winter 2011 - b&w

Contents: PAGE 2: INTRODUCTION PAGES 3-4: POETRY PAGE 5-6: NON-FICTION PAGE 7-8: FICTION PAGE 9: VISUAL ART PAGE 10-11: MSM FACULTY

MOUNT ST. MARY’S BEST/ONLY ART & CULTURE MAGAZINE PRESENTS...

L(eg)IT MAG

VOLUME 1, ISSUE 1 : WINTER 2011

Lo and Behold! We present to you Mount St. Mary's first-ever literary

Magazine, L(EG)IT MAG. These pages hold the genius

works of warriors who marched through mind and heart

in order to spill their souls on these simple sheets of pa-

per. DON’T take us lightly: we can raise the dead, stop

time, and BE whoever we want to be. We are the ones

who create, journey, and explore. We are writers.

Kelsie Kent (Editor-in-Chief 2011-12)

Diversity can be compared to the many pieces of the human soul. Each piece, seemingly tiny and insignificant, plays an important role in discovering the limit-less depths of our humanity. Some pieces are big, some are small. Yet, arranged to-

gether, they form a glorious mosaic of talents, dreams, characteristics, and differences. The richness of being human stems from the concept of this liberal yet purposeful

shuffling of our many pieces to create a living patchwork blanket, because each weave of fabric adds to our overall refinement yet allows us to grow. Diversity mixes you; it

defines you. It is also the various windows to the mysterious human soul and acts as a reflective mirror to show each one of us the sheer brilliance of each individual soul. Each person has the potential to teach us something new about ourselves. Diversity: it brings us together. It brings us closer in human solidarity. It defines our humanity.

Anne Yoon (Assistant Editor-in-Chief 2011-12)

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3

“Poetry is life

Distilled.”

(Gwendolyn BRooks)

PHOTOGRAPH BY LI HUIQIN

Suburban Eyed

Anonymous

Wandering eyes, peering in.

Looking but not seeing.

Touching but not feeling.

Knowing but not loving.

Up at seven, to bed at nine.

Coffee in the morning, wine

at night.

Not remembering what it is

to dream, play, or fight.

A placid quiet in the fluo-

rescent light.

“Clenching fists of pale flesh”

Sylvia Proctor

Clenching fists of pale flesh,

First wrinkled, then pulled taut

Ripping

Stripping

My bones

So pure, smooth, milky white

Uncorrupted by repulsive, hanging

layers

Upon layers

Hide the remains

Hide the shame

Oh, rest in peace my beloved body

No, rest in hell where you belong

“My body is not my body”

My bones

My beautiful, rich, ivory carved

bones

So simple

So divine

They shall be adorned by strings

of pearls

You may not touch

Because it is not real.

I am not real.

KELSIE KENT’S “ELEPHANT SHADOW”

“We are all human”

Rachel Ngo

We are all human

Our goal on Earth is to love

In a unique way

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“Variety is the spice of

life.” (Proverb)

Why?

by Daisy Shin

The fire asked the water,

“Why are you not hot like

me?”

Then the water asked the fire,

“Why are you not cool like

me?”

The cheetah asked the dog,

“Why can you not run fast as I

do?”

Then the dog asked the chee-

tah,

“Why can you not smell as

well as I do?”

The boy asked the girl,

“Why do you not have as deep

a voice as I do?”

Then the girl asked the boy,

“Why do you not have as long

hair as I do?”

The light asked the dark,

“Why are you not bright as I

am?”

Then the dark asked the light,

“Why are you not dark as I

am?”

The sponge asked the wood,

“Why are you not soft as I

am?”

Then the wood asked the

sponge,

“Why are you not hard as I

am?”

I am not wrong.

You are not wrong.

And we are not wrong.

BUDDY RYU’S “MUSIC WAVE”

We are just

different.

Grayson Baker-Fixico reminds us that sometimes difference is

deceptive in

The Wheel with No Purpose

DEAR WHEEL, We are so different it feels like I‟m writing you from the

moon.

But I guarantee our similarities will show soon.

Because I know how you feel… you‟ve lost your purpose.

However it happened, I know you didn‟t deserve it.

If you‟re like me, you like to cause trouble, and they say you

aren‟t worth it.

But at least you still roll; at least you have something.

Although I understand that you feel you have nothing.

People like to say that we are obsolete.

But we both know we are nothing less than elite.

We both never accept defeat.

We will walk across the world till the skin leaves our feet!

We will keep walking till we collapse on the street!

We will crawl on all fours, till we can‟t take it any more!

Then we‟ll drag our limp, lifeless bodies across the floor.

I guess we are similar; we are nothing short of great...

We could fall down seven times,

but we would stand

up eight.

Selfish words: me, myself, and I.

Laugh then, laugh now, regret later.

Live like you, not like them.

Many fails down; success to come.

You can only have so much.

Dream big dreams: you'll get there.

No one person is ever perfect.

Two plus two sometimes equals four.

Money doesn‟t bring happiness, but opportunities 5

RYAN MCGOFFIN

Nonfiction: Rants, Essays,

& Curiosities.

SAM MAGUIRE’S “STAY AROUND”

Should we always celebrate diversity?

Bailee Bronson gets political in

Bill Gates vs. Chris Gardner

You are in an office. The walls are the color of a stale cannoli shell, the scanner is buzzing loudly, a

disturbed fellow with a coffee-stained shirt walks by, and the smell of white-out starts to give you a

headache. The boss man waltzes in, all looking like a car salesmen and such, hands out today‟s itiner-

ary, and gives a gutsy wink to the blonde secretary. Every person in this office has a story, comes

from somewhere different, and has many embarrassing stories that they wouldn‟t care to share. If

these ordinary people seem to be so similar, what makes them drastically different?

In today‟s ever so blunt and unforgiving society, there are two categories for one to fall under: the

poor or the rich. You may picture the rich driving luxurious foreign cars, divorcing scandalously at

least twice, drinking very large coffee drinks, and carrying handbags that would be the equivalent of

some people‟s rent. We tend to put the wealthy on a sort of imaginary pedestal, making middle-class

citizens feel a sense of uneasiness and not belonging while in their presence. The poor are perceived

as a people who might be seen going on coffee runs for their superiors, holding up the line at the

grocery store while digging for coupons, or dining on a bountiful harvest of off-brand macaroni and

cheese along with Diet Cola. Why is there such a bold view of both classes in today‟s society, or

even since the dawn of time? Why is it that one person is allowed more luxury than the other?

Aren‟t we all equal children of God? Is this how God intended for His world to be? How will our

ever-bold views of His creations impact the future generations?

Here’s something different for you… lit mag member E.J. Hall doesn’t really like to write. Luckily,

he knows you can pack a lot of meaning into just a few words,

so he challenged himself to write a series of aphorisms using

only six words.

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Are you quirky? Unusual? Different? Awesome. So is this colorful piece by Christian Monk.

(with special thanks to sensationalcolor.com and Dr. Richard Podhajny)

Why Purple is Better Than Your Mom

I‟m guessing you think your mom is pretty darn awesome. She cooks, she cleans, she might

even work every now and then. There is no doubt that moms are the top dogs; they are almost uni-

versally loved. But for every dog at the top there is always an underdog. And this is one underdog

that is a force to be reckoned with.

Enter purple.

The color purple relates to the imagination and spirituality. It stimulates the imagination and

inspires high ideals. It is an introspective color, allowing us to get in touch with our deepest

thoughts. Purple contains the energy and strength of red, with the spiritual passion and integrity of

blue. This is the union of body and soul, creating a balance between our physical and our spiritual

energies. What can your mom do: bake cookies?

Purple is not a primary color and is not on the light color spectrum; basically Purple is the

bastard love child of Red and Blue, yet it is still specifically associated with royalty and the nobility,

creating an impression of luxury, wealth, and extravagance. Purple has overcome its unconventional

birth and upbringing and rose to power. It has a richness and quality to it that demands respect.

Purple is ambitious and self-assured, the leader of all the other colors. It‟s the Nelson Mandela of

colors! Has your mom ever fought adversity and rose to rule over others (besides you)? No? I

thought so.

Purple has been known throughout the world: In Tibet, amethyst is considered to be sacred

to Buddha and rosaries are often fashioned from it. In Russia, only the Royals could wear purple. In

Japan, the color purple signifies “wealth and position.” Purple denotes virtue and faith in Egypt and

of course the valor of a Purple Heart to Americans. Has your mom been worn by Royals and re-

garded as a Holy artifact? No? Purple: 3. Your Mom: zip.

Purple is so amazing that is has been incorporated into the new generation of American

money, turning our iconic “greenbacks” into “purplebacks.” Has your mom ever been on money?

And I‟m not talking about her name and telephone number on that bill she slipped across the table

to the busboy at Denny‟s.

Here‟s the facts: “the earliest archaeological evidence for the origins of purple dye points to

the Minoan civilization in Crete, about 1900 B.C. […] The ancient land of Canaan was the center of

the ancient purple dye industry, its Greek name was Phoenicia, which means „land of the pur-

ple.‟” (Yeah, Purple is so amazing they named a country after it.) Oh, and it‟s been millions of years

and purple is still awesome and adored by people all over the world. Your mom is forty and people

already avoid her at parties.

Purple is such a inspiring sight that people have written songs about it, and these songs have

become some of the most popular: “Pale Purple,” by Ani DiFranco,; “Purple,” by Slapshock, “Purple

Haze,” by Jimi Hendrix; “The Purple of All Curtains,” by Tangerine Dream;“Purple People Eater,” by

Sheb Wooley; “Purple Rain,” by Prince on Purple Rain; “Purple Ray Gun,” by Alexis Shepard; “Purple

Stain,” by Red Hot Chili Peppers; “Purple Toupee,” by They Might Be Giants; “Violet Purple Rose” by

Chris Squier & Billy Sherwood; “Voices Green and Purple,” by The Bees; “Purple Hills, by D12, and on

and on and on.

That is ten songs off the top of my head; now let‟s see how many songs are made for moms:

“Stacy‟s Mom,” by Fountains of Wayne… Yep. That‟s pretty much it.

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are like soft shadows I have set

out in the world, faint footprints I have left. I remember exactly where I set down each and every

one of them, and how I felt when I did. Short stories are like guideposts to my heart...”

(Haruki Murakami)

“My short stories

ARIEL CONTRERAS

We all have diverse ways and reasons to write. The following story—absurd and imaginative and delight-

fully different—was written collaboratively during Christian Service by Kelsie Kent, Raul Rivera, and

Peggy Frazier, with the help of Ruth, a patient at the Alzheimer Clinic.

Popcorn

Popcorn. The greatest gift God has bestowed upon us. Every day when I get home from

school, I throw down my backpack along with all my problems for the day and stick a bag in the mi-

crowave. I don‟t care how old the bag is, but it does have to be butter. I can listen to that stuff pop

all day. The sound of the crunching of the bag as it gets bigger, the exploding kernels, and the wafting

smell coming from the microwave… sometimes it gives me the chills. As I sit there and wait, I bite

my lip. It‟s almost too much. I cannot bear it any longer. I run to the microwave and swing open the

door just in time for the buttery bag to start steaming. I pick it up and down it even though it‟s

scorching the back of my throat. The butter and salt of the popcorn leaves my tongue dry. I run to

the kitchen sink and stick my head under the faucet. Nothing comes out. With my throat still burn-

ing and my tongue still parched, I have no other choice but to head for the bathroom. The smelly,

stinking bathroom that my brother had to use all day today when he stayed home with the stomach

bug. I test its faucet. Nothing.

Dun dun dun.

By now, my mouth feels like I‟ve been in a desert for 2.56 years. No, worse than that. It feels

not only like I‟ve been living in the desert for 2.56 years, but I‟ve been eating nothing but sand and

dry lizard skins. Unfortunately, this is not the case. I have done something much, much worse. I

have eaten a bag of popcorn. I look in the mirror to check my mouth only to find my face turn-

ing a vivid shade of fuchsia. (Fuchsia is a nice color, but not on someone‟s face.) Looking at my

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face gives me the chills. Panicked, I run to fetch the popcorn bag out of the day old trash. I start

licking the butter out of the bag before I realize that I was going to check the date it expired: Best if

used by September 23, 1942.

I panic. This popcorn is a little older than what I‟m used to eating. It gave me the chills just to

see that date on that bag.

I tentatively open the lid of the toilet. Maybe if I wash this stuff down, my face will return to

its normal color. I poke my head into the bowl. I pull out my portable bendy straw and take a sip.

My throat feels better already, so I continue taking long, big gulps. After several gulps, I lift my head

and give a content sigh.

I check the mirror to see if my face is back to normal again. I catch a glimpse of my reflection

just in time to stumble back and crack my head on the bathtub. As I lay there bleeding, I say my

goodbyes to the world. I honor my dad, who introduced me to popcorn at the age of one. My

brother, who got sick in the very toilet I just stuck my bendy straw down. To my Aunt Ruth, whose

beard I will never forget bestowing my lips upon.

I cannot finish saying my goodbyes. My head is spinning and mouth feels dry. Again. I do my

best to leave this world with happy thoughts in my head. I think of popcorn. As the bubbly,

brownish-yellowish image stays in my head, a sense of peace comes over me. I see a giant piece of

popcorn come down from the sky and lift my soul up into the heavens. The heavens are golden, just

like my butter popcorn.

All of a sudden, the golden popcorn angels start burning. They have been left in the micro-

wave for too long! I try to make it stop, but I can‟t. I cannot escape this peril! What have I done to

deserve this?! I have lived a good, kind life with my bendy straw and popcorn.

I lift up my hand to pinch my arm to see if this is all a dream. To my horror, I have no hands. I

am a popcorn kernel itself!

I start to rejoice until I feel the heat rise and my world start spinning. I know this all too well.

I am in a microwave. The very thought gives me the chills.

I feel very bloated. I am sweating, and my world seems to be getting smaller and smaller. The

heat intensifies, sending a sharp, searing pain down my middle. I feel like I „m going to split in half.

The pain is agonizing. I‟m expanding, and expanding, and expanding and hurting and hurting and

hurting. My skin is so hot. It‟s moist, and I can‟t help but wonder if it‟s butter or blood. Suddenly, I

hear a horrible pop to my left. I look over. There is a giant, yellow bulge hovering over me. I don‟t

have time to get scarred before I realize it‟s a piece of popcorn. It is too much to even get chills.

The popping continues as my world continues to get even smaller.

By now I am absolutely certain that I am in the popcorn underworld. And I am about to die.

Again. The thought of dying a second time gives me the chills.

By now, the pain is so great I cannot even see. I want it to stop, but I know it won‟t until I

pop.

Dun dun dun.

Suddenly, after what seems like hours, it does. The lack of pain leaves a strange feeling. It‟s al-

most a good feeling, but my elaborate knowledge of popcorn tells me it‟s not good at all. I feel like

I‟m breaking in two and doubling-tripling-quadrupling in size. I see puffy things (not much unlike uni-

corns and ponies and rainbows…) and…

POP.

9

KAY

LA GREEN’S “F

REE F

ALLIN

G”

AMERICA: LAND OF DIFFERENCES (PHOTOGRAPHY BY ANDREW STIEHLER)

MAGGIE MULLOOLY’S “ENTER”

JESUS CARREON’S “LIFE IS NOT A GAME” MIKE MENG’S “BLOSSOM”

Visual art

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FACULTY EXCLUSIVE.

Hailed as a masterpiece of English literature by the denizens of lit mag, here’s an essay by Mr. Tom

Carter about a difference of opinion. You know this is going to be good.

My Two Cents

THIS SHOULD BE A RANT, but I had no desire to disturb the effete among you. Some

would say that my ranting is commonplace. No, those complainers just lacked grandparents who believed that

children should be seen and not heard. And the rest just chafe at my seemingly contradictory definition of con-

versation: I talk, you listen.

Over four centuries ago a playwright penned this famous line: “a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

This quote is generally attributed to William Shakespeare in Romeo and Juliet. The last few generations have

made it de rigueur to question the authorship attributed to the Bard. A new movie, Anonymous, is trying to say

that William Shakespeare did not write any of the plays and sonnets. So, does that mean they really do not ex-

ist? Are they a figment of my imagination? Have I lost touch with reality? (These are rhetorical questions so

tread lightly answering them in my presence.)

I am left to think that there was no human author. I am loath to think that the good Lord mouthed all the pro-

fanity that is in “Shakespeare‟s” plays. That might draw the conclusion that Lucifer and his minions had some-

thing to do with this confusion. But it would be sad to think that the lord of darkness is more profound than

the Lord of all. That leaves us only one conclusion along this line of reasoning: there really is a planet of the

apes, and not only have they visited, they left us their highest craft.

Oh, you say that you are actually talking about a real person who anonymously wrote for Shakespeare? That

this person should receive the credit instead of William? Then you have actually read the real line from Romeo

and Juliet, which suggests that whoever wrote Romeo and Juliet is an author worthy to be known as the greatest

writer in history. “Shakespeare written by any other name is still Shakespeare” is my new catchphrase. I am

applying for a copyright right now. And you can quote me on it! Now and for the next four hundred years!

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And now, a poem on subtraction from Mr. Jeremy

Grondin. Diversity, “difference,” subtraction… get it?

Subtraction

To understand the art,

You first must start

Thinking of numbers as sets,

Or groups of elements.

We‟ll begin with the sum;

Then you will come

To understand how to subtract

And no skill will you lack.

Let there exist group A and group B,

And you add them to get C.

The sum is now everything shared,

Leaving no elements spared.

The difference will be group D,

So look at what‟s in A but not in B.

Take all of these,

If you please.

It‟s this action We call subtraction.

“Walking with soft sand under my

feet”

Mr. James Fraser

Walking with soft sand under my feet

I think, think of just one

One spark, one glow, one smile

Lost in confusion. Is this the one,

The one for me, the one GOD made

for me?

Then I ask myself, does she think like

me?

Do I put a spark in her life?

Can she see what she has?

Am I walking alone?

As I cry tears of happiness

I thank GOD for that smile,

That flame, burning for her in me.

As I hold her hand I thank GOD;

Thank you, GOD, for my best friend,

One who smiles,

One that holds my hand in return.

But is she there as I am

With her heart and soul

In every touch, every word,

Every tear, every day?

Do I walk in her life as she walks in

mine?

Or am I as the sand under my feet

Left with imprints

Imprints in my Heart.

JESUS CARREON’S “RING AROUND THE ROSES”

Ms. Amy Kalmar explores a different kind of poetry… the “prose

poem.” Written without line breaks, this form relies on vivid diction, subtle

prose rhythms, and sound relationships to create a poetic feel.

Formless

I‟ve come to understand the insanity of stanzas; there‟s no such thing

as a clean break, blank space, or fresh line. Sometimes at night I

wake, wild and blind, but even with light, no eyes could pierce the

claustrophobic groaning of souls in my head: dead men muttering

where are they now—and where will they be pouring forth from future

mouths impassioned and impatient with the ponderous marching on

of Time. Through that throng my thousand voices weave, seeking

desperate order, basic comprehensibility, cautious like an unremu-

nerated riot squad—herding the howling crowd into ranks reflecting

epochs, ages, languages. It‟s sheer impossibility—here identity is

fluid, men tear and trade faces freely, in shady corners couple fur-

tively, and everywhere I‟m powerless to stop the steady dissolution

of each into his component parts. At last all that‟s left for me is the

glittering infinity of a polychrome humanity—magnificent like

cracked stained glass, fractured and still fracturing—red, black, and

blue, brilliant like blood, night, and summer skies—and the cry is al-

ways growing as men crawl to join their fellows from the deeply fer-

tile pits of the split and spewing well of Time—

An insistence on form in the face of it all is like standing alone on a clear night, pointing an imperious finger light-ward, trying to order,

star-by-falling-star, the tangled, blazing glory of the infinities of space.

winter 2011 - b&w

Documents

poetry page

human stems

human solidarity

mysterious human soul

nonfiction page

visual art page

human rachel ngo

beloved body