when I walk past people in our neighborhood. When I was younger, I was oblivious to this coded nod, but now I see the look everywhere. It’s one of remembrance and nostalgia for a shared and fleeting experience that time carries away. “It goes by so fast,” I’ve heard hundreds of times. How soon until I give my first nod of recognition to the next father and daughter that will pass me?</p><p>When Sarah was younger, she struggled with the abstract concept of time. Clocks were meaningless to her, and she often appeared, like an illusionist, in front of me and my wife in the early hours of the morning. I’ve learned that time is inconsequential for kids. They’re young and life probably seems infinite, so why bother measuring? Yet as we age, time is constantly moving us forward while we reverently look back toward the past and try to recapture those fleeting hours and minutes.</p><p>Sometimes, when I stand peacefully post-run on my driveway, the surrounding silence and open farmland facing my front yard brings me suddenly back to my past. I fondly remember fleeing my house during the summer and exploring the ever-eroding countryside. If I rode my bike far enough, I could escape the suburban monster gobbling up the surrounding forest and farms and the wood-framed carcasses it was leaving behind. Free of parental concern and cell phone triangulation, my friends and I would build dams and play in the water beneath an old railroad bridge. Summer after summer we stood in that water, unaware of the changes happening around us and to us. We even wrote our names on the bridge’s stone wall and boldly declared this Eden to be our own forever. But as time ebbed forward, our escapes were paved over, and the playful reverie of youth was replaced by the more settled adult dreams of scenic mountain cabins and urban cityscapes.</p><p>Sarah has recently started to express her dreams. She wants a house in the country and a barn with horses and more horses. Occasionally she draws pictures of these dreams with the BP-S Medium, and sometimes hands me the pen and asks me to spell important words for her. It’s exhausting at times as she recounts her plans in rapid-fire fashion at the dinner table, but it’s also exhilarating to hear her dream such intricate visions for her future. Did I have these dreams when I was younger? Has she surreptitiously watched me and absorbed that sense of mysticism through quiet observation? Maybe she’s discovered my old musings buried like treasure on page fifty-seven of a Google search for my name. Or maybe these dreams are etched into our DNA somewhere and they simply replicate over time. How deep does our connection to the past run? Maybe all our dreams are connected to the molecules of that first splitting atom.</p><p>This past fall we made the pilgrimage to a cabin in the Catskills in upstate New York. While my wife, Susan, set up the bedrooms and opened all the windows to disperse any remnants of the plague, I took my kids outside to explore the expansive yard that overlooked the lower valley. We circumnavigated the house as I took in the silence and solitude of the place, but no one else was too impressed until we found a large boulder planted firmly near the edge of the property. With Susan distracted, I told my kids they could jump off the rock if they didn’t tell their mom. They spent about a half hour climbing, jumping, and learning how to land. There’s nothing better than a good jumping rock when you’re young, and they promptly told Susan about it when we went inside. How many others had jumped off that sturdy reminder of the past, itself made from those same ancient elements that make up our dreams, our bodies, and the fabric that weaves the universe together?</p><p>Whitman opens “Song of Myself” with similar wonder and affirmation. He seems to understand this unity when he proclaims, “For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.” It’s a fitting line; I gave my copy of <em>Leaves of Grass</em> to a student who has failed to return it. I like to imagine she is studying it quietly in her room, hand on cheek, occasionally adding to my annotations with her own pen. Every so often, she might take a picture of an inspiring section that will then travel across the electric pulses of internet packets of data and maybe coalesce with my own lost webpages of poetry and quotes that are drifting endlessly on the tides of digital ocean foam. I like to imagine Sarah finding my old books someday and adding her own annotations to them. Will hers match my own private introspections or will they grow to be independent and unique to her? Am I holding the pen or is she?</p><p>Moments like these remind me that the transposition that White experiences in “Once More to the Lake” has increasingly grown in my own life, too. I wasn’t a father when I started teaching, so each year I’ve taught the essay is a demarcation of growth in my life; my blue annotations have become like markings on the wall of an old house. I tell my attentive freshman honor students that I feel a bit confused, like the way White does in his essay. I try to explain that I feel young inside, and that I think everyone else who gets old must feel the same. We’ve spent the majority of our lives experiencing the world through a younger version of ourselves, so our only understanding of the world is through that younger self. It’s hard to see the change that has occurred. We don’t typically interpret the world in the moment, so I explain to my now half-following-me-still students that they only see me at age thirty-five, so they, like White’s son (and now my daughters), only know me in the moment. Am I the student still trying to decode the essay, or am I the teacher unraveling its coded imagery? A few students type this observation down in their notes.</p><p>Using White’s essay as a guide, I even took my family camping this summer. Like most of my grand ideas, I planned this excursion at the last moment, and my wife, trusting my camping judgement, allowed me to book a site. I promptly booked the last, tiniest, and closest site to the bathhouse, and assured my wife we’d all fit comfortably into our old tent.</p><p>A year earlier I had taken Sarah camping in the fall. We booked a site at the local KOA and spent some quality father-daughter time together. We wandered the grounds, played on the playground, took a hay ride, and ended the night with some ice cream and a bottle of Yoohoo chocolate milk that proved ill-advised a few hours later. I had to give her my sleeping bag, hang hers to dry by the fire, and locate my thin ground sheet from my car. I figured I would be warm enough if I wore my sweatshirt. It went down to thirty degrees that night and I shivered on my slowly deflating air mattress while she slept soundly beside me. Now she always asks about going camping again.<br/></p><p>So this time, I came prepared with extra sleeping bags and apparatuses. When we arrived at our tiny parking space of a site, I promptly unpacked the screaming children, food, and eventually the tent. While bending one of the two support poles to the tent’s contours, it promptly snapped in half and I figured that the broken pole meant we were doomed to head home, but we resolutely jerry-rigged the pole. I unfolded my newly purchased cot, filled up some air mattresses, stuffed them all into the tent, and tried to find room for my children and wife.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">"But as time ebbed forward, our escapes were paved over, and the playful reverie of youth was replaced by the more settled adult dreams of scenic mountain cabins and urban cityscapes.”
</p>
<p>No one slept that night, nor the next. The only redeeming moment of the trip was our time at the camp lake. My kids swam happily in the same blue water I often stood in as a college student after my long runs in the park. My teammates and I would try to numb our legs post-run in the water, hoping for a rush of healing blood upon exit. But this time the water wasn’t quite as cold, and, thankfully, there was no riotous thunderstorm like the one in White’s essay. I also didn’t experience any “chill of death” like White had. (Maybe if we had come in October, I would have felt it.) My daughters did love splashing and being dragged through the water as they pretended to swim. My wife and I stood close by, hip deep, and helped them turn and stay afloat as they doggy-paddled around, occasionally accidentally submerging their heads before we pulled them back up, now forever transformed by their baptism in the waters of my past.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>While watching his recently finished sculpture getting covered by the tide, Andy Goldsworthy once opined that the ocean was changing his sculpture in a way he never could’ve imagined. Yet he still felt close to the structure as if his hands were still warm with the connection to the stones he built it with. Was the lake having the same impact on my daughters? Was this submersion a baptism? A welcoming into the kingdom of nature and the memories of my past? These thoughts swirled in my head later as I tried not to burn the sole pack of hotdogs I was cooking for dinner over the fire.</p><p>By the final night, I felt discouraged. My own younger memories of camping were clouded by the actual adult experience of sleep-deprived children, and someone’s wife yelling to her husband at 3:30 AM to remember to take his towel to the bathhouse. I remember those younger days so fondly. The lambent stars, the chill at night, the warm fires, and the pleasant smell of woody smoke in the distance. Those were holy and magical nights, and they still burn romantically in my mind. Now, as I pondered my decision to take my wife and three kids under five tent-camping in the middle of a global pandemic, I feel mostly as though the trip was a disaster, and I went home more tired than when I left. It had been silly of me to try to recreate the past, I thought.</p><p>A month later, I was teaching class on the first day of school when my wife sent me a text message. Sarah, attending virtual kindergarten on her iPad, had been asked by her teacher to fill out a worksheet that asked what her favorite moment of the summer was. As I glanced at the picture, I figured it would be our earlier and much more successful trip to Cape Cod with its beautiful beaches that reached longingly out toward the ocean. But no, it was our camping trip she wrote in blue ink with her Pilot BP-S Medium on a piece of paper she then submitted as a picture, via her iPad, to the ether and infiniteness of the digital universe.</p><p>It was then I felt the icy chill of space and time colliding. ◘<br/></p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[The Perfect Plan]]></title><description><![CDATA[An ex-CIA analyst transitions to work on the family flower farm, and fatherhood.]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/the-perfect-plan/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60281732b05cdb0477316411</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 1 - Transition]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Alex Chapple]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sat, 13 Feb 2021 18:36:00 GMT</pubDate><media:content url="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/zoe-schaeffer-J8YByQQ7qXM-unsplash.jpg" medium="image"/><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html-->
<img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/zoe-schaeffer-J8YByQQ7qXM-unsplash.jpg" alt="The Perfect Plan"/><p>
<span class="dropcap">T</span>
oday I planted seven hundred daffodils. They have names like Can Can Girl, Yellow Cheerfulness, Replete, and my favorite, British Gamble. I planted them along a stone wall my dad recently discovered behind the manor house, which dates to the 1850s. My parents bought the house and the land it sits on five years ago, naming it Hope Flower Farm. Although that sounds like a call for optimism, the place is actually named after Mr. Hope, the tenant farmer who cared for the property for forty years before my parents bought it. He was an excellent steward, but twenty-five acres was too much for him to maintain alone, so parts of the property grew over with weeds and brambles. My dad found this wall under one such bramble patch.
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/alex4.jpg" class="kg-image" alt="The Perfect Plan"><figcaption>Dahlias at Hope Flower Farm in northern Virginia</figcaption></img></figure><p>I shouldn’t feel this sore from planting so few bulbs, but I’m still new to this, so I was overly cautious—my feet and legs throb from hovering over holes for hours. Daffodils should be five inches deep, so I had carried a stick I broke to be that length and checked every bulb’s depth before covering it. The precision made the work slow, but it calmed my worry that they would be planted too close to the surface. Our winters, like everyone else’s, are increasingly mild. While I was working, I had silently prayed our bulbs wouldn’t be “too excitable,” as Sylvia Plath once described her tulips that arrived before winter was truly gone.<br/></p><p>These daffodils, like all the flowers we grow, will be used in the floral designs we create for weddings and events on our farm, or sold retail, directly to our northern Virginia community. My mother has been a florist for almost thirty years. Ten years ago, my father quit his job in telecommunications to work with her. Upon purchase, the farm was a fun side venture, a place for my mom to teach floral design and to dabble with growing her own more expensive stems she would typically have to buy from wholesalers, like peonies and dahlias. But the primary source of their revenue—weddings and events, often at big venues in Washington, D.C.—evaporated as COVID-19 halted the entire hospitality industry. So they leaned into the last stable part of their reality: the land. My parents’ plan? Grow more flowers than ever, then figure out what to do with them.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-2.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/alex2.jpg" class="kg-image" alt="The Perfect Plan"/></figure><p>The sun is already setting in the December sky, so the work day is done. I move my stiff legs and walk past the old, red dairy barns on the property toward the tenant house. It is pleasantly warm for the week of Christmas, but the warmth only lasts a few hours, when the sun briefly falls on your back. Our daily labor is not easy in the winter months, but it is short. In the summer, I work twelve-hour days to make the most of every moment of sunlight. Sometimes it makes me miss my old nine-to-five job.</p><p>When I enter the small house where Mr. Hope and his wife used to live, I kick off my boots and wash up. After inspecting the dirt under my fingernails, I notice a hole in my jeans. It’s a friendly reminder that I’m not in a suit. That’s something I’ve never missed.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">"Our daily labor is not easy in the winter months, but it is short. In the summer, I work twelve-hour days to make the most of every moment of sunlight. Sometimes it makes me miss my old nine-to-five job.”
</p>
<p>A year ago I spent my days in business attire, at a desk, reading several hundred intelligence reports a week. I did this while working as an analyst at the Central Intelligence Agency. In contrast to our farm’s manor house, the centerpiece of the CIA campus is the cold, concrete Old Headquarters Building. (I used to laugh with colleagues about how ironically Soviet it looked from the outside.) The campus was beautiful in its own way, though—meticulously landscaped; green from the surrounding Virginia old-growth forest; and often foggy because of its proximity to the Potomac River, which added to the mystique of the place. The only problem was that I rarely got to enjoy it. I was usually in a suit, in a gray cubicle, inside an office with no windows.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I worked at the Agency for seven years. During that time, I developed incredible friendships and had many unique experiences, including traveling internationally, writing for the President, and even briefly running the Agency’s Twitter account. But I knew deep down after my first few months that I didn’t fit there. The bureaucratic environment made me feel like a caged dog. I also found the best parts of the job—those portrayed in Hollywood films (inaccurately, it turns out)—surprisingly boring.</p><p>It took me years to acknowledge this malaise, and then years more to find the courage to leave. The admission came in an easy, unexpected moment at a party, when someone I had just met was peppering me with questions about my CIA career. I told them I didn’t want to talk about it. They said they understood; I couldn’t talk about classified work. “No,” I replied, “it’s just that it’s boring.” I can still remember the person laughing, thinking I was being cagey. But I wasn’t being wry. In a lucid moment, I had realized how bored I’d become at a job most thought was cool.</p><p>The courage that I would need to leave the Agency did not come as easily as my moment of lucidity. Ultimately, I would leave to join my parents, to support their thriving florist and floral education business, and to help on their farm. But before I did so, I spent years resisting their offers to join them because I was afraid to give up the two primary benefits of my Agency life: financial security and a sense of mission.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">"I realized that I was well-off as far as money was concerned, but when it came to living—really living—I was impoverished.”
</p>
<p>The federal government truly is one of the last US employers that promises a career—a forty-year plan—not just a job. The benefits are excellent, the salary growth is practically automatic (albeit slow), and everyone there is happy to see you age within the safety of bureaucratic structures until retirement. Could I really give up a secure government salary for one that could change, quite literally, as quickly as the weather? My mom and dad couldn’t even give me a clear answer on how much money they made because it fluctuated drastically year to year.
</p>
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>In a traditional sense, I had “made it” by getting the analyst job. My family is mostly composed of small business owners who didn’t graduate college. They didn’t understand my desk job at all, but they understood that I had successfully broken into a white-collar world that would have excluded them, had they cared to join it. They used to remind me, too, how lucky I was for the security, especially as my wife and I contemplated having children. </p><p>But as my boredom and sense of being caged grew worse, I began developing a broader sense of what financial security meant. I started to include new variables in my cost-benefit calculations, big things such as “health” and “freedom,” alongside small things like “better tomatoes.” I realized that I was well-off as far as money was concerned, but when it came to living—really living—I was impoverished. Sitting between cubicle walls under fluorescent lights, I was miserable. My friends and my wife worried about my health. I missed the feeling of working with my hands and earning tangible rewards. Having grown up working for my grandfather on his farm, I wistfully recalled how every day, week, and season yielded a palpable bounty—fresh produce, in our case. </p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/alex1.jpg" class="kg-image" alt="The Perfect Plan"/></figure><p>In contrast, my intelligence work was mostly an abstraction: I wrote verbose analyses of low-probability, hypothetical threats. My output—written analysis—rarely reached an end customer, and if it did, there was no guarantee I’d receive feedback. I rarely felt like my labor was <em>making </em>anything.</p><p>As I mulled over this broader definition of wealth, I had a poignant conversation with my dad. I had been working with him on the farm one afternoon, lamenting that I hadn’t found the perfect exit strategy from the Agency yet.</p><p>“Alex,” my father said, with a tone he reserved for when my babbling interrupted the quiet only farmers know, “if you’re waiting until you have the perfect plan to leave, you aren’t ready to leave.” He wiped his hands on his jeans, leaving streaks of red, clay-heavy mud on the denim.</p><p>I looked down at the big box in front of him and realized we were done. We had just planted thousands of tulip bulbs. My back was sore, but in a way that felt healthier than the soreness I used to feel as I atrophied in my cubicle. “Because the perfect plan doesn’t exist?”</p><p>"Well, that’s probably true, yes. But that’s not what I meant." He sighed and looked at the sky, choosing his words carefully. "I mean your wanting a perfect plan sounds, well, governmental. Maybe perfect plans do exist. I don't know. But it's just not the right thing to want."</p><p>The whole reason my dad left the corporate world himself was to stop planning so much, to enter a world that is fluid and ever-changing. His work day is riskier as a farmer, but also more exciting, full of more potential. To him, the imperfection of farming, and of small business, is the best part.</p><p>When he said this to me, my dad didn’t know it was exactly what I needed to hear. If I’m told I can’t do something, I fight to prove that person wrong. When my dad accidentally challenged my courage and said I wasn’t ready to leave, I suddenly was. I immediately knew he was right. I’d been waiting for the perfect plan to leave for years, but the truth was, I wouldn’t have known the perfect plan if it had slapped me in the face. What I had really been waiting for was the courage to leave with no plan at all.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/alex8.jpg" class="kg-image" alt="The Perfect Plan"/></figure><p>There was, however, one last hitch: the CIA’s mission still had a hold on my heart. Could I really trade in the pride I felt working to protect America for growing flowers? It felt more important to help the Pentagon understand the dangers of foreign weapon developments than it did to successfully grow zinnias from seed. I’ve always hated quitting anything, and quitting the Agency was especially difficult. I had made an oath to defend the Constitution against all enemies, and I meant the words of the oath when I said them. I believed in their importance.</p><p>Maybe I was deluding myself then (and continue to delude myself to justify the time I spent there) but I saw helping protect America as an inherently worthwhile job. A part of me considered that my boredom and diminishing health might simply be the cost of working for something bigger than myself. I thought my efforts were vital to America’s health, even if the results were less tangible than tomatoes on the vine. Maybe being a civil servant required sacrifice in this way. With these thoughts swirling in my head, I couldn’t leave the Agency unless I felt like, in doing so, I could uphold my oath in some way. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">"Could I really give up a secure government salary for one that could change, quite literally, as quickly as the weather?”
</p>
<p>A couple of years into Donald Trump’s presidency, I was reading an article by Timothy P. Carney, a writer for <i>Politico,</i> who was trying to explain the roots of Trump’s electoral victory. In his analysis, Carney explains that conservative regions of the country that had voted <i>against</i> Trump during the Republican primaries had a major common denominator: close-knit community institutions and civil society. By comparison, Carney observes, such social cohesion has been disintegrating across much of the US over the past several decades. The places with active community centers, churches, and high rates of local civic engagement weren’t wooed by Trump’s promise to bring back the American dream. They, unlike much of conservative America, were still living the dream because they had community support structures to lean on. This explanation immediately hit home for me. I knew all about crumbling communities and the risks they posed to individuals and to the country at large because I had seen it happening in northern Virginia, where my family had been for generations.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Ultra-fast growth in recent decades resulted in clumsy urban and suburban development. One crucial aspect of this has been developing almost every piece of land into housing. As farmland and open spaces turned into suburbia, some in my community had begun to fight to protect it—to demonstrate to local governments that non-residential uses of this land provided value, that horse country and trails and wineries were vital gathering spaces for a community and essential to individuals’ health. I've long been aware and even supportive of these efforts, but it was only after reading Carney’s article that, for the first time, I saw them as vital to the longevity of our country. And I realized that working for these causes, and helping my parents develop their farm into a safe space for the public to visit and gather, would be a way to uphold my oath.</p><p>After all, my oath was to protect against all enemies “foreign <i>and domestic</i>.” There I was studying military developments or political maneuvering in foreign countries while ignoring the crumbling of my own home. It started to feel absurd to me. As Wendell Berry wrote, “A community is the mental and spiritual condition of knowing that the place is shared… It is the knowledge that people have of each other, their concern for each other, their trust in each other, the freedom with which they come and go among themselves.” Where I lived, there wasn’t much of a community as Berry defined it. Work needed to be done to build such a community, to create shared places where a community could flourish. And I could do that work. As an Agency officer, I realized that it would become impossible to uphold an oath to defend a homeland if that homeland ceased to exist. Suddenly, my oath to defend the Constitution not only seemed to permit me to focus more on my local world, it demanded it.</p><p>With this clarity of purpose, I told my parents I was ready to come work for them, and I put in my two weeks’ notice at the Agency. The bureaucracy met the decision with a shrug. I’ll never forget how hard I laughed when I submitted my formal resignation letter to HR via email, and the reply was simply: “Okay.” I tortured myself for years over a decision that, once finally made, seemed so anticlimactic. “Okay,” if weirdly succinct, was actually the appropriate response. With the decision made and documented, I was shocked by how calm I felt. My new reality had arrived, and my mind and body were ready to get on with it. I couldn’t remember why it had taken me so long to do this. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote">"Could I really trade in the pride I felt working to protect America for growing flowers?”
</p>
<p>My leaving was met with sadness from friends, but also many comments like “I knew this was coming.” I had never been quiet about my dissatisfaction with the job, but I was still surprised that most of my friends knew I’d “get out.” Because, until shortly before I made the decision, I hadn’t known that about myself. I was also surprised by how many people asked me how I found the courage to leave—or asked me if I judged them for staying. I told them what I learned from my dad: waiting for the perfect plan to leave was a Catch-22 that would have trapped me forever. And I told them I didn’t judge them for staying if they were happy, as most of them were. Although I concluded that the job didn’t fit me, it was a great fit for others. Many of my friends felt that their Agency career was their dream job, and I think they were right. They succeeded and did great work within the Agency’s bureaucratic structures and bizarre culture, and without feeling caged. I have enough humility to know that my departure was about what was right for me, not anyone else. And, personally, I’m glad to know good people continue to work for the Agency’s mission, while I’ve moved on to a more localized one.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>A year after leaving government service, I can say that my decision has held up. I <em>could </em>give up the financial security for a different sense of mission. Even in the face of the pandemic, which struck about a month after I left government service. Maybe particularly because of the pandemic.</p><p>One silver lining of the chaos caused by COVID-19 is that it was the ultimate test of my dad’s perspective that perfect plans aren’t worth stressing over. Not only were our plans for 2020 imperfect, they were blown to smithereens. The educational conferences for floral designers in New York City and Ireland we were to host and the dozens of weddings we were supposed to provide flowers for were all canceled. But with my dad’s perspective driving everything, we just shrugged and did the only thing we could: grow more flowers. This strategy didn’t make up for all of the lost revenue, but it provided more than enough, proving even in the worst of circumstances that the financial security I had given up wasn’t as special as it had always seemed.</p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/alex5.jpg" class="kg-image" alt="The Perfect Plan"/></figure><p>And these extra flowers, in turn, helped me achieve my new mission faster than I thought I would. The focus on our land gave us an opportunity to open our farm to our community, which was desperate for ways to be outside safely. Instead of bringing wedding flowers to big venues in Washington, D.C., we started hosting smaller, intimate weddings at our farm. Instead of using everything we grow for wedding work, we offered these blooms to the public. We hosted a Mother’s Day event, so local moms could get a photograph with their family among our peonies and leave with a bouquet. We hosted a fall celebration of our dahlias, and the local community flocked to see the rare flower in bloom. I felt like I was honoring my oath with each event.</p><p>As year two of the pandemic begins, I begin the long waiting game on those daffodils and everything else we’ve planted to see if they and our imperfect plan bloom. Even if they don’t, I am calmly confident our farm will provide.</p><p>Although the farm is not large, it is too much for my dad and I to maintain by ourselves, just as it was for Mr. Hope. As a consequence, we let swaths of the land go to hay. When you approach the property and see these patches, you may even wonder if someone is here. I’m proud of our carefully landscaped flower beds, but these grown-over parts are my favorite. They are beautiful for their mystery. The whites and golds of wild flowers make home to a menagerie of small mammals and birds I didn’t even know existed before I started working on the land. These patches are full of the optimism we didn’t initially intend in our farm’s name. These patches have an aura best described as the exact opposite of my old, gray cubicle. They remind me of the boring certainty I traded in for unlimited potential, both negative and positive. They are proof that having no plan—let alone a perfect plan—can still result in thriving beauty and life. ◘</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[An Old War in a New World]]></title><description><![CDATA[A first-generation immigrant, Rhodes Scholar, and Biden Administration member on America's battle over identity.]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/an-old-war-in-a-new-world/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60281830b05cdb0477316425</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 1 - Transition]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Necessary]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Machmud Makhmudov]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sat, 13 Feb 2021 18:33:00 GMT</pubDate><media:content url="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/patrick-tomasso-pYF9Nh-UEhs-unsplash--1-.jpg" medium="image"/><content:encoded><![CDATA[<img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/patrick-tomasso-pYF9Nh-UEhs-unsplash--1-.jpg" alt="An Old War in a New World"/><p><em>The following strictly reflects the personal views of solely the author and not any other organization or individual. </em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">T</span>
he story of contemporary America is one of transition, and it is best observed from Stone Mountain: a deceptively named quartz monadnock on the periphery of the Atlanta suburbs that isn’t quite large enough to technically qualify as a mountain. Unique among landmarks, Stone Mountain has borne witness to the most significant developments in American race relations for hundreds of years. This is literally true, in the case of the three Confederate leaders—Jefferson Davis, Stonewall Jackson, and Robert E. Lee—who are etched prominently into its side. It is also figuratively true, as the metro Atlanta area surrounding Stone Mountain cemented its legacy over time as both a Civil War battleground and the heart of the 1960s Civil Rights movement. Today, the region is once again a harbinger of the fate awaiting the rest of the nation, as rapidly growing Hispanic and Asian immigrant communities complicate and add color to a fraught racial history that has, up until now, been written in black and white.
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p> In 2020 and in what has already passed of 2021, we saw America undergo a series of political, social, and existential convulsions as it transitions from a majority white nation to one that is expected to become majority-minority in roughly 2045. From the Black Lives Matter protests that erupted across the country following numerous accounts of police brutality against Black Americans, to the January 6 insurrection that saw Confederate flags make their way farther into the nation’s Capitol than they did even during the Civil War, the echoes of battles that were thought to have ended over a century ago have reemerged violently. And yet, as demons of the past rise again, they have taken on new shades in a country that would be unrecognizable to those who took up arms in the Civil War.</p><p>To historians, Stone Mountain is where the Ku Klux Klan had its second national resurgence in 1915 after being largely stamped out in the post-Civil War Reconstruction period. To contemporary Georgians, Stone Mountain is where you go with your family every Fourth of July to watch a laser show that transforms the quartz likeness of Stonewall Jackson into the fiddle-playing, backwards cap-wearing protagonist of the hit Charlie Daniels Band song, “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.” The history and reality of systemic racism takes on different meanings in the eyes of new immigrants. As each year passes, both are further complicated by an expanding group of new Americans who are increasingly distant from the sins and demons of the past.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote"> “It is this battle over identity, meaning, and history that will continue to define America as it transitions from one era to the next.”
</p>
<p>The tension apparent in that transition manifested itself in the 2020 presidential election, which I was fortunate to have a front-row view to as a policy staffer on Joe Biden’s campaign. In the end, after a tumultuous summer that saw a racial reawakening in the middle of a pandemic, we succeeded in defeating Donald Trump and, at least symbolically, the coarse grievance politics that he wholly embraced and led. However, I couldn’t help but shake the feeling that the moral and political significance of the victory obscured another version of reality, which saw Asian and Hispanic Americans—who are the fastest-growing demographic group and the largest minority demographic group in America, respectively—turn out in decisive margins in key swing states and, in some cases, vote in unexpected ways. While both groups cast a majority of their votes for Democrats, and have made it clear that their votes are up for grabs by either party, they did not do so at nearly the rate of Black Americans. And as the country is continuously reborn through waves of immigration it is clear that its identity is up for grabs as well.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Much of the American experience can be distilled down to a single question: “Are you white or are you Black?” What will it mean to be an American when the most common answer is “neither”? 2020 saw the beginning of a demographic tide that promises to realign America’s political and social landscape. And there is no place that better encapsulates this transition than Stone Mountain, where the largest Confederate monument on the planet looms over the past and future of one of the most racially diverse communities in the American South.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:center;">★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I grew up in the shadow of Stone Mountain in Gwinnett County, a suburban community roughly twenty-five miles northeast of Atlanta. My parents and I immigrated from Uzbekistan when I was roughly a year old as part of the first class of immigrants to arrive via the Diversity Immigrant Visa Program. Gwinnett has earned recent news coverage for its diversity, and the most recent Census Bureau estimates from 2019 peg the county’s population at 35% white, 30% Black, 22% Latino, and 13% Asian. My childhood, like many of my peers, was a blur of country music and hip-hop playing in the background of large family picnics and kids’ birthday parties where you’d alternatingly be served hot dogs, Indian biryani, or tacos, depending on whose house you were at. </p><p>By 2050, according to Woods & Poole Economics, Gwinnett’s population is projected to be 38% Black, 27% Latino, 21% Asian, and just 14% white: an astonishing transformation in a community that until 2016 had an all-white county commission. These swift and significant demographic changes are occurring throughout the metro Atlanta area, and give an outsized spotlight to local political disputes that take on the weight of a changing nation. One such debate occurred recently, as the propriety of Stone Mountain’s Confederate visages took on new meaning in the face of deadly violence.</p><p>Several years ago, the city of Charleston, South Carolina saw tragedy at Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church as a white supremacist murdered a group of mostly elderly Black churchgoers. Investigations found that the shooter was inspired by neo-Confederate ideology and took several photos with “Stars and Bars” Confederate regalia. As part of a national response, civil rights groups and organizers in Georgia demanded that Stone Mountain remove its Confederate carvings and, at the very least, relegate them to a museum. </p><p>I asked my dad what he thought about the entire ordeal. A loyal Democratic voter ever since we became citizens, my dad is the kind of person who I suspect came to his party less out of ideological conviction and more out of emotional backlash. Though we are proud Americans, we are also plainly Muslim immigrants. The Islamophobia of the Tea Party movement of 2009 and 2010, which saw President Obama viciously and perplexingly denigrated as a Muslim-Atheist-Socialist-Terrorist, made it clear that we were to be Democrats as well. </p><p>Thus, I expected a somewhat progressive response from him when I asked whether he thought the monuments should be removed. He looked ahead and said, in broken English and with solemn but defiant certainty, “We can’t forget our history.” This struck me as an odd thing to say, given that we were immigrants from Uzbekistan and that our ancestors were likely nomads in the western slopes of contemporary China when the Civil War raged on. Furthermore, the response was certainly not what I expected from an immigrant who came to nearly all of his political views through his experiences with discrimination. He shrugged his shoulders. “Is not good to take down. They do bad, but the liberals take too much,” he said. Consistency has never been my dad’s strongest suit. Perhaps that could be said of America as well.</p><p>As seemingly contradictory as my father’s views are, they gave me early insight into the convoluted political views of predominantly immigrant groups that ultimately played a decisive role in the 2020 election. Given Trump’s early characterization of Mexican immigrants as “drug dealers, criminals, and rapists” and overt anti-immigrant sentiments, most political prognosticators believed that the Republican share of the Hispanic vote would collapse in 2016. According to exit polling, Trump ended up <em>improving </em>on Mitt Romney’s 27% share of the Hispanic vote in 2012 by winning 29% in 2016. And after a presidency marked with tangible hostilities towards immigrants of all stripes, Trump <em>further improved </em>in 2020 with 31% of the Hispanic vote. </p><p>The story is similar with Asian-American voters. Exit polling data indicates that in 2020, President Trump earned roughly 34% of the Asian-American vote, an increase from the 27% he earned in 2016. While the net increases in support are relatively modest, it is important for Democrats to ask the question of how a President that they universally deem to be deeply racist managed to improve his standing with the largest and fastest-growing minority groups in the country over the span of four years of governance. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote"> "[I]t is difficult to convince a group of people who gave up everything in hopes of building a new life in a new world that their new home is only worthy of eternal scorn.”
</p>
<p>Some have suggested that the branding of the Republican Party as a refuge for hard workers, free enterprise, and opportunity are a natural fit for a self-selecting group of immigrants who are inclined to be entrepreneurially-focused. Others have argued that the Democratic Party’s embrace of the Black Lives Matter movement, morally correct as it may be, has the corollary effect of repelling non-Black voters. Similar to this point, others have written that anti-Blackness in some Hispanic and Asian-Americans is triggered by Trumpism in much the same way that it is for white voters. The truth is that all of these suggestions are likely true to an extent, and that the difficulty of electoral politics is in determining what a winning strategy is when no one variable is decisive and increasingly diverse racial groups do not vote monolithically. If a campaign wins with 50.1% of the vote, its strategic choices are regarded as broadly correct and as having an intimate understanding of the minds and hearts of voters. If a campaign loses with 49.9% of the vote, it is written into history books as a plodding, unorganized, and deeply flawed affair with a severe misunderstanding of the electorate. As the saying goes, success has many fathers, but failure is an orphan.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Plainly, the 2020 election demonstrated that demographics are not destiny. Military tacticians often say that those who predicate too much of their strategy on the narrow contours of prior conflicts are setting themselves up to fail by fighting the previous war. After several decades of loyalty from voters of color, Democrats have to a large extent fallen into the assumption that as the country becomes more diverse, their electoral prospects will continuously improve. Donald Trump and the political currents that he fomented have made clear that the country is fracturing along many fault lines other than race, further complicating the path forward for a nation that finds itself transitioning into uncharted demographic and political territory.</p><p>From the perch of the 2020 Democratic presidential primary, I saw some of these cracks firsthand. Though race was a constant refrain in every debate and strategic analysis, an intersectional perspective was necessary to understand the nuances of what was really going on on the ground. In the run-up to primary voting, our campaign was widely heralded as being the strongest with Black voters, which did indeed prove to be the case until the nomination was clinched. However, a closer look found that <em>younger </em>Black voters, particularly those under the age of thirty-five, were much more inclined than their elders to be supporters of Senator Bernie Sanders (I-VT) or Senator Elizabeth Warren (D-MA), whom many pundits perceived to be the most progressive candidates running. This age split was present with both Hispanic and Asian voters as well.</p><p>The progressive and activist sheen that younger and more diverse voters are imparting to the Democratic Party has important consequences for both current and future elections. While a more populist and progressive party is critical for tapping into expanding universes of new voters, it also butts into caricatured critiques crafted by the Republican party that have particular salience with minority voters. The term “socialism,” for example, plays a complicated role in contemporary American politics, representing for many younger voters a more equitable and humane economic system that seeks to curb the tragedies of mismatched scarcities and excesses that have come to represent the last four decades of American life. For some older immigrant voters, particularly those from Vietnam, Cuba, and Venezuela, socialism evokes memories of totalitarianism, poverty, and hunger. This fissure has already begun to affect voting patterns and will only become more prominent as younger, more progressive leaders come to define what the Democratic Party will look like in the future. </p><p>I suspect based on the contradictions of my father that there is also something more going on here, something more visceral that comes down to what it fundamentally meant to be an American. There is an undercurrent to contemporary progressivism that deems America too broken, too racist, and too flawed from conception to be capable of true multicultural democracy. Proponents of this idea cite abundant evidence, from an increasingly vitriolic and openly racist politics to the physical manifestation of past sins such as Stone Mountain. Through the eyes of many immigrants, however, America always stands anew, beckoning all those who seek freedom and opportunity to its shores. The Republican Party has made focused and successful efforts to brand itself as the more overtly nationalist party, one that defends America’s past and present zealously against progressive critique. This approach aligns with the perspectives of many immigrants, for whom the past exists less as a continuous point of condemnation and more as a marker of continuous progress. Put more plainly, it is difficult to convince a group of people who gave up everything in hopes of building a new life in a new world that their new home is only worthy of eternal scorn.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:center;">★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>On January 5, the state of Georgia saw two run-off elections for U.S. Senate seats that would determine control of the chamber and, in turn, the fate of the Biden presidency. They faced an uphill battle; apart from Biden’s slim victory in November, Democrats had not won statewide office in Georgia since 2006. Jon Ossoff and Raphael Warnock, the Democratic candidates, are Jewish and Black, respectively. Nonetheless, they and outside organizing groups focused meticulously on finding creative ways to engage Asian and Hispanic voters, the cornerstone of a new Georgia and a new America that now make up a significant portion of the population and cannot be ignored. I spent a weekend at one of dozens of canvassing events targeted at Asian-American voters. There, I found myself greeted at the campaign office with free bubble tea boba drinks (a Taiwanese staple) and placard signs that read “Asian Votes Matter.” Half of the attendees were elderly white liberals. The other half, adolescent Asian-Americans. It was a vivid display of multicultural, intergenerational democracy in action. As we knocked on doors, not every person answered but those who did were enthusiastic about voting. </p><p>Hispanics were also heavily engaged. A non-profit group called Con Mijente—a reference to the terms <em>gente </em>(people) and <em>justicia </em>(justice)—reported on January 4 that it had contacted <em>every </em>Hispanic voter in Georgia in the span of eight weeks. Celebrities ranging from Eva Longoria to America Ferrera flocked to the state to implore voters to support Ossoff and Warnock. Both Democratic candidates were optimistic and focused on the broad array of issues plaguing voters of all races, including the COVID-19 pandemic and economic downturn. At the same time, they did not shy away from highlighting issues that had particular salience to the state’s significant Black community, including a new Civil Rights Act.</p><p>In the end, Ossoff and Warnock won by narrow margins, succeeding in no small part due to high Democratic turnout in the ring of suburban counties surrounding Stone Mountain. Both earned more than two hundred thousand votes in Gwinnett County, whereas the 2014 Democratic U.S. Senate candidate received merely eighty-six thousand in the general election, despite the fact that run-off elections typically see lower turnout than their general election counterparts. Importantly, the vast majority of those new voters were voters of color. By embracing a strategic partnership that harkened back to the Jewish-Black alliances that were an integral part of the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s, Ossoff and Warnock showed that multicultural democracy has a place in the emerging America. Though the Confederate generals still sit high on Stone Mountain, the world that they look over is being reborn. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:center;">★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>The day after the election, my elation quickly dissipated as a nearly all-white group of insurrectionists and white supremacists stormed the nation’s capitol. The attack was a vivid illustration of the fact that though a coalition of Black, white, Asian and Hispanic voters in the Deep South has just elected its state’s first Black and Jewish Senators a mere twelve hours before, there was still much work to be done to repair the deep divisions that remain woven into the nation’s fabric. The political currents of 2020 showed that while the emerging America stands to play a pivotal role in electing new leaders and charting new courses, that direction was very much still up for grabs. It is a battle, however, that cannot be fully won without grappling with America’s history. </p><p>The subjugation of Black Americans is deeply embedded in American institutions and life. Our Constitutional design empowers smaller, predominantly rural (and white) states over those with exponentially larger, more diverse populations. Staggering levels of racial wealth inequality took root during the original sin of slavery and blossomed through generations of systemic Jim Crow discrimination. These are reasons to be skeptical of a whitewashed version of American history that generalizes the past into an idealized caricature that absolves our predecessors of any wrongdoing and plainly ignores how prior sins have developed into contemporary tragedies. This awareness must exist, however, alongside a recognition that, for the Asian and Hispanic immigrants who leave everything behind to begin a new life in the United States, there is a pride that develops in the process of seeking, striving, and dreaming to succeed in a new land.</p><p>Such awareness does not mean that Democrats should not be forthright in condemning and addressing racism in all its forms; indeed, we must. But one must love something to see it as worthy of repair. Many immigrants came to America because they loved the possibility of it, and still see it as they first did when arriving at its shores. It is this battle over identity, meaning, and history that will continue to define America as it transitions from one era to the next. Indeed, the past three months have arduously demonstrated that a path towards multicultural democracy is available for our nation, if only we love it enough to try. ◘</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Letter To Readers]]></title><description><![CDATA[Our inaugural Issue 0 of Symposeum, which published last November, explored a
theme of liminal space. It released in the midst of a presidential election, a
racial reckoning, and a global pandemic still raging. But the nature of
in-between times is that they are, well, in between times. At long last, there
is a threshold: a crossing-over from life as we know it into life as we renew
it. If liminal times embrace the quality of ambiguity, then times of transition
manifest directionality.
That's w]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/letter-1/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__6027ebe1b05cdb04773163e3</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 1 - Transition]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[The Editors]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sat, 13 Feb 2021 15:10:57 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p><span class="dropcap">O</span>ur inaugural Issue 0 of <i>Symposeum</i>, which published last November, explored a theme of liminal space. It released in the midst of a presidential election, a racial reckoning, and a global pandemic still raging. But the nature of in-between times is that they are, well, <i>in between</i> times. At long last, there is a threshold: a crossing-over from life as we know it into life as we renew it. If liminal times embrace the quality of ambiguity, then times of transition manifest directionality.</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>That's why we chose transition as the theme of Issue One.<br><br>The slowest year on record has finally lapsed, as has the thirteenth month of 2020. A Biden administration is settling into the White House and getting to work. Despite its difficulties, last year brought “remarkable progress” in the fight for racial equality, observes Black Voters Matter Fund co-founder Cliff Albright. Multiple vaccines have been approved and are being produced en masse.<br><br>Still, these are distressing times. Even so, we remain rationally optimistic about the days ahead and doggedly determined to forge something good out of our situation. We believe that such an attitude of hope has more than helped human progress; we believe that humanity is fundamentally lost without it. Our theme of transition therefore highlights the possibility inherent in our moment—not a mollified return to the status quo or an amnesia to the past but an opportunity to grow.<br><br>Ralph Waldo Emerson once said: “Not in his goals but in his transitions, man is great.” Why? Because “everything teaches transition, transference, metamorphosis, [and] therein is human power.” As Emerson saw it and as we see it, too, power comes from motion, never stasis. We <em>move</em> forward.<br><br>In 1840, a group of transcendentalists led by Emerson, Margaret Fuller, and Henry David Thoreau launched <em>The Dial</em>, a journal dedicated to furnishing a “cheerful rational voice amidst the din of mourners and polemics.” From these visionaries—the self-styled “Symposeum”—we take our name.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p><em>Symposeum</em> is a publication of The Dial project: a twenty-first century creative, collaborative community dedicated to elevating rational optimism in public discourse. It draws on its predecessor’s commitment to exploring works of “the Necessary, the Plain, the True, and the Human.”<br/></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="margin-left: 30px;">
By <b>Necessary</b>, we mean works of critical inquiry.
By <b>Plain</b>, we mean works of novel insight into ordinary occurrences.
By <b>True</b>, we mean works of empirical investigation.
By <b>Human</b>, we mean works of intimate experience.
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br>Just like an authentic symposium, our quarterly issues examine single topics through a variety of perspectives. Issue 1 curates twenty-plus original works about transition from essays to art to poetry and more. In terms of content, we take a broad and creative approach. You'll find pieces with a clear connection to the theme:</br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="margin-left: 30px; margin-right: 30px;">
<i>
Machmud Makhmudov, a member of the Biden administration and campaign team, weighs the Democratic party's evolving identity, audience, and message.
George Gibson and Clifton Hicks, two banjo players born in different decades, discuss the evolution of folk music in a digital age.
Gregory Sepich-Poore, a dual M.D./Ph.D. doctoral candidate, historicizes vaccine development in an emerging post-COVID world.
</i>
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>You'll also find pieces with a derived connection to the theme:</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="margin-left: 30px; margin-right: 30px;">
<i>
Zoe Pehrson, a transgender woman raised in Papua New Guinea to missionary parents, explores memory through poetry.
Alex Chapple, a former CIA civil agent, reflects on leaving the Agency for life on the farm and fatherhood.
Brooke Bourgeois, a cartoonist, captures humor—and hope—in drawings.
</i>
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>We trust you’ll find a home in at least a few.</p><p>The editorial team is grateful for our Issue One contributors who believed in this project enough to produce something for it. We’re also indebted to countless others who freely lent their time, talent, and advice to the process of building what will be a cultural touchstone. As The Dial community grows, it is a joy to labor alongside so many thoughtful optimists.<br><br><em>Symposeum </em>aims to impart our conviction that human goodness and ingenuity are most keen where they are most threatened. It is an ambitious aim, but the present challenges demand an ambitious response. This season is ours: to register and wrestle, to interrogate and inspirit, to cultivate, to build, and to own.<br><br>In hope,<br>The Editors</br></br></br></br></br></p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Rounding Error]]></title><description><![CDATA[
Your browser does not support the audio element. Reading by the authorThere's a
quiet power to those I saw Jesus in my toast stories.
Stunned devotees posing alongside burnt bread all holy and humorless.
To think, one morning they awoke and willed their way into a miracle,
Buttered the toast just right to coax the savior's silhouette.
Nevermind the incongruous lump
On his arm,
The strange bulge near his ear.
Every miracle is a rounding error—
Need approximated
To the nearest whole number.
]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/rounding-error/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__60257cb57f94114c3ec2ba61</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 1 - Transition]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Plain]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[K.T. Abram]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sat, 13 Feb 2021 14:46:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p/><!--kg-card-begin: html-->
<figure style="margin: 0px;">
<audio controls="" src="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/symposeum-production.appspot.com/o/audio%2FRounding_Error.m4a?alt=media&token=f4725580-b193-482e-b12b-a9ba1e920f4c">
Your browser does not support the
<code>audio</code> element.
</audio>
<figcaption class="text-gray-700 text-base text-2xl font-sans text-grey-700 tracking-widest pt-8 pb-8">Reading by the author</figcaption>
</figure>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>There's a quiet power to those <em>I saw Jesus in my toast </em>stories. <br>Stunned devotees posing alongside burnt bread all holy and humorless. <br>To think, one morning they awoke and willed their way into a miracle, <br>Buttered the toast just right to coax the savior's silhouette.<br><br>Nevermind the incongruous lump<br>On his arm,<br>The strange bulge near his ear.<br>Every miracle is a rounding error—<br>Need approximated<br>To the nearest whole number.<br>A few hundredths off, and you’re left<br>With hard seltzer,<br>A surplus of sardines,<br>Burnt toast—<br>A choice between waste and resolve.<br>Everything leads back to this:<br>Black bits scraped with certitude akin to survival.<br><br>Taste, a learned preference.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet's Note </h2>
I’ve always been fascinated by the folklore of divine encounters, especially ones that occur in decidedly unremarkable contexts. This transition, or more aptly, transfiguration, from the mundane to meaningful requires some level of intention. Even the devout must choose to live by faith—lean into the comforts of conviction or tread the path of skepticism. Ultimately, “Rounding Error” aims to capture the tension of this binary: the familiar crossroads of waste and resolve.
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Un coup de pouce (2020)]]></title><description><![CDATA[Paper, adhesive | 8 x 12 inches Artist’s Note
The French expression un coup de pouce conjures a tender force: the shock of a
blow, un coup, in concert with the inner digit of a human hand, un pouce. Its
uncanny charm brims with positive intent. While translations differ in context
and across cultures, I find that the English turn of phrase "a nudge in the
right direction" captures the spirit of the original. This gentle call to arms
from our better angels lends comfort to the strange. In mome]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/un-coup-de-pouce/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__602585a37f94114c3ec2bac8</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 1 - Transition]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Plain]]></category><category><![CDATA[Artwork]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Meghan K. McGinley]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sat, 13 Feb 2021 14:45:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card kg-width-full kg-card-hascaption"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/tumblr_lry09d1Amg1qmfmfto1_r1_1280.jpg" class="kg-image" alt=""><figcaption>Paper, adhesive | 8 x 12 inches</figcaption></img></figure><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Artist’s Note </h2>
<br>The French expression <i>un coup de pouce</i> conjures a tender force: the shock of a blow, <i>un coup</i>, in concert with the inner digit of a human hand, <i>un pouce</i>. Its uncanny charm brims with positive intent. While translations differ in context and across cultures, I find that the English turn of phrase "a nudge in the right direction" captures the spirit of the original. This gentle call to arms from our better angels lends comfort to the strange. In moments of transition, we often yearn for such nudges; do they come from ourselves, our companions, or something beyond us?<br><br>
In a play of the sacred and profane, this collage offers a response in between. Fragments from El Greco’s “The Assumption of the Virgin” sourced from the vinyl insert of Sir Thomas Beecham’s reading of Handel’s <i>Messiah</i>; a secondhand astronomy textbook’s reproduction of NASA’s “Hubble Ultra Deep Field”; and nondescript advertisements from a decade-old issue of <i>Money Magazine</i> come together not to suggest the passage from one state to another, but instead to propose a moment of contemplation within them. Suspended in space, reaching upwards and out, may we reap the bounty of hope and bask in our abundance.
</br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[More Voices Still]]></title><description><![CDATA[ It is a well-worn truth that translation—especially translation of poetry—is a
process of interpretation. The reader needs a pathway to navigate new text, and
the translator is tasked with forging this path through landscapes of meaning
both plain and obscure. Caught between the weight of preserving the author’s
intent and the reshaping pull of new language, this path is that of the efforts,
doubts, and decisions of translators.
As a young poet writing and translating in Latvian—a language of ]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/more-voices-still/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__602584a57f94114c3ec2bab3</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 1 - Transition]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Edvards Kuks]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sat, 13 Feb 2021 14:45:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">I</span>
t is a well-worn truth that translation—especially translation of poetry—is a process of interpretation. The reader needs a pathway to navigate new text, and the translator is tasked with forging this path through landscapes of meaning both plain and obscure. Caught between the weight of preserving the author’s intent and the reshaping pull of new language, this path is that of the efforts, doubts, and decisions of translators.
</p>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>As a young poet writing and translating in Latvian—a language of roughly two million speakers—I feel the special weight of translation in smaller languages, and of particular translators’ roles in shaping the Latvian poetic tradition and linguistic landscape. (Latvian even denotes poetry translation, <em>atdzeja</em>, with the Latvian word for poetry, <em>dzeja</em>, rather than the word for translation, <em>tulkojums</em>.) As a reader, I could admire Ingmāra Balode’s translation of the Polish poet Adam Zagajewski, or Amanda Aizpuriete’s treatment of Russian poets, not to mention the seemingly endless efforts of Uldis Bērziņš toward both contemporary and ancient texts. To treat these poets’ translations as mere mirrors of their sources would be a diminution of the authorial role of their efforts. And yet, I only began to understand what drove such efforts once I embarked on a translation of my own. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="pquote-wrapper">
<p class="pquote"> "As a young poet writing and translating in Latvian—a language of roughly two million speakers—I feel the special weight of translation in smaller languages, and of particular translators’ roles in shaping the Latvian poetic tradition and linguistic landscape.”
</p>
<p>It was not long after I moved to London for university when the book found me. It happened in a used bookstore near Bloomsbury that held all the familiar fittings: a welcoming ding at the door, the shop table overcrowded by incoming packages and outgoing pulp, and shelves upon shelves of mostly aging classics and the comforting caramel smell of old cellulose. I was hoping to find a poet of my own to force me outside my comfort zone, and to mask my lax knowledge of the classics. The masses of cheap Shakespeare reprints and thick anthologies of English verse simply would not do for me. I only knew that I needed something contemporary, and fortune led me to Eduardo C. Corral’s debut collection <i>Slow Lightning</i>. An American poet and professor, Corral was the first Latino recipient of the Yale Younger Series Poet award—the longest running annual literary award in the United States—joining the likes of Adrienne Rich, John Ashbery, and Robert Hass.
</p>
</div>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>The book’s cover drew me in: black, winding snakes. Its first lines drew me in further: “Before nourishment there must be obedience. / In his hands I was a cup overflowing with thirst.” The collection that followed was a maze of dense imagery, deft English-Spanish code-switching, and careful craft indebted to the American tradition then unfamiliar to me. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:center;">✵</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Like many others in Soviet Bloc, the Latvian poetic tradition post-World War II has been greatly influenced by the censorship regime enacted by the occupying Soviet Union between 1940 and the restoration of Latvian independence in 1990. Until the late 1950s, Soviet Latvian poetry was often constrained to socialist realism with a propagandist, didactic tone. Following a thematic break in the 1960s, it became more associative, aphoristic, and lyrically oriented. Though it would be overly simple to attribute these developments solely to the Soviet occupation, it was sometimes a deciding factor; that is, censorship constrained not only free expression of poets’ own work but also readers’ limited access to texts not approved by the censorship apparatus. At the same time, poetry was popular because of the apparent freedom of coded speech. This once-central political image of poetry is still evoked by readers and critics lamenting poetry’s decreased presence in popular culture, sometimes attributing it to the less accessible artistic directions taken by contemporary poets.</p><p>American poetry was published sporadically in Soviet Latvia, appearing in anthologies such as <em>Pasaules tautu lirika</em> (The Lyric of the World) in 1959 as well as individual collections like the Langston Hughes compilation <em>Skumjie blūzi</em> (The Sad Blues) in 1968. Until the 1980 anthology <em>Visiem, visiem jums Amerikas vārdā</em> (To All, All of You in the Name of America), few contemporary American poets were officially available to Soviet Latvian readers. Though recent years have seen book-length translations of several canonical American poets (such as Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, e e cummings, and Charles Bukowski), there is something paradoxical in presenting established authors as novelties. These translations might be interpreted as affirmations of the breadth of poetic expression in Latvian, as if we were catching up to the developments in nineteenth- and twentieth-century poetry we were once cut off from. My efforts to translate contemporary American poets, starting with Corral, extend this drive to incorporate voices beyond our own. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:center;">✵</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I was unsure of my abilities to translate Corral’s poetry into Latvian and to preserve what made his poems unique. These twin problems of craft and identity drove many of my early decisions in translating Corral and have shaped my outlook on the authors I have translated since. </p><p>First came the text itself, with its special twists and alignments. As a reader, I was excited by Corral’s evocative, often tension-building line breaks, such as in “Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome”: </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote> A deer leaps<br>
out of the brush<br>
and follows me<br><br>
in the rain, a scarlet<br>
snake wound<br>
in its dark antlers.<br>
My fingers<br>
curled around a shard<br>
of glass—<br><br>
it’s like holding the hand<br>
of a child. <br>
</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></blockquote>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I was taken not just by the imagery itself, but by the balance struck in Corral’s pacing. Each line was an entirety that built on the last, still leaving the next free to go elsewhere. I sensed that translating Corral meant replicating his approach to such symbolic alignments. While I had little trouble with the words themselves, and dictionaries were always available if I were ever in doubt, the finer issues of reconfiguring enjambment—line breaks not fitting ends of phrases—were a different matter. </p><p>My failures and successes in translating these alignments taught me a first lesson: the spirit of a language lives in its syntax. It allows text to unfold in logical succession and it can be turned around to undo such logic. Missing the syntactic flow of a sentence or sequence of images renders it lesser and disrupts how phrases support one another, making them feel disjointed and cluttered. At worst, this makes the translator a tourist in their own language, aware of all the signposts but in touch with neither meaning nor context. At best, transferring Corral’s phrasing one-to-one would still reveal a disregard for the different musics and logics of English and Latvian, missing some of what makes translation so worthwhile. I was helped by the guidance of Kārlis Vērdiņš, a more experienced Latvian poet-translator and teacher at several writers’ camps who helped notice and smooth out the troubles of phrasing. I have been helped by many others since, mending serrations and indignities I’ve risked inflicting upon other texts. </p><p>Recognising the music of syntax was the first step. Other considerations—like how Latvian grammatical inflections come into play—were similarly ones of grammar, not of vocabulary. Every line that broke differently in Latvian was mine to break, and every alignment was mine to fit. I tried my best to mimic what drew my eye at my first reading. Though it may not amount to much difference in the end, every move made on another’s behalf is one best made with care, especially in the uncertainty of early efforts. At the very least, this awareness has stuck with me as a reader and guided me as an author; this recollection reminds me that much of the sense for line-breaks and spacing in my own poetry draws from my reading of Corral.</p><p>I am aware of how much of Corral’s poetry remains inaccessible to me. He often writes from his family’s Mexican-immigrant heritage (“Illegal-American” as he calls it in “In Colorado My Father Scoured and Stacked Dishes”), freely incorporating passages in Spanish. On some level, I lament that I do not speak Spanish, and that these passages have remained essentially inaccessible to me save for basic meaning gleaned from translation software. Given the love translation builds for the text, having part of it beyond my reach feels like a personal failing as a reader. On another level, I recognise the code-switching as part of Corral’s American context that I am bringing to the Latvian readership. The translation recognizes America as both Anglophone and Hispanophone, albeit in different framing; whereas the original presents Spanish as the Other against the Anglo normative, both become Other in the Latvian context: Other White America, Other Hispanic America. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:center;">✵</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Amid my efforts, I emailed Corral to offer thanks and ask for advice. I am grateful that he was receptive to my efforts and introduced me to a range of other authors. With his encouragement, the generous blessing of the authors, the editorship of fellow young poet Raimonds Ķirķis, and the advice of many others, I managed eight more translations of contemporary American poets in the Latvian literature and philosophy portal <em>Punctum Magazine</em>, titling the series “Nowhere to Arrive,” after a poem by Jenny Xie. The series has been my greatest challenge and adventure in literature thus far.</p><p>Many of my initial anxieties followed me throughout the series. At points, I worried whether selecting poems that emphasized the authors’ identities risked fetishizing them. In other moments, I wondered whether I did enough to show their different strengths and angles. On either end, this was more a consideration of voice than of content and a lesson in the importance of that distinction. I am glad to have offered nine contemporary American poets’ voices to a readership that may not have found them otherwise. I am heartened by the kind words I’ve received from other poets and translators, some of whom have borrowed the authors’ books from me. I still don’t know where some of those books are. </p><p>Since translating the American series, I have a different appreciation for the Latvian poetic tradition as well. Though Latvian poetry sometimes lacks the craft I admire in contemporary American poets, I recently found myself describing Latvian poetry as “much less academic, far more lyrical and introspective, more off-the-cuff.” I feel something staid and unaffecting in American poems by learned authors whose dense clusters of imagery don’t appeal to me. When I am disappointed by Latvian poets (myself included), the blunders feel closer to home. Perhaps these are the workings of language and culture, the scopes of which envelope every speaker. The series also served as a reminder that neither tradition is unchanging, and that the broad banner of a canonical American poetry might obscure different American poetries outside or at odds with the canon.</p><p>A few winters ago, I had the honor of taking part in an American poetry reading in the culture bar “Hāgenskalna komūna” alongside renowned Latvian translators Ieva Lešinska and Jānis Elsbergs. The place was full of people I knew, admired, or both. We listened with admiration as Lešinska read her favorites of Eliot and Pound, and as Elsbergs animated the texts of Robert Creeley and Robert Kelly—late-twentieth-century wonders still new to our ears. When it was my turn to read, I couldn’t help but also think about how many of those listening carried several such voices with them, and that there was space for more voices still. ◘</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Ukarumpa]]></title><description><![CDATA[
Your browser does not support the audio element. Reading by the author
I am the red, red stain. – Michael Dom
No matter what I make and unmake here
With these hands, there will always be that snake
And that tree where those four rivers water
The land where gold is found– fertility
Is earth and sky and every clay ribbon
That writhes like a ray of sunshine I saw once.
My mountainside is rain and smells like home,
Like kambang, coffee, marijuana buds
By marshy swampland, clay banks break again]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/ukarumpa/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__6025853f7f94114c3ec2babe</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 1 - Transition]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Zoe Pehrson]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sat, 13 Feb 2021 14:45:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><figure style="margin: 0px;">
<audio controls="" src="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/symposeum-production.appspot.com/o/audio%2FUkarumpa.aac?alt=media&token=f8b3f8fe-113e-4776-b7bb-baa6ee009317">
Your browser does not support the
<code>audio</code> element.
</audio>
<figcaption class="text-gray-700 text-base text-2xl font-sans text-grey-700 tracking-widest pt-8 pb-8">Reading by the author</figcaption>
</figure>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><p><em>I am the red, red stain.</em> – Michael Dom<br><br>No matter what I make and unmake here<br>With these hands, there will always be that snake<br>And that tree where those four rivers water<br>The land where gold is found– fertility<br>Is earth and sky and every clay ribbon<br>That writhes like a ray of sunshine I saw once.<br><br>My mountainside is rain and smells like home,<br>Like kambang, coffee, marijuana buds<br>By marshy swampland, clay banks break against<br>The river Ba’e’s neck where I was naked<br>On top and down there when we ran the slope<br>And danced inside the water’s wriggling curve.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:center;">✻
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Assume for a second that there is a cult,<br>And the compound is marked by the fence<br>Marked by the river.<br><br>Toyota Hilux<br>Public Motor Vehicle<br>Ferries down the main road.<br><br>There were robberies in the 90s,<br>Violent break-ins and assaults,<br>And an increased vigilance.<br><br>If I was a man<br>From Onamuna, twenty-five years<br>And you had everything, I’d steal too.<br><br>God of settlers<br>On his mountain of gold<br>Fuming at the lips. <br><br>And you are there you are too small to grasp<br>The threat of banishment<br>And your friends scattered<br><br>At the edges of the world,<br>You do not understand<br>The mandate.<br><br>The river churns with broken glass,<br>The town an invective against its own earth,<br>You one against it.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:center;">✻
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>The meandering chisel lifting away splinters<br>Of clay from the water’s crumbling edge almost<br>Hungers to be cut apart and lodged<br>At the end of the world where Time, politely laughing,<br>Gathers silt to leave in someone’s pockets.<br>You can see the vestigial town slowly erupt<br>With held wrath– but for smoke in wake of mountain<br>Gardens, we might have approached unnoticed–<br>What can I say that hasn’t already been<br>Except that you should crawl the ditch yourself,<br>Feel the scrape of concrete on your hands,<br>See the earth suffocated of rain?</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:center;">✻
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Soon and the bones of another place are here<br>And I am here and the river not too far off.</br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:center;">✻
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Turning the rot<br>They bundle their arms in a warm cave<br>Singing old songs<br><br>Well it is singing<br>I remember the garamut<br>The syncretic hills<br><br>And bones bones small and bearing<br>The kaukau still nascent<br>In the garden</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:center;">✻
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>We circled inside the fence’s grasp like prayer,<br>The hills all mostly clay so when it rained<br>The gravel would wash out the road and you<br>Could barely make it up. Morning, evening,<br>We made prints on the webbing inside it.<br>The stars out, we would see the southern cross<br>If the clouds weren’t out as well, the razor fence<br>Tall and menacing the kunai grass behind<br>That rolled up into the valley, the jaillights<br>Like stars and we wanted to fly there so bad.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:center;">✻
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>My hands tire<br>I have lost the book<br>Where the words were written<br><br>A tree falls to the south, prostrate<br>From immolation<br>Smoke trails to the north<br><br>The tree returns and returns<br>And its roots gnarl, wither<br>And remains<br><br>I am the larvae in the sago palm<br>The rat fur matted with glue<br>The mouth cancer<br><br>Processional banana leaf<br>The blank page<br>The ink stain<br><br>Across ocean waters<br>Winds, branches<br>I am the voice in wilder nests<br><br>Tornado coalescing<br>Over Aiyura, the funnel<br>A valley in a valley<br><br>Sun rays leaking<br>Behind Ramu river<br>Through Kassam Pass<br><br>I am the intersection<br>The road to Kainantu<br>The burning town<br><br>Light obscuring stars<br>Kunai grass obscuring<br>Security lights outside<br><br>Shoes on the power lines<br>Running from Yonki Dam<br>Villagers sold their land rights<br><br>A projector shows the Jisas<br>Film at the 5-mile hamlet<br>Powered by free electricity<br><br>Some older boys lainim mi Tairora<br>I scribble furiously, making up<br>For a tear I do not know yet<br><br>I am at the edge of town<br>Am quiet, waiting<br>For the sound of water<br><br>I am near the river<br>I am an unsewn gash<br>I am the cut in the fence</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:center;">✻
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Lain as in <em>people</em><br>As in tribe, village, family<br>Community, identity<br><br>As in same or sameness<br>Without shame<br>Collectively, home<br><br><br>Lain in the borrowed sense<br>A direction, an attention<br>A string of instants<br><br>The difference between<br>What is moving<br>And what isn’t<br><br><br>Lainim as in <em>learn</em><br>As in grow<br>As in follow<br><br>Lainim as in <em>teach</em><br>As in gift<br>As in share</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:center;">✻
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Look, we’ve poured a little river, isn’t<br>The loveliest and best you’ve ever known<br>Lost– isn’t it wonderful to be lost?</br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:center;">✻
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>In wet months, garden fabric quilts the hills<br>Around Aiyura valley, where my fence<br>Gouged eyeholes in syncretic soil like grants<br>Made to appease the wealthy foreign churched.<br><br>In drought, not suffocating from the taro<br>Smoke, I climb the mountain and pray for rain<br>On our missionary complex where the ash<br>Carries from the patchwork to stain our clothes.<br><br>A scorched garden is a prayer of equilibrium,<br>That atmosphere would fasten to the dust<br>And shower us with blessings in response–<br><br>After ritual crop fires, the sky would clear,<br>And the fence’s hatching framed Kainantu’s jail<br>Where it burned on the opposite ridge, quietly.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:center;">✻
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Isn’t wonderful– isn’t lost when the guilt<br>Of circumstance begins to owe its debts?</br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:center;">✻
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Forget the crumbling town, it’s wearing thin<br>As the guardlights on the fence will soon attest–<br>And the drainage bars are no match for erosion.<br>(The way the rock is keeping secrets for you<br>It might be a friend, but still– why there a fence<br>At all? Surely the steel holds no invective<br>Against passage, yet looms between the waters<br>And we will be hard pressed to crawl the sewage<br>Trench, but pressed hard under the bars, we go)</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:center;">✻
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Write your name whatever way you know,<br>Here in the grass a whisper is enough<br>To find the clearing– whether a rotting stump<br>Remains, you’ll know it by the undergrowth.</br></br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:center;">✻
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Strain, the river’s low applause will sound<br>Like drums of vengeance, hum of an earthquake,<br>Hooves stamping out a valley in a valley,<br>Rapture cresting in with eastward storm.</br></br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:center;">✻
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>How close you are depends how soon rain comes,<br>How foliage is catching the evening roar<br>And what passes, it’s not entirely clear</br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:center;">✻
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>How fast the banks recede, but clear they do<br>Want closer– want to carry you away<br>To wherever waters go when they recede.</br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:center;">✻
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Soon, the river will cut horseshoe troughs<br>In the slope and make rapids from fence razors.<br>Where it gets loudest, listen for the silence–<br>See through the kunai barbs kids at the cliff<br>Diving again, again, never headfirst<br>But never scared of the stream’s restoring force.<br>(They were there and their footsteps will be there<br>Long after worn back down into the clay)<br>What I’ve inscribed here might be overgrown<br>With moss now and secretly isn’t much<br>Important, but I was listening very hardly,<br>And the spray paint was the color of kambang spit.<br>You’re welcome to go and leave a similar altar–<br>If only just for knowing similar place.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p style="text-align:center;">✻
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>(I’ve gone out jumping with my clothes still on–<br>I expect you to be drenched, be like the river–<br>Carve out another puddle for no reason –</br></br></p><p/><p/><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet's Note </h2><br>
This poem is a kind of scripture for me. It grows out of a body of experience and an obsession with place. It transitions between and across modes of being and location, between and across its own forms and structures. Beyond this, it’s a testament to growing up in the Eastern Highlands of Papua New Guinea incidentally narrated by a closeted transfemme. What does it mean to witness multiple kinds of violence, to criticize them, to be party to them? Is there any solace under the tyranny of a fence?<br><br>
For my own part, I lived in the eponymous town of Ukarumpa for the better part of fifteen years, from 2002 when I was three years old until I graduated high school. I spent months away in the Sepik due to my parents’ Bible translation work, and every fourth or fifth year in Illinois wooing church financial support. I was not out as queer, and had I realized this for myself while I lived there, I would likely have been expelled from the town’s autonomously governed community. But “Ukarumpa” is not for the town, it is for you, reader, who have possibly never walked its roads, swam the river Ba’e, or climbed its neighbouring mountain, seen the valley from both sides of the ridge. This is a landscape of exile, and we are momentarily here together.<br><br>
It’s not necessary to understand every geographic facet of the Eastern Highlands, but kunai grass is a tall, sharp grass (<i>Imperata cylindrica</i>) endemic to those highlands. It will cut you after a long day on the mountain. Additionally, <i>kambang</i> translates literally to lime, but refers here to the practice of mixing lime with <i>buai</i>, also known as betelnut, and chewing the substance for a mild narcotic effect. Consuming buai in this manner will stain your teeth and spit blood red. It’s common in populated areas to see red kambang splatters on the ground or in the streets.<br><br>
While the blank verse is largely structured after Robert Frost’s “Directive” and attempts to ask some of the same questions albeit from a different lifetime and geography, the section “Turning the rot” pays homage to W.S. Merwin’s “Bread at Midnight”.
</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></div>
<!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[New Perspective]]></title><description><![CDATA[Symposeum Issue 0 Cover Art]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/new-perspective/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__5fa09f1c8376fb2f0ab035ba</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 0 - Liminal Space]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Andrea Cybyk]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 03 Nov 2020 03:02:50 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Cybyk50.png" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><p>My painting, <em>New Perspective</em>, is an invitation to slow down. I hope this work encourages viewers to contemplate the layers of connection that enrich us. Our lives are more vibrant in the space where our paths cross, and communities are formed at these intersections. By joining our diverse backgrounds and talents in meaningful engagement, we may shift our perspectives and collectively examine our priorities. Color is a powerful lens: where colors—where people—converge, something dynamic emerges.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><i>A native of Northern Virginia, Andrea Cybyk creates geometric abstract paintings that connect people, places, and relationships through her use of saturated color, repeating lines, and shapes. An engineer turned award-winning artist, Andrea exhibits primarily in the Washington, DC area and curates an exhibit program for a vineyard in Virginia. To view more of her work, visit www.AndreaCybyk.com or on Facebook and Instagram @AndreaCybykArt.</i><!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Introduction]]></title><description><![CDATA[We live in disorienting times. The pandemic has exacerbated deeper-rooted problems of systemic violence, inequity, and injustice. Our nation—truly, our world—stands on the cusp of unprecedented change. But history is rife with upheaval and rebirth; we weigh it for instruction and inspiration. In 184]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/letter/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__5f9dc23defb18b1ade76dfac</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 0 - Liminal Space]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[The Editors]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sat, 31 Oct 2020 20:00:23 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>Dear Reader,</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">W</span>
e live in disorienting times. The pandemic has exacerbated deeper-rooted problems of systemic violence, inequity, and injustice. Our nation—truly, our world—stands on the cusp of unprecedented change. But history is rife with upheaval and rebirth; we weigh it for instruction and inspiration.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>In 1840, a group of transcendentalists led by Margaret Fuller, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Henry David Thoreau launched <em>The Dial,</em> a journal dedicated to furnishing a “cheerful rational voice amidst the din of mourners and polemics.” From these visionaries—the self-styled “Symposeum”—we take our name. <em>Symposeum</em> is a publication of The Dial project: a twenty-first century creative, collaborative community dedicated to elevating cheerful rationality in public discourse. It draws on its predecessor’s commitment to exploring works of “the Necessary, the Plain, the True, and the Human.”</p><p>By <em>Necessary</em>, we mean works of critical inquiry.</p><p>By <em>Plain</em>, we mean works of novel insight into ordinary occurrences.</p><p>By <em>True</em>, we mean works of empirical investigation.</p><p>By <em>Human</em>, we mean works of intimate experience.</p><p>Like an authentic symposium, our quarterly issues will examine single topics through a variety of perspectives. The theme of Issue Zero is liminal space. A state of in-betweenness, liminal space captures the essence of the world today on both macro and micro scales. In the following pages, you’ll find a breadth and depth of related works—from essays to poems to art. In “Lizzie,” a father shares the recent loss of his daughter to the ongoing drug epidemic in the height of coronavirus. In “Leave No Trace,” a hiker recounts her two thousand mile chaplaincy on the Appalachian Trail. In “Arm in Arm,” a teacher reflects on restorative disciplinary models in a virtual learning setting. In “Making a Medium,” a leader at an early stage startup illustrates the future of information as displayed and shared on the internet. As editors, we’ve curated pieces for a broad audience. Accordingly, each piece has a voice of its own. We trust you’ll find a home in at least a few.</p><p>The editorial team is grateful for our Issue Zero contributors who believed in this project enough to produce something for it. We’re also indebted to countless others who freely lent their time, talent, and advice to the process of building what we wish will become a cultural touchstone. As The Dial community grows, it is a joy to labor alongside so many thoughtful optimists.</p><p><em>Symposeum</em> aims to impart our conviction that human goodness and ingenuity are most keen where they are most threatened. It is an ambitious aim, but the present moment demands an ambitious response. This liminal season is ours: to register and wrestle, to interrogate and inspirit, to cultivate, to build, and to own.</p><p>In hope,</p><p>The Editors</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Rendering]]></title><description><![CDATA[First, a pop loud as gunfire. Then, burning rubber. Then, margaritas, jalapeño salsa, gossip, chairs scraping far less than six feet apart.
I’ve made the mistake of trying to ride my hundred-dollar, salvaged-from-old-parts bike up a pothole-ridden Shelby Avenue. My back tire and tube have fully exp]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/rendering/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__5f998c4d93da5e5c44225c77</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 0 - Liminal Space]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Meredith Paige]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Wed, 28 Oct 2020 19:59:08 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">F</span>
irst, a pop loud as gunfire. Then, burning rubber. Then, margaritas, jalapeño salsa, gossip, chairs scraping far less than six feet apart.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I’ve made the mistake of trying to ride my hundred-dollar, salvaged-from-old-parts bike up a pothole-ridden Shelby Avenue. My back tire and tube have fully exploded in front of Cinco de Mayo, a local townie-vibe restaurant that’s happily shirking a few too many COVID guidelines. The obnoxious pop of my tire brings people out of their nearby houses, searching for the source. Guilt floods my throat, but I don’t dare cough.</p><p>I begin a slow walk to the nearby bike shop, my broken bike in tow. The tube’s come loose, wrapping itself around the gears and skidding the back tire to a halt, splooting right there on the pavement, unmoving. Forcing me to drag it as it bumps along and slows me down. Like dragging roadkill home to roast. <br/></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><p><em>As long as I get into bed before five a.m., </em>I’ve lied to myself every night, <em>then it’s fine. </em>The infinite scroll and blue light<em> </em>from hours of existing on my phone have been making me nauseous, but like everyone else, I can’t stop, because once I’ve stopped, I’ll be alone, awake, in my silly little brain, in my silly little room, in my silly little house, again, god forbid.</p><p>Time passes silently and then loud as gunfire. All of a sudden, October. Time froze in March but moves effortlessly through me like water carving limestone.</p><p>The predictable tides of each day get less and less so. Who cares if the sun is out? Who cares if I have a “job”? Who cares? It’s five a.m., I’ve been up all night, get off my back, I have a life to live! Leave me alone while I sit in my room in the dark, living my life.</p><p>The same thing over and over. The smallness of our sequestered little bubbles: is this it? The hubris—the <em>guilt, </em>the shameless arrogance—of expecting anything more than mundaneness just because the world <em>out there</em> is on fire. We’re lucky for that mundaneness; we should be kissing the ground for not buckling underneath our feet when we get out of bed. We’re lucky to see the sunrise, even if from the other side of the morning. <br/></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><p>My bike sounds increasingly like a train screeching to a halt because the conductor saw someone on the tracks. It sputters and spits and whines as I drag and drag and <em>man this thing is heavy</em> and then come to an inevitable halt. I try and lift the back while walking, but <em>either I’m really weak or this bike is really heavy.</em> </p><p/><p>The <em>heaviness</em>. My mind drifts to it, as always. I’ve never been so acutely aware—painfully so—of all this empty space. The space between <em>what was</em> and <em>what could be</em>. Of how fragile our future is, how unreal it all can feel…how the past can feel unpredictable even though it already happened.</p><p>We know that isolation messes with time. I had no idea it could mess with space, too. One of those things you can’t know until you try, I suppose. And like everything else in our woefully economically striated society (that our dear leaders do precious little to address), it hits the most vulnerable the hardest. Leading scientists write it in the November 2020 <em>Lancet</em> editorial bluntly: </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote>People with salaried jobs are far less likely to be affected [by COVID disruptions] than those with informal, daily wage jobs, which include a substantial proportion of the workforce in lower-income countries….Years of underinvestment in mental health, especially in low-income and middle-income countries, have left us vulnerable. </blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><p>As the space between economic silos widens, our mental healthcare gap continues to crush those at the bottom. And that’s just the macro. The micro is us: you and me, just individuals, just kids, really, trying to stay afloat one long isolated day at a time. It doesn’t feel real, but it feels painfully real all at once. It has to be real, right? Is <em>trauma</em> too aggressive a word? Too melodramatic? <em>Calm down</em>, I tell myself, fruitlessly. Yale Medicine psychoanalyst Steven Marans tell us this pandemic <em>is</em> a veritable trauma, in a way—a real threat we can’t see until it hits us, one with no end in sight. He explains:</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote>When people feel threatened or their lives are altered in major, unwanted, and unanticipated ways, communication between the prefrontal cortex (the executive center of the brain) and the amygdala (the emotional processing center) may be disrupted. This leads to the production of stress hormones that can cause distress in the body, as well as the mind. </blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br>But you don’t need a doctor to tell you that. It’s in our bones, in our shaky hands, our heavy mind, that space behind our sinuses that leaks hot gooey air when we’re panicking. Caked in the jargon or not, it’s real. <em>It’s real, </em>I promise myself.</br></p><p>Naturally, healthcare workers are hard hit by the COVID psychological toll. A comprehensive UN policy brief from this past May indicates that a whopping 47% of Canadian healthcare workers reported a need for psychological support due to the mental toll of the pandemic. Nearly half! <em>I’m a healthcare worker</em>, I thought. <em>But I’m not Canadian.</em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><p>There’s space, ever-expanding space in the <em>long </em>present, one that has no end as long as the future is <em>this</em> uncertain. One that gets longer with each night I convince myself it’s fine that I stay up until five, six, seven a.m.—because we all make our own realities these days, right? Has that corner of the living room always looked so empty? Were fall afternoons always this quiet outside, always this loud inside my head?</p><p/><p>Continuing towards the bike shop, I feel my nose running and the urge to cough from behind my sweaty surgical mask. Oh god. Oh <em>fuck</em>. Is this….<em>it</em>? Do I have COVID? Is this really it? Then the urge goes away and I roll my eyes at myself for being so damn dramatic. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><p>These days, doing the daily stuff—ride bike, make coffee, wash sheets, whatever—it feels like doing the dishes when your kitchen’s on fire. Maybe we wake up after one p.m. every day, knowing full well that our fragile mental health is draining like lava out our ears, but pay no mind, because it happens while we’re sleeping.</p><p>“You know your depression and OCD get worse when you go to bed late and wake up late,” my therapist reminds me. <em>Yeah, yeah.</em> She says, “things are just going to suck sometimes.” <em>Well why bother?</em> “Because it’s not about measuring the moments of suckiness versus the ones of joy and making them fight,” she promises. “It’s about indulging in the latter so much that the former becomes neutral, or you learn from it, you learn to accept those moments.” <em>I don’t know. Sounds fake.</em></p><p>I know she’s right. Therapy isn’t going to give me the meaning of life or anything, but my therapist can at least make me feel less alone in navigating it. Her voice holds smoke from twenty years ago and her questions sometimes hit me like a turbulent plane at lift-off: “Can you at least try to get curious? Notice your thoughts. Just notice them—”</p><p>“But I ruminate! I perseverate! I analyze! That’s <em>all</em> I do. All I do is <em>think</em> and that’s why I’m like this,” I complain. I wish my voice held decades of stories and the inner peace of all this self-work like hers, but instead it holds a few years of screaming along to emo music and exactly one Black & Mild from a party in 2011.</p><p>“Curiosity is different from obsession, Meredith.” I don’t know how she maintains composure around my whining. She continues: “Don’t force an explanation, but get curious about your thoughts. Investigate gently. That’s a start. But you can’t do it if you’re living on an upside down schedule, Meredith. You need to get a handle on your sleep.”</p><p>The downside of my “schedule,” if you can call it that, is that I get such a shamefully late start every day—I’m only going to get to the bike shop with a half hour to spare, if that. I move faster, but not totally sure if I’m heading in the right direction. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><p>As the world “out there” devolved into chaos, we sequestered, which was necessary, undeniably vital. Simultaneously, we created insular bubbles with enough energy for two weeks that became two months that’s becoming a year, and the uncertainty seeps in. The antidote? Staying home and slowing down, while “out there” is moving blindingly fast. We watch our “leaders” fumble in the dark and reject basic science in a dizzying display of incompetence; we realize it’s truly <em>up to us</em>, so we want to do something, but there’s nothing we can do except stay home. </p><p/><p>In fact, I begin to wish I were at home instead of dragging my corpse of a bicycle through East Nashville’s unforgivingly rough pavement, passing historic site after historic site scrapped for mid-rise blocky apartments made of cardboard. I feel like I’m going in circles. Maybe I really am crazy; maybe it’s all a mirage. </p><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><p>The Kaiser Family Foundation indicates that over half of Americans reported being negatively psychologically impacted by COVID by July—and now it’s fall. Circles and more circles. The CDC has their list of hard-and-fast mental-health-during-COVID resources, the WHO has theirs, and <em>it may be worth casting cynicism aside for a goddamn millisecond to just take it in, </em>I plead with my nihilism: Reach out to people. Make a routine, no matter how simple. Get sleep, not too much or too little. Find the tiniest thing that brings you joy, no matter how minuscule, and do it over and over, no matter how many circles you feel like you’re running in. It won’t cure you, or maybe it will, but it’s about staying afloat.</p><p>Maybe—<em>maybe</em>—it’s about accepting that the only certainty is uncertainty? Easier said than done. And when even the mundane things start to seem alien, when our little sequestered realities get more and more dissociated from the “out there” reality, sometimes you just need something to reassure you that all of it <em>is</em> real, as real as the Tennessee summer pavement can fry an egg. </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><p>I could have sworn the bike shop was on the corner of 19th and Shelby. But it’s not. I keep dragging. My phone is dead, whatever. I’ll find the shop eventually. I swear people are staring at me from their backyards because this broken bike is so loud. </p><p/><p>When quarantine itself gets gentrified by the white Instagram yogis, you realize everyone around you is being “productive,” and what does that even mean when the world is ending? Why do I have to <em>produce</em>? You expect me to produce <em>on top of</em> existing? Oh no, I’m not cut out for this.</p><p>The need to be “productive,” whatever that means, used to loom over me daily. The more I’ve dissected the word, the more I’ve realized we’re victims to it rather than loyal followers—the more I’ve realized it doesn’t really mean anything at all. All bite, no teeth.</p><p>But the urge is still real. You pray if you’re the praying type, and wish you were if you’re not. (I’m not.) So you bike. You ride your damn bike, bake your damn bread, make your damn coffee, or get around to it eventually, because the hours blend together and time is flat now, or maybe it always was and we’re just now finding out.</p><p>There’s a word for this, right? <em>Ennui? </em>No, that’s not it. That’s too pretentious, too French. <em>Sonder? </em>That thing where you realize you’re just an extra in the movie of everyone else’s lives? No, not quite. Something like that though. Something we can’t put our fingers on because by the time we do it’s floated away. <br/></p><p>Dragging my bike—the burning rubber about to set on fire, I swear—I pass a bunch of dying sunflowers in this older guy’s front yard. I used to bike past this guy’s house all the time, but I guess I changed my route. I thought those flowers would never die, and here they are, dying all along. Each one at least ten feet tall. Brilliant stalks with wilting bits of yellow on top—</p><p>“You okay?” the guy asks from his yard. I hadn’t even noticed he was there. He has this leathery smile. He’s wearing the longest khaki shorts on earth and a grey University of Michigan t-shirt so faded that you can barely make out the lettering. I think it says “Where’s the Michigan party?” and “Class of ‘78” below the logo.</p><p>“Oh, yeah! My back tire just exploded,” I reply.</p><p>“You need a tube?”</p><p>“Probably, and a new tire, and my gears are kinda shot—so don’t worry! I’m going to the shop over there now,” I explain, gesturing down the street.</p><p>“Okay then! Have a good one!”</p><p>“You too!”</p><p>Even if he has the gear, I don’t want to waste his time. </p><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><p>These days, it feels more apt to measure time in things missed. On Rosh Hashanah this year, I stayed home, not wanting to risk travel. I swear, my house that day—nearly a thousand miles away from my grandma’s—smelled a lot like her kugel. I swear I could feel the heat of the candles. I swear I could hear my dad, who suddenly gets comically religious twice a year, chanting in Hebrew like a Hasid in Williamsburg. I swear I could hear the TV playing <em>NBC’s Dateline</em> in the background, a staple at my grandparents’. I swear, nothing feels real these days, and I find myself questioning if any of it ever existed because the “old normal” feels so alien. Sometimes an absence is more potent than a presence. </p><p/><p>There’s the “out there” chaos, then the buffer that is our quarantine worlds, and then the “inner chaos”—the one that thrives in isolation, in abstraction from what’s “out there.” Those two chaoses used to be more aligned, I think, when I wasn’t so abstracted from the “out there.” Now, I’m not so sure. There’s comfort in that in-between space, hominess in the buffer. Like driving on the highway towards mountains that never seem to materialize, they just keep moving, one step ahead.</p><p/><p>God, it feels like the more steps I take towards the bike shop, the farther I get. I’m just about ready to dump this thing on the street and walk home. Maybe Michigan guy will find it, take it under his wing, plant it in his yard, nurture it better than I could, let it grow like his flowers.</p><p>I pause and actually consider this. Instead, I keep walking (dragging). </p><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><p>This space between the past and the future seemingly keeps growing. Meanwhile, I’m stuck on this unending road with a broken bike, the past looming back there, the future impossibly unreachable, because I’m stuck here, in the long present, the never-ending space between what was and what could be<em>, </em>choosing to despair in it, saying <em>wait</em>, so this….this everyday stuff….this is it?</p><p>Fine: maybe this <em>is</em> it. Or maybe…this is <em>it</em>, and we should revel in <em>it</em>, because we get the privilege of getting intimate with something ephemeral. I’d never seen slowness up close, mundaneness under a microscope. Like seeing a butterfly too close and realizing it’s just a bug. But—and bear with me here—maybe the more you look at that bug, you can find beauty in it? And if not, well, that’s fine—the bug, it just exists. And that’s enough. Maybe it’s kind of freeing, realizing that that’s enough. Step by baby step over the torn-up pavement, we truly do have the agency to decide what we make of things—isn’t that wild? No need to make something out of nothing, after all. We don’t have to be alchemists here.<br/></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><p>Finally! The beautiful bike shop materializes around the corner. It’s on 15th, not 19th. Oh thank god, Janet is working today. She’s the sweetest. I can sense her smile from behind her mask—one of those smiles that emanate warmth and safety—and feel immediately guilty for arriving so close to the shop’s closing time.</p><p>“Janet! Hi! Thank god. Oh—sorry, are you available right now? No worries if not. But check out my back tire and tube! Completely busted. I have no idea what happened. Maybe I overfilled it,” I say, exasperated, sweating through my mask.</p><p>“Oh no! Yeah, no worries, we’re slow today, so I’ll take care of that right now,” Janet says, angel of angels, taking the raggedy pile of metal trash off my hands. <br/></p><p>I try not to smile too big with my mask on because I hate the feeling of my lips and teeth touching the inside of my mask—that can’t be safe, right?—but just now, in this little frivolous moment inside this long, never-ending present, I can’t help it. <br><br/></br></p><hr><p><em>If you are struggling with your mental health during COVID-19, </em><a href="https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/find-help/index.shtml"><em>here</em></a><em> is a comprehensive list of resources provided by the National Institute of Mental Health.</em></p></hr>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[padmasana (attempt)]]></title><description><![CDATA[The text scrawled into this piece reads "many things are so uncertain all at once so i imagine lotuses growing like vines all over my field of vision & field of anxiety but padmasana is not coming easily because of the aforementioned quantities of variables so i drew this instead—an anxiety-filled]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/padmasana-attempt/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__5f977501ca55cc2c4c11a398</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 0 - Liminal Space]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Plain]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Vibhu Krishna]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 27 Oct 2020 16:14:53 GMT</pubDate><media:content url="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/hello--1-.jpg" medium="image"/><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/hello.jpg" class="kg-image" alt="padmasana (attempt)"/></figure><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/hello--1-.jpg" alt="padmasana (attempt)"/><p>The text scrawled into this piece reads "many things are so uncertain all at once so i imagine lotuses growing like vines all over my field of vision & field of anxiety but padmasana is not coming easily because of the aforementioned quantities of variables so i drew this instead—an anxiety-filled <s>rendition</s> meditation <s>created in one sitting</s> on bristol paper w/my favorite 005 micron pen & my barely-coping roommate's old tupperware lid to trace the circle after reading & re-reading "fieldnotes from the in between" by my very dear friend lisa (drawn somehow all in one sitting) & did you know we have matching cartilage piercings? & aren't the neurotic scratch-like pen marks just a bit harrowing? one of my uglier works!i miss my friends & space but keep hope & art." Then I super-imposed the drawing onto a moon and gave it light and space, thank goodness.</p><p><strong>Details: </strong>micron ink on bristol, digital manipulation, 12"x12"</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Theseus's America]]></title><description><![CDATA[The Ship of Theseus is a thought experiment that questions whether an object that has had all of its pieces replaced remains fundamentally the same object. A king in Greek mythology and founder-hero of Athens, Theseus fought many naval battles. Athenians replaced the rotted oars of his ship over cen]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/the-ship-of-theseus/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__5f976e52ca55cc2c4c11a37a</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 0 - Liminal Space]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Necessary]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Edensky E. Lormeus]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 27 Oct 2020 00:49:06 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Edensky.png" class="kg-image" alt="https://s3-us-west-2.amazonaws.com/secure.notion-static.com/cff1da69-2e8a-4c84-952d-958a00738c8e/Theseus_attempt_5.png"/></figure><p>The Ship of Theseus is a thought experiment that questions whether an object that has had all of its pieces replaced remains fundamentally the same object. A king in Greek mythology and founder-hero of Athens, Theseus fought many naval battles. Athenians replaced the rotted oars of his ship over centuries to preserve it as a memorial. Plutarch made the puzzle famous in his <em>Life of Theseus</em> from the late first century. Other philosophers, including Plato, Heraclitus, Thomas Hobbes, and John Locke have also investigated the paradox.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Writing Silence: César Vallejo’s Poetry of Exile]]></title><description><![CDATA[In 1923, a thirty-one year old Peruvian named César Vallejo boarded a passenger ship in Lima and set sail for Paris, France. Within fifty years, he would be widely recognized as one of the most original and important poets to write in the twentieth century. At that moment, though, despite the ]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/writing-silence-cesar-vallejos-poetry-of-exile/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__5f976934ca55cc2c4c11a36c</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 0 - Liminal Space]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Nissim Lebovits]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 27 Oct 2020 00:27:30 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><div class="epigraph">
<i>
By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat, sat and wept, as we thought of Zion. There on the poplars we hung up our lyres, for our captors asked us there for songs, our tormentors, for amusement, “Sing us one of the songs of Zion.” How can we sing a song of the Lord in a strange land? ―Psalm 137
</i>
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">I</span>
n 1923, a thirty-one year old Peruvian named César Vallejo boarded a passenger ship in Lima and set sail for Paris, France. Within fifty years, he would be widely recognized as one of the most original and important poets to write in the twentieth century. At that moment, though, despite the success of his first two books―The Black Heralds in 1919 and Trilce in 1922―he was in the midst of a profound personal crisis. In the five preceding years, his mother, brother, and sister had died; he had lost a prestigious teaching post after refusing to marry a woman with whom he had been having an affair; and his involvement in leftist politics had led to his unjust incarceration for four months, ending only in a temporary release. Deeply unhappy, and fearful of being reimprisoned, Vallejo departed.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br>Now is a time ripe for thoughts of exile. Even before the pandemic, the world’s population of displaced people was at an all-time high of 79 million people. More than 1% of all humans alive today, are either refugees, internally displaced, or seeking asylum. That’s a population larger than all but twenty-three countries—and is expected to quadruple by the year 2050. <br/></br></p><p>Yet exile is not a concern common to Americans. We frame our country as a place of refuge—“Give me your tired, your poor, / your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,” reads the poem inscribed at the foot of the Statue of Liberty—not from which the persecuted flee. Nor are we confronted by closed doors when we depart. When living abroad we are always expats, never refugees. Especially as travelers, our passports and national wealth have conferred upon us a sense of immunity; borders opened easily for Americans. But the political changes wrought worldwide in the last five years, culminating in the ongoing crisis of COVID-19, have made us newly aware of the precarity of our situation. With most international borders still closed to American travelers nearly a year after the onset of the pandemic, we are reminded that, even in the age of globalization, there is sometimes no going home.</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br>Vallejo was not the only Peruvian to flee his country in the early twentieth century. In those years, Peru vacillated between political and economic advances, and entrenched classism, racism, and imperialism. The government was dominated by the aristocracy, which frequently expressed violent opposition to left-wing political movements. The regime of Augusto Leguía, who held power for eleven years after launching a coup in 1919, was responsible for Vallejo’s departure, as well as the effective banishment of José Carlos Mariátegui and Víctor Raúl Haya de la Torre, both friends of Vallejo’s and founders of the Peruvian Communist Party and the American Popular Revolutionary Alliance, respectively. While Vallejo, Mariátegui, and Haya de la Torre are recognized today as defining voices of Peru’s literary and political culture, they faced in their own time the threat of censorship, imprisonment, or worse if they stayed in the country.<br/></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br>Almost from the moment of his departure, Vallejo began to write new poems. Before his flight from Peru, his poetry had moved increasingly in the direction of the obscure. <em>The Black Heralds</em> was loosely rooted in the formal innovation, aesthetic concerns, and national pride of the Latin American literary movement known as <em>modernismo</em>, while <em>Trilce</em> was deemed impenetrable by many of Vallejo’s peers because of its use of slang, neologisms, and typographic manipulation. These new verses, however, took a different direction, addressing themselves largely to Vallejo’s political, social, and personal concerns. When they were finally published by Vallejo’s widow in 1939, a year after the poet’s death, they served as the record of his exile.<br/></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br>The exiled poet is something of a literary trope. There is Ovid, the iconic Roman poet banished in 8 CE by the Emperor Augustus. Dante, too, the author of the <em>Divine Comedy</em>, was barred from his native Florence in 1302 CE for opposing the ruling regime, while Du Fu, among the greatest of the classical Chinese poets, was exiled in the late eighth century CE in the aftermath of a devastating rebellion. <br/></br></p><p>The twentieth century in particular is strewn with poets of exile, uprooted by the massive physical and ideological violence of that age. Many of the era’s defining poets, such as the Nobel laureates Joseph Brodsky, Czesław Miłosz, and Juan Ramón Jiménez, were forced to flee their native soil in order to escape totalitarian regimes. Thus the literary critic George Steiner once argued that much of twentieth-century literature could be termed “extraterritorial.” “It seems proper,” he said, “that those who create art in a civilization of quasi-barbarism, which has made so many homeless, should themselves be poets unhoused and wanderers across language.” <br/></p><p>Under these terms, the exiled poet takes on epic scope; displacement is not merely a means of artistic inspiration but of deep insight into the human condition. The poet in exile is transformed into a prophetic figure through whom the essential experience of the twentieth century is channeled, ordered, and given meaning. Exile, then, becomes a necessary prerequisite to revelation, and is transformed; in the hands of Steiner’s “poets unhoused,” exile is justified.<br/></p><p>But then, literary displacement comes in many forms, not all of which are equal. Though Walt Whitman wandered through nineteenth century America, he did so by choice. Poor though he may have been, none would call his experience one of exile. The departure of T.S. Eliot from Massachusetts to London stemmed from his affinity for English culture, not from an existential threat to his safety, and his friend Ezra Pound repeatedly chose to live in Italy because of its hospitality toward his fascist inclinations. In general, the voluntary relocations of literary expats must not be confused with the violence of banishment. <br/></p><p>Paradoxically, even the archetypal literary exile itself is misleading. The Exiled Author is, after all, a figure whose stature grants him some exemption from the defining experiences of exile; he is known, recognized, accommodated. When Nabokov, Brodsky, and Miłosz arrived in the US after fleeing their countries, they were granted university teaching positions at elite institutions, funding, access to wide social networks, and institutional support for their artistic work. To be a literary exile, then, is to be in many ways protected from core experiences of exile itself. As the Palestinian cultural critic Edward Said noted in his essay “Reflections on Exile”: </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote>[T]o concentrate on exile as a contemporary political punishment, you must therefore map territories of experience beyond those mapped by the literature of exile itself. You must first set aside Joyce and Nabokov and think instead of the uncountable masses for whom UN agencies have been created. You must think of the refugee-peasants with no prospect of ever returning home, armed only with a ration card and an agency number. Paris may be a capital famous for cosmopolitan exiles, but it is also a city where unknown men and women have spent years of miserable loneliness: Vietnamese, Algerians, Cambodians, Lebanese, Senegalese, Peruvians. </blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br/></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br>At no point in <em>Human Poems</em> did Vallejo ever call himself an exile. He insisted, in fact, on the opposite. His poetry spoke of a “periplo”—Spanish for a voyage, journey, or even odyssey—and repeatedly insisted on his eventual return to Peru. In one poem likely dating some five years after his departure, Vallejo wrote:</br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote> Until the day that I return, pursuing,<br>
with the frank rectitude of an embittered cripple,<br>
from well to well, my journey, I understand<br>
that man must be good, nonetheless.</br></br></br></blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br/></p><p>Though conceding that he had been delayed and disheartened, Vallejo consciously framed his absence from Peru as temporary; though he sojourned in Europe by necessity, he was determined to return home.<strong> </strong><br/></p><p>Yet, isn’t that the heart of exile—the insistence that it’s impermanent? Exile is circular, not linear; it implies that the point of arrival is the same as the point of departure. The moment that one accepts that they are not returning home—not they, nor their children, nor their children’s children—it ceases to be exile at all.<br/></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br>A brief survey of the years of Vallejo’s exile: after arriving in France in 1923, he remained unemployed until 1925. In 1927, he learned that a warrant had been issued in Peru for his arrest, precluding the possibility of his imminent return. After beginning to study Marxist theory in 1928, he traveled to the USSR, returning to Paris to help establish what would become the Peruvian Communist Party. By 1930, his efforts attracted the attention of the Parisian police, and he was expelled from France as a Communist agitator, fleeing to Madrid. A year later, he attempted to return to Paris but was again forced out by the police in 1933. He spent the next three years traveling and attempting to evade arrest. Finally, when the Spanish Civil War broke out in 1936, Vallejo returned to Spain to join the anti-fascist cause. He exerted tremendous effort there in the production of pro-Republican literature, namely the other posthumously published book of his poems, <em>Spain, Take This Chalice From Me</em>. In early 1938, however, having lived the previous fifteen years in poor health, political insecurity, and economic desperation, Vallejo fell gravely ill. On April 15th, the day that Franco’s fascist armies effectively secured their victory, Vallejo died, his work largely unknown.<br/></br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br>However brutal the initial displacement may be, exile only begins there. Even for the refugee who finds asylum, the trauma of exile is every day endured anew in the constant reminders of displacement. It is not only in the recollection of the violence of departure, but in the daily indignities and discomforts of existing in a strange landscape and a strange culture against one’s will. As Vallejo described it in one poem, “my accent [hung] from my shoe…[like] a bad shadow.” For a person dispossessed of their homeland, the voice itself evinces loss. In this sense, exile is like language. No matter how well one learns a foreign tongue, it remains inevitably, interminably foreign. The world in exile becomes a metaphor, always compared to what once was but is no longer. So it was for Vallejo, who saw exile as the defining feature of his life, the lens through which all else was understood. On this, he wrote:</br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote>Something identifies you with that which grows far from you, and it is the common faculty of returning: from there is your greatest burden. <br> <br>
Something separates you from that which stays with you, and it is the common slavery of departing: from there your most triffling joys. <br> <br>
… <br> <br>
To grow far! To stay! To return! To depart! The whole social mechanic fits in these words.
</br></br></br></br></br></br></blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br/></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br>Paris in the 1920s was home to some of the century’s greatest literary and artistic figures. The neighborhood called the Montparnasse Quarter was especially well-known as an artistic hub; in addition to Eliot, Pound, and Joyce, it also welcomed Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and a whole host of other renowned figures in the arts. The city attracted primarily struggling artists, but the upper echelons of their ranks were no strangers to material comfort—the ennui-inducing excess captured in Hemingway’s novel <em>The Sun Also Rises</em> was based on his own life. <br/></br></p><p>Vallejo’s experience could not have been more at odds with either the literary success of these characters, or their financial security. While Hemingway was getting riotously drunk with Joyce (they were reportedly regular drinking companions), Vallejo was writing “Today I suffer, come what may. Today I suffer alone.” While wealthy American socialites like Peggy Guggenheim were financing the careers of William Faulkner and D.H. Lawrence, among others, Vallejo felt himself an animal—and “it elude[d] this animal to be happy, to breathe / and transform himself, and to have money.” And while Fitzgerald and his wife were earning a reputation as hedonistic celebrities, Vallejo was writing in despair,</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote> Misery pulls me out through my own teeth. <br> <br>
... <br> <br>
A bit of bread, is there not even this for me now? <br> <br>
… <br> <br>
my shirt <br> <br>
is very torn and dirty <br> <br>
and I have nothing, this is horrendous.
</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br/></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br>For the litterateurs of Montparnasse, as for Steiner’s archetypal poet in exile, banishment was not so much the subject of art as the means to its production. Yet in taking poetry as the fruit of exile, this view equates such violent displacement with simple monkish removal. It fails, in other words, to recognize that writing, however profound, is not always a product of exile; sometimes, it is the only feasible refuge. <br/></br></p><p>The German philosopher Theodore Adorno describes this phenomenon in his autobiography, <em>Minima Moralia</em>. One of numerous exiles who fled Germany for the United States during the Second World War, Adorno understood the violence of expulsion. He believed that, in the wake of the war, the home as a physical entity was gone. Instead, it could only be replaced with language:</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote>In his text, the writer sets up house. Just as he trundles papers, books, pencils, documents untidily from room to room, he creates the same disorder in his thoughts. They become pieces of furniture that he sinks into, content or irritable. He strokes them affectionately, wears them out, mixes them up, re-arranges, ruins them. For a man who no longer has a homeland, writing becomes a place to live. </blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br/></p><p>This description is essential to understanding Vallejo’s experience of exile. The sheer brutality of what he lived through precluded any possibility of a meaningful, literary exile. His was the anonymous banishment described by Said, not Steiner’s exile of the Author. To Vallejo, displacement was not a means to language, but language a means to refuge. Thus in an early piece from <em>Human Poems</em>, he sought to symbolically rebuild his family’s home in Santiago de Chuco:</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote> —No one lives in the house anymore —you tell me—; everyone has left. The living room, the bedroom, the patio, lie depopulated. No one remains anymore, and as such, everyone has left. <br> <br>
And I say to you: When someone leaves, someone remains. The point through which a man has passed is no longer alone. The only space uniquely alone, of a human kind of loneliness, is the place through which no man has passed. <br> <br>
... <br> <br>
That which remains in the house is the organ, the agent in gerund and in circle. The footprints have left, the kisses, the pardons, the crimes. That which persists in the house is the foot, the lips, the eyes, the heart. Negations and affirmations, good and evil, have dispersed. That which persists in the house, is the subject of the act.</br></br></br></br></br></br></blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br/></p><p>Like Adorno, Vallejo could only reconstitute his home through language. It was not just that his exile did not produce language—his language aimed to nullify exile itself.<br/></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br>But what if exile provokes more silence than speech? As Ovid wrote of his own situation, “Do you think poetry, and not mourning, should claim / a man exiled alone to the distant land of the Getae?”<br/></br></p><p>Throughout <em>Human Poems</em>, Vallejo agonized over his inability to produce poetry while in exile. “I want to write,” he declared in one poem, “but foam comes out.” It is hard to read this as a literal admission of creative impotence—Vallejo wrote five plays, three novels, and two works of journalistic nonfiction during his fifteen years of exile, as well as numerous essays and short stories. More probably he was distressed by his failure to find publishers for most of these works, and perhaps also by the markedly lower quality of his prose compared to his verse. In short, it was his inability to express what he wanted to despite his copious writings. The emptiness of his writings choked him. In one verse, he wrote that he had heated the very “ink in which I am drowning.” His incapacity to make his speech audible, to construct a language sufficient to be his home, haunted him. His mouth was, he wrote, “the oral organ of my silence.”<br/></p><p>Unlike Ovid, though, Vallejo’s silence was not prompted only by geographic displacement. Born in the wake of Darwin, Nietzsche, Marx, and Freud, Vallejo came of age during a global transition of values and knowledge so complete that it swept away even the Divine itself. While no one living at this time could escape the reach of these changes, Vallejo was especially shaken by them. His upbringing had been deeply Catholic, as both his grandfathers were Spanish priests. But already by the release of <em>The Black Heralds</em> in 1919, Vallejo had evidently abandoned any allegiance to the faith. The collection repeatedly satirized Christian beliefs, often in a viciously bitter tone in lines like “blows like the hatred of God,” or “some revered faith that Destiny blasphemes,” or “I was born on a day / when God was ill.” Worse, this faith was replaced by a state of despondency over the implications of Darwinism. In “The Soul that Suffered from Being a Body,” Vallejo declared:</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote>You know what hurts you, <br>
what leaps upon you, <br>
what descends through you with a noose to the floor. <br>
You, poor man, are living; don’t deny it, <br>
… <br>
You suffer, you endure, and you return to suffer horribly, <br>
disgraced ape, <br>
little boy of Darwin, <br>
constable who peeks at me, atrocious microbe. </br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br/></p><p>His faith gone, Vallejo was left only with a palpable awareness of the insurmountable disjuncture between the dubious aspirations of the soul and the meanness of the material body. <br/></p><p>Of all the transformative theorists of the nineteenth century, only Marx gave Vallejo something positive into which he could throw himself. Vallejo, always concerned with the struggle of the poor, the working class, and the indigenous people of Peru, saw in Marxism a path toward a more just world. But in spite of his membership first in the Peruvian Community Party and then in the Spanish Communist Party, even Marxism was not a perfect refuge for Vallejo. Though enamored of the Soviet Union, he was neither dogmatic nor unquestioning. He authored one poem, for instance, titled “A Bit of Calm, Comrade,” in which he sarcastically critiqued Stalin’s excesses after hearing news of a series of Soviet-perpetrated massacres (ultimately, Vallejo did not denounce the “man of steel”). Similarly, he was skeptical of Peruvian nationalism, the other political ideology to which he professed some allegiance. Some of the best poems from <em>The Black Heralds</em> had employed more uncritically romantic depictions of Peru before the Spanish conquest. But by the time of <em>Human Poems,</em> Vallejo was writing serious critiques of Peru’s social landscape and would not countenance such simplistic conceptions. (In one poem satirizing these depictions, he addressed the Peruvian national bird: “Condors? Screw the condors!”) <br/></p><p>For those in exile from their homes, doctrine offers its own kind of refuge. After the ancient Jews’ expulsion from the Holy Land by the Romans, the rabbis codified the Law, cultivating a nascent ideological system that served as the Jewish homeland-in-exile for the next two millenia. More recently, nationalism—combining language, culture, religion, politics and history—has been the most potent locus of this impulse. As Said explained, </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote> Nationalism is an assertion of belonging in and to a place, a people, a heritage. It affirms the home created by a community of language, culture, and customs; and, by so doing, it fends off exile, fights to prevent its ravages. <br> <br>
… <br> <br>
[B]eyond the frontier between “us” and the “outsiders” is the perilous territory of not-belonging: this is to where in a primitive time peoples were banished, and where in the modern era immense aggregates of humanity loiter as refugees and displaced persons. Nationalisms are about groups, but in a very acute sense exile is a solitude experienced outside the group: the deprivations felt at not being with others in the communal habitation. How, then, does one surmount the loneliness of exile without falling into the encompassing and thumping language of national pride, collective sentiments, group passions?</br></br></br></br></blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br/></p><p>This, then, was the crisis with which Vallejo dealt. He was detached from both the land and the beliefs of his homeland, and could not commit to replacements. In the violent intellectual aftermath of the nineteenth century, he found himself twice the exile, cast out from both his Andean home and the doctrines of old.<br/></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br>Vallejo was not alone in his feelings of alienation from what had come before. The literary world of the West and its periphery was by the early twentieth century convinced that a radical break with the past had occurred, and that the old ways of thinking were no longer adequate. By 1918, the French poet Guillaume Apollinaire had, in a manifesto that represented the widespread sentiment of his peers, pronounced the old languages dead. “Oh, mouths,” he wrote, “man is in search of a new language!” Ezra Pound put it even more plainly in 1934, declaring only “Make it new!” This impulse, broadly termed artistic modernism, proliferated in literature, the visual arts, music, and other media. It became the dominant aesthetic of the first half of the century, including in Spanish-language poetry, where writers such as Pablo Neruda, Federico García Lorca, and Jorge Luis Borges embraced it at various points in their careers. Though the specifics of individual doctrines varied, a general consensus remained: out of death, something new was emerging. The Irish poet William Butler Yeats captured this insistence clearly in his famous 1919 poem “The Second Coming”:</br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote>Surely some revelation is at hand; <br>
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.<br>
... <br>
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, <br>
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? </br></br></br></br></blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><p>But while Vallejo is typically cast as the preeminent Latin American modernist, he differed from his peers in one essential way: he was convinced not of birth, but of death.<strong> </strong><br/></p><p>Death was a constant theme in Vallejo’s poetry; the title of his first book refers to a line from its first poem, in which Vallejo invoked “the black heralds sent us by Death.” Likewise, the best-known of the <em>Human Poems</em>, the prescient “Black Stone on a White Stone” (the title refers to the image of Vallejo’s body lying on a crypt), correctly predicted that Vallejo would die “on a rainy day in Paris … a Thursday, it will be.” But the obsession with death that permeates <em>Human Poems</em> extends beyond prognostications. Vallejo was concerned not just with his own mortality, but with death as a defining presence in human life. If Marx sought to reveal class relations as underlying all of life, and Freud the ego and sex drive, Vallejo was convinced of the omnipresence of death. Modern man was not, he believed, entering a new era but inevitably approaching a death. <br/></p><p>Vallejo saw nothing positive in this death. In the first section of <em>Human Poems</em> he wrote “it is not pleasant to die, sir, if one leaves nothing behind in life, and if nothing is possible in death save what one has managed to leave behind in life!” Neither did Vallejo envision death as a terminus. What mattered was not the event of death but its everpresent encroachment upon life. To be human, Vallejo believed, was “To have been born in order to live in our death!” while time “marches barefoot / from death toward death.”<br/></p><p>Although Vallejo accepted the modernist claim that there had been a death (“Everyone has died”, he claimed in a poem recalling his lost Peruvian past), he was not convinced that the dying was over. He believed, as his contemporary Antonio Gramsci, an Italian Marxist, wrote, that “The crisis consists precisely in the fact that the old is dying and the new cannot be born.” Nor was this death fruitful, as many modernists thought. In “Sermon on Death”, Vallejo lamented:</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote> It’s for this, that we die so much? <br>
Just in order to die, <br>
we have to die at every instant?</br></br></blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><p>It was a senseless death, and this death, like exile, dominated Vallejo’s language. “In sum,” he wrote, “I possess nothing to express my life, other than my death.” <br/></p><p>This, finally, was Vallejo’s concern with modernism’s “new language”: he doubted its very efficacy as a refuge. “And if after so many words / the word does not survive!”, he wrote despondently, “It would be better, in truth, / that everything were eaten up and we were finished!” How could language redeem the poet if his own words shared his mortal fate? What good was language in the face of humankind’s mortal, corporeal suffering? From this anguish sprung the finest of the <em>Human Poems</em>:</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote>A man passes by with a loaf on his shoulder <br>
Am I going to write, after that, about my double? <br> <br>
Another sits down, scratches himself, pulls a louse from his armpit, kills it <br>
With what worth can one speak of psychoanalysis? <br> <br>
Another has entered my chest with a stick in his hand <br>
To speak, then, about Socrates to the doctor? <br> <br>
A cripple passes by, giving his arm to a child <br>
I’m going to read André Breton after that? <br> <br>
Another is trembling of cold, coughing, spitting blood <br>
Is it ever fit to allude to the profound I? <br> <br>
Another looks through the sludge for bones, rinds <br>
How can one write, after that, about the infinite? <br> <br>
A bricklayer falls from a roof, dies, and no longer eats <br>
To innovate, then, in trope, in metaphor? <br> <br>
A merchant robs his client of a gram of weight <br>
To speak, after that, of a fourth dimension? <br> <br>
A banker falsifies his balance <br>
With what face can one cry in the theatre? <br> <br>
An outcast sleeps with his foot to his back <br>
To speak, after that, to no one of Picasso? <br> <br>
Someone is sobbing at a funeral <br>
How, then, to enter the Academy? <br> <br>
Someone is cleaning a rifle in his kitchen <br>
With what worth to speak of the beyond? <br> <br>
Someone passes by counting on his fingers <br>
How can one speak of the non-self without screaming? </br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br/></p><p>Vallejo thus rejected the innovations of modernism: out with Freud’s theories of sublimation, out with Breton’s surrealist poetry, out with Picasso’s cubist painting, out with all contrivance—how can one speak of these things, he asked, when suffering, exile, and death are ubiquitous? While his peers prematurely sought to fashion new worlds, Vallejo struggled to surmount this paradox of exile and refuge, life and death, language and silence. “From so much thinking,” he despaired, “I have no mouth.”<br/></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
●
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br>Yet Vallejo wrote. In spite of the personal agony, in spite of the paradoxes of language, exile, and death, he continued to create poetry. From a place of profound insecurity he offered a voice, not as the literary exile proffering answers, but as the anonymous, too-human exile, anxious and scared. Unlike his modernist peers, Vallejo’s key contribution was his admission that <em>he had not found an adequate language</em>. He did not merely insist that the old was dead and then offer a labored system to replace it. Instead, he took it upon himself to search unflinchingly for a sufficient language, no matter how futile that effort may have been. He found his voice in the contradictions of exile and death, and in his effort to make silence speak. And though his poetry proposed no answers, it insisted on the necessity of hope. As he wrote in the final poem of <em>Spain, Take This Chalice From Me</em>, composed along with the last of the <em>Human Poems</em> as the defeat of Spain’s freedom fighters appeared imminent and Vallejo’s health failed:</br></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote> [I]f Mother <br>
Spain falls —I mean, so to speak— <br>
go out, children of the world; go and look for her!...</br></br></blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><br/></p><p>Ever the exile, Vallejo never gave up on the conviction that one day he would return home, physically, ideologically, spiritually—and that if his old home was lost forever, he would find a way to build a new one. <br><br/></br></p><p><em>All translations of Vallejo cited in this piece are my own. For Vallejo’s complete poetry in English, see Clayton Eshleman’s </em>César Vallejo, The Complete Poetry: A Bilingual Edition.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Dilemmas of Duty]]></title><description><![CDATA[Religious holidays were some of my favorite days growing up. Hindu holidays in the U.S. didn’t result in days off of school, but they were all accompanied by rich traditions. We’d make elaborate chalk drawings outside to welcome good fortune into our home, or play on the swings to celebrate spring’s]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/dilemmas-of-duty/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__5f9767d3ca55cc2c4c11a35f</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 0 - Liminal Space]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Necessary]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Ankita Satpathy]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 27 Oct 2020 00:21:08 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">R</span>
eligious holidays were some of my favorite days growing up. Hindu holidays in the U.S. didn’t result in days off of school, but they were all accompanied by rich traditions. We’d make elaborate chalk drawings outside to welcome good fortune into our home, or play on the swings to celebrate spring’s arrival, and there were always sweets involved. I was raised with religion in the background of my life, but the focus was on culture over strict adherence to scripture. Unlike my classmates who took afternoon classes in Catholicism or spent weekends at Hebrew school, I didn’t worry much about learning “the Word.” However, one Bhagavad Gita quote that I repeatedly heard referenced was:
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote> “You have a right to perform your prescribed duty, but you are not entitled to the fruits of your action. You have a right to your labor, but not to the fruits of your labor.” </blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>The passage goes on to state that people should never assume credit or responsibility for the outcomes of their work, because only their duty is theirs, and the rest is in fate’s hands. As a child, my mother used the quote to put my mind at ease—when I had studied hard for a math test and was worrying about my grade, or when I wondered if I’d made the cut for some team at school. As I’ve grown up and taken on professional, results-focused roles, I’ve often thought back to those moments and wondered if I was breaking some implicit rule by caring about outcomes.</p><p>We were a Hindu household, but, like many other first-generation Americans, we were an ambitious one, too. Education was always at the center of my life, and eventually, so were the accolades that came with it. My parents spared me the so-called “tiger parenting” that is stereotypically associated with Asian immigrants, but that didn’t mean I didn’t care about results. No amount of parental love and support can spare a child the increasingly competitive experience of growing up in the contemporary American school system, in which, by sixteen, many children have made decisions that could dictate their educational and financial future. In light of this social context, perhaps it’s unsurprising that I found myself deeply concerned with the “fruits of my labor” from such a young age—whether my grades, tangible impacts in the office, or other measurable outcomes that I associated with my professional identity. </p><p>There’s nothing inherently wrong with this focus. In fact, most of my highly successful classmates and friends seem to possess it. Yet, the older I got, the more I found myself wondering if the intense focus on a goal—the pride I felt when I achieved it and the pain I felt when I failed—was somehow sacrilegious. At best, there seemed to be a clear tension between strong professional ambition and the religious teachings of living simply in your duty, trusting God with the rest.</p><p>Though perhaps most explicitly stated in the Bhagavad Gita, this idea echoes across many religions and philosophies. Versions of it appear in the Christian duty to serve others, the Mormon discipline, and the Buddhist emphasis on filial piety—all of which center around duty over personal reward. Other religions include implicit checks on external ambition through stated restrictions on wealth, like the Muslim tradition of Zakat (almsgiving) or giving a tithe to a church. Still others give no explicit guidance on ambition, or have mixed guidance that religious scholars debate to this day. For instance, in Luke 18:15, Jesus states “how hard it is for the rich to enter the kingdom of God! Indeed, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God." In contrast, Psalm 128 reads “You shall eat the fruit of the labor of your hands; you shall be blessed, and it shall be well with you." </p><p>Of course, restrictions on wealth are merely one manifestation of this concept and a focus on results can extend far beyond earning money. To different individuals, it might mean maximizing one’s personal potential, beating a numerical goal for the sake of the challenge, leaving a legacy of positive change behind them, or some combination of the above.</p><p>In fact, many of these motivators seem to explain the younger generation’s trends in the workforce. More and more millennials and members of generation Z are rejecting traditional paths through hierarchical organizations in favor of self-directed careers. These involve several organizational and sectoral switches in pursuit of greater professional development, impact, and value alignment. Albeit noble, a focus on altruistic outcomes is nevertheless a focus on outcomes, as opposed to simply one’s “duty” of clocking in a solid eight hours per day.</p><p>Moreover, according to a 2010 Pew Research Center study, the value placed on salary and stability has only increased for the cohort of individuals raised amidst the 2008 recession and growing economic inequality. The concept of working hard for the sake of good results, be they religious or economic, has long been embedded in our national history by the Protestant work ethic and the spirit of capitalism. The Calvinist belief that hard work and its accompanying success were guarantees of spiritual salvation tied work ethic, measurable outcomes, and faith together in one complex knot that sits at the center of early American history. In this sense, the country’s simultaneous focus on professional and religious identity is as American as ambition itself.</p><p>The 2015 Pew Religious Landscape study also called millennials the least overtly religious American generation in modern times. By all traditional measures, this is true. Just 27% of millennials attend religious services on a weekly basis while 38% of baby boomers and over 50% of the greatest and silent generations do the same. Roughly 60% of baby boomers and over half of generation Xers say religion is “very important” in their lives, but this number falls to roughly 40% where millennials are concerned. However, Pew also reports that millennials seem just as likely to be spiritual as previous generations. Like older generations, over half of millennials say they think deeply about the purpose of life on a weekly basis. Even many unaffiliated individuals reported praying regularly.</p><p>We have no reason to suppose a causal connection between the generation’s increased focus on outcomes and decreased focus on organized religion, but the mere fact that these trends are developing in tandem is an interesting one which highlights the complex position young Americans have found themselves in. Many don’t feel bound by the constructs of a specific religious tradition, but clearly still have both faith and goals driven by something beyond themselves. Perhaps it is in this liminal space that a professional and spiritual identity can exist in harmony. </p><p>I expect that the drivers that have motivated me and countless others in the past (a desire to excel, to honor our parents’ sacrifices, and to create positive change, to name just a few) will stay with me as time goes on. I further expect that our generation will continue to walk the tightrope between goals and greed. My sincere hope is that these factors push us to fulfill our duty to ourselves and others with stronger resolve, rather than neglect it entirely.</p><p>Encouraging people to trust in God is a lovely sentiment, but it shouldn’t be interpreted as guidance to have blind faith in a divine future which requires no work on our part. A climate change researcher must consider whether corporations are actually utilizing their recommendations or not, or our planet won’t heal. A first-generation college student striving to lift their family out of poverty must consider their starting salary so they can experience upward social mobility. Indeed, anyone concerned with the betterment of themselves and their world in any respect must carefully consider the results of their own work and course-correct when those results aren’t what they intended. Much as I might wish it were, one’s “duty” isn’t clearly inscribed anywhere. <br><br>In a contemporary world, the proverbial quest to live with purpose is a messy journey of self-discovery and prioritizing competing duties during different seasons of life. Now more than ever, our country needs a generation of individuals who are actively mindful of the fruits of their labor and the legacy they leave behind them. <em>Dharma</em>, or any other version of a concept of following one’s duty, remains close to my heart. However, I am conscious of the fact that discovering exactly what it is requires a focus on my external impact, and now believe it is one that can be achieved even by those with big dreams. Though I now try to avoid worrying much about what implicit rule I’m breaking each time I anxiously await a performance result, I don’t mean to imply that I’ve provided a definitive answer to this question, or even that such an answer exists. </br></br></p><p>I am neither a religious scholar nor a spokesperson of my entire generation—perhaps someone more orthodox than I would argue that ambition and devotion can’t peacefully coexist. However, from my perspective as a young believer—a member of both the “spiritual but not strictly religious” generation and a cohort of impact-focused Americans—it seems there is an acceptable overlap between the two which lies at the intersection of being ambitious and fulfilling one’s unique direction rather than for ambition’s sake. To others who feel a similar tension and calling, I believe we can start by simply being driven by faith—in a higher power, yes, but also by faith in ourselves and the impact we can make on this world if we are cognizant of it.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Seventeenth Grade]]></title><description><![CDATA[On a sweltering mid-August afternoon, I dragged three bulging suitcases out of Logan International Airport, hiding a tired but triumphant grin behind my white Temasek Foundation-issued face mask. Five visa appointment cancellations and many soul-searching decisions later, I had finally made it to]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/seventeenth-grade/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__5f976758ca55cc2c4c11a356</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 0 - Liminal Space]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Felicia Hanitio]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 27 Oct 2020 00:19:34 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">O</span>
n a sweltering mid-August afternoon, I dragged three bulging suitcases out of Logan International Airport, hiding a tired but triumphant grin behind my white Temasek Foundation-issued face mask. Five visa appointment cancellations and many soul-searching decisions later, I had finally made it to Boston. In a few days, I would join millions of graduate students worldwide, entering into the ritual of extended adolescence and self-discovery that is graduate education.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Earlier this year, as COVID-19 infection rates soared, schools and businesses shut down, and the world moved online, I, like many of my peers, reconsidered my decision to enroll in business school this fall. It wasn’t just about the idea of a “diminished” learning and social experience for the same hefty $200,000 price tag. With a Singaporean passport, I was also on relatively privileged footing to deal with uncertainty around the embassy reopening, visa application timelines, and post-graduation job opportunities. For me, the weightiest consideration was the opportunity cost inherent in spending the next two years in the ivory tower of academia, learning to “make a difference in the world”—the motto of Harvard’s business school—when ample opportunities existed all around to step up, stretch, and lead in a time of global crisis.</p><p>Yet in the midst of the death of an old “normal,” and the birth of a new reality taking shape, I decided that this would be <em>the</em> opportune time to step back and think critically about the kind of leader I want to be. The timeless existential question posed in “The Summer Day” by the late poet Mary Oliver seemed to urge even closer examination this year:</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div style="text-align: center;">
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon? <br>
Tell me, what is it you plan to do <br>
with your one wild and precious life?
</br></br></div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p><em> </em></p><p>What are the kinds of difference worth fighting for, the answers worth pursuing, and the questions worth asking in times like these? For the next two years, I have the opportunity to examine these lines of inquiry and more with a diverse class of 732 MBA students from over 50 nations, all making space to invest in our own growth so we can better invest in others. I recently realized, too, that stepping back does not have to be at the expense of leaning in. Rather, with the enhanced perspectives, tools, and networks it provides, the MBA community serves as a powerful platform for rapid-testing innovative theories of change even during our time as student-professionals.</p><p>When I originally decided to apply for an MBA, I saw these two years as a space in which I could take a giant leap of faith from who I was at the time toward who I wanted to become. After almost four years working in Indonesia’s education sector as a foundation professional, I dreamed of exploring a possible future path as a founder and social entrepreneur. I yearned to carve out space to test and exchange crazy ideas, learn from peers and professors who have started, scaled and closed down businesses, and gradually grow my own confidence and risk tolerance. I hoped to experiment with my leadership style and absorb wisdom from new friends with backgrounds as diverse as heading submarine intelligence units 250 meters below sea level, to developing digital solutions to eliminate malaria across the Southern Hemisphere. Most importantly, I planned to continue a focused pursuit of deepening my Christian faith and identity alongside redemptive rhythms of work, rest, and community that would lay an important foundation for the rest of my life.</p><p>It’s strange and beautiful, this notion of coming back to school in part to reconsider who we want to be when we grow up, when we’ve already grown up in many ways. I’ve chuckled reading Instagram captions from my classmates celebrating the experience of becoming a “freshman” again, or in one particularly tongue-in-cheek post, starting “seventeenth grade.” Granted, this second experience of being a freshman is distinctly different than the first. I, for one, know I’m radically changed today from the person I was when I began my undergraduate degree in the United States eight years ago; different even from the Felicia who, upon graduating, decided that she would like to spend the rest of her career working in community development in Indonesia and Southeast Asia.</p><p>This time, my worldview and sense of place in the world are much more firmly formed; my eight years and counting of following Christ serve as a unifying anchor, and my understanding of what it takes to realize systemic change in Indonesia’s education system has gained much-needed texture and nuance. Yet I’m full of adolescent excitement to discover the tangible paths and possibilities that lie ahead in pursuit of this mission. Most of my classmates, I’ve learned, share my sense of anticipation. For some, years of following the mold have left them hungry to discover their own true North Star and rechart their course. For others, the brevity of life brought to consciousness by the pandemic has provided new boldness and clarity to pursue, or perhaps double down on, a calling that makes their heart sing.</p><p>Ten weeks back into student life, I’ve also noticed, underlying the general atmosphere of excitement, an undercurrent of anxiety: a restlessness to figure out where we’re going, whether we’re on the right track, and how we can <em>get</em> on track to make this $200,000 investment and two-year opportunity cost count. A few weeks ago, something like half of my class began recruiting for their summer internships. Would-be founders began networking with increased fervor. Discussions about post-graduate plans suddenly took on a new flavor of urgency. We like to joke about being freshmen, but heaven forbid we actually feel as uncertain about the shapes of our futures as do most undergraduate freshmen. I wonder if over the years we’ve lost our sense of childlike wonder—the ability to live in joyful expectation as we move in nonlinear ways from one version of self to another. I must admit: I’m culprit number one. I came to business school with a commitment to explore and iterate courageously upon my hypotheses of who I will become and what I will do with this life; yet, I find myself almost daily battling the temptation to grasp at definite answers that I can tout confidently in coffee chats and networking meetings.</p><p>Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard wrote originally of the relationship between anxiety and possibility in <em>The Concept of Anxiety</em>: </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote> [A]nxiety is the dizziness of freedom, which emerges when the spirit wants to posit the synthesis and freedom looks down into its possibility, laying hold of finiteness to support itself. </blockquote>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Building on Kierkegaard’s ideas, American existential psychologist Rollo May elaborates on the necessary role anxiety plays in creativity and self-development: </p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote> “Because it is possible to create…one has anxiety…. Now creating, actualizing one’s possibilities, always involves negative as well as positive aspects. It always involves destroying the status quo, destroying old patterns within oneself...and creating new and original forms and ways of living.” </blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Anxiety, then, is not inherently a sign of weakness. Rather, it is an expected, and to some extent a necessary, part of the act of “creating new and original forms and ways of living”: whether at the level of the individual or of society. Unbridled and left to fester, however, anxiety becomes incapacitating—the antithesis of freedom. I remember this from my darkest season of doubt in high school. I’ve seen it crop up again and again, in myself and others, as we grapple with the uncertainty and slow process of change associated with the conflated health, economic, and social pandemics our society faces today. How might we, then, position ourselves relative to our anxiety so that it powers creativity instead of paralysis? </p><p>Drawing inspiration from Kierkegaard and May’s work, as well as recent personal experiences, I’d like to suggest three lenses to help us—as individuals and as a collective society—to move from anxiety toward the fulfillment of our potential.</p><p>The first lens is to see anxiety as not only a natural byproduct of our growth process but as a powerful, educational tool. Anxiety alerts us to the unconscious beliefs we may hold despite the rational truths we subscribe to, and to the old ways of being we have not fully unlearned. It provides inflection points in which we can choose to reexamine our core beliefs and values, and to remember and act on our agency. For example, in my religious worldview, anxiety signals to me that I am imagining my future without God—believing that God is not in control, does not have my best interests in mind, or does not faithfully provide. In response, I have the opportunity to recommit to trusting God’s weaving in my life, and to daily choices and practices that stem from this core decision.</p><p>In one TED talk, investor and author Tim Ferriss goes so far as to suggest that we should practice “fear-setting” instead of “goal-setting” to help us make important decisions: envisioning and writing down our fears in detail, separating what we can control from what we cannot, listing the potential benefits of taking action, and, crucially, listing the costs of inaction. On my plane ride to the United States, I went through a similar framework as part of a letter I wrote to myself in preparation for business school. Whether your core philosophy is stoicism, like Ferriss’s, or conscious surrender to a higher power, like mine, the practice of unpacking one’s anxieties and fears can actually provide renewed courage to make the leaps of faith we need to make.</p><p>The second lens is to model an embrace of ambiguity in solving hard problems. In a particular case study I dissected, one innovative company defined tolerance for ambiguity as a core bedrock of their culture and critical enabler of their creative process. In a time when so much of our world needs to be reimagined, and yet so little is predictable, we need leaders who are not afraid to acknowledge, own, and wrestle with uncertainty, whether it is their own or others’. We need leaders who are okay with uncovering more questions for every possible answer we come up with in the process of creating systemic change. While our culture has idealized the notion of a confident, invulnerable leader, in this day and age, I believe the most credible leaders are those who are candid about their uncertainties and gaps of expertise while pursuing better questions and collaborative solutions.</p><p>The third lens is to practice disciplined and systematic inquiry, as both a mindset and a process. In my previous work with schools in Indonesia, one of my foundation’s most important theories of change was that inquiry-based learning, as opposed to the dominant deductive methods of schooling that have been widely adopted over the past few centuries, would best prepare young learners and their learning guardians to thrive in an increasingly volatile, uncertain world. It goes without question that I am a huge proponent of the power of inquiry, yet still I find it extremely difficult to apply this to my own life. </p><p>As I write now, I’ve come to realize that the season I’m in currently is a season of questions more than it is a season of answers—and that’s intentional. This does not mean that I take a <em>laissez-faire </em>approach to my educational and professional journey. Rather, borrowing principles from the design thinking world, I can commit myself to cycles of divergent and convergent inquiry. While they are not mutually exclusive, I have decided that my first semester will be primarily one of open-ended exploration and gathering of questions, while in my second semester I will start to put a few structured hypotheses to the test. </p><p>There’s an uncomfortable yet productive tension that comes with the process of identity evolution as graduate students, yes, but truly as humans at-large. In the journey of leaving behind old permutations of self and moving toward new possibilities, we often live in the spaces “in between.” These threshold spaces can be disorienting—dizzying even—but they are also the birthplaces of incredible transformation and hope. I’m aware that my fellow classmates and I occupy a unique space in the midst of a unique period in world history. I am determined to be a keen observer and engaged participant in the unique forms of creation and transformation that can take place in such times.</p><p>At the end of the day, I’m still not 100 percent sure—not even 80 or 60 percent sure—what it is exactly I plan to do with this one wild and precious life of mine. I’m not sure what the world will be like when I graduate or the kind of leader Felicia will be two years from now. I do have a general direction I am pursuing, a few lines and lenses of inquiry I have committed to, and a set of hypotheses that continue to evolve daily. For now, I’m content to trust I am where I am supposed to be.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Arm in Arm]]></title><description><![CDATA[The realization hit me like a rusty, yellow school bus: I have not issued a single demerit.
Since March, I have reimagined my pedagogy from the ground up. I rebuilt entire units from scratch, filmed video lessons to help kids learn asynchronously, and spent countless hours debating with colleagues]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/arm-in-arm/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__5f976718ca55cc2c4c11a34e</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 0 - Liminal Space]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Necessary]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Nate Stauffer]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Tue, 27 Oct 2020 00:18:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><em>Cody is a pseudonym to protect the student’s privacy.</em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">T</span>
he realization hit me like a rusty, yellow school bus: I have not issued a single demerit.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Since March, I have reimagined my pedagogy from the ground up. I rebuilt entire units from scratch, filmed video lessons to help kids learn asynchronously, and spent countless hours debating with colleagues about how to provide support through a laptop screen. In all that time, despite the high stakes and constant stress, I have not issued a single behavioral consequence to my students.</p><p>At each school I’ve taught in, I learned new protocols for addressing behavioral challenges, from clip charts to family phone calls to individual behavior plans and whole-class rubrics. Though unique in practice, these strategies all nominally shared similar objectives: to maintain high expectations, to promote a safe community, and to ensure consistency in holding kids accountable when they cause harm. Even when I felt at odds with their design, I felt assured by their underlying goals. As the keeper of our classroom culture, the responsibility and authority to punish bad behaviors rested with me.</p><p>I started teaching sixth grade at my current school in the fall of 2019, seven months before the pandemic hit. At that time, teachers were given a simple system for punishing misbehaviors. Any action that disrupted the flow of class would earn a “demerit," logged into an online tracker that all teachers could access. When a student earned three demerits, they were held for an hour after school to reflect on their actions with our Dean of Students. Every Monday, the program reset so students could start each week with a clean slate.</p><p>The objective of this three-strike system was clearly defensible: demerits would disincentivize kids from disrupting the learning process or hurting the classroom community. The simplicity of this method ensured that teachers would not waste excessive time in class addressing individual behaviors at the expense of group instruction. Given its noble intentions, I felt empowered to maintain the system regardless of its impacts.</p><p>Then, I met Cody.</p><p>Cody was an eleven-year-old with the gravelly voice of a chain-smoking 1950s ad executive. His unkempt hair gave the illusion of wisps of flame shooting from his head, appropriate given his fiery personality. He loved the Red Sox, Marvel movies, and Takis. His ebbing and flowing energy was a barometer for that of his whole cohort. On days when Cody shot into my room, I would brace myself for a high-octane lesson. Other days, when he plodded in with sullen eyes, I would turn up my charms to chase the clouds away.</p><p>Despite my instant investment in Cody’s well-being, we did not start out the year on good footing. From the first day of class, he challenged my authority. If I reminded him to take his seat, he would dart across the room the second I turned around. If I asked him not to bounce his soccer ball, he would thump on it defiantly. On one occasion, he turned my packet of post-it notes into a suit of flimsy, pastel armor covering his face and arms.</p><p>In my class, Cody earned demerits like he was chasing after Halloween candy. I tried bargaining with him, pulling him into the hallway to check in, calling his mom, moving his assigned seat. Yet, with each step, the situation only worsened. We fell into a vicious spiral: his behavior led me to issue consequences which upset him and worsened his behavior. Each time I logged another demerit for him, I felt like I was fooling myself. Who was truly at fault in this endless cycle of punishment and crime?</p><p>I took a seminar on negotiations in graduate school. In one class, the professor asked us to turn to a partner, put an elbow down, lock hands, close our eyes, and try to touch each others' forearms to the desk as many times as possible in thirty seconds. Instantly recognizing this game as arm wrestling, I tightened my muscles and pressed back against my partner. He and I stayed locked in place for the entirety of the allotted time.</p><p>When we opened our eyes, the professor asked if any folks had been able to score thirty points during the game. To my surprise, a few hands shot up. One of my peers mentioned that the rules of the game did not explicitly ask us to arm wrestle. The key to the exercise was not to push back on one another but to cooperate. If both partners in the game viewed each other as collaborators rather than competitors, then they could move each others' arms back and forth with ease, avoiding the pain and strain of pressing into one another at full force.</p><p>Fast forward to a Tuesday this past February. Cody had a rough morning and earned his third demerit of the day just minutes after stepping into class. Overwhelmed and unsure how to course correct, I sent him to visit the Dean of Students. Later that afternoon, his advisor asked him to come back to me to have a conversation. Selfishly, I opened my door expecting an apology from him. Instead, I found him crouching on the ground, arms crossed, nostrils flared, eyes brimming with tears.</p><p>“Why do you hate me?” Cody asked.</p><p>“Hate you? Cody, I could never hate you,” I replied.</p><p>“You’re always out to get me. You give me more demerits than anyone.”</p><p>“To be clear, you earn demerits through your behavior. I don’t give them to you.”</p><p>“IT’S NOT FAIR. Other kids do the same things I do and you never even…”</p><p>“Cody,” I cut him off. “What do you want?”</p><p>“I want you to take back the demerits you gave me this morning.”</p><p>“I can’t do that, but tomorrow is a new day. What can we do to make tomorrow’s class better?”</p><p>“YOU’RE RUINING MY LIFE. I HATE YOU. I’M NEVER DOING WORK FOR YOUR CLASS AGAIN.”</p><p>“I’m sorry you feel hurt. Is there something I can do to better support you?”</p><p>“I don’t care anymore. Leave me alone.”</p><p>I obliged.</p><p>As I walked back into my classroom, leaving Cody sprawled out on the floor of the hallway, I became aware of my own smugness. My calm demeanor in the conversation allowed me to maintain some moral high ground while a young person with a still-developing frontal cortex melted down in front of me. As my arms tensed up, a terrible thought occurred: I was viewing Cody as my opponent, not my collaborator. We were locked in an arm-wrestling match that neither of us could win.</p><p>A rising movement in American education, particularly in charter networks, promotes a “no excuses” approach to student support. The underlying theory suggests that school is meant to be a communal work environment with clear expectations, and, by entering, all members of the community consent to abide by them. As such, whatever experiences may be impacting a kid’s life outside of school are considered irrelevant to their behavior in the building. Educators who buy into this model believe schools should help kids learn how to control and compartmentalize their emotions so they will be prepared for the grueling, bootstrapping work of striving for success in a society that tends to value professional achievements over personal well-being.</p><p>In the faculty room after my clash with Cody, I sat with my conflicting emotions. On the one hand, it gutted me to hear a child say that I was ruining his life. On the other, I believed I was preventing him from making excuses for his behavior. Surely collaboration did not mean I needed to excuse his disruptive antics, right? Deep down, I knew that I could not resolve this tension on my own. Heart pounding, I walked down to the Dean’s office to check on Cody.</p><p>When he saw me enter, Cody walked toward me but kept his eyes averted. We went back to his advisory room. In hopes of seeing eye-to-eye both literally and figuratively, I sat on the floor while he plopped into a chair. I started by saying that I wanted us to better understand each other, and that I promised I would listen to him before I spoke.</p><p>As he shared his feelings with me, I realized that we had a common struggle. Like me, Cody had an absent father with disabilities who popped in and out of his life at random, inconvenient times. Recently, Cody's mom agreed to let him visit his dad on Tuesday afternoons. Because he had to stay after school that day, he missed his chance to see his dad for the week.</p><p>Suddenly, his outbursts made sense. I knew firsthand how it felt to grow up as a young man without my dad at home, and I knew how that absence informed my perception of other male authority figures. As a teenager, when male teachers would shoot me disapproving glances, waves of electricity flooded my brain. Predisposed toward self-loathing, I internalized these power surges as personal failures. With this recollection, I began to wonder what unintended consequences my presence as a disciplinarian had on Cody.</p><p>I sat with him for over an hour, the sharp edges of his face slowly blurring through my wet eyes. As the evening crept in, I thanked him for his honesty and walked him out to his bus stop. Before I sent him off, we promised we would work together to support each other moving forward. Reentering the building, I felt a new sort of electricity buzz through me.</p><p>Everyone who teaches was once a student. As adults, we often assume we know what children need simply because we were once young, too. The more I teach, though, the more flawed this belief seems. Beyond the changing generational context and the impact of technological advancements on human development, the pangs of pubescence are deeply personal and difficult to revisit once they have been overcome. This is why, as educators, we must actively exercise empathy for each new child in our classes. We must lean into their experiences curiously, without assuming that we understand. Every kid has a new area of expertise to teach us about: themselves.</p><p>A few weeks after my conversation with Cody, the pandemic exploded, thrusting our students and staff into virtual classrooms for the first time. The flaws of the “no excuses” model became glaring amidst the new reality of remote schooling. Some kids were in homes with food insecurity or unstable internet connections. Others had guardians who worked in essential fields. Many had relatives—like Cody’s dad—who faced dangerous pre-existing conditions. A few contracted the virus. One young man lost his mother. The differences in our kids’ lived experiences were unavoidable. As teachers, we had no excuse to ignore them.</p><p>Our team’s approach to support our students shifted from punishing behaviors we felt negatively impacted our community to promoting the well-being of each child in our classes. As a result of working in isolated bubbles, however, we lacked the capacity to unite our practices in the moment. The arrival of summer offered an important chance for us to regroup, reflect, and prepare for an uncertain future. As I considered the year, the challenges of virtual teaching, and my relationship with Cody, I finally recognized the shortcomings of punitive discipline and dedicated myself to seeking better ways to serve my kids.</p><p>With the new academic year, my school has echoed this commitment, rethinking the systems we have passively upheld for so long. We now recognize that punitive methods like demerits are more damaging than beneficial. Working together as teachers, administrators, students, and families to solve problems will strengthen our community. Mistakes are inevitable, but issuing punishments does not inherently lead to solutions. Under the weight of these lessons, the lopsided power structure of our classroom management system has toppled.</p><p>In its place, we have shifted to a fully restorative disciplinary model. As a teacher, I still hold the primary authority to maintain a positive class culture but when harm is caused, I am called to work directly with my students as co-workers in the process of resolving conflicts. In lieu of issuing demerits, I open conversations. Rather than sending kids to detention to reflect on their errors, I take time out of my day to listen to my students’ perspectives, share my own, and unpack the roots of our disagreements. When I feel challenged by students like Cody in the future, I will seek common ground instead of initiating a futile power struggle.</p><p>The rollout of the restorative disciplinary model has been generally well-received by staff and students alike, though many questions remain: how will such an approach look when we all finally return to the school building? How do we differentiate our responses to behaviors based on the type of harm caused? What happens when challenges persist after repeated interventions? Crucially, how will this model facilitate the multitude of new health and safety protocols that will accompany our return to in-person learning? Recognizing these areas of uncertainty, our school has convened a task force of students and teachers who will address them together. As with all aspects of service-based work, our new practices will evolve with time and experience.</p><p>If the past year has taught me one lesson as an educator, it is that we must never feel too comfortable in our work. Discomfort is a necessary precursor to change, and change is the antidote to our individual shortcomings, as well as the failures of the education system writ large. Supporting each other with an eye toward individual circumstances is essential to ensuring mutual growth and well-being. With communication, flexibility, courage, and resilience, teachers and students can rethink the rules of our shared work.</p><p>Arm in arm, we all can win.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Leave No Trace: Carrying Hope, Home, and Freedom from the Appalachian Trail into Everyday Wilderness]]></title><description><![CDATA[There is a rugged footpath called the Appalachian Trail running 2,190.9 miles from Springer Mountain in Georgia to Mount Katahdin in Maine. It is a wilderness, a sanctuary, a classroom, and a pilgrimage for those who travel it. The Appalachian Trail becomes deeply woven into one’s being—from]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/araminta-ray/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__5f95f9daca55cc2c4c11a313</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 0 - Liminal Space]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Necessary]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Araminta Ray]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sun, 25 Oct 2020 22:20:44 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">T</span>
here is a rugged footpath called the Appalachian Trail running 2,190.9 miles from Springer Mountain in Georgia to Mount Katahdin in Maine. It is a wilderness, a sanctuary, a classroom, and a pilgrimage for those who travel it. The Appalachian Trail becomes deeply woven into one’s being—from transformed physical anatomy due to the stresses of walking, to the resilience and grit that no earthly challenge can steal, to a permanent change in perspective on suffering and nature and contentment therein. My own soul has been irreversibly remodeled by the Appalachian Trail, and for that I am eternally grateful.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Envisioned in 1921 by Benton McKaye to function as a wilderness corridor connecting one town to the next, the Appalachian Trail (AT) was completed in 1937 and remains the longest foot-travel-only hiking path in the world. Over its near 2,200 miles, the AT passes through fourteen states, gaining and losing elevation equivalent to sixteen summits of Mount Everest from sea level. While most of the volunteer-maintained trail lies in national forests, national parks, and other such wilderness areas, there are also sections of the trail that travel on roads, through towns, and even in private backyards. More than 2 million people visit the AT every year. Most go for short day hikes; others spend multiple days or weeks on the trail, and approximately four to five thousand attempt to hike the entire length of the trail in one season, called "thru hikers."</p><p>Most thru hikers walk Northbound, starting in Georgia during the months of March and April, hoping to make it to Mount Katahdin before the snow and ice set in at the beginning of October. A much smaller portion of hikers starts in Maine in June or July to hike Southbound with the fall, finishing at Springer Mountain before the harshness of winter. Still fewer choose alternative routes, most commonly a “flip flop,” which constitutes starting somewhere in the middle of the trail, hiking to one terminus, then returning to the starting point to reverse direction and complete the trail at the opposite end. Only one in five of those who attempt a thru hike complete their journey. In 2018, I fulfilled a dream I’ve had for as long as I can remember and became one of those people.</p><p>As I was considering the details of my thru hike, I took a position with The United Methodist Church as a “Trail Chaplain.” I was the only thru-hiking Chaplain appointed by the church for 2018 and the first female to have ever held this position. As Chaplain, my role was to thru hike the AT and to minister to the hiking community by connecting AT hikers to local churches along the way. The role consisted not of evangelizing in campsites but rather offering a listening ear, praying with and for others when asked, and bearing a witness of hope.</p><p>I started my 149-day journey on June 15, 2018 in Harpers Ferry, West Virginia. I hiked over 1,100 miles northbound to Katahdin, then returned to Harpers Ferry and continued southbound for 1,000 miles, completing the trail at Springer Mountain on November 10, 2018. I hiked fifteen to thirty miles each day, slept in my tent or in one of 250 wooden, three-sided trail shelters along the way, and maintained a diet of junk food and ramen noodles. I hitchhiked to nearby towns every three to five days to eat a hot meal, take a shower, do laundry, and resupply food for the next leg of the journey.</p><p>My hike was long and hard. There were days that were blisteringly hot; my skin bled from chaffing; my head throbbed from dehydration while searching for water during a dry Pennsylvania summer. There were lengthy spells of cold rain—sixty-five total days, to be exact—when my raisiny skin sloughed off in chunks and my sub-dermal blisters pierced my resolve with each soggy step. There were days I felt too weak to stand, especially when ill with cryptosporidium (a waterborne parasite) while hiking alone through Hurricane Florence in Shenandoah National Park.</p><p>But my hike was the most joyful season I have ever experienced. There were warm, breezy days when I napped on mountaintops surrounded by panoramic views of the mountains I had walked over and would walk over. There were days I felt superhuman, propelling my 5’3” frame and my 30-pound backpack over the highest peaks on the East Coast with energy to spare by day’s end. There were days I felt deep companionship as I hiked on the heels of my best friends while we laughed our way through the daily mileage. Sometimes I felt a full range of emotions from joy to despair, allowing tears to flow freely down my dirt-streaked face. Sometimes I felt nothing at all; some days I simply existed in the rhythm of my footsteps.</p><p>People often ask if I was afraid. I was—although not of bears, snakes, or serial killers—but of lightning, yellow jackets, and norovirus. I did not take a companion on the Appalachian Trail. I hiked alone. But <em>alone</em> is a relative term. The AT is a tight-knit community of hikers from all walks of life. People travel from across the world to walk, to grieve, to heal, to transition between careers and seasons, to celebrate, and to strip life down to its essence in search of themselves.</p><p>As a reflection of this process, thru hikers on the Appalachian Trail drop their legal names to earn and live by a new one—a trail name. Trail names are not chosen, but are given by other members of the hiking community—usually coinciding with a quirky characteristic about the individual or something dumb they did early in their hike. As trivial as the origins of a trail name might be, the new identity that one takes on throughout their 2,000-mile journey is sacred. A new name is permission to heal, permission to shed what you brought to the trail, permission to try a new thing without pretext. It is permission to become what is at the bedrock of your being. I was named Blueberry, for my floppy blue hat that could be seen from the next ridge over. While I was initially frustrated with the conventional nature and origin of such a name, my journey, my identity as a hiker, and my transformation depended on it.</p><p>But why does this continue to matter? What is there to carry from the wilderness into the noise of the ordinary? What is essential?</p><p>In his 1862 essay, “Walking,” Henry David Thoreau wrote of a deep connection with Nature fostered through the constant act of walking. Simultaneously, he grumbled about the apparent contentedness of his peers who remained indoors, ignoring Nature, and who were permanently drawn to the lures of Society. When I crossed the Potomac and started walking north from Harpers Ferry, I expected to return to society five months later having found my own Walden Pond and a mindset that echoed Thoreau's. The transition from the freedom and simplicity of life on the Appalachian Trail to my daily existence as a medical student has been challenging. Thoreau declared:</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote> “For my part, I feel that with regard to Nature I live sort of a border life, on the confines of a world into which I make occasional and transient forays only, and my patriotism and allegiance to the state into whose territories I seem to retreat are those of a moss-trooper.” </blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>There are days now when my own conscience resonates with Thoreau’s frustration; however, instead of a traitor, I feel as an ambassador of that which I learned on the Appalachian Trail.</p><p>I started my thru hike expecting to return from the woods a modern-day Thoreau. I expected my time on the trail to make returning to—and meaningfully engaging in—society an impossibility. While I marched, leaving Society to commune with Nature, I wrestled with the grief of depression, suicide, and loss. I was still rattled from the fallout of a tragic exile from my college faith community, four years without rest or space to breathe, and the deaths of more friends than I could count on one hand. I came to the trail fully expecting to shed elements of myself, yes, but to shed plenty of tears, too, as I had during the last eighteen months of college. I did freely cry on trail. I did continue to seek and receive the healing that I desperately craved during that time.</p><p>However, in the aperture of long days spent walking through unnamed hills and deciduous forests, I also found hope. I made hope. Sure, there was plenty of hope to be had on sunny, mountaintop days, petting wild ponies in the Grayson Highlands on the first crisp day of fall, crossing Franconia Ridge on the rare clear afternoon above tree line. But the kind that surprised me—the hope I learned to manufacture—came from finding a buffet of forest mushrooms that could only survive in years as wet as 2018, and in blueberries that had the audacity to grow in crags above the Maine tree line. Everyone expects hope on sunny days, and I soaked up every bit I could find, but the hope that transformed—the hope that brought healing not prescribed in a binary—came in spaces created by Nature’s harshness.</p><p>Setting off to find my own Walden, I intended to run away. While I knew the path I would travel was marked by 2x6 inch white blazes and was detailed in my guidebook, I was there to physically walk away from the city I spent years calling home, and to figuratively walk away from the pain it carried. As I trudged through rain and hauled my pack over mountains, I had every opportunity to walk off my frustrations. The climbs up mountains flowed together into hours, days, weeks, and months. Over time, my focus shifted from running away to cultivating a sense of belonging in the liminality of life on the trail. <br><br>The endless ridges and switchbacks gave me the space I needed and challenged me to see beyond my frantic search for Walden Pond. I created a safe space in the consistency and rhythm of life on the trail. I never slept in the same place twice, but each day began early, and in the same way: listening to the hiss of my sleeping pad as it deflated, stuffing my sleeping bag into its sack, socks on, gaiters up, shoes tied, Poptart ready, ready to walk. Like clockwork, my body would demand more calories at mile four; I'd take a second breakfast rest-stop, find a sunny place for lunch or a shelter on rainy days, snack on Snickers at four p.m., make camp before dusk, sleep under stars, repeat. I learned to find peace and rest anywhere, and to make it where I could not find it. To make home while I walked home. In the final weeks of my hike, I passed through my beloved Smokies—the mountains I grew up in.</br></br></p><p>In “Walking,” his discourse on freedom, Thoreau stated:</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote> “I wish to speak a word for Nature, for absolute freedom and wildness, as contrasted with a freedom and culture merely civil—to regard man as an inhabitant, or a part and parcel of Nature rather than a member of Society.” </blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>I started the Appalachian Trail in hopes of claiming this same wild, absolute freedom. I would finally be untethered from the expectations, schedules, and reminders of hardship that had previously governed my life. However, the months I spent on the AT exposed the complexity of such freedom.</p><p>As does membership in society, freedom on the Appalachian Trail demands responsibility. In the hiking community, this is called "Leave No Trace." On the trail, practicing freedom doesn't mean acting recklessly, but adhering to a common code of ethics that permits us to enjoy nature sustainably. It involves taking extra time to properly dispose of waste. It involves moving judiciously, to prevent the need for a rescue operation. It involves respect for common spaces, fellow species, and natural resources. After months of observing the traces left by those who failed to hike accountably, I recognized that my return to society would demand a new assumption of responsibility. The maintenance of freedom demands action.</p><p>Hiking the Appalachian Trail awakened parts of my heart long beat into submission by the cacophony of life. Minta—lonely, ashamed, and exhausted—gave way to Blueberry: a spunky and honest creature who laughed her pants wet and spoke up for what she needed. Blueberry listened for hours to the Lord in the forest and the longings of folks she hiked beside. </p><p>I am in medical school now. I still rise before the sun, although now it is to study pathology and to build the knowledge my future patients will depend on. While these moments are less remarkable and these emotions less intense, I still experience mountaintops and gaps with joy and pain. At the expense of my academics, I carve out time to exist in nature and commune with the Lord. </p><p>My thru hike as a chaplain on the Appalachian Trail has granted me dual citizenship in Nature and Society. Now, as our society grapples with a pandemic, a contentious election season, and ongoing racial injustice, I draw on lessons I have carried from the woods. When the rain won’t stop, hope must be manufactured. To create it, we can start by finding inspiration in the ordinary rhythms of everyday existence. To be free is a wild and beautiful privilege, and it is our responsibility to work toward a more equitable distribution of that privilege. <em>Leave No Trace.</em></p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Impressions]]></title><description><![CDATA[I. likely not unlike the bohemian blue Coltrane woke to ages later, this blue cut the blank raw cold.bald stones sloped and peaked.a stout, deciduous fringe rimmed the sky.night-slick grass silvered discretely, breathing or seeming to breathe. a crude, fluid blue. paled like dye, exposed the riotous]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/impressions/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__5f93b0cdca55cc2c4c11a27f</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 0 - Liminal Space]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Emily Meffert]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sat, 24 Oct 2020 04:50:16 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><figure style="margin: 0px;">
<audio controls="" src="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/symposeum-production.appspot.com/o/audio%2FEmilyMeffertImpressions.m4a?alt=media&token=2f1e8b2b-a9dd-427a-97a2-b8fe91e2f40f">
Your browser does not support the
<code>audio</code> element.
</audio>
<figcaption class="text-gray-700 text-base text-2xl font-sans text-grey-700 tracking-widest pt-8 pb-8">Reading by the author</figcaption>
</figure><!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><p>I. likely not unlike the bohemian blue <br><br>Coltrane woke to ages later,<br>this blue cut the blank raw cold.<br>bald stones sloped and peaked.<br>a stout, deciduous fringe rimmed the sky.<br>night-slick grass silvered discretely, breathing<br>or seeming to breathe. <br><br>a crude, fluid blue.<br>paled like dye, exposed<br>the riotous foxglove<br>and the flushed bleeding-heart.<br>bees lapped the phlox<br>and the purple-pleated<br>oxalis itched, watching. <br><br><em>like eyes</em>, someone thought,<br>turning revolutions in the grass.<br>buzzed on fieldwings, ochre-stroked,<br>arrested by the signifying wind,<br>some forebear rode the current up:<br>hissed and whined and shouted violet.<br>their lungs were vast and private.<br>let me flute this hollow bone,<br>they thought. let me split this ivory,<br>what with ten bright fingers and this appetite.<br><br><br>II. Except for ours, with its coiled heat and water stains,<br><br>these homes are razed or newly raised in royals, beiges,<br>pepper-reds and stripes. It’s Tuesday and we’re brazen<br>for the spread. We climb our street in headphones,<br>raising horns. We lurch and honk, bounce and reel, <br>bank the creamsick clouds and bear their light.<br><br>Bone-deep, the beat is bread.<br>The first disruption thrills like drifting<br>off a curb. Again, we say. Skip the beat<br>but keep its track. Our body will trace it.<br>We’ve made this bass our backbone.<br>We’ve trained our wrist on snare and cymbal.<br>Entranced, our hips and toes admit the stakes.<br><br>But the sax, loose bull, bucks code. <br>We surge out the gate, bent on wrangling sense <br>from dumb air. That we wobble should inspirit us,<br>who can, in turn, weather thrum and thrust,<br>who, too, have driven chaos into a motif.<br><br>Daily we shed rituals and props.<br>Finding the essential runs, we’re keeping<br>a fitful tempo and losing everything else.<br>Our neighborhood’s in flux. It flexes us.<br><br>Daily the hydraulic quartet fells an old frame:<br>bulldozer, earth mover, visionary crane,<br>one that blows and blows and doesn’t stop.<br><br><br>III. How was it to live<br><br> in that year? <br><br> Well.<br><br>Everything was tender<br><br> Everything was coming to a head.<br><br> People looked ambiguous.<br> Their eyes worked hard.<br><br> There were yard signs.<br> A couple tried to fix their car, fed up.<br><br> Things were brass, brittle, bold, bat-blind, bellicose, abiding<br>or betwixt,<br> often all at once.<br><br> Leaves got wise and curled,<br>rehearsing the sun. <br><br> The twists we never guessed<br> pitched a wreck and a relation:<br> the sure rhythm failed, joining sharp sets of time.<br> We played the frenetic constituents of a glacial synthesis.<br> We played the careful tenants on a hairpin road.<br> We sensed still things moving:<br> not in plain sight, but on the fringes.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p/><p/><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet's Note </h2>
Here I have tried to please my ear. In this season of losing givens, I’m interested in digging into what’s essential. What endures? At the beginning of this century archaeologists found a vulture’s radius bone in the German Alps—five holes cut down its length. Forty thousand years after our ancestors invented tools to manipulate breath, John Coltrane and five others recorded Impressions at the Village Vanguard, bending sound to the same end: to satisfy themselves. To manifest sensorily ideas that have driven us across ages: beauty, form, balance, the body’s relationship to time. This poem is about the creative impulse. It’s about this mysterious instrumental thing in the skull: these few cubic centimetres where information is analyzed and steeped and translated, ultimately—sometimes glacially—into expression. While pillars erode, the beat abides. It provides a reliable foundation so the soloist can imagine, experiment, expand boundaries. The bass and drums spur us forward; the sax drives us up. As rhythms become more complex, a structure seems to unravel; our violated expectations make us attentive. We’ve got one good motif we may return to, and in the precious plastic meantime we will—as we always have, because we must—wobble uncertainly toward new forms.
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><p/><h3/>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[self-portrait in the new decade]]></title><description><![CDATA[At the hospital, at the grave; in the real story, there are no beloveds. The horoscope reads: what you are longing for is everything curtail your desire into a pinprick of spit. This was April where you dream of dinner parties, blue velvet, & the lungs engorged with sick. To no surprise, you pen a]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/self-portrait-in-the-new-decade/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__5f93afedca55cc2c4c11a264</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 0 - Liminal Space]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[A. Shaikh]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sat, 24 Oct 2020 04:41:26 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><figure style="margin: 0px;">
<audio controls="" src="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/symposeum-production.appspot.com/o/audio%2Fself%20portrait%20in%20the%20new%20decade%20_%20shaikh.m4a?alt=media&token=b28a18c5-7d7e-4a48-a94f-d2ea8159fba7">
Your browser does not support the
<code>audio</code> element.
</audio>
<figcaption class="text-gray-700 text-base text-2xl font-sans text-grey-700 tracking-widest pt-8 pb-8">Reading by the author</figcaption>
</figure>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p>At the hospital, at the grave; in the real story, there are no <br>beloveds. The horoscope reads: what you are longing for is everything <br>curtail your desire into a pinprick of spit. This was April where you <br>dream of dinner parties, blue velvet, & the lungs <br>engorged with sick. To no surprise, you pen a crown of sonnets <br>& fail. The country knows nothing of protection, <br>growing feverish with each headline & punchy tweet. <br>Hysteric, you start online therapy, stock up on sugar & <br>imagine what you’ll tell the children one day. You picture their <br>jawbones and tender noses, cradled in the palm of a partner who <br>kisses you nightly. What was once simple is now a bedtime prayer, <br>leavened into new blood. Tomorrow, tomorrow, words lose <br>meaning said enough times so you don’t ask for <br>news. Ada writes, <em>nothing is ordinary even when it is <br>ordinary</br></em>. Cutting hair, cooking meals, women and their <br>pixelated hues. You drink in their image, greedy for anything <br>quotidien. At least this is the same, how the body <br>responds to beauty undressed, the soak wet, the heat <br>simmer. The body remains a body, a glitter hungry <br>tremolo. Historic, unprecedented, and yet <br>underneath it all, some terrified joy. Yearning <br>or blessing, your mother hums about life, <br>never enough and too precious to lose.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p/><p/><p/><p/><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet's Note </h2>
It is no wonder we are living in extraordinary times. This poem, which begins as an abecedarian and then diverges from its form, is a flurry of observation from our current moment. In writing this, I was interested in deconstructing the real and imagined of this decade so far. A self-portrait, this poem is also about the lived memory of the body. What parts of us are we more attuned to in times of siege and crisis? Despite its lingering shadow, this poem is also an ode to gratitude, for the smallness which perseveres in the face of the “historic” and “unprecedented”—a prayer for “some terrified joy.” What we consider sacred now is different from before—“dinner parties, blue velvet & the lungs,” even “sugar”—but just as immortal. It matters what we choose to remember. It matters to dream, to tender, and to care.
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p/>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[The Buffalo Commons]]></title><description><![CDATA[There’s a spot by my house, maybe ten miles or so north, where the late summer’s sunflowers roll on for acres till the pine-covered hills—the Black Hills of South Dakota—rise to mark a ragged horizon. I drive up there sometimes, just to sit among the slightly drooping flowers, watch the sky, and]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/the-buffalo-commons/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__5f93aa35ca55cc2c4c11a235</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 0 - Liminal Space]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Plain]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Faith Bottum]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sat, 24 Oct 2020 04:15:00 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">T</span>
here’s a spot by my house, maybe ten miles or so north, where the late summer’s sunflowers roll on for acres till the pine-covered hills—the Black Hills of South Dakota—rise to mark a ragged horizon. I drive up there sometimes, just to sit among the slightly drooping flowers, watch the sky, and think of the rest of the distant world—all those people elsewhere, elsewhen. Who they are. What they do.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Even while I was little, living in Washington, D.C., and then Manhattan, my parents made a point of hauling me off on trips to South Dakota, exposing me to a rural life: years of horseback riding, old pickups that looked as though they might fall apart if the door were slammed too hard, and hard scrambles up the crumbling rock formations. It prepared me for a life much different than I was used to, and I wasn’t shocked when we moved to the Black Hills full time the winter I was fourteen. It felt like a vacation.</p><p>The Black Hills are undeniably beautiful. There’s the old granite, among the most ancient in North America. The thick, dark Black Hills spruce and the thinner, yellower Ponderosa Pine. The clear creeks. The wary deer and antelope. The indifferent buffalo. Sunsets as though God were the world’s most sentimental painter, all purple and blue and pink and orange. The land sometimes feels to me like a permanent playground: snowboarding in the winter, summer lakes to cool off in, the deciduous aspen and birch highlighting the fall in the canyons, and the newborn wildlife in the spring.</p><p>The last census shows (as the new one probably will) that South Dakota’s population has been going up in recent years: increasing by 59,336 people, or 7.86%, from 2000 to 2010. But to drill down into the data is to see that, generally, the increase is only because the cities have been growing—especially in Sioux Falls, the largest city in the state. The old countryside is still declining as the farms and ranches, the rural county seats, continue to empty. This midwestern and western phenomenon has been called “the depopulation of the Buffalo Commons,” which may be why I find South Dakota itself a liminal space: everywhere going nowhere, everything becoming nothing.</p><p>Small towns, like the one we moved to when I was fourteen, have their advantages. They are typically safer and they allow a closeness, an awareness of neighbors, that cities lack. They give their residents a sense of place, and a sense of attachment: a geographical feeling of being from somewhere and native to the soil. With their slower pace, easier economics, and calmer life, they let us feel connected to our physical location and the people nearby. Big cities are exciting, but small towns are more profound, inviting us to feel the deep stuff of life.</p><p>As a teenager, filled with angst and drama, I often said that I missed big cities. And, in truth, I did. A metropolis is certainly not about comfort. (Neither are small rural towns; you have to move to the suburbs to fall into that pillow-lined pit.) Cities show off their wealth and are very expensive. There’s something extraordinary about the sheer economic machine that is a city, but who wants to pay $6 for a bottle of water or $5 for a hot dog? In New York or San Francisco, it is not uncommon to pay over $4,000 a month on rent for a mediocre apartment.</p><p>The unknown traveler next to you on the bus, the wah-wah of police sirens, the way plaster flakes fall from your ceiling as the upstairs neighbor plays heavy-metal at two in the morning, the crime, the urine stink of the subways: Our experience of the city can be ugly and unhappy. At their best, Ralph Waldo Emerson observed, “cities force growth and make people talkative and entertaining;" even then, he added, cities “also make [people] artificial.”</p><p>The city is appealing for its diversity and excitement. However good the short-order cooks are at the local diner (the only restaurant open on a Sunday morning), they can’t even begin to match the thousands of restaurants and dozens of cuisines found in urban settings. However well-educated and artistically involved the residents of a small town may be, they can’t compete with the urban museums, galleries, theaters, concert halls, libraries, chess-player-filled parks, the absurdly expensive clothes in the window of Fifth Avenue couturier, the knick-knacks for barter at a Chinatown stand. Boston, Massachusetts, can support a philharmonic symphony and an opera company. Hot Springs, South Dakota, cannot. The true feeling of a city is the sense that you’re in the thick of things. There is no time to sit among the sunflowers, only time to be up and doing. Only time to be in pingpong motion. </p><p>Still, many of the children brought up on the Buffalo Commons clearly feel a drive to flee the rural life. “You know what our biggest export is in South Dakota?” the longtime governor Bill Janklow once sourly queried. He continued with the observation that it was “our young people.” He wasn’t wrong. Even if they stay in the state, running only as far as Sioux Falls when they get the hell out of, say, Fall River County, young people are abandoning the deep roots of South Dakota for a more active urban life. Again and again, when I speak to young South Dakotans, I hear strange echoes, as though they feel unfilled spaces inside themselves—half-understood dreams and half-motivating hungers.</p><p>These young people sense the disadvantages of rural and small-town life more than the advantages. The emptiness and quiet weigh on them. The lack of big city opportunities seems like a trap. Sameness becomes stultifying and unbearable. The empty two-lane blacktop highways look like a chance for a clean break.</p><p>Some of the young people in South Dakota don’t feel this way, and they interest me. I went to high school with kids whose eyes would grow sharp and clear, as though they were focusing on an unclouded horizon, when they talked about the ranch they were planning to take over from their fathers and mothers. They were going to college to study agronomy, or small-business economics, or animal science: the subjects they would need when they returned to the farm or ranch. They intended to stay <em>here</em> in this place, in this state, on this land. South Dakota isn’t a vacation for them. It’s home. It’s life itself.</p><p>Driving through the eastern portion of the state you’ll see miles upon miles of wheat, hay, sugar beets, and red sorghum ready for harvest: fitting work for those who live in a state where cows outnumber people.</p><p>I’ll be finishing college this spring. The contentment I feel, the ability to drive up to sit among the sunflowers, will soon burst. I expect I’ll be thrust into new work, a new job, and a new home. I’m very excited about that change. Or, at least, a little excited.</p><p>But these South Dakota thoughts are a personal borderlands between the place with which I feel a connection and the places I suspect I must go. The sunset this evening is streaked with color, a splay of pastels across the sky. Soon I will have to leave the sunflower fields, but for now they are enough. And more than enough.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[National Kite Festival]]></title><description><![CDATA[We have made the wrong mistakes.
I run into a landscape of kites held by hundreds of invisible hands. From a distance, their flight makes no sound and what’s meant to move keeps still, carries words from me.The crowd finds space for one another, eyes pinned to the sky, empty no longer. Against the]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/national-kite-festival/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__5f93a9a9ca55cc2c4c11a229</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 0 - Liminal Space]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Plain]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Adrianna Smith]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sat, 24 Oct 2020 04:13:12 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><figure style="margin: 0px;">
<audio controls="" src="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/symposeum-production.appspot.com/o/audio%2FNational_Kite_Festival_audio_The_Dial_10.21.20%20(1).m4a?alt=media&token=1939ad25-39d7-4ff0-990d-d10a5098b842">
Your browser does not support the
<code>audio</code> element.
</audio>
<figcaption class="text-gray-700 text-base text-2xl font-sans text-grey-700 tracking-widest pt-8 pb-8">Reading by the author</figcaption>
</figure>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p><em>Washington, D.C., 2019</em></p><p><br>We have made the wrong mistakes.</br></p><p>I run into a landscape of kites held by hundreds<br>of invisible hands. From a distance, their flight<br>makes no sound and what’s meant to move<br>keeps still, carries words from me.<br><br>The crowd finds space for one another,<br>eyes pinned to the sky, empty no longer.<br>Against the obelisk, time appears to hover.<br>Nothing stands for itself alone.<br><br>Yet we question that peace might waver,<br>that we can’t make room for many more.<br>So strange and fragile these birds<br>without wings.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p>No way to sever what’s seen from the unseen.</p><p/><p/><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2>Poet's Note</h2>
As someone who has lived in the same city almost her whole life, it’s exhilarating to still discover new things about my home, especially one that carries the expectation of simultaneous transience and gridlock. I was on my regular Saturday afternoon run to the Lincoln Memorial when, on a whim, I decided to go the extra mile down to the mall, knowing the effort of zig-zagging between the crowds would be a workout in and of itself. And then, there it was. Completely unexpected and yet intuitively where it belonged. Hundreds of kites, which from a distance appeared as birds caught mid-flight, a wreath around the Washington monument. When I tried to say how it took my breath away, my friends told me to write about it. So this is what I’m writing towards—harmony, literal and figurative, can feel so natural in the moment that it makes us wonder why we ever thought we couldn’t get along in the first place. We can surprise each other. We can surprise ourselves. And once we see what distant beauty is possible when many of us hold on to a tenuous string we can’t see the end of, then we have a responsibility to guard it. And a responsibility to usher it back. E pluribus unum.
</div><!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Field Notes From The In-Between]]></title><description><![CDATA[The spring the coronavirus hit I would sit. Next to my window with a cup of green teaTrying to be mindful, self-consciously watching the firstLeaves on the six saplings outside of my windowExpanding and multiplying by the dayAs the morning sun leapt over the horizon,Lighting up the field like a]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/field-notes-from-the-in-between/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__5f93a928ca55cc2c4c11a219</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 0 - Liminal Space]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Plain]]></category><category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Lisa Muloma]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sat, 24 Oct 2020 04:10:29 GMT</pubDate><media:content url="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/hello____5___.jpg" medium="image"/><content:encoded><![CDATA[<img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/hello____5___.jpg" alt="Field Notes From The In-Between"/><p>The spring the coronavirus hit I would sit<br>Next to my window with a cup of green tea<br>Trying to be mindful, self-consciously watching the first<br>Leaves on the six saplings outside of my window<br>Expanding and multiplying by the day<br>As the morning sun leapt over the horizon,<br>Lighting up the field like a fluorescent bulb.<br><br>When the world began to summarily end,<br>Classes and exams cancelled, the mass migration away from campus,<br>Any “unnecessary gatherings of any size” stopped by the governor,<br>A mandatory six-foot perimeter around every person,<br>Public hugging punishable by misdemeanor<br><br>A friend walking home in a group reported hearing<br>A voice crying out in the darkness,<br>Issuing from a head poked out of a window somewhere,<br><em>“How dare you hang out with one another at a time like this?”</em><br>Email chains and petitions multiplying —<br>“<em>What do we do if we see a flagrant violation</em><br><em>Of the Order? Should we call the police</em>?”<br><br>My first instinct was to lean into it,<br>To call it all Sabbath, to think it romantic<br>Sort of. Buying and selling ceased, political prisoners<br>Released to abate the spread, rent cancelled<br>Deluge of planning emails stilled,<br>Nothing to miss out on, everyone<br>Home. I looked forward to the silence, figured the writer lying dormant<br>Inside of me would rise up. Imagined sitting<br>Next to my window with a cup of green tea<br>Being mindful, personally observing the onset<br>Of Spring, recording it for everybody.<br><br>But then I spoke to a friend who occupies the hippie<br>Circles in Brooklyn — the bashfully affluent yoga girls<br>Mining the world for meaning — and discovered that they too<br>Were leaning in, diving headlong into the divine<br>White light of quarantine, naming the Universe<br>The real orchestrator of this worldwide moment<br>Of silence, this inevitable Om.<br><br>And so I didn’t want to be associated with that,<br>Maybe initially for aesthetic reasons,<br>But then Sarah’s grandfather died alone<br>In a hospital bed in New York City.<br>They called him on the phone to say good-bye,<br>Then waited a full day in their Wisconsin living room<br>In their pajamas before the attending<br>Nurse called to announce that he was gone.<br>Funerals were not allowed,<br>So. <br><br>So I sought a middle ground,<br>Started using the word “tension”<br>When people would ask how I was doing.<br>“I’m ok,” I would say. “Just navigating the tension<br>Between the justifiable fear and panic of the moment,<br>And what in me is perversely glad for the rest.”<br>I would use the word “privilege,” too.<br>My parents are relatively young and healthy.<br>My grandparents are in small towns in Kenya.<br>They will live, I think, and anyway,<br>I may not have a well-calibrated fear of death.<br>I grew up in an Evangelical tradition that spoke often of tribulation,<br>Rapture, the end of days.<br>In fifth grade, I was the third-ranked Bible-quizzer in the nation.<br><br> “Question Number 1: What are the signs —”<br> <em>BZZZZZ</em>.<br> “Interruption. Green two.”<br> “— Of the end of the age? Increase in knowledge, increase in evil, wars, rumors of war, earthquakes,<br> famine, pestilence…”<br><br>I don’t remember the rest. <br><br>/ / / / <br><br>I landed in San Francisco during the apocalypse.<br>As the plane descended, a startled silence<br>Filled the vestibule as we looked out of our windows<br>And there, an opaque, milky orange.<br>As in Santa Cruz and San Jose and Mendocino,<br>Fires raged and smoke rose to scatter out all blue light.<br><br>I had the distinct experience of living<br>Within one of the more heavy-handed Instagram filters.<br>In response, I did what we now do<br>When brought to our knees in wonder —<br>I took out my phone and snapped a picture of the sky<br>And waited for the reactions of my online audience to trickle in. <br><br>/ / / / <br><br>I have sat alone in my room far more often than is usual for me,<br>And I worry especially for those unable<br>To carve a solitude out of the quiet,<br>Who feel no monk-ish dignity in social distancing,<br>Only the feeling of slowly being devoured.<br><br>I have a friend who, very prosaically,<br>Without pomp and circumstance and sad songs,<br>Simply would like to die.<br>He doesn’t really see the point<br>Of existing like this.<br>But he won’t because he worries it would upset his mother.<br><br>/ / / / <br><br>I don’t mean to harp, but<br>I think it important to say that I believe in God<br>In a very specific, incarnate, quotidian way.<br>No one ever really talks about that anymore.<br>It’s nice, knowing God.<br>It lowers the stakes,<br>Knowing that I am Love’s beloved,<br>Convinced that highest Reality<br>Looks upon me with kindness in Her eyes.<br>That what is unknowable is so because it’s too good to be understood.<br><br>/ / / / <br><br>There is something narratively coherent <br>About the badness of 2020.<br>Why shouldn’t cities burn and hurricanes gall<br>And diseases ravage and leaders lie<br>And why shouldn’t they kneel on our necks<br>And shoot us while we sleep<br>And all of it in this coordinated crescendo — <br><br>/ / / / <br><br>I was reading a poem by Wendell Berry<br>As one does in order feel slightly more dignified<br>And in it (can you believe he’s still alive?<br>You know those men so wise<br>You assume they must be dead?)<br>In it, he speaks of silence and solitude<br>In the way he tends to do,<br>As if the quiet were a friend,<br>A necessary prerequisite for everything else.<br>You know. <br><br>I was telling a friend about this poem yesterday,<br>Sort of speaking in wistful tones,<br>Gently urging him to contemplate the masterpiece<br>That would soon emerge from my newly quieted mind.<br>I had recently done a digital detox.<br>I was elemental, buzzing. <br><br>He told me about a tweet he’d seen, something about how<br>All of these would-be writers are finally realizing<br>They needed more than silence and solitude<br>To produce something great.<br><br>I am at my window still, cold green tea now,<br>I survived the summer in this way.<br><br>/ / / / <br><br>I avoid conflict — both the good kind,<br>Which when resolved,<br>leads to connection and romance and self-knowledge,<br>And the bad kind, which when resolved<br>Leads to heartbreak and bewilderment and self-knowledge.<br><br>Left to my own devices,<br>I’ll build a home in the sham peace<br>Of the in between.<br><br>/ / / / <br><br>Amen then<br>And hallelujah too<br>And peace to us all in this place.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p/><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet's Note </h2>
Field Notes From the In-Between” is literally that — a stylized and cobbled together collection of field notes excerpted from my personal journal — beginning somewhere around late March, when the Coronavirus pandemic descended upon the US in force. I wrote for myself, inspired by a letter George Saunders wrote to his MFA students, urging them to take their own field notes seriously. He wrote, “Fifty years from now, people the age you are now won’t believe this ever happened (or will do the sort of eye roll we all do when someone tells us something about some crazy thing that happened in 1970.) What will convince that future kid is what you are able to write about this, and what you’re able to write about it will depend on how much sharp attention you are paying now, and what records you keep.” And just like that, my journaling began to seem more than just my own codified angst. It was still certainly angst, but angsty artifact. These notes dwell on my friendships, my worries, my moments, my God. I hope that in them a reader finds a few moments of recognition, a few reasons to carry on as we do.
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2>Editor's Note</h2>
In print, this piece was accompanied by the visual piece <a href="https://thedial.us/padmasana-attempt">padmasana (attempt)</a> by Vibhu Krishna.
</div><!--kg-card-end: html-->]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Making a Medium: Language on the Internet]]></title><description><![CDATA[At first, language was only the spoken word: the emittance of noise and its reception, mouths giving tone and annunciation to breath. After thousands of years came writing—a new medium with visual and tactile elements. Language became something tangible and finite. Much later, in the 1400s, the ]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/making-a-medium-language-on-the-internet/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__5f93a8aaca55cc2c4c11a211</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 0 - Liminal Space]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Plain]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Lea Boreland]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sat, 24 Oct 2020 04:08:43 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><em>The limits of my language are the limits of my world. ―Ludwig Wittgenstein</em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">A</span>
t first, language was only the spoken word: the emittance of noise and its reception, mouths giving tone and annunciation to breath. After thousands of years came writing—a new medium with visual and tactile elements. Language became something tangible and finite. Much later, in the 1400s, the Gutenberg printing press expanded the uses of that medium, giving words more shoes to fill: entertainment and mass communication, for example, rather than just bookkeeping. Finally, in the late twentieth century, a computer scientist named Tim Bernes Lee invented the World Wide Web. Words entered a new, digital medium; once again, the economics and the experience of language changed.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p> Today, the digital user interface (UI) of language online mimics the design tropes we are familiar with from the analog. We squish black letters into small borders on white screens despite the absence of physical constraints on their layout, and despite the fundamental changes to scale and space that computer bytes, uninhibited by gravity, enable. This literalism results in a digital medium that is both inferior and problematic, unable to cope with its own challenges. Our digital content UI has, as of yet, neither replicated nor replaced the tactile romance of its physical counterpart—it remains more enjoyable, for most, to read or write from paper. Our digital content UI also has not grappled with the transformation it has enabled in content production economics. A digital work (a blog post, a tweet) has zero marginal transaction costs; once created, it is nearly free to reproduce. This is why there are no gatekeepers on platforms like Twitter: no one needs to finance the distribution of a tweet in the same way that publishers have historically needed to front book costs. The elimination of these middlemen (publishers, printing houses, newspapers, bookstores, etc.) has led to a vacuum of authority, legitimacy, and curation in our digital content. The replacement for both of these deficits is an improved UI for content; we just need to develop the imagination to create it. </p><p>All mediums take time to grow into themselves: we gradually invent and modify their characteristics to better communicate through them, sometimes in surprising ways. We translate the pause and rhythm of speech into the written word not via space on a page—the literal correlative—but with an entirely new tactic, something native to the written medium: punctuation. Digital text will develop similarly endemic features over time, and just as modern alphabets look markedly different from those phonetic symbols first used by the Phoenicians thousands of years ago, it will be transformed. Our user interface for content will grow to take advantage of capacities for <em>layering</em>, <em>replicability</em>, and <em>modularity</em> to embed properties and processes of communication into the digital medium that, until now, we have been unable to contain within form.</p><p>First, digital content does not exist, or have to exist, in just one flat plane. Digital layering can bring to life the ecosystem of creation and engagement that exists around a work: what informed it and what it proceeded to inform. Take the case of the hyperlink: here you have a word that holds something under it. A hyperlink is a portal to another webpage, serving rhetorically as source, context, or trailhead for additional exploration. This is a device―and a layer―we invented. It is wholly unique to digital texts.</p><p>If we were to follow the directions contained by all hyperlinks in all digital works, we would have a map of what the French philosopher Michel Foucault called “the great accumulation of the already”: the context of, and connections between, any and all works ever produced. Search engines already function by taking advantage of this network (via PageRank algorithms), and some consumer-grade softwares, such as Roam Research, are building visualization capabilities for linked personal documents. What we are lacking, however, is a tool that provides an all-encompassing view of the subtext of any document, the network surrounding any given piece of content.</p><p>If hyperlinks allow us to see <em>beneath</em> and<em> across</em> texts, other tools permit us to see <em>below</em> them. In first generation internet content, elements pertaining to an article are all presented “flatly,” or in line with the text. This spatial relationship isn’t necessarily truthful to the underlying semantic relationships. Comment and share buttons, for example, are effectively “meta” to, or above, the text. They are composed after the text is composed; they are commentaries on top of it. Companies like Genius Lyrics and Hypothes.is are building the UI for this layer of interaction to exist on top of text by allowing users to annotate publicly on documents. In conjunction with the layer of context below a text, these tools represent the foundation for a layer of interaction on top of text.</p><p>Second, replicability allows each digital layer to be truly interactive and live. Because digital texts have zero marginal transaction costs, they can be copied an infinite number of times at no cost. This can be for the purposes of appending a work, interacting with it, or distributing its ownership. In the early days of the internet, the open source software movement took advantage of this to permit distributed ownership and infinite versioning, a kind of digital commons. This can also exist in digital texts. Content and the layers surrounding it can be produced and accessed and interacted with simultaneously, permitting a live dialogue above the text. Song explanations on Genius Lyrics, for example, are not stagnant annotations, like a comment in a book would be. The ownership of the layer is truly communal and up-to-date.</p><p>Third, modularity of text will formalize the process by which works build off other works. As computer science researcher and cultural theorist Nadia Eghbal writes, “[n]early all software today relies on free, public code, written and maintained by communities of developers and other talent.” Developers do not start from scratch every time they go to write a program; they work atop digital packages and entire open source operating systems. </p><p>In reality, this is also how an essay or article or poem is written—one work is an agglomeration of other works—and the internet has the potential to formalize this process of borrowing and building around. Almanac, a startup based in San Francisco, provides an example of how this could look baked into form. They are building a system wherein business workers can utilize documentation written by other practitioners as a jumping-off point for their own work via content versioning. Users can fork, or borrow, a copy of a public document to add their own work or modify the underlying content. In traditional code versioning, these changes can also be merged back to the original text, pending review. </p><p>Documents can, in this way, become communal and adaptive. Modular components of a text can then be signaled via spatial embedding or visual highlighting (i.e., this block originated <em>here; </em>this block is quoted <em>here.)</em> This has practical, exploratory, and legitimizing benefits: there is no such thing as an echo chamber when you cannot escape the roots and branches and tangle of discourse in which any argument exists. </p><p>We know there are problems with our current means of interacting with content because we can feel them. At present, if we feel completely free in our digital texts it is, as the philosopher Slavoj Žižek says, “because we lack the very language to articulate our unfreedom.” Previous mediums for language lacked the ability to contain processes of editing, creating, and interacting with an argument or text due to limitations of their structure: a paper only has two sides; you cannot touch the spoken word. But content <em>does </em>exist in a network of all content; content <em>does </em>link to and from other pieces of content; content <em>is </em>annotated upon and shared; content <em>is</em> replicated. In the digital world, we can acknowledge and accommodate these realities—if only we can create the interface to do so. <br/></p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Finding Space in the Sky: How Covid-19 is Grounding More Than Flights]]></title><description><![CDATA[As the plane touches down, the tires give off a screeching sound, the force of the braking sends loose items rolling, and the pilot welcomes the crowd to its destination. Most passengers feel a sense of excitement, relief, and maybe some lingering nausea. I always feel a bit of melancholy that the ]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/finding-space-in-the-sky-how-covid-19-is-grounding-more-than-flights/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__5f93a870ca55cc2c4c11a209</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 0 - Liminal Space]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Necessary]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[David Sanchez]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sat, 24 Oct 2020 04:07:46 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">A</span>
s the plane touches down, the tires give off a screeching sound, the force of the braking sends loose items rolling, and the pilot welcomes the crowd to its destination. Most passengers feel a sense of excitement, relief, and maybe some lingering nausea. I always feel a bit of melancholy that the flight has come to an end. It means we’re back to Earth, where time resumes its steady march and the to-do list war reboots. If I’m lucky, this is just a layover. Then it’s back up to thirty thousand feet.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>The sky is a place, I've found, where I can do the type of deep thinking that the daily grind doesn’t allow. It’s where I go to reason through important decisions, consider radical solutions to messy problems, and reflect on life’s biggest questions. I made the call to move across the country for a new job in seat 5F on my way to San Francisco. I wrote my marriage vows in the exit row on a bumpy flight to Chicago. I considered moving back to Wisconsin to run for mayor of my hometown in a middle seat en route to the Dominican Republic. I find clarity in the clouds.</p><p>A few years ago, while working in a sales role that involved visiting clients around the country, I had a rare opportunity to seriously up my travel game. A friend who worked for a major airline made me his “registered companion,” which basically meant I could fly for free. I would show up to an airport, wait until a flight was undersold or a passenger missed a connection, and take the empty seat. All in all, I took 173 flights that year. San Francisco to New York. Hartford to Dallas. Los Angeles to Seattle and a myriad of other combinations. </p><p>By my own calculation I spent a full month in the sky. Some of these trips were for work, others for fun, and a few were completely spontaneous: I’d pack a bag, go to the airport, and end up somewhere in the western hemisphere. A couple times I even got first class, though more often I found myself stranded and sleeping in the airport. But usually, I just appeared to be another passenger—annoyed by a delay, thrilled by a Biscoff cookie, and ready to get in the air.</p><p>Anyone who flies often knows to pack only the necessities: noise-cancelling headphones, a journal with two pens, a reusable water bottle, and a backup pair of socks, because there’s really nothing worse than cold feet on a long flight. The boarding process offers a great opportunity to settle in. After the first twenty times listening to the safety video, I learned to start a playlist before I even reached my seat. Then there’s this awkward period when the plane is taxiing before take-off—you’re not allowed to use any electronics, it’s too early to break out the snacks, and you get interrupted by announcements while scrolling through the movie options. That’s the time I prep myself for the opportunity right around the corner.</p><p>It’s difficult to force yourself into deep thinking. If it were easy to switch from the automatic, unconscious animal brain to the slow, contemplative, rational self, then most therapists would be out of a job. In my own experience, the most valuable role a therapist plays is that of Question Master. They erect parameters to focus your thinking, which allows you the freedom to explore. Creative thinking works much the same way. If I gave you thirty seconds to come up with an invention, you might find it difficult because the options are endless. If, instead, I asked you to invent a way to help a working parent keep track of his child’s homework assignments, you would probably start spitballing rough ideas right away: refrigerator magnets, backpack reminders, lunchbox calendar, the list goes on.</p><p>Deep thinking, like deliberate creativity, is triggered through conscious questions. When other passengers are learning how to buckle a seatbelt for the nth time, I’m asking myself what brought me joy yesterday? What worries me about the future? What would I do as president for a day? Who should represent us if aliens were to visit? These questions aren’t meant to be answered, although obviously we would send Tom Hanks to greet the aliens. Instead, they serve to lower me from my high horse of productivity, and to transition me into a space suspended in time where I can finally just think.</p><p>Journaling is a great way to draw out those deep inner thoughts that are difficult to communicate in everyday conversation. To keep up with a normal pace of speech, we tend to rely on the same tired language to express the simplest version of new ideas. Writing longhand in a notebook designated for that purpose allows you to stop mid-sentence to craft the best possible description of your thought. I like to think of those “aha” moments like a butterfly that lands just long enough to register in the mind, but departs before it can be inspected. Journaling lures the thought closer, just long enough to capture a mental snapshot on the page. Over years, I’ve filled notebooks with all sorts of things: daily goings-on, letters to my younger self, bucket lists, movie ideas, and business plans. I had found my mind palace, set up parameters for deep thinking, and developed techniques to capture the occasional shooting star.</p><p>Then came COVID-19. </p><p>The pandemic has drastically reduced flying in the United States. On April 14th of this year, air passenger traffic reached a record low of 87,534 travelers, compared to more than 2.2 million travelers on the same date in 2019—a 96% decrease. While daily TSA passenger screening numbers have rebounded slightly since then, they still hover around 35% of their pre-COVID levels. For those of us who still have to fly, it’s no longer the escape-in-the-sky I found it to be. Being surrounded by strangers, which once gave me a feeling of anonymity that sparked creativity, now puts me on edge. The food and beverage service is no more, unless you count pretzels in a bag in another bag. And you suddenly become aware of <em>how many surfaces</em> there are on the inside of a plane.</p><p>Without flying in my life, I have been searching to replicate the time and space for serious reflection that long flights had wedged into a busy calendar. I’ve tried long morning walks, daily meditation, and stargazing. Once, I sat in the back seat of my parked car for an hour with no phone before a neighbor knocked on the window to see if I was locked in. Others are turning to rural Airbnbs, which have experienced 25% growth this summer, or are becoming first-time boat owners to escape the lockdowns. None of these come close to producing the same sense of controlled freedom I felt sitting on a lightly padded aluminum frame with thirty inches of legroom. How do you replicate an uninterrupted four-hour block of time when an entire world of distractions surrounds you?</p><p>I wish I could leave you with a happy ending and tell you how I’ve found the perfect replacement for my deep thinking practice. But the search continues. The pandemic caused major disruptions across every aspect of life: from work to travel to time with family in between. On the other hand, it has provided newfound opportunities to focus on what’s in front of us: working from home means spending more time with loved ones. Less time stuck in the classroom or the office means more time outdoors. And less frequent flying means that I have countless hours back in my schedule. While the pandemic has unsettled old habits, I’m using this structured, suspended time—“in transit,” so to speak—to think deeply about what might come next.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[A Faithful Paradox]]></title><description><![CDATA[I am a Christian pastor in the United Methodist denomination. One of the privileges of that vocation is walking with people through the deepest valleys and the highest mountains of their lives. Over fifteen years of ministry, I have learned that between these two points our faith is fully realized.]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/a-faithful-paradox/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__5f93a83cca55cc2c4c11a201</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 0 - Liminal Space]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Reverend Grace Han]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sat, 24 Oct 2020 04:06:37 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">I</span>
am a Christian pastor in the United Methodist denomination. One of the privileges of that vocation is walking with people through the deepest valleys and the highest mountains of their lives. Over fifteen years of ministry, I have learned that between these two points our faith is fully realized.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>After graduating from seminary, I participated in Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE). CPE is a training program to teach pastoral care to clergy, chaplains, and other religious professionals in hospital settings. It has become mandatory training for many Christian denominations because of its unique approach to pastoral care. It emphasizes that the role of clergy in a pastoral care situation isn’t about providing solutions; rather, it is about being present with people in the midst of crisis by simply listening and witnessing.</p><p>In theological language, CPE trades a ministry of <em>doing</em> for a ministry of <em>being</em>. Reframing pastoral care, this “ministry of presence” taps the healing power of shared physical presence. The idea was explored by Brother Lawrence of the Resurrection in <em>The Practice of the Presence of God</em>, and expanded by theologians and writers like Henri Nouwen, Parker Palmer, and Richard Rohr. A ministry of presence is not a uniquely Christian concept. Jewish Philosopher Martin Buber wrote in 1937 in his seminal book <em>I and Thou</em> that the Hebrew name for God, “Yahweh,” was best translated as “I am present.” When we are present with each other, God is present; a ministry of presence is the ministry of God.</p><p>In hospital settings, a ministry of presence means attending some of the most horrific, tragic, and difficult moments in life: from the sudden death of a parent to the slow-progressing illness of a spouse, or an accident that paralyzes a child. It is a deeply anxious and indeterminate space.</p><p>In such liminal zones, we have left one period (sometimes by choice, though often not) but have not yet entered the next. These spaces are filled with uncertainty and may be spurred by crises. We tend to avoid them. In the face of crisis, we may wish to bury our head in the sand and pretend it isn’t happening. Through CPE, I learned to actively resist my urge to flee when I was uncomfortable, and instead to show genuine <em>compassion</em>—meaning literally to “suffer with” someone—without rushing to fix the problem. This skill was far from natural; it required development and practice.</p><p>The first time I worked overnight as a CPE resident, I was called to the emergency department. A nineteen-year-old man was in emergency surgery after a catastrophic car accident. His parents had just arrived. My task was to support them. When I met them in the waiting room, they bombarded me with questions I couldn’t answer. They were frantic. Their lives had been turned upside-down in a matter of moments. Life feels like a guarantee until, suddenly, it isn’t.</p><p>I first responded by trying to make things better. I quickly read a half-dozen scripture verses while their eyes glazed over. Every fifteen minutes I asked if there was anything they needed. Over the course of an hour, I brought them ten cups of water and all the snacks I could find in the hospital. I did everything I could to stay active and avoid putting <em>myself</em> in their terrifying reality. I was afraid. Their situation was depressing.</p><p>After a few hours of rushing around, when I couldn’t avoid it anymore, I sat next to the couple. We said little in the half-hour that followed. At one point, after time had already become a blur, the doctor came out to deliver unimaginable news: their son had died on the operating table.</p><p>When the couple finally left the hospital, his mother took my hand. “Thank you for sitting with us,” she said.</p><p>For all the daze and confusion of crisis, memories of loss stay with us in surprising detail. Living through loss has profound potential to change the way we live, whether or not the loss is ours. That night, I understood the power of being present in liminal spaces. The power of attention to raw wounds. The power of a held hand and held words.</p><p>While liminal spaces may be distressing, they open a space for faith and hope. On that night years ago, it was prayer in a liminal space that brought peace for the moment. Other times, liminal spaces hold opportunities to witness miracles, to discover pathways and healing. Gradually, I have learned to trust leaning into them. Trusting that instinct does get better with time, even if the challenges of the space do not. Similarly, over time I have come to trust the possibility of hope and healing to intermingle with pain and suffering. This is the ultimate paradox of faith: that there can be light amidst darkness and life where there is death.</p><p>In the Christian tradition, the expanse between suffering and hope shows up time and time again: in Scripture, in our application of it, and in our celebration of it. For forty years, the Israelites wandered in the desert. For twenty five years, Sarah waited for a child. For one hundred and twenty years, Noah labored building the arc. Only in Chapter 38 of the 42 chapters in the Book of Job does God finally break His silence and answer Job in his suffering. Perhaps most prominently, every year on Easter, Christians around the world celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ. On Easter, Christians also remember that the only way to Resurrection Sunday is through the suffering of Good Friday and the silence of Holy Saturday. Good Friday—when Christ was crucified—symbolizes the pain, brokenness, and humiliation ever-present in our world. Holy Saturday—when Christ’s body lay dead in the grave—represents the test of our faith when God feels distant. Then comes Sunday—the day of resurrection—when we learn that death is not the end of the story, and that life has the last word. In the words of Frederick Buechner, an American novelist and preacher:</p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><blockquote> "The worst isn't the last thing about the world. It's the next to the last thing. The last thing is the best. It's the power from on high that comes down into the world, that wells up from the rock-bottom worst of the world like a hidden spring. Can you believe it? The last, best thing is the laughing deep in the hearts of the saints, sometimes our hearts even. Yes. You are terribly loved and forgiven. Yes. You are healed. All is well." </blockquote><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>Even the deepest pain can be redeemed. If we view liminal spaces as sacred spaces where suffering and hope can coexist, and where death and life may meet, we may at last discover that they can lend us faith as well.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[The Race to Resolve COVID-19: Invisible Steps for Extraordinary Progress]]></title><description><![CDATA[As a scientist, it has been amazing to watch the release of paper after paper offering more information about the coronavirus and how to fight it. In just the last year, 198 vaccine candidates, 2,388 clinical trials, and 120,000 peer-reviewed publications emerged in response to COVID-19.]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/invisible-steps-for-extraordinary-progress/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__5f93a560ca55cc2c4c11a1e0</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 0 - Liminal Space]]></category><category><![CDATA[The True]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Ariel Helms Thames]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sat, 24 Oct 2020 04:05:49 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">A</span>
s a scientist, it has been amazing to watch the release of paper after paper offering more information about the coronavirus and how to fight it. In just the last year, 198 vaccine candidates, 2,388 clinical trials, and 120,000 peer-reviewed publications emerged in response to COVID-19. To give you an idea of the rapidity with which research is progressing, the entire genome of the virus causing COVID-19 was sequenced within the first two months of the virus being identified. In comparison, the Human Genome Project was a thirteen-year study.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>By finding the virus’s genetic code, scientists have revealed all the viral machinery that they could target in order to disrupt the virus’s function. Within a month of mapping its genetic code, scientists had uncovered the 3D structure of the physical component of the virus that enables it to invade human cells. Solving this structure equipped scientists with a perfectly detailed picture of what would become the target for a large proportion of future therapeutics.</p><p>After this, the research field exploded with new advances: massive studies were (and continue to be) carried out to rapidly screen, in a single experiment, huge numbers of possible drug candidates for the virus. Super high throughput methods were used to quickly characterize recovered patients’ antibodies to find one that could be repurposed as a virus-neutralizing drug. Tons of vaccine platforms were quickly redesigned for COVID-19. Innovative diagnostic platforms were reworked within a matter of weeks to detect the virus.</p><p>From the vantage point of the general public, these proceedings may have felt hasty, especially as the media warped scientific findings with catchy titles or misconstrued descriptions. But from the vantage point of a scientist, it is astonishing to behold. As someone with knowledge of the data beyond the titles, I have watched these technologies unfold over time. In fact, most of the advancements of the COVID-19 pandemic were years, even decades, in the making.</p><p>Consider antibody drugs. Within mere months of the identification of COVID-19, there are already at least eight antibody drug candidates proceeding to clinical trials. And yet, the tools that enable this date back to 1975. Before then, scientists had to discover what an antibody was in the first place, figure out its function, determine how it was made, and then create ways to detect and measure it. It was only a Nobel prize-winning discovery in 1975 that gave us the technological ability to produce specific antibodies that bind to a desired target in vitro. Even then, it took another decade for the first antibody drug to enter the market. Since then, countless techniques have been developed to produce antibody drugs more quickly, with better binding to its desired target, and more effective function in the body.</p><p>Behind the scientific community’s incredibly rapid response to the pandemic is the accumulation of decades of meticulous, collaborative work. Contained in the apparently dizzying pace of scientific advance today is the collection of so many individual moments of inspiration, hours of torturous thought, weeks of grueling experiments to yield a single ounce of insight, and years of effort to develop the scientific tools necessary for each subsequent advance. It is only the combined effort and achievements of countless scientists over the years that has prepared the scientific community as a whole to be this impressively responsive in the face of the COVID-19 pandemic.</p><p>The importance of that work seems so clear to us now, but the truly important advancements came with no one there to applaud the incremental steps. Certainly, those scientists working throughout the years had some inkling of an idea that their work could impact humanity; still, there must also have been times when they felt like they were going nowhere. In the heat of any scientific pursuit, it can be difficult to see the progress being made.</p><p>I think of AstraZeneca's ChadOx1 vaccine as an example of this reality. It is one of the leading COVID-19 vaccine candidates and the one with the oldest characterization and closest match to the hypothesized optimal immune response. The design of this particular vaccine was studied for protection against MERS coronavirus, Ebola virus, Chikungunya virus, and tuberculosis. It has been extensively studied in animals, from mice all the way up to non-human primates, which is the next-best thing to actual human trials. This design has also been thoroughly characterized for the type of immune response it generates. Just like there are different branches in the military that specialize in different tactics, there are different branches in the immune system that defend better against some pathogens than others. This is especially true for COVID-19; the type of tactics used by the immune system to clear the virus can be the difference between recovery and death. </p><p>By virtue of their prior research, scientists had already determined before the COVID-19 pandemic which branches of the immune system were activated by the ChadOx1 vaccine, and how strong those immune responses were. They spent years slowly advancing this vaccine design long before anyone had ever heard of COVID-19. Without such foundational understanding, the record speed of vaccines progressing through clinical trials would have been impossible. In the middle of their research, however, scientists couldn't fully know how their advancements would matter in this unanticipated pandemic.</p><p>In biomedical science, dramatic progress is made in liminal space. That progress comes from graduate students pipetting clear liquids for hours. It comes from lab assistants rising daily at six in the morning to check the saturation levels on a soil sample. It comes from young researchers pouring through spreadsheet after spreadsheet of data as the coffee pot brews in the corner. Just like the key developments for the ChadOx1 vaccine came prior to its use during the COVID-19 pandemic, breakthroughs aren’t completely recognized until the work crosses over the threshold of discovery. And in this sense, biomedical science is like life.</p><p>When, hopefully soon, we enter a post-COVID period, we will find ourselves in a transitional space navigating towards a new normal. Biomedical science reminds us that, though that space can be discouraging, it is also powerful. There will be times when growth is made but not felt. In those times, we should take heart in knowing that the full extent of our advancement can only be realized once we are able to look back and recognize the strides that we’ve made. Then, we will see that what we’ve accomplished during this time was truly profound.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Diaspora: The Linguistic Journey]]></title><description><![CDATA[Growing up as a Bengali American, the most complicated part of my identity was my relationship to language: I used mostly English while my parents were native Bangla speakers. Though I had loved Bangla as a toddler, it became a source of self-loathing as I grew into adolescence. My parents’ foreign]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/deya/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__5f93a7faca55cc2c4c11a1f6</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 0 - Liminal Space]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Deya]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sat, 24 Oct 2020 04:05:39 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">G</span>
rowing up as a Bengali American, the most complicated part of my identity was my relationship to language: I used mostly English while my parents were native Bangla speakers. Though I had loved Bangla as a toddler, it became a source of self-loathing as I grew into adolescence. My parents’ foreign conversations drew snickers in public, and my bilingualism was mocked by my classmates. This linguistic experience also posed numerous logistical challenges. As a third grader, I was asked by my parents to explain dialogue in Hollywood movies. By sixth grade, I was editing my parents’ emails, and by eighth grade I was on the phone for them, disputing a fraudulent credit card bill. As my household responsibilities grew heavier, I came to further resent my native tongue.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p/><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/zUNM0g-q9O9x48h7inEuOa7H9-gTok2myv1Jwkh-u52xbAKoyqB79DMCN4rCxqzWM8H-Vg9CMmWsbULvBsC0P1vrRamNyMkZGpbRRZnsRUSOKSR_y91VLdTh7WpiwVI_ARYQZZDA" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><p>By the end of high school, I hadn’t accepted my linguistic heritage, but instead hoped that it would disappear if I ignored it. I swapped <em>Ma </em>and <em>Baba </em>for “Mom” and “Dad” when speaking to my parents in front of friends. When community members spoke to me in Bangla, I responded in English. I routinely blasted English music in the car, frantically changing the song when a Bangla classic started playing. But when I started college, I became attuned to a strange gap: the absent sound of Bangla. After so many years inattentive—or even unhappy—in my linguistic environment, the hatred I felt for Bangla turned into curiosity. When my parents asked me to come home to celebrate holidays like <em>Noboborsho</em>, the Bengali new year, I agreed. I willingly sat through cultural programs, trying my best to follow along. When the elders asked me about college, I even responded with a few words of Bangla. Once I returned to campus, though, I would never disclose the details of my trips home. I tried to maintain a distinction between the use of Bangla with my family and the use of English with everyone else. </p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-5.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/Untitled--235--copy-copy--2--copy--1--2.png" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><p>One day in psychology class finally marked a turning point. My professor handed out a quiz called the “privilege self-assessment”. I was familiar with the concept of privilege, but one of the markers of privilege shocked me. “Is the language that you speak at home the same language in which you are receiving your education?” The professor explained that speaking one’s ancestral language is an exercisable right; easy communication with one’s family is a gift; seeing representation of one’s native tongue is paramount for healthy self-esteem. I had never before considered that the frustrations I faced in Bangla were due to my position and that my struggle was common to millions of people across the world dispersed to places where their native tongue is not spoken. This realization kindled my desire to make up for the years I spent rejecting Bangla. </p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-3.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/IMG_0125.png" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><p>Through the remainder of my college years, I spent every break in Kolkata, India and Dhaka, Bangladesh, where I studied Bangla intensively for months at a time. I obsessively watched Bengali TV, and meticulously practiced my pronunciation in front of a mirror. If my relatives in our homeland could read, speak, and write fluent Bangla with ease, then I would learn to do the same. However, no matter how hard I worked, my eight year old cousin continually pointed out that she could read Bangla much faster. Regardless of my expanding vocabulary, my speaking style still gave me away as a child of the diaspora. Even as my comprehension level increased, I struggled to consistently follow formal conversations or written material. I blamed myself for these defeats, chalking them up to what I saw as my years of rejecting my heritage. </p><figure class="kg-card kg-image-card"><img src="http://res-1.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/IMG_0121.png" class="kg-image" alt=""/></figure><p>Distressed, I took a break from studying Bangla—but not from thinking about it. I started to make art about my experiences with the language. I created an Instagram account, @deyarcreations, and began to share songs and doodles with captions explaining what I had undergone in the Bengali diaspora. To my surprise, this resonated with a larger audience. As I connected first with other Bengali Americans, then with Bengalis worldwide, and eventually with South Asians from many different diasporic communities, I realized that being a “third-culture kid” was actually a gift. While my Bangla is still not perfect, I am furthering my proficiency and educating others through my work. I have also discovered that keeping my language and culture alive thousands of miles from my motherland is, in a unique and important way, participation in my heritage.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[When Makers Make: Jewelry Science and the Art of Vulnerability]]></title><description><![CDATA[There’s something exciting about pouring molten metal, like it’s part of a science show or an exhibition from another planet. Even after countless times watching my co-founder, Corbin, pour liquid sterling silver into our custom jewelry molds, I still feel mesmerized, beckoning others in the studio ]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/when-makers-make-jewelry-science-and-the-art-of-vulnerability/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__5f93a727ca55cc2c4c11a1ea</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 0 - Liminal Space]]></category><category><![CDATA[The True]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Alexis Cook]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sat, 24 Oct 2020 04:02:57 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><em>The women mentioned in this article are referred to by pseudonyms to protect their privacy.</em></p><!--kg-card-begin: html--><p>
<span class="dropcap">T</span>
here’s something exciting about pouring molten metal, like it’s part of a science show or an exhibition from another planet. Even after countless times watching my co-founder, Corbin, pour liquid sterling silver into our custom jewelry molds, I still feel mesmerized, beckoning others in the studio to notice the way the bright material spills out.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>When Corbin and I started Unlocked, our jewelry brand, our goal had nothing to do with jewelry, <em>per se</em>. We wanted to employ and empower women in Nashville transitioning out of homelessness. At best, jewelry was the vehicle for that vision; at worst, an afterthought.</p><p>In the beginning, we had no idea what we were doing. It took the wonders of YouTube and two years of hard work to learn an advanced form of jewelry manufacturing called lost-wax casting. Since then, to my surprise, we’ve established ourselves as both an e-commerce business and an off-label manufacturer for much larger jewelry brands. More importantly, we’ve been able to partner with nonprofits and businesses to build a holistic program for the women we employ, offering transitional housing, career and life counseling, and financial training. </p><p>Corbin and I joke that we made the right decision in choosing jewelry, but for all the wrong reasons. Initially, we believed that a jewelry brand would require less startup capital than other business models we were considering. That assumption was proven flagrantly misguided once we decided to invest in the machinery necessary for lost-wax casting. We see now, however, that one of the greatest benefits of jewelry is the powerful meaning it holds for our employees, whom we affectionately call “Makers.” Their daily task of turning raw metal into beautiful products serves as a visual representation of their own transformations. </p><p>Through intentionality and consistency, our Makers design new lives, grinding away what no longer serves them and polishing parts of themselves they once thought dirty, dull. I always watch with joy and anticipation as the Makers transform themselves along with the metal: softening, glowing, becoming at once more vulnerable and more powerful as they pour themselves into new shapes. I think of one of our Makers, Ramona, who seems like a different person than the one I interviewed when she arrived a few months ago. Although the tangible changes in her life—stable housing, a dog, a car—are all notable, the way she carries herself is the most indicative of her progress. Instead of an anxious, self-conscious woman defined by a recent abusive relationship, Ramona is now confident and creative. She brings ice cream for breakfast, plans team game nights, and writes pages upon pages of ideas to expand the company. Just this past week, she told me she’s “loving life right now,” and that it’s “been a while” since she could say that. “I’ve seen a massive difference,” she went on. “I’m seeing my better self again and Unlocked is bringing that out.” Ramona is both the artisan and the final product. She wears herself proudly.</p><p>Design, the first step in creating a new piece of jewelry, is arguably the most important. You can make a product with the finest tools and most impressive attention to detail, but if the design is flawed then the whole thing will be flawed. I’m not a designer, but my lack of expertise causes me to respect the process even more. The way that minute details can change the entire trajectory of a jewelry line is fascinating, and somewhat intimidating. Similarly, when a Maker begins working at Unlocked, we encourage her to meet with our career counselor, Dr. Rena, who comes to the studio weekly to meet with each Maker one-on-one. Dr. Rena helps Makers explore their identities, strengths, goals, and desired career paths, pairing a career-focused curriculum with conversational tactics that often become therapeutic. In essence, she is assisting them in designing their lives. Although the slight re-frames that Dr. Rena helps our Makers enact in their thinking may seem inconsequential in the moment, these changes can define their entire future careers.</p><p>After designing a product, we use a highly detailed 3D printer to generate a wax render, which we attach to a larger wax stem and place in a cylindrical flask. Then, we mix a solution called “investment” to form a plaster-like liquid. We pour the investment into the flask and leave it until it hardens. Once hardened, the flask is ready for the “burnout cycle” in the kiln, where it will stay overnight at an incinerating 1,400 degrees Fahrenheit until the wax is completely melted out. In this way, we’re able to create a hardened negative of our original products. </p><p>The final step in the casting process is the most dramatic: pouring the molten metal. Using 100% recycled sterling silver, we pour mustard-seed-sized silver beads into the crucible to create a sparkling flurry before they melt at 1,850 degrees Fahrenheit. Then, carefully placing the still-hot flask into a vacuum chamber, we use tongs to pick up the crucible, slowly tilt it, and pour the fiery red silver into the flask. We white-knuckled a fire extinguisher the entire time we first completed this process. </p><p>Watching production in our studio, I’ve often marveled at the fact that silver doesn’t get to choose whether or not it melts. When placed in the right environment, it follows its nature; it takes new shapes. I’ve come to believe that the same is true of humans. I used to think of vulnerability as a choice to reveal the deeper parts of oneself, risking loss or rejection for the sake of a greater purpose. I think now that there is also a kind of vulnerability inherent to humans—the choice is how we respond to it. Will we avoid the situation, or lean into the moments of risk, change, and uncertainty? </p><p>I admire the courage of our Makers, who show tremendous resilience in their choice to continue pushing forward, despite being some of the most vulnerable people in our society. For them and others experiencing homelessness, vulnerability means inconsistent shelter, food, and water. Women experiencing homelessness are at an even greater disadvantage. Over 90% of women on the streets will experience “severe physical or sexual abuse at some point in their lives,” according to a study by the <em>Journal of the American Medical Women’s Association</em>. Despite these challenges, our Makers do the hard work of consistently showing up both physically and emotionally, placing themselves in environments where they believe they will grow. Change is the natural result.</p><p>After our jewelry pieces are cast in silver, the final step is the “finishing”: tumbling, grinding, polishing, and gold plating. An essential tool in this process is the pin finisher. It consists of thousands of tiny magnetic pins that sit atop a large and incredibly strong magnet about the diameter of a beach ball. The pins stand erect when they are on their larger magnetic base, thrashing against the jewelry pieces in the bowl. Though the process looks violent, the jewelry emerges unscathed. The result is a shiny, uniform surface finish and a hardened quality that improves the pieces’ ability to hold their shape. </p><p>Many of our Makers share ways that they’ve gone through their own pin finishers, with heartbreaking factors that have piled up over years of trauma. Although for some the pain is still visceral, something brighter and shinier is emerging. Our Makers carry a sense of lightness that I suspect is absent at most manufacturing plants. Even on the busiest day in the shop, it’s not uncommon for a spontaneous dance party to erupt when a good song comes on. We laugh often and heartily, extending jokes over the course of weeks just to watch each others’ reactions. </p><p>Even when we furloughed everyone for seven weeks due to COVID-19, our Makers held their shapes. Each week during that period, Corbin and I held group calls to check on everyone, answer questions, and encourage the team. At the end of one call, Makers voiced their individual needs. Carole had mold in her freezer but was allergic to it. Da’Nae still didn’t have a bed. Shaneka couldn’t get to the grocery to get food for four growing kids. As I racked my brain for solutions in the midst of social distancing and quarantine, each of the women volunteered to help the other. Da’Nae would clean out the moldy freezer, Shaneka offered one of her kids’ beds for Da’Nae, and Carole would use her car to help Shaneka get food. I was stunned, filled with pride and gratitude. In the midst of selfishness that led to historic shortages of toilet paper, the women I worked with—women who had already lived the realities others feared—were finding ways to serve each other. </p><p>When we began making jewelry at Unlocked, each Maker worked on a distinct piece from start to finish. Once we moved to the casting process, we began assembly-line manufacturing, with different Makers working at different stations on any given day. As Henry Ford famously publicized a century ago, the switch from individual- to team-based production has yielded a far more efficient process. Similarly, when I reflect on what distinguishes Makers who continue to progress in their lives from those who have struggled and left Unlocked, I notice the ways that an affinity for community is correlated with positive outcomes. </p><p>All of the women who have thrived at Unlocked sought out ways to connect with others on the team, building relationships that became a source of encouragement, advice, and comfort. On the other hand, those who have left Unlocked were singularly focused on their situation and avoided community-based activities. For most of the women I’ve worked with, lacking a strong network was a contributing factor that led to their homelessness. When our Makers didn’t have friends or family members who could provide emergency rent money or a spare couch, they had to find alternatives in shelters or on the streets. </p><p>Regardless of socioeconomic background, these concepts apply. The development of social capital assets like meaningful relationships is crucial for creating a personal safety net and moving out of homelessness sustainably. What’s more is that the entire community benefits, not just the individual. Communal interaction is imperative for a cohesive society, and it reminds us how directly our actions affect one another. This has been made painfully clear to us this year. On national and global scales, issues like COVID-19, environmental degradation, and racial relations are calling into question our responsibility to one another. The answer is a personal one, but its impact is communal. </p><p>Just as the women I’ve worked with have recognized value in investing in those around them, both for their own success and that of the group, each of us may benefit from doing the same. Cultivating and maintaining an authentic community is a choice, a brave choice. We can respond to our vulnerability with humility and enthusiasm, or we can focus inward and shut others out. We can place ourselves in situations that challenge and reshape us, or we can insulate ourselves from disagreement and discomfort by resorting to echo chambers and escapist behaviors. If we choose the former—choices I witness daily at Unlocked—then we may change in the process, and inspire those around us to do the same. Transformation, whether of molten metal or messy lives, isn’t easy or painless. And yet, the result can be beautiful. <br><br/></br></p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Lizzie]]></title><description><![CDATA[Following his daughter's overdose, a father reflects on living in the space of her absence.]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/my-name-is-mark/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__5f8af2453a7e741d4a82a3ec</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 0 - Liminal Space]]></category><category><![CDATA[Essay]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Human]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Mark Murphy]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sat, 17 Oct 2020 13:32:00 GMT</pubDate><media:content url="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ann-Eel1a_KRHNg-unsplash.jpg" medium="image"/><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><img src="http://res-4.cloudinary.com/dr0wbrf7o/image/upload/q_auto/v1/blog-images/ann-Eel1a_KRHNg-unsplash.jpg" alt="Lizzie"/><p>
<span class="dropcap">M</span>
y name is Mark. I’m a middle-aged, middle-class father who’s been married for twenty-five years. We rescued a dog and a cat from the humane society that now live with us in our Cincinnati suburban home. What I’m trying to say is that I’m just your average guy, a typical sight in average America. Covid hit me like it did everyone else: business changed, pockets tightened, fears grew, habits adjusted, and bankruptcy felt imminent until it didn’t. March, April, and May were hard months for us. But then came June. June fifth, to be exact. On that day, our family wasn’t lucky to call ourselves like everyone else.
</p><!--kg-card-end: html--><p>My wife and I hadn’t heard from our daughter for a worrying period of time that quickly pushed our emotions from normal to nervous. We eventually tracked down that she was staying at a nearby hotel with friends, but by the time we found out it was too late. In the hours that followed, time somehow stopped and sped up simultaneously. There in the hotel parking lot, with the coroner and flashing blue-red lights, my wife and I tried to process the news a parent prays never to hear. People came and went: some speaking to us, some just watching the scene unfold.</p><p>I’m not a writer. Until this piece, my daughter’s obituary was the hardest thing I’ve ever written. Her eulogy was a story about how her life changed others; this story, however, is about how her life changed mine.</p><p>What matters for you to know about that day is that Elizabeth was at the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong friends. She died from an accidental drug overdose at just twenty-one years old. The CDC reported more than 67,300 deaths by overdose in 2018. There are always names behind those numbers, something I intellectually knew before but couldn’t fully appreciate until disaster struck us personally. Behind the names, of course, there are families crushed and left behind.</p><p>I thought I knew pain, but nothing wrung me more than losing my Lizzie. Doctors sometimes tell you to describe your pain levels. This was easily a level ten. I also thought I knew how to empathize, but I now realize the sheer depths of human compassion. To paint the circumstances differently or play down the intensity of grief is an insincere telling of reality. To dwell on one’s suffering, however, doesn’t give way to hope. Similarly, the words “cheer” and “sorrow” held different meaning before. Cheer was something for sporting events, and sorrow was basically just a word. Perhaps a small part of me even believed that “real men” didn’t feel deep, gut-wrenching emotions like sorrow.</p><p>Loss has surprising potential to bring people closer. From Biblical stories to the stories of others’, time and time again we see that there are moments when we must lose in order to find. In my case, Lizzie’s death opened up entire communities of individuals who invited me in to heal and journey together on what David Brooks calls “the second mountain.” These people found each other because they all lost someone they loved. They found hope through suffering. These people were once strangers but are now my friends, creating a strange kind of beauty out of the worst-possible circumstances. On the days when I feel like there’s an 800-pound weight on my chest, I have found that the effort of reaching out does indeed lighten the burden.</p><p>In addition to finding community with others I’ve also grown closer to nature. I sit outside more. It helps me reflect. I’m more comfortable with silence. There’s something about being in the presence of weathered life that helps me weather my own storms. Ralph Waldo Emerson—who also lost a child—once wrote that “the world is emblematic,” that “nature always wears the colors of the spirit.”</p><p>Whatever inspiration Emerson found outdoors, he found it in the shadow of loss. It’s a human instinct to search for life after loss. Whether the grieving heart finds inspiration in the nature of community or in community with nature, there is life after loss. I doubt (and honestly don’t desire) my legacy to be anything like Emerson’s, though I am writing and spending more time in nature these days. In all of it, from the distant stars to my own backyard, Lizzie is there.</p><p>In this season, I’ve come to resist the phrase I hear often from well-meaning individuals to “just keep moving forward.” Instead, I try to “just keep moving.” To me, moving forward suggests movement away from something behind you. In other words, putting distance between you and the past. It also seems to imply that if you’re not moving forward then you’re moving backward. But Lizzie is neither “behind” me nor is she distant. She is with me, around me and ahead of me, every day and all the time. Anybody who has ever known grief knows that healing is hardly a straight line. There are peaks and valleys. While the climb is slower and more challenging this time, that's something I accept and embrace. </p><p>I look at what I’m going through as somewhat analogous to when I used to be a professional glass artist. You start with a piece of hot, molten glass. It’s a formless blob, unshaped. Then, with more gathers of glass, more time, more skill, more pressure, even more heat, something beautiful begins taking shape. Something still fragile, but something gradually stronger.</p><p>As the Scriptures say, joy “cometh in the morning.” Or, as Dr. Brené Brown puts it, joy “comes to us in the ordinary moments.” Both are true, and I’m also coming to appreciate my own ability to manufacture cheer. Grief sucks the energy out of you, and it takes energy to choose hope. It’s an assertive, actionable effort. But cheer, joy, and hope produce an energy unto themselves. I can’t control longing for my daughter or the grief of missing her, but I can create cheer.</p><p>Living in the space of my daughter’s absence, the little things aren’t so little. Our habits, our choices—these are things that are small in the here-and-now but are big in the grand scheme. Since Lizzie died, I do a random act of kindness for someone every day. Negative thoughts can insidiously creep in, but I choose to keep a positive attitude. I don’t drink, smoke, take drugs or even medication to dull the pain or distract me from it. Pain awakens us, sensitizes us, to honest emotions. I’ve met so many people who have developed addictions after tragedy, and it’s a tragedy that they do. Again, it boils down to the little things. My main goal these days is to live the life that Lizzie would want to see me living. The values in what I like to call my “personal constitution” drive everything I do. My wife and I pray more. We care deeper. We let people in on our feelings. The Lizzie-sized hole in our hearts will never be filled but we have hope. There are more and more days filled with love and laughter. More and more days filled with fewer and fewer tears. Days that feel almost normal.</p>]]></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[Multitudes]]></title><description><![CDATA[Do you ever feel sad when you lose a word? Do you ever try and call it back like calling in the sea? Or a dream. Do you remember waking up in your own bed. at the end of a family road trip, knowing someone carried and tucked you in the night before?]]></description><link>https://symposeum.us/multitudes/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">Ghost__Post__5f8af2303a7e741d4a82a3e6</guid><category><![CDATA[Issue 0 - Liminal Space]]></category><category><![CDATA[The Plain]]></category><dc:creator><![CDATA[Emmy Roday]]></dc:creator><pubDate>Sat, 17 Oct 2020 13:31:36 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><![CDATA[<!--kg-card-begin: html--><figure style="margin: 0px;">
<audio controls="" src="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/symposeum-production.appspot.com/o/audio%2FMultitudes_EmmyRoday.m4a?alt=media&token=b9bc97f9-73bb-459f-a9e0-d8efe7b36c10">
Your browser does not support the
<code>audio</code> element.
</audio>
<figcaption class="text-gray-700 text-base text-2xl font-sans text-grey-700 tracking-widest pt-8 pb-8">Reading by the author</figcaption>
</figure>
<!--kg-card-end: html--><p><em>Do you ever feel sad</em><br> <em>when you lose a word?</em><br><br><em>Do you ever try</em><br> <em>and call it back like</em><br><br><em>calling in the sea?</em><br><br> Or a dream.<br><br>Do you remember waking up<br> in your own bed<br><br>at the end of a family road trip,<br> knowing someone carried<br><br>and tucked you in<br> the night before?<br><br>That is youth,<br> whirred asleep<br><br>in the car. Beyond,<br> a new day.<br><br>Now, we write the poem<br> for our future best friend<br><br>who is already leaving<br> in the earlysun.<br><br>How long should I stay<br> at the front door waving?<br><br>I can’t explain the shift of seasonal winds<br> but I do know this:<br><br>The Arabic root<br><br><em>جَوّ</em><br><br>creates <em>weather</em><br> and one more letter<br><br><em>جَوّيّ</em><br><br>makes <em>weather conditions.</em><br> Two more accents—<br><br>a dash below and above—<br><br>جَوِيَ<br><br>brings us to the state of being<br> <em>intensely moved</em><br><br><em>by love</em><br> <em>or grief.</em><br><br>How closely we flirt<br> with our extremes,<br><br>breathing between<br> the multitude<br><br>of our meanings.<br> And yet, the same origin.<br><br>And yet, saved alarms remind us<br> of the lives<br><br>we used to wake for.<br> Remember the space<br><br>once filled<br> by a lover’s yawning—<br><br>forgive me, do you mask<br> the people in your dreams?<br><br>After the longest day of the year, <br> the sun starts shedding<br><br>itself of minutes. And what did we do<br> in the final suntune?<br><br>Did we crawl<br> on our hands and knees<br><br>to pick up cereal<br> off the kitchen floor?<br><br>Or did we touch?<br> Did we meet<br><br>in the wind chimes?<br><br>Blow in through open windows—<br> becoming<br><br>every person<br><br> within us.</br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></br></p><p/><p/><p/><p/><p/><p/><!--kg-card-begin: html--><div id="about-poem">
<h2> Poet's Note </h2>
We are all currently living in a quiet aftermath that has no foreseeable deadline. This poem is set in that collective aftermath or as the speaker calls it, “the final suntune.”
Now, stuck in that strange betweenness, we struggle to actualize our future and are compelled to look behind us at our past lives. The poem’s first lines were inspired by Jackie Kay’s Old Tongue and ground us in that act of “calling back”— of those lives we had, of those people we loved, of those spaces we shared, of those dreams we slowly lost upon waking. And yet, the calling back won’t change the moment in front of us. Although we write “the poem for our future best,” we know she is already “leaving in the early sun.”
In the act of retrieval, we must consider the fragility of our human experiences. The Arabic root-based system inspired this poem’s close attention to etymology or the origin stories of our words and feelings. By tracing the Arabic root word for weather, I recognized how our variations are so easily available— that weather bears close connection to both love and grief, and that we can experience states of both emotions at once.
This poem recognizes that we are always oscillating between our many selves, lives, and words. But now, more than ever, we find ourselves searching, wanting, attempting to call on those multitudes. And so, when the poem asks the central question: “what did you do in the final suntune?”, we are meant to look for those answers in ourselves. It’s up to us to negotiate what we have done and what we will do in this continuous aftermath. Because we all know there will be more grief. But still, we know, there are future days that will bring more love, more union, more touching, and more becoming.
</div><!--kg-card-end: html--><h3/><p/>]]></content:encoded></item></channel></rss>