the juggler | spring 2010
DESCRIPTION
The Juggler is Notre Dame’s bi-yearly art, literature and design magazine. This is the spring 2010 edition.TRANSCRIPT
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letter from the editor
dearreaders
For many short-fiction writers, stories revolve around a moment of change. This change comes in a variety of ways, depending on the story. A character may consciously alter himself or herself. He or she could encounter a sudden revelation, or experience a steady transformation. The change may be positive or negative, but it comes either way, embraced or rejected by a story’s protagonist.
As a member of the class of 2010, I look back on my Notre Dame story and remember the incredible changes experienced by my classmates and myself. I know that my fellow seniors and I have worked hard to achieve our goals during our time at Notre Dame. We set our sights high and built pathways to success. But, despite all of our planning, we have encountered numerous changes, many unexpected. How we have proven ourselves, and how we will continue to prove ourselves, is by facing new challenges with the courage and resilience which we exhibited during our time as Notre Dame students.
My editorship has come to a close, and I’m sad to leave my time at The Juggler. I’m confident with its future, though, as Amy Ma has already proven herself to be an outstanding successor. I’m extremely grateful for her hard work and friendship the past two years. I would also like to thank Andrew Pautler, our art director. We owe The Juggler’s incredible design to his talent, and we are so blessed to have had him on the staff this year.
Finally, I’d like to thank The Juggler’s advisor, Robert Franken, who has been my guide and mentor the past three years. Bob is always there to help media students such as myself, and it is his experience, knowledge, and kindness that have helped make The Juggler the award-winning publication it is.
I hope you enjoy the transformations captured by the art, poetry, and prose in this issue of The Juggler, and I wish you the best of luck with all the changes you encounter.
As always, thanks for reading.
Jackie Burke Editor
gragsmadgraphite on bond by Justin Schneider
justin schneideris an industrial designer who loves clouds and blue skies.
cover:
dearreaders
art selections
cover gragsmad justin schneider
003 rex matthew degnan
005 view from the top annette esquibel
006 st. louis abbey clare brady
009 pleased to meet you andrew mcbride
011 karen-o colin hofman
013 two-part invention mary cecilia mitsch
014 revenge molly mcgowen
016 traveling back michelle keefe
018 permanence lauren kalinoski
020 lighting gaspar garcía de paredes
022 aqua bliss georges toumayan
024 gustave and co edel crowe
027 after the rain kirsten blazic
028 fear john traub
literature selections
004 the man of the mist joshua whitaker
007 black walnuts michelle johnson
008 the dinner date ben lapres
012 requiem sarah pinter
016 tragic sunshine girl joshua whitaker
019 how to listen kimberly schlesinger
020 thoughts on the visual quality of smoking laura kraegel
023 ariel brittany burgeson
026 reputation sara felsenstein
rex1200 pounds of wood, steel, plastic, & love by Matt Degnan
matt degnansmells like fighter jets and punching.
table of contents
The man of the mist lasting,
thatched in old denim,
wanders with buckets of steam.
In the places where
the water seeps below the surface
and bubbles up the cement,
the places where the fog yokes the earth to the sky,
the man of the mist limps into the droplets
and speaks of rust and decaying things
and settles into the dirt like perfume.
The children circle round him,
banging pots and pans and sinking into the mud,
shouting of the steel, the tolling bells,
the cogs churning away the sadness,
but he shakes his head.
He has long since
found the world damp
and lost in a cloud.
the man of the mistpoem by Joshua Whitaker
joshua whitakerknows chance. He never got the racecar, but he's still looking to make it to Boardwalk.
the juggler | spring 2010004
view from the topdigital photograph by Annette Esquibel
annette esquibellives like it's the latest attraction.
art, literature, & design 005
the juggler | spring 2010006
Shade was the absence
of August’s velvet heat.
Bark stuck to our sweaty palms.
Branches undulated under feet,
rained down fruit on Berber grass,
on inattentive us.
Green globes burst with dark juice,
bruised tan skin,
stayed stubborn in finger-creases.
Your fearless lazy hands
built monuments to our stains
in the cool shadows of the grove.
st. louis abbeydigital photograph by Clare Brady
clare bradyhas been called the songbird of her generation.
black walnutspoem by Michelle Johnson
michelle johnsonis an English major from a town you may be able to locate on detailed maps.
art, literature, & design 007
With a pasta dish, I always order the Viognier. From past experience, I’ve learned that the alfredo here is nothing to get excited about, but it’s an excuse to order a white wine that doesn’t sound too ordinary. Viognier sounds charming. It’s exotic. Vi-uh-nyay. Most people who know nothing about wine won’t even…
“Viognier?”
She botches the pronunciation a little, with a smile and inquisitively wrinkled nose. It’s cute.
“Yeah…” I reply, faking embarrassment for some reason. “It’s a white wine. A little different than Chardonnay.”
Her clear blue eyes brighten up with interest, and she turns to our waiter.
"In fact, scratch the martini. I’ll have the…”
“Viognier,” I fill in for her, wringing out every bit of
the word’s beautiful sound without sounding too pretentious. She smiles again.
To her credit, she’s prettier than she looked on the Internet. That’s not to say she wasn’t pretty in the first place—she was, otherwise I wouldn’t be here, with the pasty alfredo—but she certainly isn’t photogenic. She’s one of those people who smiles differently in pictures than she does when she tells you about her nephew or her mom. In the pictures, her eyes aren’t in it. They’re blank. Her smile seems coerced. Here, she smiles and her whole body seems to go into it. She brightens, quietly giggles a little if I say something amusing. She doesn’t try too hard to be too funny or too cute. She’s honest, and I find her completely charming, as I thought I would. I make an effort to be polite, to smile gently, never seeming pushy or overbearing. The website told me she likes polite. She likes gentle and cultured.
I check all three off in my head.
I open with, “So, I read that you’re a librarian.”
I don’t usually like to ask about jobs, but the website indicated that she was, in fact, a librarian. It mentioned it more than once, so I guess her job must be important to her, and as soon as I ask she brightens a bit again.
“Just part time. I’m taking some classes right now, but I love my job.”
the dinner dateshort story by Ben LaPres
ben lapresis a junior aerospace engineer whose hobbies include behaving pretentiously and making outrageous accusations.
the juggler | spring 2010008
She does. Peace and quiet. Independence. Fulfilling experiences with school children who view her as a role model—she’s into the whole “good example” thing. She’s gesturing around with those skinny fingers of hers, talking faster than I think she realizes. Most of it sinks in, but my mind isn’t all there. I’m lost in the light brown hair, the slightly sunburned skin of her shoulders. By the time she finishes I’ve memorized the curve of her cheeks and the smell of her perfume. Roses, and something sugary I can’t quite put my finger on…
“What do you do?” she returns the question. I tell her I’m in sales, but she can’t be sure. Sales is broad. Easy to fill in little details off the top of your head. She seems interested, at least, so I talk and silently marvel at the life I’ve created, drawing her more deeply in with each nuance of the average week of my life. Meetings with clients for expensive lunches. Travel, occasionally, but not too often. I finish, and she smiles again. “Sounds like you really like it.”
I do.
After a while the Viognier has reddened her cheeks and smoothed out the little wrinkles in my speech. We indulge in splitting a slice of chocolate cake, a guilty pleasure of hers (and apparently mine, too). I let her talk, mostly, about her childhood and her plans for after she’s done with her classes, and when she asks me the same questions I’m able
pleased to meet youoil painting by Andrew McBride
andrew mcbridesmells.
art, literature, & design 009
to fill everything in that she needs to know. I was born in Illinois. I went to Mexico in college. I have a Labrador Retriever named Woody. I like horror movies. When I tell her my parents split up when I was younger, she looks sweet and sympathetic and brushes the back of my hand with her fingers. The hair on the back of my arm sticks up. Roses again, and something sugary.
I won’t see her again. The phone number she has will never reach me. The website won’t ever be checked again.
She lives by herself. It’s a small apartment, filled with books like you would expect a librarian’s home to be. Between deep and feverish kisses I catch a glimpse of her refrigerator, covered with the scrawling of adoring children. Her bed is just as soft as her fingers on my hand in the restaurant.
Tomorrow is Saturday. There is no rising early to see to the children.
She’s lost all interest now, just as I knew she would. The last wisps of her perfume smell cheap. Asleep in her bed, she looks as she did in her pictures—blank, not peaceful, not smiling softly. Her hair is duller now. Her skin is pale. Her lips are thin. My clothes are on the floor, right where we left them. I’m silently thankful the floor doesn’t creak, and the front door doesn’t click when I shut it, so she sleeps on. She’ll wake up sometime.
The sun is out, and its heat on my face is relaxing as I do my best to get my hair to lie down. I fumble in my pocket for a cigarette and remember that I didn’t bring any with me to the dinner date. She was, after all, looking for a non-smoker. People are just starting their day, just filing into breakfast diners and small shops and newspaper sellers. I head into a shop and buy some cigarettes. With each greedy draw of the smoke, I feel more and more refreshed.
And to tell you the truth, as I walk up the street, I don’t even remember her name.
karen-ooil painting by Colin Hofman
colin hofmanis a senior design major that spends his meager earnings on concert tickets and forties.
the juggler | spring 2010010
art, literature, & design 011
I.
They say all Vienna was saturated in a chilly drizzle when Mozart died, as if God himself were weeping for the demise of such incomprehensible beauty.
Calamity. Definition: The human mind pulsing out the last notes of its own requiem. Everything in its proper place for judgment.
II.
But to be Salieri. To gaze from the curtain-folds of Vienna’s finest opera houses, a son of shadows,
eyes stitched to the tiny figure murmuring every aria with indelible rapture— soft tenor of angels—
Never able to do more than recognize his own inadequacy.
What hath God wrought.
III.
One day I will go to Vienna and stalk her quiet graveyards until I find the Common Pit where they left Mozart’s mortal coil, just to gauge
God’s scent in the air. It probably lingers long after death. And then I will pay my respects to Salieri.
The rain falls on them both, on one in somber tribute, on one in anonymous indifference. Timing, they say, is everything.
requiempoem by Sarah Pinter
sarah pinteris a novelist, a poet, and an English major. She enjoys playing her guitar, watching movies, and testing special relativity.
the juggler | spring 2010012
two-part inventionsilkscreen by Mary Cecilia Mitsch
mary cecilia mitschis filling the void.
art, literature, & design 013
revengedigital photograph by Molly McGowen
molly mcgowenis a senior art studio major who had her first Dairy Queen Blizzard a week ago...it was really good.
the juggler | spring 2010014
art, literature, & design 015
No one noticed her. She was one of those girls that
was always just there. She was our tragic little sunshine
girl. We could find her laughing away at whatever blew
through the breeze. We dated for a while. I think I just
felt bad, ya know? I knew she liked me, and I liked being
the guy with a girlfriend. I was probably cruel, but we
never felt right. I broke her feeble little heart when I let
her down. Someone told me the next guy left ‘cause she
wouldn’t get over me. It’s like I gave her a hurt that hurts
forever, ya know, and it’s just gonna keep coming back.
Her brother called me the night I did it, said she was
locked in her room crying. He cussed me out like I was the
devil or something. I didn’t know him that well, but I could
tell he was even further sideways than she was. At least
she had some family. That was probably good for her.
I wonder what her parents thought. I was worried at first,
but we were young. I think they got that. I saw her mom
one time at a class banquet, one of those graduation
events where all the parents get to fawn over their kids,
and the kids have to dress up and pretend to be adults.
She was real sweet. I had forgotten what she looked
like. I didn’t even know it was her until afterwards. I’m
pretty bad with faces and such. Probably ‘cause I’m just
not good with people. I was never that great at getting
attached. I usually start moving on when they start
moving in. That’s kinda tragic, too, huh?
Anyway, this girl was in choir. I’m pretty sure she was
good, too. I never actually heard her alone, well, except
for the one time. Each year the choir puts on a gala.
They’ve got the whole choir doing songs, and individuals
can do their own stuff, too. That first year, the year we
ended it, she did a trio with a couple other girls. She told
some people how appropriate it was. The song talked
about losing that happy ending forever. I guess that’s sort
of what I was saying with the hurt, ya know? It’s always
gonna be there to mess something up.
She did good that year, as far as I can remember. I
pretended to be sad during the performance. For
appearances. It’s good for her to think she had some
effect. Plus, I was sitting by my next girl. Sympathy always
did smooth the path to the heart.
We had classes together that next year. We were cordial,
even joked around some. We had promised to stay
friends, but we were never all that close again. She
laughed at my jokes in English class, but then again she’d
laugh at eraser dust if anyone were around to hear it.
By the end of that year, I had all but forgotten her. I was a
good six months in with another girl. I was pretty happy.
I figured she’d moved on, too. I knew about the guy
she’d been with for awhile. I’d see her around, too. I don’t
know. I felt bad for her sometimes.
That next year was our last year of school, so all the
seniors were picking out their grand finales for the gala.
I was excited about it. We had some real talent at that
tragic sunshine girlshort story by Joshua Whitaker
the juggler | spring 2010016
school. I went to all three nights, but she performed on
the last. All the really good stuff was on the last night. She
had a whole band behind her when the curtain came up.
She was standing tall, all done up, too. She was pretty. I
hadn’t always thought that.
She had some really high heels on. You could tell she was
nervous. She looked woozy almost, like she didn’t like
being up so high. She was pretty tall anyway. She stepped
forward, up to the front of the stage. Her heels made
noise against the hardwood, like a clack-clack, clack-
clack. It was a slow sound, really loud, too.
When the band started up, she smiled. It was a goofy
thing, real wide and crooked. She was rocking back and
forth, like she was about to fall over. I think I knew what
was gonna happen. I don’t know. My heart was beating
pretty fast. She took a breath, and started with the first
line. I think I felt the whole crowd cringe. It was bad. I
mean, it was really bad. I don’t know a ton about music,
but I know when it’s bad, and this was really bad.
She knew it, too, but she kept going. She went through
the whole song like that, just totally off. She was
breaking down. I think she knew how to get it back.
She just couldn’t.
The song was all about flames, flames burning away at
you, burning you until you just don’t have anything left.
At one point, she even grimaced. She had her composure
until then. Someone in the audience yelled out, You got it
girl. She smiled at that. It was a sad smile.
As it ended, she looked terrible. I think everyone felt for
her. It was just the saddest thing. I dreaded having to see
her after the show. I didn’t know what I’d say. You can’t
just say good job when you both know it was awful.
When it was over, she moved quick to get off the stage.
The curtain was coming down slow. She was still holding
her microphone and didn’t know where to put it. She
took a few steps to one side of the stage, then went all
the way to the other side to put the mic down, then had
to cross again to leave. As the curtain dropped, all we
saw was that tall, clumsy figure wandering back and forth
across the stage, alone and dark with her head bent down
and her feet shuffling across the wood floor like some
wounded bird, clack-clack, clack-clack, clack-clack.
I went to the bathroom later during the show. I went
out the back, and I saw her running up the hall towards
me with another girl. They were both giggling, the real
giddy laughter that only girls could produce. She saw me
and stopped and swayed. She stifled her laughter some
to look at me. I told her good job. She said thanks. It’s
sad for the ones that can pop back up like that. They’re
the ones that are just gonna keep getting hit back down
again. They ran off, giggling still. She wasn’t wearing the
heels anymore, just your average flat-soled sneakers.
They squeaked some on the tile floor before she ran out
into the night, but mostly they were quiet. I watched her
go, and listened to her feet on the floor. I could barely
hear those soft little squeaks. If I’d been facing the other
way, I probably wouldn’t have noticed her at all.
art, literature, & design 017
I am going to take the bed-stiff dawn in my hand and
the cool moondusted shoulder in my soles when next the calendar calls.
I am going to water the cedars hemming the interstate with the smooth
cups of my eardrums, swear to them with silence they can still carry a tune.
I am going to race nine and beat it by an hour, blow a kiss
to distant five in the west from beneath each festive sprig of birdsong.
For once, I will suffer no second-hand metronome to sink its
teeth in my arm, no radio to rebuke me with traffic on the sevens.
For once, I am going to pass those noise-weary wildflowers at less than
eighty, and if the great drooling beast of the world stalks me from behind, I will
stand like a silent totem and let its clammy breath steam over the hairs
on the back of my neck.
permanencedigital photograph by Lauren Kalinoski
how to listenpoem by Kimberly Schlesinger
kimberly schlesingerrecognizes Cheez-Its as their own major food group.
lauren kalinoskithinks she’s found a decent melody.
from pages 16–17:
traveling backlinoleum print by Michelle Keefe
michelle keefeis a senior Italian and studio art major, who spent all last year studying abroad in Bologna, Italy. She loves tomatoes.
art, literature, & design 019
It's the smoke, curling into the air. Watching it billow in a white-grey cloud and then dissipate into fine, fragile tendrils before its veins vanish above your head. It's the smoke that fascinates people, the action of exhalation. Its the expulsion of something so inorganic and foreign from inside your body—something white and dry and harsh from something so red and warm and wet.
It's a warning. “You shouldn't do this. The colors don't match up, see?” But its the illegality that makes it so lovely. The contrast just breathes this lusciousness out in the air until the watchers can't do anything but let it soak into their skin and wish their tongues would speak in swirling, sweeping lace too.
thoughts on the visual quality of smokingprose by Laura Kraegel
laura kraegelhopes you have a nice day.
The fire helps it along. The spark that blooms with a fantastic hiss and spit. The glow against flesh feels physical, feels reasonable, and shines so dimly that you're blind to what comes next. “It's fine. The faltering fire will never burn you. After all, you're its creator.”
So the smoke draped your breath in beautiful white robes at first, but eventually it wraps your breath up so tightly that it's chalky and thick. It leaves this little powder in your sticky throat – not nearly as lovely as those pretty swirls.
And there's nothing delicate in that pasty excess that crowds your coughing. But it's that part that situates itself to stay. Along with that brief smoky lace comes the unfortunate persistence of the chalk and the paste and the stick.
the juggler | spring 2010020
lightingdigital photograph by Gaspar García de Paredes
gaspar garcía de paredesentre dos tierras esta, y no deja aire que respirar.
art, literature, & design 021
aqua blisslinoleum reduction print by Georges Toumayan
georges toumayanis a graphic design major with a love for shenanigans.
the juggler | spring 2010022
faerie children with pearl bodies
discarded clothes and inhibitions
drape the caustic, metallic fence
ink sky drains into raven water
melding in wedding obsidian
infinite and omnipotent
hand in hand
in pain and joy
float the wooden dock
leap into the ebon - white
wormhole to an other universe
suspended for eternity
that moment
newton snaps
shattering the looking glass
maenads frozen in liquid
ruby slipper sacrifice
fumble for fig clothes
bare feet gather gravel, dust
scamper to warm, waiting beds
arielpoem by Brittany Burgeson
brittany burgeson(aka B.Kitty) is often recognized as the freakishly tall background dancer in that thrillingly cult-tastic viral video.
art, literature, & design 023
gustave and colinocut reduction print by Edel Crowe
edel croweis a vampire.
the juggler | spring 2010024
art, literature, & design 025
the city night smirks with the knowledge that something’s at stake,
white lights and black mail— I cannot sleep I will not wake
short men stand beside stacks of newspapers, hands on their hips,
they know that all it takes is one dollar fifty, just one night to ferment
my name like cheap wine to blend naturally with cosmo, star, and the candy bars.
and the pigeons will pick at the papers left behind, dirty crumbs of I and me
scattered cross the streets where tires and feet crow morning, morning
my foot hangs off the bed, moving in circles on the lukewarm linoleum, while
outside the newspapers wait, their small words trembling with unsettled ink
reputationpoem by Sara Felsenstein
sara felsensteinis an English major. She is most inspired by late-night conversations, jazzy music and jazzy people, Ted Kooser, and the glowing South Bend sky.
the juggler | spring 2010026
after the raindigital photograph by Kirsten Blazic
kirsten blazicgrew up believing that nuclear power plants are actually cloud factories in disguise.
art, literature, & design 027
the juggler | spring 2010028
The Juggler is a semiannual student art, design, and literary magazine of the Notre Dame community. It is printed at Ava Maria Press in Notre Dame, Indiana. Editorial and/or business correspondence should be addressed to:
The Editor, The Juggler 315 LaFortune Student Center Notre Dame, Indiana, 46556
The Juggler can also be reached via e-mail at [email protected]. Poetry, short fiction, essays, art, and design are accepted at any time (preferably by e-mail). The material in this publication is protected by copyright and may not be reprinted, copied, or quoted, except by specific written permission. The opinions expressed in The Juggler are not necessarily those of the University of Notre Dame or the student body. Thanks for reading.
jackie burkeeditor
amy maassistant editor
andrew pautler art & design director
andrew pautler kirsten blazic larisa conant graphic design
bob franken ‘69advisor
ingrid hessrobert sedlack ‘89design advisors
art selectionandrew pautler
jackie burke
larisa conant
kirsten blazic
writing selectionrachel hamilton
caitlin wilson
jane wageman
emily barton
nick brandt
erica wick
katherine khorey
graham boechler
marissa frobes
paul baranay
em lyons
colophon
fearwatercolor painting by John Traub
john traubis a junior industrial design major with big city dreams.
art, literature, & design 029