Misunderstandings

Nonfiction Home Art by Collin Scott Misunderstandings by Emily Hall “Yet here I am, on my way, arm raised in greeting, and then I am no more.” Gabriel Josipovici,  Goldberg: Variations I. Before my husband Fausto and I made the fourteen-hour drive to Maine, he asked if we were going to scatter our dog’s ashes in the ocean there. I paused for a minute because the only time we took Nicholas to the beach he had loved it; but I couldn’t imagine saying goodbye while we watched the current take him away from us, so I said “no.”We were packing for our trip, unsure what to bring because we rarely took vacations. It was a splurge meant to help me grieve the dual losses of Nicholas and my academic career. After fourteen years of teaching college English, I had burned out, but there were no funeral rites to acknowledge my job’s end. In fact, I had spent the last year as an adjunct, so there wasn’t even an office party, just an email from my department chair saying that he thought he understood and an essay that I was writing about non-linear time and waving in Gabriel Josipovici’s novel, Goldberg: Variations, that I buried in the bottom drawer of my desk. When Fausto and I finished packing, we got into our car, laughing nervously as we chose a playlist. We had tough-to-say-the-least childhoods, so we kept giving each other sidelong glances and asking  if we were allowed to do this, allowed to drive for days, stopping for bookstores, donuts, and coffees along the way, because we still couldn’t fathom making these choices for ourselves although we were nearly forty. Two days later, when we crossed into Maine, a place neither of us had ever seen, we waved at the welcome sign and felt a little breathless, like we’d climbed to the top of the world and knew we’d still have to come down.   II. On the second night of our trip, around midnight, Fausto and I went out to our little balcony so we could hear the ocean crash. But as we settled into the faux-wicker chairs and oriented ourselves towards the sea, we realized the waves were drowned out by the sounds of birds we couldn’t identify. Their calls pierced the air, whooping and whistling unseen, while we sat in darkness so deep I hoped my body would melt away until I was just a pale pair of ears absorbing the bird cries. And as I imagined myself disappearing, I remembered a flight we took years before to visit Fausto’s family in Florida. The plane was cramped and overcrowded, but the baby on the other side of our row didn’t seem to notice. From her mother’s lap, she waved a dimpled hand at Fausto, who sat nearest to her in his aisle seat. He waved back, so she excitedly began a series of poses, holding each one for only a few seconds. She rested her chin on her hand, then shyly laid her face against her mother’s shoulder before leaping up to wave at Fausto again, her face blooming into a joyful grin. We chuckled, and her mother laughed in surprise, as if she had never seen her baby do such a thing. The rows immediately before and after us took notice, and soon they were also watching her and giggling softly. Across these rows, our laughter fused and lifted upwards like a cloud, even as our bodies sat belted in tight seats. III.   In the days after Nicholas died, I kept asking Fausto when I would be done grieving. I wanted to pinpoint grief’s place in my body and root it out. “I don’t think it works like that,” Fausto would gently explain. But I wanted a hard date and decided that my grief would be over when I didn’t cry for three days in a row. The first day was always the easiest: I would get through it by weeding the garden or cleaning my kitchen cupboards. On the second, I’d feel the urge to pull up one of Nicholas’s many photos, but I would put my phone in another room and pick up a book instead. On the third day, I’d be triumphant, convinced that I had conquered my grief, and I’d boldly tell Fausto that I was ready for another pet because I had already weathered the worst of it. Then, I’d go for my nightly walk and see my neighbors who’d wave at me cheerfully as their own dogs trotted beside them. In response to their greetings, which always felt carefree and content, fat tears would roll down my cheeks, and I’d rewind the clock to give myself three more days. IV. In Cape Elizabeth, the surf was rough, as were the winds, but the ducks rose and dove unbothered. Fausto and I were watching them from our perch, a bright red picnic table outside of the Lobster Shack where we were eating greasy trays of clams and fries—we didn’t come for the food, but for the view. Now that we had finished eating, we were staring at the vast stretch of rocks before us, and when my eyes finally adjusted, I realized that one of the brown orbs in the distance wasn’t actually a duck; it was a harbor seal. I had never seen one outside of captivity before. Gasping, I pointed it out to Fausto who followed my finger towards its place in the ocean. The seal rose up, its speckled belly winking in the sun, and plunged under again. From what we could tell, it was alone. We watched it in silence, our bodies tense and eyes squinting. After the fourth time the seal surfaced, it went back under the waves and swam out of sight entirely. The seal’s sudden appearance seemed to mark the end of dinner, and we took our trays to the trash and away from the eyes of two seagulls, who moments before had

Dew On The Sea

Dew On the Sea by Claire Wahmanholm Star/savior is an infirm rhyme, but here:even the smallest music box will chimeif you place it all the way inside your ear.It’s like unfocusing your eyes to seethe nest snug within the burning wood;it’s like when the weather map pulses greenafter you look away from all that red;it’s like an artless belief in mercy(who is smarter and happier than youpermit yourself to be); it’s a near-dream.It all exists, but we may need to softenour bones to be born into it. Think dewon the sea, think hammered gold, think zygote.We may have to be both borne and boat. Poetry Home Art by Sean Riley

Mickey Haist

Menu Current Volume Archive About Us Submit Categories Mickey Haist Haist came to visual arts in his mid-thirties, originally creating abstracts in pursuit of the therapeutic aspects of the process. Having worked through all his feelings, he has transitioned to representational pieces. He is now working on a new series organized around the idea of nostalgic objectification of the midcentury. He works as a teacher. Website: www.mickeyhaistjrart.com. Instagram: @mickeyhaistjrpaintings Second Cold Night

Morgan Auten-Smith

Menu Current Volume Archive About Us Submit Categories Morgan Auten-Smith Morgan Auten is an abstract painter and elementary art teacher from northeast Georgia. She is an art educator with 12 years experience under her belt. Art education is not just a means to an end for Morgan, but also a passion. She loves teaching creativity to kids and showing them all that they are capable of. Morgan’s work is bold, calming, thoughtful, filled with intention, and beauty. Through her own joyful take on color and shape, she explores the intersections between individuality and womanhood, and power and patriarchy. Currently, Morgan resides in Gainesville, Ga with her partner Joshua and twin children. Artist Statement: My work expresses the sacrifices made when struggling between the artistic self and the self that exists outside of the studio. As a woman, wife, teacher, I am reduced to fit into certain molds and must cull elements of myself. There are parts of my life that I sacrifice in order to create. Similarly sacrifices occur to complete artwork, layers sacrificed to find compositional conclusion, colors offered up and covered over in the name of balance. The sacrifices that are made in my work bring forth a language of light, color, edges, weight and shape. All of these come together to create a dialog that is arresting to the viewer. These sacrifices result in color fields of expressive geometric abstraction that are both powerful and delicate.There is always something under the surface in my paintings, something that makes the viewer pause over the subtleties and consider what has been sacrificed. Website: morganautensmith.com Instagram: _morgan_auten_ The Furies The Blue Train Devil Details

Keegan Baatz

Menu Current Volume Archive About Us Submit Categories Keegan Baatz Keegan Baatz is a photographer living in Pullman, Washington. He is currently working towards his MFA (Master of Fine Art) at Washington State University. He received his BFA from Black Hills State University in May of 2023. His work consists of portraiture, fine art, and some landscape. Within his personal work, he is exploring digital manipulation and constructed environments, with a focus on spaces of transition and the hinterland. Website: keeganbaatz.com Instagram: keegan.baatz Point 28-15 Point 25-2 Point 21-47 Point 8-3 Point 30-9

nothing is more sad than a waning moon

nothing is more sad than a waning moon by Sirka Elspass (transl. Anne-Sophie Balzer) nothing is more sad than a waning moon in dwindling candle light you write this to have a body means tremendous responsibility and no one is born knowing how it works   but someone has hung a flyer on the crescent  people are being sought after cats went missing if the apple is the embrace i am the worm  eating it away Poetry Home Art by Mickey Haist Jr.