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    Folly Review


    Jeremy Munro





    “Each lasting memory, will control each word that I write, and I used to think my hands could dance”


    One of the biggest tragedies of my life is that I never got to see Folly play. I owe this band so much, but sadly they no longer exist.


          Folly does something really weird in the hardcore genre. They combine elements of Hardcore with the guitar upstrokes of Ska. Its really odd because one minute they will be doing the whole crazy breakdown thing and then it goes into ska dance upstrokes which sounds absurdly happy. As far as I could find out, when Folly was a band they toured like crazy. Folly to me, is all about just spreading their message and energy to the youth that understood them everywhere.


    I'll be focusing on their album “Resist Convenience” specifically what is arguably their greatest song “Broken.”


    Their other albums are also top notch, “Insanity Later” and “These Are Places We Broke Down In” are also awesome albums.





         This song is a masterpiece of hardcore and is in my top ten for greatest hardcore songs ever. It is 4 minute 29 second epic. The song starts with a intro that seems to call everyone to order and pump the feeling up. Folly is all about the emotion. Then suddenly the intro stops and moves forward to the singer just screaming with as much force as humanly possible. In my mind I visualize just the forces of the world bowing down for a second while humanity takes 4 minutes and 29 seconds to not care about the questions that bother them and just become the moment. A ska breakdown follows which cuts the mood in an almost awkward way. After this the song goes back to hardcore and gang vocals follow “We're reborn each time we breathe.” Then repetition follows and another hardcore breakdown just goes down along with some more vocals. The song proceeds into its second ska breakdown and then everything slows down and gets super dramatic.

          Then the singer talks saying “Each lasting memory, will control each word that I write, and I used to think my hands could dance.” Then the song prepares to come to its climactic conclusion where the singer admits the person he sings about was never a crutch. As someone who sings hardcore, I can just imagine his face and mind right there, it sends chills down my mind just imagine screaming “YOU WERE NEVER A CRUTCH” with as much feeling as possible. Man, I'd feel so human right there. Things keep going insane after that with the last words of the song being “I'm Broken.” The song imagery is pretty boss too.

    This song is truly a masterpiece in my mind and here check it out for yourself: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RC8LEnRKLx0



    Quick note on the lyrics versus the version of the song I linked, they are a bit different the only good quality version of the song I could find was the 2002 Demo version not the 2006 Resist Convenience version. So there might be some discrepancy.




    Breathe me in, like air innocent.
    My fingers bleed.
    I've been writing too much.
    Preventing these words from searing my battered throat.
    And I can't even scream so I sketch your face.
    Each line was a cry.
    Each curve bore blindness.
    Prevent my arms from failing.

    Limitless expressions to your face I can't conform,
    But give hands the chance voice wouldn't have.
    It was the first time that our words kissed, but our lips, they didn't even touch.
    No skin on skin.
    The first time in my life that I existed.
    And each time that we breathed, we were reborn.
    We're reborn each time we breathe (x3)
    These nights were gaining strength yet losing ground.
    A short-lived grace (x2)
    Your tongue!

    I taste your ways with a pen in my hand, in my hand, in my hand.
    I taste your ways.

    Well, in a matter of time my life went from day to night, incriminating textures.
    Where on earth did you go?
    What happened to us?
    With this retouching paint, I will use a brush, apply it to your canvas.
    This was once a beautiful painting.

    Each lasting memory will control each word that I write.
    And I used to think that my hands could dance.
    I only needed to hold myself up.
    You were never a crutch as you tore me away like this fringed papers' edge.
    You were never a crutch

    You were never a crutch.


    Each lasting memory will control each word that I write.
    And I used to think that my hands could dance.
    But now I see my hand's been broken for quite some time.
    These memories impale the senses to this day.
    I'm broken.


    I'm very interested to hear your opinions/questions/comments, so you totally should say something if you read this! Even if you call them just noise.




    Other Folly songs can be found at:






  • for years i would dream about water. i used to sacrifice sleep in order to find out what it meant. i scoured every dreamer's dictionary known. it wasn't until i spent eight days in a floating house that i finally became rested.

  •  montreal, quebec

  • I'll live in the moment

    while looking over my shoulder at the future

    and keeping the past in my notebook.


    I will never give up,

    I'll stay here.

    Help others with their existential crisis.

    It is my mission

    Solemnly sworn

    To the darkest night.

  • I know you want to have a treat,

    but rember, you are what you eat,

    no desert before dinner,

    we all like cookies cakes and pie,

    but remember this is not a lie,

    no dessert before dinner,

    we all scream for ice cream,

    but go easy on the whipped cream,

    no dessert before dinner,

    don't do something prenmature,

    don't do something immature,

    no dessert before dinner

  • Zounds, Leopold what a scary dragon I just wet my pants!

    Fear not Archibald I shall smite him with my Lance,

    The dragon ate Leopold,

    Oh s’blood Theobald, Leopold is dead,

    Fear not Archibald, I shall smash the monster’s head,

    The dragon ate Theobald,

    Oh damn Ulric, the beast just ate two knights,

    Fear not Archibald, I’ll put up a better fight,

    The dragon ate Ulric

    Three knights dead, Samwise oh what a day,

    Fear not Archibald, I will make him pay,

    The dragon ate Samwise

    No one else is left but me,

    How can I alone set my kingdom free?

    Then Jack the peasant came,

    Pardon Sir I can save the day,

    I’ll just kindly ask the dragon to fly away,

    Archibald laughed at Jack

    I know you think I will fail this test,

    But may I be damned to hell if my choice isn’t the best,

    The dragon ate Jack,

    I might as well try this; I know I’ll die,

    Archibald’s arrow hit the beast between the eyes,

    I am a hero! I’ll be the subject of songs!

    I sent that vile creature where it belongs,

    The roc swooped down and ate Archibald



    Standing at the edge of the world

    The waves flowing over the side

    Into impending nothingness.

    Take one last breath.


    We sailed away from the shoreline

    Raised the anchor

    Strove forth like valiant youth we were

    And funny now how we are knocking on heaven's door.


    Captain, Captain!

    Before the sail breaks!
    Hold fast.

    “The current's too strong” the first mate yelled.


    “Service the anchor!

    We've all paid our price lads

    And God is our captain.

    Change your direction.”


    His beard was drenched with water

    He grabbed me and yelled, spitting in my face with such vigor.

    “We'll part the sea.”

    The mast fell

    “Don't come with me”


    Thunder made a nice soundtrack

    His words went on deaf ears with the noise

    Lightning struck the bow

    He was dead.



    Abandon All Ships.

    This is the time to die.

    And we will jump to our deaths.


    Looking at what we built

    As it goes over the sides into oblivion

    Perdition reigns from the sky

    The currents strong.


    Too strong.

    So I bid you adieu.

    Service the anchor

    Abandon all ships.


    So this is heavily heavily based on a song called "Take One Last Breath" by Abandon All Ships. I love this band, they use a lot of pop electro elements, auto tuned harmony vocals with classic hardcore elements its pretty cool. This poem uses a lot of the language from their song but also provides description and a mini-story to the whole thing. Hopefully you'll get what I mean if you listen to the song (which I will link below). Its supposed to be raw passion, super serious, as if you were immediately facing death in the most dramatic way possible. Good stuff.


    Song (With Lyrics): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Phuvixzybb8


  •  i nearly fell asleep in a bed that wasn’t mine tonight. i could hear the murmurs of crime shows and heartbeats and the swish swish of restless feet on sheets. i whined and dined on ice cream and feelings and actively fought the urge to stay back and secure the fastenings in my flimsy ol’ safety net–(just like suede shoelaces, those damn knots do not stay tied)-because that’s what she told me to do: fight and/to explore, fight and/to explore.

  • Ode to the Drunk Guys Outside the Window

    By Anonymous


    Your incoherent yells and hey-ohs

    Provide nightly shows of entertainment

    For the girls on the third floor.


    Collectively, you are the drunk guys outside the window,

    And collectively, your band of characters

    Playing ninja in a circle and noisily loitering

    Outside the steps at midnight last night

    Led to me immortalizing you in a poem, unbeknownst to you.


    Your shouts are loud, but their meanings lost

    Among the slurred words and exclamations

    Of “Thirsty Thursday” even if it’s Wednesday.


    We don’t know why you congregate here in your brotherhood.

    We can’t understand your language.

    But we yell out at you anyways,

    As you look around in confusion, wondering

    Where that voice came from.


    Maybe one day you’ll yell out in your intoxicated state and some girl

    Will answer, and true love will bloom.

    But please know, we have no idea what your actually saying. 

    We just live here.

    But enjoy the nightly antics, of you,

    The drunk guys outside the window.

  • Slipping     

     By Samantha Glavin


    I slip my toes in and out of my shoes

    Rocking from foot to foot

    My hand squeezing my elbow.


    Time is my enemy.

    I suppose it is the curse of all humans

    That time changes on us, and is the way we never want it to be.

    Why can’t you pass faster during the bad times

    And slower during the good

    Why must there be this cruel irony.


    But back to my anxious feet.

    Why is it so hard to say goodbye?

    It could have been an hour, or a day

    Yet at the end it is the same

    There is nothing worse, right then and there, than this goodbye.


    It aches, it literally causes physical pain to me

    To have to let go, I am stuck in this moment and I can’t get out

    Just stay for a minute, just one

    I’d give anything for more time right here

    To postpone this


    Because my hand is glued to the car door

    One more we say, one more.

    The ache in my stomach continues

    Each night it is the same



    I could spend every day with you, and never want to see you go.

    But I suppose this is the curse, and blessing, of all humans—time

    For now, I must say goodbye.


  •  it’s a challenge to find my words again these days. i’m choking on my own sentence structure and hoping to find some kind of catharsis in my functioning juxtaposition. it’s doubtful; i’m trying too hard.

    it’s hard coming to terms with how willing and ready absence is to jump right in and make the gaping holes a little bigger. we both coughed up a little truth and a little resentment and what i interpreted as a whole lotta love and whole lotta pain. we kissed and oh yes, it was real. we waited until the sun rose and the alcohol slept and we drove home and ate steak cubes in bed. we rested the entire sunday away. i needed to be unconscious and hushed in your arms. that’s all i desperately needed.


    i promise that promises are beads of correctness and right expectations. they serve a purpose and so do we. so do we.


    and maybe, like in affliction (soon to come), something will come out of these feelings, a succulent dish will result from the odd ingredients. and you’ll smile and lick your lips and nod veraciously and ask for a second helping.


    (however, restlessness feeds creativity, i’ve been told.)

  • What follows is a special comment on the status of homosexual students at Saint Anselm College following the recent Statement on Inclusiveness and Sexual Orientation.  It is likely that the four months and 1200 miles that separate me from graduating from Saint Anselm give me the candor to write this, for I discuss topics I found made me squirm in my seat during my time there; I know I was not alone when I found the topic of homosexuality taboo at Saint Anselm.  As far as the title of this blog entry goes, I find that titles are best left to friends, admirers, and antagonists, as mine tend to be absurdly dull and/or literal.  If this is actually read by anyone, feel free to leave in a comment a suggestion for a better title, in addition to any positive or negative feedback.  

    * * * 

    I. Why the new policy on sexual orientation should be an expected and welcomed addition to the Saint Anselm mission of Inclusiveness


    The statement itself makes clear that it is a logical extension of Scripture, the Catholic Catechism, the Rule of Saint Benedict, and existing literature on Inclusiveness. It therefore can be no surprise that the College officially "condemns any and all direct or indirect harassment, intimidation, or bullying of any person in regards to sexual orientation.” Nor should it come as any surprise that the statement was apparently passed by the Monastery unanimously. Such a logical extension can only be expected from an institution of higher learning.


    What's more, it should be a welcomed addition to the explicit policies and manifest behaviors of the Saint Anselm College Community. Frankly, and above all, openly homosexual students have made a significant contribution to the College. Indeed, this creative outlet, Lucubrations.org, owes its existence--to considerable extent--to openly homosexual students and supportive peers and faculty.  In sum, Saint Anselm has seen a Student Government Association president, various club representatives and leaders, scholars, artists and modest innovators from its openly gay population, and these have come only in the four plus years that I have been a member of the Saint Anselm Community.  One can only naturally assume that the College owes much to its closeted gay population as well.  It is about time that the College formally recognizes the dignity of these active members of its past, present and future community.


    Finally, as a Catholic college community, Saint Anselm is responsible for the psychological, emotional, physical, and spiritual well-being of its students. This is affirmed by the character of the Task Force assembled by the President and his Cabinet: representatives from the Psychology and Sociology Departments, Campus Ministry, Residential Life and Education and Student Activities, among other significant departments.



    II. The problems the statement poses


    There is an obvious difficulty in sincerely upholding this “twofold teaching of the Church with clarity and compassion” apparent to anyone with significant common sense and foresight; putting this into practice is much more complicated than the ideology, which is consistent in its terms, suggests. This is why the President and his Cabinet have formed such an impressive set of minds to sort out its implementation, and it is my hope that their combined expertise will be fruitful.


    In my time at the College, I formed relationships with students, faculty and staff whom I found to be open minded and accepting: people who would have accepted me as homosexual even if I never outright told them that I am gay. (Not that I advocate a Don't Ask Don't Tell policy, but barely anyone ever informed me that they were straight; likewise I found no need to announce my own sexual preferences.)


    There are thus many authentically accepting individuals among the faculty, staff, and student body. However, I do not doubt that there are members of the community who do not share this mentality, even if they make claims to the contrary or are unwilling to make an open admission of their own oppositional views. The role of the faculty is of particular interest to me, for their lectures and published work directly affect the intellectual life of, quite literally, thousands of young minds.


    Emphasizing the need for sex (and therefore love, according to some) to remain between a married man and woman implicitly highlights homosexuality as particularly deviant, and therefore the statement—while progressive—is inherently self-defeating. Sex remaining between a married man and woman is not “good news for everyone,” as Professor Dale Kuehne has published and said publicly. It is certainly not good news for me, as I would be condemned to a life of either self deception, celibacy, or both; I am in his eyes doomed to a loveless life characterized either by an endless pursuit of self-gratification or the repression--likely resulting in psychological damage--of my authentic sexual preference.*


    Given that a qualitative difference between man and woman in terms of substantial personhood cannot be established beyond such accidents as the organization of hormones, neural tissue, genitalia and the like, why emphasize sex and love between a married man and woman? Why is my particular brand of sin always going to be highlighted—directly or indirectly—by Christians?^  It's said around 5% of the population is homosexual. By and large, the 5% of the student body that are homosexual ain't gettin' any come Friday night. I can guarantee that from experience. And the 95% of the students who are straight? There are more than a few rooms breaking parietals on any given night, if you know what I mean. Sex in a committed relationship regardless of gender should be emphasized on a college campus, for at a place like Saint Anselm it's the straight students who fornicate in mass numbers each weekend. Faculty and staff to whom it concerns: even your favorite students have dirty hands, notably on Mondays after a good weekend; I'd wash yours before going home to your families.


    III. Why it is important that more progress occur in the future, namely in the formation of an authentic Gay/Straight Student Alliance (GSA)


    By now the reasons for the necessity for more progress should be effectively demonstrated given: (1) the responsibility of the College for its students discussed above and (2) the obvious aggression and suspicion I harbor after four years of being openly gay at Saint Anselm that is present in section II. The time has come for a serious discussion between all members of the community on this important subject, for the answers to the questions that many have will not be found by turning to the literature handed down by thousands of years of religious tradition.


    Moreover, I'm sure that—in a certain light—there have always been GSAs at Saint Anselm. In the past, it has been precisely the extant, unofficial “GSAs” that have brought openly gay students and their supportive peers and faculty together in an enriching environment. In the past these have been fruitful, and have led to the benefits that the College has reaped described above at the end of section I. However, it is now time that the College Community discuss homosexual issues; at my time at Saint Anselm I had to discuss art, creativity, learning and dialogue and tried to fit homosexuality within these contexts. Now that I am gone, I would like to see that the next generation of strong, Anselmian homosexual and bisexual men and women have the right to openly discuss their concerns, insecurities, and—above all—their pride and self-esteem in an accepting forum.


    IV. Why does the author even care, and why is he writing this?


    It is my hope that my Alma Mater does me proud, affirms the values I have learned and ensures that the modest and mostly unseen accomplishments of myself and others have not been in vain. To care, after all, is to realize that you turned out well, and had it pretty good, but someone further down the line could turn out even better.





    *A more thorough philosophical analysis of the arguments present in Sex and the iWorld will hopefully come in a following post in the near future. A further nod to philosophy that relates to the subject: each student that graduates from Saint Anselm College is assigned to read the Platonic Dialogues, including Euthyphro. One can only wonder what small fraction of students read it, and what even smaller fraction actually appreciates the sort of mental activity the dialogue is intended to spark. With such an emphasis placed on self-examination, it is unacceptably bad faith for the College to endorse an agenda that promotes the harmful self-deception of even the smallest minority of students.


    ^The Pew Institute reports that there are more Catholics who support gay marriage than those who know what Transubstantiation is.  I'll provide links later, in the meantime these statistics can be confirmed by a Google search.

    Addendum: Well, the above endnote was a little overzealous. It still isn't far-fetched, however, to say that almost half of Catholics don't know what Transubstantiation is (even when the 3 dollar term itself is avoided) and almost half support gay marriage.






  • The most brilliant people--recognized or unrecognized geniuses--I have met, read, and admired don't hate God, their parents or the world, nor do they harbor disdain people at all (save maybe for rich people--that particular kind of rich people). They don't conform to any of the stereotypes portrayed in the cartoon in the first image, and despite an acute awareness of all that's wrong with the world, their kind eyes do not judge and do not scorn.  Now there may be people who do in fact match up more or less to these descriptions and ones like it by Matt Groening, but I wonder what bitterness in his heart led to such an unlearned, general critique of Modernity.


    Not acquainted with each other due to the exile of time and space, the artist whose saints, sibyls, angels and demons soar in the Sistine and the other whose eyes saw fire split men into pieces by the hundred in trenches and in streets reach to the other from ends of a globe; like the faces of Janus, they gaze--only inwardly, eyes locked.  At the the center of the sphere they share: ever in sight and ever diminishing to an unseen vanishing point, a sphere whose center is at all points.


    Inwardly they gaze, sights settled on that object which solely possesses all imaginable and all possible writhing and expressions of the Universe's unuttered and unknown passions: the face.  The suffering face, contorted in torment, sparks in them the vigor of all ages--that drive whose appearances differ grossly to the untrained and mortal eye but remains unmistakably identical to itself when examined by the sensitive, adept hands of he who only seeks to liberate the soul from the dead matter that encases it.


    And you would call the former the ideal and the latter the abomination, when all that's changed is the fact that the whispers of the world's tortures have become a shout audible even to the unborn?

    The pale, broken reflection of art in your mind's mirror is an untrue and unnecessary dichotomy.


    And there is a third, like the others in spirit, but who heard in his colors the music of the spheres, ascending beyond those same vicissitudes of the face in colors and in forms who seem more like the Compositions whose names they bear.


    And the first one added the post-script: It's OK to look at naked people in art.


     Michelangelo Buonarrati. Last Judgment (detail)

    Michelangelo Buonarrati. Last Judgment (detail).

    1537 - 1541



    George Rouault. Head of Christ

    George Rouault. Head of Christ

    Oil on paper attached to canvas



    Wassily Kandinsky. Several Circles

     Wassily Kandinsky. Several Circles

    Oil on canvas





    The Wonder Years Review


    Jeremy Munro



    Talk about a band that exemplifies what it is like to be in college and frustrated with what you find there.


    I have here an interview with the lead singer of the band by Alter The Press with the singer Daniel “Soupy” Campbell of The Wonder Years. There are some choice quotes I'll use to lead this piece off.


    ATP: Your new full-length, 'The Upsides', is coming out next month. There's a real story and meaning behind it. Could you tell us about it?

    S: 'The Upsides' is just about not living in a world of self-defeating bullshit. My friend Max said it best last night when he said that he stopped listening to hardcore and started listening to hip hop because he'd rather hear songs about how fucking cool someone thinks they are than songs about self-hatred. Every song I listened to for a long time was about being sad and that doesn't make sense because I don't want to be sad. Ideally, I'd like to be a normal, happy, balanced person and while that might not be the easiest task in the world, I want to work towards it anyway. 'The upsides' is all about that goal. Yes, sometimes we're depressed. Yes, sometimes I don't want to get out of bed, but really, I don't have it that bad and I don't want to stay that way forever.” (Alter The Press! Interview)


    Personally, as someone who listens to a lot of punk rock and hardcore, this just makes too much sense.


    ATP: A lot of your lyrics are about the ups and downs of being in a band but still, most of your fanbase praise you for writing songs they can relate to. What is the reason for this, according to you?
    S: This realization came to me when I was talking to my boy Bear outside a show once. There's a reason we all listen to punk rock instead of top 40. There's a reason I'd rather be stage diving than at a bar. I think that most everyone I know involved in punk or hardcore is intrinsically fucked up on some level. There is something wrong with us. Maybe not "wrong", but certainly different. Because of this, I think we all share a similar outlook and because of that, we share similar experiences. I'm just writing songs about my life, but as it turns out, my life is pretty similar to a lot of other people's lives and honestly, it feels good to know we're going through this shit together.” (Alter The Press! Interview)


    Again this is just so true. It is how I feel about my life every single day. I've always felt disenfranchised and like there is something wrong with me and the longer I live the more I think it is true. I'm not like other people and my friends aren't like other people and if wrong isn't the right word, then different works just like the quote says.


          The Wonder Years. Besides being a hit TV show it is also an amazing band. They are about as Pop Punk as modern Pop Punk gets besides being Four Year Strong or Set Your Goals (just my opinion). Their 2010 release, “The Upsides” is probably the greatest Pop Punk album I've ever heard, especially if you are over the age of 18 and have been at college for any amount of time or dropped out of college. The songs are simple and the lyrics are about staying optimistic and upbeat. Its about seeing all the crap going on around you and wishing you were elsewhere, wishing that you were normal even though that might not be preferable.

    Their style is very simple, standard punk beats and harmonized whiny vocals. They don't really set out to be technical I think. To the Wonder Years it is all about message, it is all about giving people optimism and being on tour. 2010 isn't over and this is definitely my favorite album.


         I'm going to go through all the songs on the CD and explain it because I like it that much. I only have the original album not the re-release with three tracks so I will only be talking about those. I will be linking a youtube video to my top 3 favorite songs on the album with lyrics so here it goes.


    1. My Last Semester


    What a song. I'll say it again, what a song. This song is all about coming to college and realizing it isn't anything like what you thought. The song goes through a lot of the archetypes of people at school and the singer is talking about how he is dropping out, sad, but I understand the feeling. Note the simplicity of the damn song and the directness of the lyrics.


    Song Link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2U5XUj3DDb8&p




    I'm not sad anymore, I'm just tired of this place.
    The weight of the world be okay if it would pick a shoulder to lean on
    So I could stand up straight.

    I'm not sad anymore, I'm just tired of this place.
    The homophobic bullshit that's somehow okay
    Just because you didn't mean it that way.

    I can't take anymore of all the scum in this place.
    Shitty dudes with tribal tattoos all around,
    Lining up cheap beer and roofies for a party at their place.
    Trying to convince freshmen they're somebody
    By spending all of their parents' money on kegstands
    And Matt says I don't fit in.

    All this mallrat goth shit is killing me.
    Thought that would end with high school at least.
    But there are still kids and Matt says
    "College hit those dudes like a ton of bricks."

    So they're calling it blasphemy,
    A fucking catastrophe
    For saying it's a stupid choice to make.
    But this place just brings misery.
    I hate what it does to me.
    I fight, but I can't escape the way that I don't fit in with any of this.
    And I don't think we're the same.

    I'm fucking losing my head trying to understand this.
    Kids outside with guitars hoping for someone to notice.
    No one wants to hear your sappy bullshit.

    All these fake-tan girls laughing at art school kids
    Getting lots in return for being substance-less.
    You're too caught in semantics to see it,
    But you're no fucking different.

    So they're calling it blasphemy,
    A fucking catastrophe
    For saying it's a stupid choice to make.
    But this place just brings misery.
    I hate what it does to me.
    I fight, but I can't escape the way that I don't fit in with any of this.
    And I don't think we're the same.


    I'm not sad anymore, I'm just waiting.
    It's two more months 'til I'm done with this.
    And I don't make sense to anyone but my best friends.
    And I don't fit in anywhere but the back of the van.


    1. Logan Circle


    The World's Not Such a Shitty Place. To me, this song is all about causing trouble with friends and hating where you from or where you are. So great. The gang vocals at the end are glory.


    1. Everything I Own Fits In This Backpack


    Besides having an awesome title (I know some people for who the title totally defines them) this is a nice song. Simplicity again.


    1. Dynamite Shovel

    The Wonder Years aren't fond about religion and this is a fast short song about religion done wrong. It is about the ignorance of people who are arrogant.


    1. New Years With Carl Weathers


    This song is about getting kicked down and getting right back up. Incidentally it also describes touring in the winter accurately as well (or at least as I interpret it).


    1. It's Never Sunny In South Philadelphia


    Wishing for a deus ex machina sums this song up perfectly.


    1. Hostels And Brothels


    I don't have much to say about this one, I don't really like it because it doesn't speak to me.


    1. Melrose Diner


    Ever have a girl you want around because you like her but she is dating some guy who isn't interesting or different and probably is not as cool as you are? This song is for you.


    1. This Party Sucks


    This is about how much binge drinking and partying in college/bars sucks. The lyric “I promised myself I'd try to be more social at parties” is what I say to myself every Friday night when hanging out with people, but I always fail, parties and alcohol aren't really my thing.


    Song Link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TZtx__Jn2GU




    In case you were wondering
    I can't get comfortable in my own skin
    But it was bound to happen

    In case you were wondering,
    I'm twenty three and avoiding the bar scene,
    Lycra pants, and designer jeans.
    In case you were wondering,
    I'm staying in.
    I won't smell like cheap perfume or cigarettes tonight.

    And every word that I said got drowned out
    by a dance remix of a pop song I don't care about.
    In case you forgot how bad I've been down,
    just ask around 'cause you know this town loves to run its mouth.

    Say, say you'll stay in with me today.
    Say, say you'll stay.
    'Cause you won't find me on the north Jersey club scene
    With the Girls Gone Wild B-team.
    I don't need to pump my fist to look sweet.

    In case you were wondering,
    I promised myself that I would try to be more social at parties.
    Can someone tell these kids liking the rain no longer counts as an idiosyncrasy.
    In fact, I think that Rupert Holmes wrote a song about it in the '70s.
    And consequently, he also saved the Pina Colada industry.

    Say, say you'll stay in with me today.
    Say, say you'll stay.
    'Cause you won't find me on the north Jersey club scene
    With the Girls Gone Wild B-team.
    I don't need to pump my fist to look sweet.

    Say, say, say, say you'll stay.
    Say, say, say, say you'll stay.

    I can't believe I ended up here again
    watching this terrible band play songs I hate in the basement.
    I can't believe that I got stuck here again
    while the kid with the dreads tells me he's smarter on acid.
    I can't believe that I'm not finding a way so just say.


    1. Hey Thanks


    Yay a song about love with horn lines and a female vocalist.


    1. Washington Square Park


    All about being disenfranchised and learning your mistakes. This one is all about realizing that you are awkward “I’m trying to play the b-side to this awkward life of mine”.


    Song Link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3O0sdkoQd18




    I’m looking for the upsides to these panic-attack nights
    where I’m staying in eating take-out food by TV light
    I’m trying to play the b-side to this awkward life of mine
    You could flip me over
    I’d sing a few lines about how
    I’m so used to shooting myself in the kneecaps
    standing in the way of progress or letting down my friends

    I’m nailing shards of hope together
    to put something over my head
    because you know here it’s always raining
    and it happened again. It happened again
    She said, “I let this slide when we were younger
    You know you don’t have to write like this
    The whole world’s full of losers
    If you get a chance to win, take it”

    I stood on the roof with Matt and Molly
    Watched the gray slide off the city
    because it’s finally spring
    We rode our bikes over to 6th Street
    to Washington Square Park
    to see if the tides would turn for me

    I’m nailing shards of hope together
    to put something over my head
    because you know here it’s always raining
    and it happened again. It happened again
    She said, “I let this slide when we were younger
    You know you don’t have to write like this
    The whole world’s full of losers
    If you get a chance to win, take it”

    I left a lot of blood in California
    on our first trip out west
    I was younger and restless back then
    and I thought, if no one’s in my corner
    since everyone left
    I’d better make it worth it


    1. All My Friends Are In Bar Bands


    It really sucks when your friends move on and you don't even recognize them anymore.




    Alter the Press! Interview - http://www.alterthepress.com/2010/01/interview-wonder-years.html


    The Upsides Lyrics Page - http://www.plyrics.com/w/wonderyears.html


    Youtube Playlist Containing all the songs on the album - http://www.youtube.com/view_play_list?p=E3A770338307A486&feature=bf



  • Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold (1867)

    The sea is calm to-night.
    The tide is full, the moon lies fair
    Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
    Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand;
    Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
    Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
    Only, from the long line of spray
    Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
    Listen! you hear the grating roar
    Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
    At their return, up the high strand,
    Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
    With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
    The eternal note of sadness in.

    Sophocles long ago
    Heard it on the A gaean, and it brought
    Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
    Of human misery; we
    Find also in the sound a thought,
    Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

    The Sea of Faith
    Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
    Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
    But now I only hear
    Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
    Retreating, to the breath
    Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
    And naked shingles of the world.

    Ah, love, let us be true
    To one another! for the world, which seems
    To lie before us like a land of dreams,
    So various, so beautiful, so new,
    Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
    Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
    And we are here as on a darkling plain
    Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
    Where ignorant armies clash by night.


  • FAS 375 Typography & Design









    FAS 375 Typography & Design
    Special Topics course Spring 2011 • Tues 2:30-5pm

    Great elective for Marketing, Advertising, Communication, Web Design &
    Visual Arts majors. Typography is a graphic design-related course within the Fine Arts
    Department. No experience necessary.

    Combining studio work with classroom instruction and group critiques,
    students will learn fundamentals of typography including history, theory,
    semiotics, page layout, communication design, identity, letterform design
    and experimental contexts of typography such as: type as art object, symbol
    and cultural element, type as expression and type as personal voice.
    Students will gain competency in digital typography using industry standard
    software such as Adobe InDesign, Photoshop and Illustrator. 

    Questions? Prof. Johnson: MAJohnson@Anselm.edu
    Students - you should see a link to download flyer as a PDF.

    Faculty - Please post additional FA course flyers here!

  •  Fall Images

    by Kimberly Kersey Asbury

  •  (originally it was a camping trip we had planned. she and i were both artists. we wanted to synthesize our work with what we came from. she set up a place to live in a tree nearby mine. she nailed planks to branches and constructed a house. i rested delightfully in my swing. 

    her long brown hair was also so interesting to recreate in an art piece. she showed me how to cut wood and sprint without tripping. running was our constant pace.)

    after my friend decided to return home from the woods, i spent the next three years living off the land and surviving in nature. i left my mother for the trees behind my house and spoke to no one but the flora surrounding me. i couldn’t go back home; i didn’t deserve to. i left without any notice. search parties were sent out and i knew where they’d look. i hid and built shelter for myself disguised as a bear’s den. i fused with what was around me. i ran with the rain in the deep greens of the shadows. i kissed bones of animals passed and knelt in the soil that we shared. i fed off of what i could find. i could see the amber glow of my house in the distance, like a bubble of orange warmth that i knew i could never feel again.


    My Interview With Aaron Hibbert
    Jeremy Munro
         I've always respected my friend Aaron Hibbert, maybe even idolized him. He is kind of like an underground scene guru in my mind. He is probably the nicest guy I've ever met and has been a constant inspiration to a lot of us musically/artistically. Since I have been writing music reviews lately, I decided to interview him.
          Aaron owns Open Hand Records (OHR) which is an independent record label with free to download music, I'll include links to stuff he mentions in the interview at the end of this article.
    1. What got you into ska/punk/hardcore music in the first place?

      When I was twelve, my uncle played drums in a metal band, and he was pretty much my hero. I went to all of their shows, and learned about underground music scenes and DIY shows. Then when I got to high school, I joined the marching band, and a bunch of the upperclassmen there had their own ska/skacore/punk band. I went to all of their shows, which got me into bands like Streetlight Manifesto and The Flaming Tsunamis, etc. It was all kind of downhill from there.

      2. What bands have you been in/are you a part of, including touring with other bands?

      My first band was called The Kleptos. My friend and I started it when we were fourteen and fifteen to try and be cool like our upperclassmen marching band friends. We were pretty terrible, but it was a fun time, and lasted until shortly after graduating high school. After that, I began writing and performing solo acoustic music, i guess to hold me over while I searched for a way to be in a band again. Since then I've been involved in bands like Marx Revolution, In The Face, Brunt Of It, Interrobang!?, and my current (and favorite so far) Atlas The Atom Smasher. I also did a tour playing saxophone for A Billion Ernies from California this past spring.

      3. What is going on tour like? What do you think makes people want to drop everything and tour for little to no money? Favorite/Least Favorite parts of tour?

      Tour is the best thing I will ever do with my life. People drop everything to tour because there is absolutely nothing like it. Truly, it's not for everybody - some people thrive on their nine to five jobs, and big houses, and white picket fences - and that's perfectly fine. But there's just something awesome and completely liberating about leaving my little hick suburb in Western Mass and knowing that I'm going to be on the road with my best friend/friends for a long period of time worrying only about getting from point A to point B, playing our own music every night, putting on the best show we possibly can, and making life-long friends along the way.

      Which brings me to my favorite part of tour, the friends. Every tour, I meet so many new and wonderful people. And every time I come home, there are more people I will miss dearly until the next time.

           There are definitely downsides to tour though. Playing in a dive bar in Savannah, Georgia at one in the morning to nobody but the bartender and the sound guy. Driving forever to a show in Nebraska, only to find out the show was never actually booked. Arguments between bandmates, and having to sit in the same car for the next four hours. Coming home and realizing you have to sell your soul to Sunoco again because you're flat broke and can't find another job (whoops).

      As you can see by the steady decline in touring bands, you really have to decide for yourself if the awesome outweighs the awful. I, for one, still love it, and fully intend on continuing to tour until I am completely unable to do so. Also WAFFLE HOUSE.
    2. 4. What do you think sets our scene in New England from others around the country or the more mainstream hardcore scene, if anything?

           I'm not sure that New England's scene is so different from the rest of the East Coast, other than having way more major cities clumped so closely together than anywhere else. I can definitely tell you that, in my limited experience, the underground community of the East Coast is generally FAR more supportive of touring acts than the West Coast.

           I also don't know very much about the mainstream hardcore scene, although I recently heard Touche Amore for the first time. I don't know if they count. Band rules though.

      5. What exactly is Open Hand Records and why did you start it?

           Open Hand Records is an online donation-based record label consisting of a handful of bands I've come across in the past few years who I thought were awesome and deserved a little more attention. Basically I got a bunch of awesome bands that I was friends with, and asked them all if they wanted to release their music for free all on the same website, in hopes that if an interested listener found one, they'd find the rest.

           I'm not going to act like I invented the idea, because I obviously didn't. Labels like Quote Unquote Records and Community Records had been doing it for a while prior, but where QUR was based on the pre-existing scene surrounding Jeff Rosenstock, and CR had a bunch of pre-established touring ska/punk acts, I felt like there needed to be something for the newer, less polished, and less established acts. OHR was basically meant to be a means for these "underdog" bands so full of potential to essentially grow up together, and help each other along the way. I feel like it has served its purpose thus far. And I'd like to think it will continue to do so via word of mouth and hard work on the part of all those involved.

      6. Where do you see underground/independent music going in the next few years?

           Right now is a pivotal point in underground/independent music. I can't honestly predict where it's going to go. As many before me have correctly stated, MySpace.com simultaneously saved and killed independent music. MySpace made it extremely easy to network between like-minded bands and individuals, but as it caught on, it became oversaturated. People stopped checking their MySpace accounts and moved to facebook, and bands stopped trying to network because their one bulletin became drowned out by hundreds from other bands.

           Now with the invention of sites like Bandcamp, all music is now instantly available to people with a few clicks of a mouse. Nobody needs to really look to find music anymore. Nobody needs to go to shows to find new bands. It's all at our fingertips, and it's really up to the kids to decide if music is really all that important to them.

          To answer your question though, I believe music is reaching a period of rebirth. Hell if I know what's going to actually happen to it. I know that we've only seen the beginning though.

      7. How much has the Do It Yourself (DIY) ethic shaped what you do?

           Completely. I've spent almost eight years booking my own shows, planning my own tours, writing my own music, spraypainting my own t-shirts, burning my own cds, driving my own car to a show to hand out flyers i designed and printed and cut on my own time. I've had plenty of help over the years, but all from folks who share the same "do-it-yourself" mindset. Though I suppose we've adapted to an extent and developed our own version of "do-it-together."
      8. What is your favorite/most hated thing about modern popular music?

      I love watching trends. I love watching the world get up in arms about Lady Gaga, and how people think her "controversial" stunts actually matter. Don't get me wrong, I think she's a wonderful person, and I love the fact that everything she does has an effect on the entire world. But Alejandro is a mediocre song, and if I hear Bad Romance one more time, I'm going to punch someone.

           I suppose I hate that people blindly follow trendsetting entities and don't make up their own minds about things. But I can't really blame them. People want to like what their friends like. People want to like popular things in order to share interests with each other. You and I have both done the same thing. It's not wrong. It's just annoying when you're trying to create something,
      and people brush it off like nothing because it's not popular yet.

      9. What is/are your favorite band/bands and why?

      Thrice is one of my favorite bands, mainly because of the incredible musical progression from their first album to their most recent. Their early music was fast and heavy punk hardcore with screaming and melodic vocals. And their most recent album is an incredible bluesy progressive indie rock album. I have a great respect for everything they've done musically, and when I finally got to see them for the first time this past spring, it was almost like a religious experience.

           My other favorite band is Folly. Folly screamed brutal poetry over an intense original blend of ska, punk, and hardcore, which (to my knowledge, and in my opinion) has yet to be matched by anyone. I was lucky enough to see Folly five times before they broke up. Each time was nothing short of perfect.

      10. Any advice to aspiring musicians/bands out there?

      Go big or go home. Do it wholeheartedly or don't do it at all. Work hard, be a good person, and write music that you love. The rest will take care of itself.
    Open Hand Records- http://openhandrecords.com
    Aaron's Band: Atlas The Atom Smasher- http://www.myspace.com/atlastheatomsmasher
    Quote/Unquote Records- http://quoteunquoterecords.com/
    Community Records- http://communityrecords.org/



  • Underneath the very city you know,
    Behind these brick walls
    Hiding in back alleys
    Rural streets
    Are explorers.
    Though they have not the courage of Drake
    Or the arrogance of Cortez
    They have the will of Magellan.
    Creating and striving as they do
    With only optimism to hold onto
    They fight not for you or me
    But for themselves
    Expeditious men.
    They lack the luck of Erikson
    Or the darkness of Columbus
    But hold onto the optimism of Leon, who never gave up on his glorious Fountain.
    Eternal youth just might have been found
    It is in garages, empty bars, and community centers
    Where the fight is endless and
    Always worth it.
    Pioneers, O Pioneers indeed.
    My hands smell like clams.


  • a demonstration of the use of the typeface "palatino."

    created in professor johnson's typography class, spring 2010.

  • String Quartet No. 15 Op. 132 in A Major; Molto adagio



    Walking on the gloom of wet tar, sleep being far away on all sides, empty streets about to be invaded by the sleepers who wake. Twiddling in both ears the light ballerina and her escort dancing as if it were Christmas in some London fairytale, lightly fiddle feet elfishly, sprightly dancing on all sides, stealing the day’s beauty and giving it to me in a psalm. Now low, viola, cello, long and soft fairies, taken by the wind high and flowing in the sea, low, building together as waves do and he- a sailor- taken and taking, crying people, partakers of pure communism, the share of due proportion, stealing from the beauty of the world and handing it to us, gently in an ear, and in the other, and behind our eyes, dancing, tears are the sweat of beauty, the perspiration of soulful exertion, stealing the beauty of the world and storing it in my heart, a public treasury, green spears of grass on rolling hills, the point of high string, and the earth of low, the public treasury for beauty’s polis.


    All Praise

  • I would sit at the feet of my love like a puppy.

    Puppies can never be touched enough.

    Do not buy a puppy if you aren't ready to love it.

    A puppy is not human. You can put it down.




    There is a ghost outside my window.


    With each passing day

    Moving forward, never stopping

    In every single way

    Hopelessly losing, coming to acknowledge

    What it means to be human.


    Or at least, my own brand of humanity.


    Lacerating Lacerations

    Tormenting Torment

    Self Discipline.

    Writing for the sake of writing

    Lets see where this goes.


    Life is all the things, the sum total

    Of all its varied constituent parts.

    Headbanging recalling times broken


    But this is who I am.


    There were people who told me who I am too.


    Folly told me. They said this was once a beautiful painting.

    And Ivan told me to turn my ticket in.

    I used to think life was simple

    I used to feel free.

    Now I am trapped.


    God is entrapment.

    We cannot escape what is Good, what is Evil.

    We are bound by the definitions of what is objectively right.

    Freedom is naught but an illusion

    Because the very things that give us freedom trap us.


    I will lacerate myself

    Because I have a problem inside

    That I refuse to face.

    Oh woe is the human being

    Who begins to think.


    As soon as that first thought of what is or why

    Creeps into the lake of thought

    It is forever tainted

    Forever feeling trapped

    By walls built.


    I cannot accept the way things are.


    The ghost outside my window

    It might be my future self.



    This is what happens when I work myself up into a frenzy on the way back from a play about Robert Frost having just read the Rebellion chapter of Brothers Karamazov while listening to Broken and Forfeit Sundials by Folly.

  • Passion Pit implored us to Make Light and the sun obliged with its first light at our backs, as we coasted down Interstate Sixteen; the day's first rays of light set the dense morning fog ablaze in opaque oranges and grays. Our exit number was alien enough to me: 127, and my tiny home had what—thirty or so demarcating its densely packed towns.


    Tilly warned of Bad Education as cotton fields on either side like dusty frozen lakes became the hot boxed fogged windows we were so used to, driving around and idle on streets like Cypress; Brandi's pointed cheekbones and perfect teeth glowing with what amber streetlight they could catch as her small, quiet falsetto, gracefully and expertly navigating the quick lyrics, gave way to coughs and hot, smokey breath. “Jah--!” in response to my aloof stare.


    A change of tunes. An up-tempo brought the cotton fields back along with his hyperactivity—from the driver's seat, that look of mischief hung from his brow, a devious ornament on an otherwise handsome, sturdy tree.


    A silly duet and his off-key voice drew my pitch like a moth lost in a street-lamp’s aura; so too, the early morning espresso drew my vigor from respite and my wide eyes took in the approaching grounds of his sprawling, southern university, a college cliché in earnest. Parked the car as Mika followed Queen, as he always does, to insist that he should indeed be compared to Freddy.


    Pages of tracing paper stuck one by one with glaucous painter's tape onto the white walls in the little cubbystudy room alone marked the passing hours; eight, nine, ten. The diagrammatic sketches of drapes, chairs, ottomans and fireplaces gave the room cartoonish coziness: a little imagined home for us in those sixteen squares or so.



    Half a day later, after that early morning drive and we'd finished our projects and my sentiments agreed with A Day in the Life's crescendo, which accompanied the first few minutes of travel. We passed those cotton fields again, no longer drearily cast in dawn's fog, but still ominous. A great, green mammoth with its ass in the air and tusks to the earth chewed in zigzags and left in its wake white bales twice my height, seemingly poised to penetrate an awaiting tractor trailer on some road to some where to become our cotton shirts.


    “God! That must take hours to crop,” he said as red lights gave us pause by the feeding beast. “And if it was picked by hand...,” came my Yankee reply.


    The pass to Sixteen was littered with red signs reading “DEAL. REAL,” visual pollution that sold the candidate's name with an ironic rhyme, for insincerity drips from his spoken words. The joys of Red State Living! Before long the litter'll be gone and gridlock will set in, but when it's all decided they'll stop accusing Blue of condoning killing children and Red of letting women be raped. I wondered if either side even realizes the gravity of their accusations.



    The day concluded with just desserts: juicy burgers and Stella Artois for me and Blue Moon for him. A day in the life more grueling and more satisfying than the lazy days of folding colored paper and reading dead men's bullshit.


    Quick sleep came, but before capitulating I returned to those days on Cypress, or in what we'd called the Room of Doom, or anywhere really so long as good company and Green Games were present. Life's transformations are obvious, but the changes within me are obscured, since I have no control in this Dixie experiment against which my own variables can be contrasted.


  •  a post card created in honor of my dear cousin's 27th birthday

  •  35mm film, olympus stylus zoom70

  •  it’s trying really hard to snow today but the sun is casting ivory reflections on my bed and my neck and i’m reminded that it’s the thirty degrees that binds the breathing and not the perception of missing what is missing.

  • Today on another drive at dawn to the Country University, fog lifting in the sunrise like phantom birds of prey, I heard a song that reminded of the most quietly, subtly insane person I've met to date.

    Platinum and gold, banana leaves, saccharine fruits and asterisks will always call to my mind her small, lovely body; her dark, cocoabuttersoaked skin; her big Caribbean hair with copper highlights like the synthesized surrealisms in the songs she likes best, pops of color in her dense curls like the color and rhyme in her precious dreams.  In her junglescape dreams to be precise; jungles in the watercolor, acrylic and collage of her art are the jungles in our minds.

    Jungles. Thick with overgrowth, hot, wet, profane and organic stimuli for the eyes and ears.  I don't believe I've ever truly cared for anyone whom I'd judged to be completely sane. For that matter, I'm not sure if I have explicitly judged anyone as perfectly sane, and I don't believe I know what constitutes complete sanity. I am certain whatever it is must be quite uninteresting--a perfectly landscaped front yard, devoid of vigorous fauna and flora.


    Six months ago today began to come to pass those events that culminated in an exodus, though my foresight at the time was blind to what would follow that visit in May. A visitor then, but now--a sojourner?  Four or five familiar faces, receiving kisses on the cheek at the nightclub, hugs when that new friend prompts me to remember his birthday, mutual friends numbering in the double digits suffice for recognition, for now. 

    But the first time I found myself in a new place, I was welcomed by those delicate hands caressing a glass of wine, or a mixed drink always with fruit at the bottom. (She always gave me some spiked strawberries at the end.)  Her hands are quite perfect, and whenever her paintbrush met paper and whenever she tore apart beautiful pictures for her collages she did so with a marvelous grace; unfailingly, she did everything with grace.

    I don't know why I found myself under her wing, and, admittedly, I don't know how a young woman with her beauty could be so sincere.  We were both quite different from most of the others--unpretentiously stated--and in the days before my time I sense it was more difficult to be quite different. God, it's absurd to recall that she'd been the sole member of her skin color her year; there again, in my year there were two? two and a half?  It depends on how you added up our halves.

    I'm good with dates.  Six months to the day since that argument at the nightclub after I met him (where I was a stranger/where I didn't throw drinks/where I get cheek-kisses now) and a year and a week since I'd last seen her.  (Back then, I hadn't a leaf in a tree what the significance of a square was, let alone what having twenty-two of them do for a city's downtown, or what Oglethorpe was doing when he put those squares in the blueprints back in 1733.  Reader, you'll likely have to Google or read about it in The Book.)  A year and a week since I'd seen one of her junglescapes in person; jungles like minds because they grow with tendrils and curls grasping and roots penetrating, if even without being noticed, and are always untamed, despite many a delusion to the contrary. 




    A. Marajh
    Watercolor, acrylic, oil pastels, collage




    The muse has struck

    For the first time

    In a long time

    Too long.


    The one with the golden hair

    Long and cascading

    Hiding all the mystery of the world

    And all of its truths.


    I used to think poetry

    About women worthless

    But I see now

    It is anything but


    What better thing to write about

    Than the intoxicating nature

    of the woman

    Something man will truly never understand.


    I want to understand though

    I want them to know

    Their innocence is grand

    And their intelligence worthy.


    For in this world

    Of stupidity and ignorance

    The diamonds in the rough

    Shine bright indeed.


    And I want you to know this

    We few men that remain

    Appreciate you and honor you.

    Without being creepy or anything.

  • Duane Bruce
    Associate Dean of Saint Anselm College

    "Heart Speaks to Heart: A Celebration of Blessed John Henry Cardinal Newman"

    Presented at Saint Anselm College, November 30, 2010.

  • The Government Inspector
    Presented by the Saint Anselm College Abbey Players on November 11th, 12th, and 13th, 2010
    Written by: Nikolai Gogol
    Adapted by: Jeffery Hatcher
    Co-directed by: Dr. Landis K. Magnuson and Carey Cahoon
    The Saint Anselm College Abbey Players never fail to select shows with wit and eloquent writing: the show The Government Inspector, written originally in Russian by Ukrainian-born Nikolai Gogol, comes as the second production of the Abbey Players’ 62nd season, a show focused on political corruption, human avarice, and the “comedy of errors” framework, in which the question of who is really whom poses itself with comical satire, poise, and anticipation of what will happen in the end.
    Acting as assistant directors and stage directors, Jillian Buratto and Molly Thompson help the co-directors to shape a show made even more hilarious by the fact that all the characters act-out the script in Russian accents. The costumes and properties, all elegant and quite reminiscent of the plot’s time period, come from a skilled behind-the-scenes team comprised of Ashley Therrien, Amanda Carrington, Kerry Anne Fraser, Melissa Tivnan, and Amanda O’Donnell, among others.
    The story, taking place in a small Russian town, involves the sudden realization on the part of the townspeople that an undercover government official is coming to inspect their town. A man in turmoil named Ivan Alexandreyevich Hlestekov (played by Seath Crandall, and alternately spelt Khlestakov) has recently come to stay at the town’s inn, and everybody expects that he is the incognito inspector. Introduced now is the town’s mayor Anton Antononovich (brilliantly acted by Alex Silveri,) a man accustomed to political corruption, and, after some time, Khlestakov moves-in to the mayor’s household, all while accepting bribes and large sums of money from various townspeople himself.
    During the middle portion of the show, Khlestakov becomes romantically entangled with the mayor’s daughter and wife, Marya Antonovna (portrayed by Kaitlin Smith) and Anna Andreyevna (acted with much-appreciated comedy by Jane Hogan.) As the mayor worries that Khlestakov will discover his schemes, Khlestakov and Marya announce that they are engaged to marry; however, secretly advised that it would be unwise to stay, Khlestakov tells everyone that he will be leaving to go back from where he came. Some of the best comedy occurs in this portion, coming from Bobchinsky and Dobchinsky (respectively portrayed by Tyler Lavallee and Tom Hill, who manage to act almost as one single character,) the director of the town’s hospital and a doctor (acted by Amanda O’Donnell and Jay Bowie,) and, perhaps the most deadpan and understated of the roles in the show, the innkeeper’s wife and Grusha, the maid of the mayor’s household (both acted by Sarah Yiznitsky.)
    Towards the end of the show, all of the townspeople gather to celebrate the engagement. However, in a twist of fate, the imperial messenger (played by Nick Pierce) brings a letter, one which reveals that Khlestakov is not the government inspector. Instead, it reveals the truth of what he thinks about all the townspeople. As the mayor has now been publicly humiliated, he argues with the various townspeople, revealing the truth he thinks is safe to share. However, the old doctor, who appears unable to communicate very well and a bit daft throughout the show, presents himself outof his disguise as the real government inspector, demanding to speak with the mayor immediately.
    The actors were all convincing and authentic in their Russian accents and mannerisms, while still impressively managing to be well-understood and fluent in their lines. The show’s success comes from the actors’ dedication to the material, especially to the show’s humor, and the crew’s efforts to keep the costumes, staging, and properties appropriate to the show’s era. Seeing The Government Inspector may or may not give a preview to the types of shows that will come later-on in the season; however, seeing it gives, without any doubt, an impression of the kind of motivation the Abbey Players have to continue bringing skillfully-acted productions to the college community.
  •  i need to stretch myself but i need new methods of how. everything inside my head has been so stagnant. mosquitoes are breeding but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. they’re swarming in large clouds, the color similar to brain matter, searching searching searching for the right shade of rouge to slurp. don’t worry, they’re fastidious. it’s grotesque but it’s how nature works.

    i need to be near the sea and away from the flames. the sleeplessness is contagious and nauseating and lighting my hands on fire is the only procedure i know to rest. i’d worry because it’s gluttonous. it’s grotesque but it’s how nature works.


  • So I wrote this under the influence of anger directed at myself. Lately, I've been really disgusted with how I have acted towards people in general, especially towards those I respect greatly. This isn't really an apology, but more of a poem written upon my realization thats its time for a shift in how I treat people and govern myself, because I do not want to be the rebel that becomes that which he hates (that is if I am in fact a rebel). It could also be considered the companion piece to my poem about running from the eldritch spirit and confrontation as this is the next logical step to facing the evils that may inhabit oneself.

    As we entered the old home

    I pointed out the chipped paint

    Spreading forth like a wave

    From a nearby windowsill.


    The flakes lie still on the floor

    The carpet long since gone

    Leaving concrete,

    Paint marks of many colors all 'round.


    I was alone.

    Talking to myself,

    Everyone should talk to themselves

    You would be surprised at what you learn.


    I found out what I say I believe and what I actually believe

    Are as winter is to summer

    Or a faux hippie's hybrid to a redneck's pickup truck.

    Its time to become who you are.


    The streetlight flickers on and off

    Showing its own chaotic flair all night

    An eldritch spirit stood outside

    Interrupting my lonely commune.


    I ignored it though,

    It was just an old accomplice

    The kind of person you meet and hangs around,

    You never want to see, but tolerate.


    The rain cascaded on my face as I left

    The wind howled in torrid fury

    The moon hung in the sky,

    The color of blood.


    As the judgment seems impending

    As the rain hits harder and harder

    And the music hits its crescendo

    Its all happening.


    War is much like life,

    Even peace is war.

    War is chance,

    So too is this life.


    I laughed at this realization

    Taken from a better man than I

    as I opened the door to my own home

    And waved goodbye to the spirit.


    Which, incidentally, was not the only thing I waved goodbye too.


  • ollivier

    believe me when i

    say i adore your French tongue

    and your black peacoat.



    secretly i used

    to hope you would peek when i'd

    change behind the door.


    sj 3-5

    i fell in love with

    my seventh grade teacher. i

    believe he did too.


  • vodka & iced tea... which explains the grain.

    50mm f/1.8

    iso 1600

    "and can't get shoot shit like this when i'm awake"

  • this submission is for the feature "Art Under the Influence"- the influence is one pint of Rolling Rock beer-- IT COMES IN PINTS?

    December 1, 2010

    A little box is privateer
    sailing independent minds
    waving a check-marked flag
    next to a famous wax seal
    of foreign men.

    That's why I don't vote.

    I left the pirate life and the seas
    when a chorus began the ultimatum of their company.

    turned firewood
    my scully turned trailor
    parked in a lot of good will
    what a disonant universe

    I don't vote because unborn dreams are flagless
    I'll have no little box until we kill status and all its dispathces.

    Once, though compensated for my duties,
    I took vigil over the house of dissidents-
    the detail was delivered by a fluid man,
    gracious but mean,
    I've no taste for the law,
    always leaning on forgiveness-
    terrified lest he see me let them slip!

    "sleeping on the job" employers say

    I don't vote because instruction is deep sleep;
    I once was a privateer!

  •  under the influence of trauma

    (long awaited and filled with self doubt, this series is a promise to myself)


    All the art gazes away

    Instead of following me

    With their critical gaze.


    They look off

    In the distance

    Like a couple watching seaside sunsets.


    I look off too,

    Viewing nothing

    Not even their picture frame cages.


    Sometimes, just looking

    Behold empty space

    Sum total of the environment.


    St. Sebastian looks up

    Staring at the open heavens

    Arrows in his side.


    From this distance

    The black haired girl looks downcast,

    Haughty, with scorn and pride.


    I've never really looked at them.

    Only just stared

    We never really look at people.


    We only stare at space around

    The top of their heads,

    Their eyes.


    Oh those eyes are the worst.

    As many a man

    has found himself, lost, in those radiant pools.


    Wrote this at work, being bored in between gazing at War and Peace and the gallery itself.

  •  Sarah Burns '10 (Economics) is currently studying Studio Art at Brandeis University's Post-Baccaleureate Program.

  • We used to play guitar on broken concrete
    Simultaneously tapping our feet
    Until we filled the entire street
    With words no one knew
    Notes to heal homeless hearts.
    Your laugh was pure, not forced or fake
    The sun shining out a rainy day
    Like it never happened in the first place.
    People left dollars and quarters in your guitar case
    I keep it all in my pocket and its cold against my leg.
    I watched your smile rust over in September rain
    Watched your arms go limp and bruised
    I never believed in God before,
    But I kneeled, and prayed to Him for you.
    You danced with the kids on Park Street
    And that’s how I remember you
    Not the person I couldn’t save
    Hanging from a rope in your bedroom.
    by Julie Trusz


  • The pictures of the cross monument is located in Valle de los Caidos in the Sierra de Guadarrama, Spain. Pictures taken summer, 2010

    Candles located in the Basilica of National Shrine, Washington D.C.     Picture taken November, 2010

    Cross on stone, Inspired by God's creation of beautiful things.      Picture taken November, 2010

  • Alaskan Native Girl by Robin Allard

  •  A guileful glance, slowly turning the face away in feigned coyness—catch that smirk as a cascade of neural electricity we hadn't the mental furniture to comprehend at once opens a door to grave possibilities. Allowing the electricity to pass in tingles from the temples to the genitals, that wave of possibilities collapses into a fantasy, and the tracks of our decay are laid in little deaths.

    Impediments deter us and the tools of our labor determine the expediency and nature of our toil, but the simple truth is that our own calloused hands nail the tracks of our wander-lusting minds to the receptive earth.

    With our calloused hands, we stroke those coy cheekbones, our thumbs trace the outlines of the zygomatic sinews that draw laughter from the mouth, and we fancy in desperation that we might draw a smile without the use of our manipulating phalanxes.

    We are innocent we tell ourselves; our admiration is nothing more than hagiographic praise of the geography of that body and mind, harmless as the illicit stares stolen of breasts in the National Geographic. Graphic sweat on our luxuriated anatomy, automatic and unwilled as dew on wildflowers expelling graphic pollen from stamens aflutter. Nails down the shoulder, the back, tracing the left of the spine are not yet the nails on a chalkboard and forkscratches on dinner plates of tomorrow's guilt.

    We feel it in our hands and in our mouths, our clenched teeth and tongues pressed to the roof of our mouths are like pinching the tight shoulders of an overlabored lover. Our hearts will be bleach-stained washcloths, holes where the color has been erased, and with hot, tender tears we will pray to no avail that the colors return.

    We'd been shown enough sunrises by the ones we loved to know that the colors always matched the temperature; where they were once hot with the summer's crimson and orange they are now cool and dull, a depressed graying purple.


  • A sampling of Sketchbooks from Fall 2010

  • Student Work from the Fall 2010 Drawing Class

  • Student Work from the Fall 2010 Illustration Class

  • Student Work from the Fall 2010 Printmaking Class

  • My country tis of thee,

    old land of butchery,

    of thee I sing,

    land where the Indians died,

    because of pilgrims' pride,

    from every mountainside,

    what an awful thing!

  • Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–89).  Poems.  1918.   Hopkins


    45. ‘I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day"


    I WAKE and feel the fell of dark, not day.
    What hours, O what black hoürs we have spent
    This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went!
    And more must, in yet longer light’s delay.    
       With witness I speak this. But where I say         5
    Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament
    Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent
    To dearest him that lives alas! away.


      I am gall, I am heartburn. God’s most deep decree
    Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me;         10
    Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.
      Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see
    The lost are like this, and their scourge to be
    As I am mine, their sweating selves; but worse.    

  • History of American Musical Theater image
    TR from 2:30 to 3:45.

    Spring 2010

    Prof. Duncan Vinson

    There are no prerequisites. It is a course in the history of music and theater, not a workshop on learning to be a performer, so students of all backgrounds should feel free to take it. Works studied in depth include:

    "West Side Story"
    "The Fantasticks"


  • These were made with two different kinds of collage programs using images from the creative commons collection along with original images of me and two of my daughters.

  •  he belonged in a book full of circular memoirs and told no other stories but the ones he wrote. he played up his game and relied on his senses, leaving no margin for the mistakes he made. his hands yearned for curves of women he left and his wife could not kiss him without knowing so.

    he purposely kept himself on overdrive. he never let things slip. and he understood what it meant to be truly and pitifully lonely.


  • There is this awesome compilation of Christmas music by pop punk/hardcore/acoustic bands or guys called No Sleep Till Christmas. This is a hardcore rendition of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. It starts off pretty normal. I laughed the first time I heard it.

  •  it's sad to know that your raft has drifted so far away. you filled it up with water and i know you're trying to drain it out but it takes time. i miss the way our rafts clashed and collided, the salt water slippery and deceiving on the painted rubber.

    i can't reach you from here.

    i can't throw seashells anymore.

    but you really fell hard for the gulls and everyone told you they were the rats of the sky; i wish you had listened.

    you might not have sprung a leak.


    (12 december 2009)

  •  she got past me but i'm still wishing


    Steven Paul "ElliottSmith (August 6, 1969 – October 21, 2003) was an American singer-songwriter and musician. This video gives advice to songwriting students on the creative process and some tips on guitar. 

  • the sky sings a ballot for you
    wings frozen flutter downward
    clipped glitter floating flake
    sunlight constrained within a box
    internally reflected incident angles equal
    law holding in even God’s light.

    the sky sings a ballot for you
    eternity marks its x in you.
    an endless sky shines
    newly unseen colors
    into your cramped spaces

    the lights of a million stars
    the confines of
    your little

    the sky sings a ballot for you.
    vote with each beat
    with each breath break out
    the black orthogonal lines
    of your little self
    so vast an endorsement


  • The 'lock and load'/'take up your arms' rhetoric of American politics isn't just an overheated metaphor. ...But words have consequences, rhetoric shapes reality, and much as we like to believe that we are creatures of reason, there is something about our species' limbic system and lizard brainstems that makes us susceptible to irrational fantasies.

    -Marty Kaplan, "The Lock and Load Rhetoric of American Politics Isn't Just a Metaphore,Huffington Post, 8 January 2011 (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marty-kaplan/gabrielle-giffords-shooting_b_806232.html)


    Arizona has become a mecca of prejudice and bigotry. ...That may be free speech, but it does have its consequences.

    -Pima County Sheriff Clarence Dupnik




    At times in our history we've seen liberal rhetoric reach points of extremism; in 21st Century America the incontrovertible fact is that conservative rhetoric; exacerbated by the rise of Palin, the Tea Party, religious fundamentalists et al.; ever wavers toward violence and extremism.

    Partisanship aside, our enemy on all fronts is precisely this extremism. We should turn our ears from the fringe voices on the Left and on the Right who urge us to indulge our hatred and anger. Let us sincerely hope that reason will guide public discourse through this divided era in our history, and that the Left and Right will indeed balance each other toward a synthesis of thought beneficial for all.

    Let us recall that there are those among us who fall into the dark chasms our angry words dig; not guided by the light that may come more easily to other minds--the naturally unflappable, the flighty, the level-headed and the brilliant--they are left in their solitude to fester in the anger of Our Times.  Let us be their caretakers and hold our sharp tongues.

    Congresswoman Giffords is a non-partisan representative of the civil rights issues of Our Time: while there is need to secure our borders and mind our pocketbooks, we cannot forget that one need not be white or affluent in order to be counted in this country.  One need not be literate, or English speaking, to be counted as a human, and a sick man or woman of this nation not privileged with wealth need not be sentenced to death, for we care for our own regardless of their various contingencies.  

    Humanity has indeed suffered today, along with the families of those wounded and killed.  Let us hope that today's events will be a harbinger of Better Times.



    Everyone I meet

    Seems to be playing the A-Side.


    My friends and I

    Are all playing the B-Side.


    No reason

    To feel sad at all anymore.


    Our lives spin

    Around the turntable universe


    Each track

    A new stage of life


    Lets make

    It all worth it.


    For some

    Their lives only need a seven inch.


    We'll take

    At least a ten inch, maybe a twelve.


    Its all because

    We're not sad anymore.


    And we realized

    No one will ever understand us.


    Every moment

    The world steps away from us


    Just like they

    Want nothing to do with our music


    Whether it is

    The screaming or the music of our life we'll never know.


    Perhaps our only crime

    Is feeling too much.


    Either way

    We're not sad anymore.


    So we'll step away

    From the authority and our fellows.

    This isn't some

    Existentialist call to arms.

    Its a call

    To stop being down.


    To stop caring

    About what we think about ourselves.


    To call people on their hypocrisy

    And more importantly our own.


    The record

    Might keep turning


    The needle creating

    Noise, or beautiful music.


    We'll take the music

    And it'll be good music.


    From that first moment

    When the record starts


    The listener won't change

    It back to the A-Side.


    The A-Side is a crowd pleaser

    We'll play something on the stage of life

    That will confuse or anger

    Your A-Side sensibility.


    Instead of being a declasse popstar

    Let's be a poor pop punk band


    Go on tour

    Meet some crazy people.


    Instead of partying on Friday

    Losing ourselves


    Let's lose ourselves on Tuesday

    In the deepest of conversations


    To the tune of the wind

    And cigarette smoke.


    With hoods raised

    Hands in pockets.


    Instead of just looking

    Around art, pretending


    Let's look right at it

    Or better yet, make our own that won't even come close.


    Instead of intimidating people

    With our brotherhood


    Lets take minute

    And shake the hand


    Of each person

    Cast aside like an out of date car.


    The A-Side might work for you.

    And the B-Side isn't for everyone


    But we'll show people

    Our great B-Side album


    Spinning around

    As it always has, and will.



    I've been still listening to way too much Wonder Years.



    as the clan of the white man

    strategize and plan

    a globalized, economical scam

    we’re left here disappearing.

    this pressure that’s been piling up

    is wearing on my soules

    and tearing

    the tissue from my bones.

    like the rain that falls

    then vaporizes back into the air

    we reside amidst despair

    until we disappear.

    we add up to nothing

    living unheard

    and unseen.

    solely a sacrificial pawn

    in an economical



    by Professor William Farrell
    presented at the Martin Luther King Memorial Breakfast at Saint Anselm College, January 17, 2011
              On August 28 1963, on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, Martin Luther King gave his stirring speech, I Have a Dream. In it he said he dreamt of equality. In closing the speech he said that we should all be involved in letting freedom ring from every city and state in the Union, and that we should all join in singing the words of the old Christian spiritual, “ Free at last, free at last. Thank God Almighty, we are free at last.”
                 When we accept the fact that we now have an African American President, Barack Obama, we might ask ourselves, if the dream of Martin Luther King has indeed been realized. We certainly have come a very long way in fashioning a society where freedom does ring and social equality has become the norm. But are we really free, are we really equal? The poor and the disenfranchised would say no, as would the homeless, women, prisoners, blacks, Hispanics, immigrants, and anyone who suffers from any form of deprivation. 
                The United States Constitution certainly is predicated on the idea of equality, in particular, the Fourteenth Amendment, especially the equality or equal rights clause which states that we should not deny any person in America the equal protection of the laws of the United States.
              It all began in 1896 after the Civil War, in a Supreme Court decision called Plessy V. Ferguson. A man, Homer Plessy, had attempted to ride in an all white railroad car, which, according to Louisiana law, was for whites only based on the Separate Car Act which was passed by the Louisiana legislature and decreed that there should be separate accommodations for blacks and for whites in rail cars. Plessy was found guilty of violating the Louisiana law by Judge John Ferguson, and the decision that he made was brought to the Supreme Court. The Supreme Court ruled in favour of Judge Ferguson, thus upholding the Louisiana law. Justice John Harlan dissented the majority opinion.
               Harlan said: “In my opinion, the judgement this day rendered will, in time, prove to be quite as pernicious as the decision made by this tribunal in the Dred Scott case [which, as you know, was one of the causes of the Civil War, the bloodiest war in this country’s history]. The present decision , it may well be apprehended, will not only stimulate aggression, more or less brutal and irritating, upon the admitted rights of  colored citizens,  but will encourage the belief that it is possible , by means of state enactments, to defeat the beneficent purposes which the
     people of the United States had in view when they adopted the recent amendments of the Constitution, by one of which the blacks of this country were made citizens of the United States and of the states in which they respectively reside, and whose privileges and immunities, as citizens, the States are forbidden to abridge.” He went on to say that the Constitution of the United States is color blind and neither knows nor tolerates classes among its citizens.
              He said that whites were in no real danger from blacks nor blacks from whites, and that the destinies as well as the interests of both black and white Americans were inextricably linked together, and that the government is a government of all the people, and that race hate should never be planted under the sanction of law.
    The decision in Plessy versus Ferguson was the basis of the refusal of Southern states to allow blacks to attend white only schools, or to ride on buses that were for both blacks and whites, and forbade blacks to use white only rest rooms, or drinking fountains, or sit down in white only lunch counters.
    During the bus boycott in Montgomery Alabama, Martin Luther King, in leading the protest movement, said that if the City of Montgomery was correct in insisting that blacks sit in the back of their buses, and that if the laws that segregated blacks and whites were correct, then the Constitution of the United States of America was wrong, and that if the city of Montgomery was correct in segregating both blacks and whites, then God Almighty was wrong.
    This was the same energy that he used during the Civil Rights Movement where he based his efforts on the principle of Ghandi’s nonviolent means of protest. King said that there is a moral obligation that exists to violate an unjust law. In his letter from a Birmingham, Alabama jail he said that nonviolent protest helps men to rise up from the depths of prejudice to the majestic heights of understanding and brotherhood. He went on to say that all segregation laws were unjust, and that any law that degrades the human person is unjust, and that anybody who violates an unjust law while accepting the legally defined penalty, is acting justly, just as Jesus Christ had done. He said that God’s will should always be followed.
    It was not until the decision of the Supreme Court in Brown Versus the Board of Education in 1954, that racial equality in education was ratified and the Plessy decision was overturned, and that there should be racial equality for all in Southern States. However, until Loving versus Virginia in 1967, black and white marriages were forbidden in the South, where Richard Loving and his legally named wife married in New York were both sentenced to a year in jail for violating the law of the state of Virginia; and that was only 44 years ago.
    The Christian ethical system is quite clear on this point. Jesus said that we should love one another as the Father in Heaven loves us all. When we say the Our Father, a prayer that Jesus gave to us, and which many saints say is the perfect prayer, we say ,“ Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven”. I seriously doubt that in Heaven, there is no love, nor is there prejudice between those who may be white and those who may be black. Christian love between all people is indeed basic to what the Christian message is all about. King essentially made this point when he said that Jesus was, himself, an extremist for love. He quoted Jesus when Jesus said: “Love your enemies, bless them who curse you, do good to them who hate you, and pray for them who despitefully use you, and persecute you.” King asked whether we had the courage to truly follow Jesus. Would we be willing to be extremists for love? Would we be willing to be extremists for the preservation of justice? King said that we should never forget the scene on Calvary’s hill where Christ was crucified, that Christ was crucified for the crime of extremism; extremism for love, for truth and for goodness. Perhaps we all need to be extremists, as Christ was.  
    Martin Luther King was assassinated on April 4th, 1968. He was assassinated at 6:01 pm at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis Tennessee. A great man, who had spent the last thirteen years of his life seeking equality, and in nonviolent protest, was slain by an   assassin’s cruel bullet. He had said that he might not get to the promised land before those who had followed him, but that, nonetheless, he would continue his efforts to have black and white equality in this land, the United States of America, a land that you and I love so very much.
    Martin Luther King would be proud of Saint Anselm College, as I am, in what is done here. He would be particularly proud of the extremist students who go to various parts of the world as representatives of the College during Spring Break Alternative spreading their kindness and their helping hands.
    But we must continue to ask ourselves, “Are we truly free, are we indeed truly equal?   Have we done enough to validate Martin Luther King’s dream of equality? Do we truly love one another as we say that we do in the Our Father, the prayer that the Lord Jesus Christ gave to us?
     Holiness is never free for anyone. We all must work to be truly equal. We all must be extremists for love in order to realize Martin Luther King’s dream.



    Not as morbid as you might think. I never liked the stigma death had. If you are a salvation type person then shouldn't you be happy? Unless you think said person went to hell I guess. And atheists shouldn't care overly much. Death is very liberating if it is the next step and if it isn't then the world probably has no meaning anyway. Or it still does. Who knows.






    Being tossed

    Off a mid level office building

    Or rocky cliff

    Has its advantages.


    Like the Prince

    You gaze at the infinite sky

    But unlike him

    When its time for impact


    Consciousness is over.


    Fears about the future

    The distant blackness

    Never bothered me

    What if we all had but a week left?


    I'd have my coffee,

    Most still would.

    But I would lean

    Towards the dramatic.


    Go out with a bang.


    Not a hedonistic bang.

    I'd do the same thing I've always done.

    Lived. And expect the worst.

    It strikes.


    Death hits,

    Anytime, anywhere.

    How liberating.

    People are lucky when they get a time table.


    If all of humanity

    Had a time table

    Then its people who live by schedules

    And checklists, dream come true.


    To the chaotic

    It matters not.

    For the universe is

    Just as arbitrary as it ever was.


    Now excuse me,

    While I go put my feet up

    Turn on some Sinatra,

    Drink to oblivion.


    And most of all,

    Enjoy the hell out of this time

    Whether it be

    One week, or sixty years.


  • The Shape of Diversity Community Mural Project is working its way to its conclusion this week and we need your contribution. Finish and contribute your image. You can complete it and bring it with you on Saturday.

    imageThis image by Jenna Jarosz

    We will be looking over the images people have contributed on Saturday and choosing those to be incorporated into the final mural. Make sure your image of what is important about our life as a community is seen and becomes part of our record of the project. The schedule of events this weekend is below along with the links to RSVP on Facebook.

    If you've signed up for times to help this weekend don't forget to also complete an image and bring it with you.
    Instructions for the image can be found here: http://theshapeofdiversity.org/2011/01/richard-haynes-introduction-to-first-workshop/

    You just trace a photo or image you find emblematic of what a diverse community means to you at Saint Anselm and then color it in with schemes similar to those on the sample images. We've got the transparencies for tracing and the special crayons with the color palette we are using, so just let us know if you'd like to use them.

    If you'd like to get together and work on your image during the day Thursday or in the early evening Friday contact us and we'll  set up a place to work with the materials. Don't let your vision go unseen or your voice unheard.

    Here is the schedule for the last days and the unveiling.:

    Last Chance! Mural Design Wrap-Up Session

    Mural Design Presentation & VOTE!

    PAINTING "The Shape of Diversity" Mural w/ Richard Haynes
    SUNDAY, FEB 13
    Last Day! PAINTING the Diversity Mural
    The Shape of Diversity Mural UNVEILING


  • I am throbbing with violent labor pains,

    I am pregnant,

    with life,

    with words,

    with beauty,

    my baby's head is protruding from my...

    ok I know it sounds weird but give me a break I just started,

    oh boy! Here it comes,

    excuse me as I sream in pain,


    It has arrived,

    nacked, red, wailing with the umbilical chord still attached,

    but it will grow to be great and beautiful

  • So I've been kicking around doing a multi part poem/story thing that I publish once a week. Actually, I haven't really been kicking around the idea, it just came into my head 4 minutes ago after I wrote this poem.



    As he sat there

    In the crowded room

    And felt reality crowd in

    Thicker than ever


    He saw a parting of the mists.

    That Exit sign over the door beckoned to him

    This was his chance

    To break out of the dream.


    But all the institutions of society

    Social interactions, convention

    and Common decency

    Stopped him.


    They were all lies to pen him in.




    Catch Me If You Can



    My life began in 469 BC,

    in the ancient land of Athens, 

    which gave birth to Western philosophy.

    Conversing by the Coliseum is where I’d reside;

    pondering life’s questions consumed most of my time.

    I didn’t do this for money,

    no my lessons were free;

    I had little concern for material possessions nor the practice of sophistry.

    The clever man can dazzle and appear to be what is not, 

    though through the teachings of rhetoric,

    truth is never taught.

    Honest philosophy is uncomfortable;

    it can judge us or force us to judge ourselves.

    Ask yourself,

    “What does it profit a man to have a keen understanding, but not live well?”

    Sophia is my child whom I cherish, nurture, and love;

    a virtue of the highest universal form,from the world of being, above.

    I followed her beauty, though fellow citizens couldn’t understand;

    claiming I was corrupting the youth,

    they banned me from their land.

    A purpose placed upon me by the mortal man,

    no comparison,

    to the guiding voice from within.

    Rather than wandering, I acted out of honor,

    making my telos to be remembered as philosophy's martyr.

    Little did they know, their punishment, 

    in truth, was my reward.

    Ignorance of small minds restricts the soul from moving toward,

    the only idea worth aligning with one’s focus;

    the Good,

    the flaming fire, which awoke us

    and broke us out of the cave,

    freeing our being.

    We’re no longer appearances’ slave. 



  • "Whither Quantum Computing"

    by Dr. Barry Sanders
    iCore Chair of Quantum Information Science at the University of Calgary

    Presented at the Math Physics Seminar at Saint Anselm College, February 22, 2011.

    The Slide Show that went with the lecture can be found here.
    (Click with the mouse to advance the slides.)


  • I love Organic Chemistry.

  • Last night (3/14/11) Lucubrations held its first Open Mic since our inception. The turnout exceeded expectations and there were acts ranging from passionate songs, angry poetry, and hilarious comedy (as opposed to unfunny comedy).

    The event was held in the Comiskey Center Black Box Theater, giving the perfect atmosphere for an Open Mic. The atmosphere was made better by creative seating placement and stage design by the talented Justine Johnson who arrived very early to setup. Lucubrations would like to thank the Fine Arts Department and Professor Asbury for their permission to use the space.

    Professor Banach made delicious pulled pork for sandwiches and his famous homemade bread which met with great approval from all.

    We hope to plan more Open Mics and events in the future thanks to all the postive feedback.

    Great job to all who performed and great job to the attentive audience for their support without which no artist, musician, poet, or comedian could ever get support to do what they do.

    I would also like to thank Lauren Miller for creating the beautiful poster with which we advertised.

    Here are the list of performers/musicians/poets/comedians and my attempt to describe the glory they performed:

    1. Tom Hickey - Comedy from the great Woody Allen

    2. Vincent Maniscalco - A Poem on a napkin. We think he might have singlehandedly created a new genre.

    3. Professor Banach - Great image based poetry on love

    4. Jeremy Munro - Cover of La Dispute songs about the nature of love and being cheated on.

    5. Andrew Mueskes - Sweet, sweet acoustic songs of passion.

    6. Veronica Amaya and Kevin Comoletti - A musical quest into the sunset with two guitars.

    7. Justine Johnson - Poetry and musings on life and scenes from the past.

    8. Tyler Lavallee - Residet campus funnyman. Great standup comedy about a woman's ideal man, fashion, and sports

    9. Christopher O'Brien, Brittany Yost, and Tom Hickey - Cutting edge improv.


  •  it's from that earth she leans and sways. sleep is arbitrary. she smells like sweat and boy and girl and denied it all for so long. the ringing in her ears is a pantheon of sound to her but crickets to another.

    she blinks from


    the sun rises at five.

  •  this is what happens when i go home. tealuxe with an intelligent friend becomes a priority. and i'll take a gratuitous amount of photos there. and we'll get into arguments about poor life decisions and quality literature.

  • Shape of Diversity Mural Unveiling

    February 16, 2011


    Culmination of the collaborative project with artist Rhichard Haynes and Saint Anselm Students to embody the value of diversity at Saint Anselm College

    Full Gallery


  • The first crocuses of Spring on the raised walkway park in Chelsea, New York City on March 12, 2011. The pictures aren't that exciting, but the prospect of spring is!

  • The Argument from Recollection

    seeing not here
    not now
    wild eye stares
    at nothing.

    cloud trails across stars
    uncover absences
    behind the moon
    another night’s light.
    empty branches sway
    with leaves of another summer
    under them darkness
    overflows and drips
    with lack of you.

    people look up

    turn around
    peer back at me
    with your face
    around each corner
    another place
    in which you were
    out of balance
    tipping towards
    what was
    is not

    memory seeks out
    empty spaces
    in the real
    dissolves its fabric
    collapses consciousness
    impaling its center
    pinning it
    like a specimen
    with pain
    to the wound
    through which life is
    to the eternal
    through the present
    what was
    to what will be
    by what is

    remembering is
    and forgetting is death.


  •  it's sobering

  • Justine Johnson

    March 17, 2011


    Napkin Writer


    Black tea is Vincent Maniscalco’s drink of choice. “I like it as plain and as bitter as it can be,” he explained to me while sitting on a plush chair inside the Chapel Art Center. “I’ve never really thought about why. I just like it as flavorful as possible. It lets you know it’s there.” With a smirk, he glanced at a photograph on the wall and took a sip out of his chunky, black mug.


    It’s insight like this that makes Vincent a valuable asset to a budding cultural and literary interest on the college’s campus.


    As a Great Books major and a closeted poet, Vincent is one of the newest members of Saint Anselm College’s e-magazine, Lucubrations. Made up of a growing group of creative and imaginative students, spanning from violinists and heavy-metal rockers to painters and editorialists, Lucubrations provides a retreat for those attracted to the artistic side of life.


    This past Monday, Vincent revealed just how inventive he could be.


    When asked if he had brought any material to read during the college’s first Open Mic night in recent years, he borrowed a pen from a nearby friend and hastily scrawled words on the first thing he could grab: a napkin.


    The poem, a bashful apology for appearing unprepared, silenced the audience and floored all in attendance.


    Following the night, Vincent was nicknamed “The Napkin Writer.”


    “I wasn’t trying to be coy with it. I wasn’t like, ‘Oh look, I have a napkin.’ I just started stating the obvious. I have so many words and no idea how to say them,” he added casually. 


    Vincent’s way of sorting his thoughts is not unlike most cerebral thinkers. He is currently in the process of writing a book comprised of personal reflections. “Right now, I just have collected thoughts and journal entries. I’m not quite sure what it’s about yet but I want it to be a summation of thoughts on my life experiences,” he said.


    When asked how his passion for the pen began, he explained, “I started with what I call ‘Friday Free-Writes’, an idea I got from my high school English teacher. They range from random blurbs to a laundry-list of things I did that day. Sometimes it turns into poetry.”


    Right now, Vincent has finished two chapters regarding the importance of good parenting and an opinionated piece on “so-called health care professionals.”


    After a supportive reception at Monday’s Open Mic, Vincent has expressed a greater interest in presenting his prose poetry in public. “Lucubrations is giving me a healthy kick in the butt to write. It’s providing me with a structure to write with. It’s as good for me as it is for other people. I would really like to read aloud again.”


    Although Lucubrations is based online, members of the magazine site can post, view and be inspired by the works fellow students and faculty.


    “I’m not writing for anyone else or a particular audience. It’s about me but hopefully someone out there will be interested.”


    #  #  #  #




    So yea,

    I found myself standing at the gates of hell.

    I guess thats what happens when you give your ticket back.

    Oh well. I'll live in hell. I'd rather be in my Hell than in this good.


    Its precisely the good I can't enjoy,

    Thus, Hell is preferable to Heaven.

    He stood behind me, shaking his head.

    Wrapped in his hoodie like me, with a hole through his chest.


    She stood ahead of us.

    The white glow shined

    She looked happy, yet sad.

    The ethereal glow unnerved me.


    She is moving on.

    Onwards to the harmonious glory.

    Thats cool I guess.

    Its not for me, so I walked into perdition.


    He wasn't going anywhere.

    He denied all of this.

    Content for the moment

    To sit for eternity.


    I remember as the bullets hit us.

    Passing their own judgment.

    Thats how it goes I guess.

    I wonder how I fit into the grand plan.


    All those immoral decisions

    The cruelty to others

    Choosing control over sacrifice

    I'll never know and She can't tell me.


    I put us here.

    She was along for the ride,

    Doing her best to not Fall.

    And she didn't.


    The hole in my chest stunk

    A cockroach climbed through.

    I didn't feel anything.

    This was home, and it is preferable to the fate of the other two.


    He sat down against the wall between

    Two realms of polar opposites.

    Eyes staring blankly

    Never blinking.

    She floated back

    Crying for us

    But laughing at the transcendent beauty

    I wasn't jealous.


    I thought “How could hell be any worse?”

    Apparently we can't just BE.

    There has to be this higher harmony.

    I guess in the end humanity really is nothing.





  • Recorded at 10:49 PM on 3/22/11 with my crappy laptop microphone (which isn't half bad apparently).

    From the Rebellion Chapter of The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky

    I like Ivan. I don't know why. Probably due to some sort of laceration or hipsterness. I felt like I could take a lot of liberties with the presentation as Ivan is in delirium especially in the later stages of the novel. I had him shift rapidly from the dramatic, to the serious, sarcastic, witty, and delirium.

    At first I just wanted to do the part about the child getting torn apart by hounds, but I started reading and didn't want to stop. I hit the end of the chapter. This was attempt four at recording. Might do another one more polished with a better microphone. Not sure.

    The idea of recording a passage came from wanting to do a feature on it. Its interesting to see how people read things they take to be very important in shaping who they are. The way they read can show how they really think, a glimpse into the depths of humanity we normally shield from people.

    Its time to live passionately kids.

  • First Crocuses of Spring 2011 in Goffstown, NH

    March 27, 2011

  •      Reflections On My Excusion to New York City

                    by Jeremy Munro


         I stepped out of the car and into the road. Here we were. New York City. The first day was gray and it was mid-afternoon. I had spent the past week mentally girding myself for the city, which I had yet to be in the middle of for any great length of time. Justine and Chris were with me, we decided to circle the block at the Hotel while Professor Asbury and Will figured out where the parking place was. My backpack was a comfortable reminder of who I was as my identity became meaningless in the middle of the city. Perhaps the greatest thing about the urban sprawl, the mass of people, is that no one pays any attention to you, regardless of what you are doing. Its a good thing to have your identity destroyed, part of the problem of a small college or living in a small town is it tends to give people delusions of grandeur, a false sense that they actually matter in the human world or the universe at all, when in most cases the former is not true and in the latter never true. Empires rise and fall, but the celestial bodies still move in orbit.

          We stopped at a bike shop, which I had never really seen before. When we got back to the hotel we were ready to head inside. I checked for bedbugs thanks to my paranoia and the worldwide bedbug epidemic. We were clean. At night having been joined by Professor Banach and his car we went to a Malaysian Restaurant on the border of Chinatown. My stomach was already in a frenzy from the fast food at a place called “The Duchess” that afternoon in Connecticut. I had a feeling the classy title was where the classiness started and ended. I rallied my forces though and dug in. The food was spicy, very spicy. The tea they served came in these tiny little cups, it was at that point I started to enjoy the city. Later that night a few of us hit a coffee shop with Professor Banach and had some delicious cheesecakes and chocolate cake along with good tea.

          The galleries we hit for the next two and a half days were a blur, but a good kind of blur. It was kind of like sensory overload. Christie's Art Auction was magnificent, the architecture was like something out of a movie and the auction itself let us get a look at the business side of high art, the upper class collectors at play. The Chelsea galleries were exactly what I suspected. Simple, plain, and gloriously modern. When I saw the pillar of salt in the middle of an empty room with the artist shuffling around it on his knees I stood there, unblinking for the entire time we were in that room and I was the last to leave. I thought “this is what you want to see in a modern art gallery in NYC.” It probably wasn't what the artist had intended since he did it to represent suffering and meaningless and here I was finding meaning in meaningless. I bet he and I could have had a good talk about that contradiction. The Strand bookstore was monolithic. So many books, including some very expensive first editions of great classic novels. I didn't buy anything. Justine bought a mug I think, so did Monica. I like the name “the Strand.”

          We hit a few art openings at night. A lot of them felt really underground and off the wall and that is probably because they were. One involved cubes of light reflecting back via mirror upon itself creating infinity. To get there we went in a normal building down some sketchy stairs and it opened up into a full blown gallery. To get to another which involved photographs about the look of rooms juxtaposed against condemned buildings we went into a perfectly modern building with an old elevator that had a metal gate and when going up or down you could see the walls of the building where the numbers of the floor were painted. It was boss. The whole trip I was using terrible slang. I said “boss”, “man”, and “dude” more times than I ever have. Not sure why. One of Professor Beaudoin's friends had an opening in a garage in a classy building across the street from the Museum of Modern Art. His exhibit was a series of turf lined conveyor belts that slowly moved plaster houses downward until they broke. I watched for 15 minutes before one broke. It was anti-climactic so that made it worth it.

          Every morning in the hotel I got up second and showered, then I sat in a chair by the window and wrote some thoughts. “Rode the NYC subway for the first time yesterday and got stuck on the entry side after our card ran out, hurried up and payed for my own, felt like a boss.”

    The Met was cool but after seeing all the great works so many times digitally or otherwise they didn't resonate with me at all. Some of the stuff in the Museum of Modern Art struck me much more. Like drapes thrown on the floor or five screws put into a wall.

          Professor Asbury's friend Sergei was the coolest guy ever. He talked to us about animation over at the Animation Collective which has done such cartoons such as Kappa Mikey and Speed Racer. We went out to dinner with him one night and he was a really interesting guy. Professor Banach had a good philosophical conversation with him about the works of Fyodor Dostoevsky, funny how that works out.

          Everyone on the trip was super cool and I met a lot of people who I hangout with regularly now I never really knew before at Saint A's. It also was a critical part of my decision to take up a Fine Arts Minor. I would like to thank the professors and the Fine Arts department for putting the trip together. It will definitely be a highlight of my Saint A's experience not only for myself, but for a lot of us who went on the trip.

          This account is rather disjointed as I didn't take good notes of what happened. The Crier article by Jen Staltare will does a better job of an overview, this was just my personal experience. I focused more on making connections with my fellow travelers and trying to break out of my comfort zone. The city makes you do this constantly, for me, that was the best part of the trip. I felt like I grew up.




     my dear, we're slow dancing in a burning room.

    (caught in the crossfire of something much more complicated than i could ever explain)


    Three Pictures of Humanity


    by Jeremy Munro


    # 1 – The Hipster


          On Tuesday The Hipster took a walk outside in the rain. He rolled his pants up to try to look like a hipster because all his friends said He's a hipster. If they want a hipster, they'll get one. He slugs his messenger bag over his shoulder, wearing a sweatshirt layered over a gray old man cardigan and a v-neck sitting under that. The rain was mostly gone, but the ground was wet. His socks got soaked since he was only wearing moccasins. He was happy. In that rush of happiness that aroused from being shallow he was living life passionately. This is no philistine from Kierkegaard, this was a moment was carefully crafted, planned with utmost precision. Is the passion then only a veneer? Passion might only be spontaneous.


    # 2 – The Reflecting Boy In Transition


          While walking I reflected. I was told once a story about a bro who said he had to leave to go to Church. The person with this bro was not a religious man so he asked the bro why. The bro answered “I just feel so bad about how I act and treat people.” I liked this story.


    # 3 – The Stressed One


          The Stressed One always ran around from place to place. Always working, never stopping. I admired his work ethic, but spoke against his beliefs. He, like many others, were working themselves into an early grave. Truly the greatest crime of this era is a loss of living life passionately and destruction of the individual. The Stressed One would rather be a cog in the machine, the man in the back than the always underestimated person in the front. The real tragedy is I lack a solution to his problem. Philosophy will not help him, nor will spontaneity as it is always cut too short.



    If you aren't living passionately, what the hell are you doing?


    By Jeremy Munro


          It was Opening night at the gallery. It might as well have been a gala event, a red carpet premiere as far as I was concerned. All the awesome people were attending and my coworkers were excited as well. We all love the student show. I showed up twenty minutes early in my black dress pants, brown dress shoes, blue skinny tie, and tan dress shirt. If my mother found out I was clashing this much she'd kill me.

          Juan was playing some really chill music from the back at his DJ station. I helped get the cheese ready. People began pouring in early. The gallery was spotless. At first I began by greeting people as they came in, but eventually went to help Justine with the wine table. I spent the rest of the night pouring wine and sparkling water. Justine was carding people and serving. Juan swapped to techno as the event progressed. It was odd hearing hard bass beats in a gallery with stained glass and religious iconography on the ceiling.

          Needless to say, I rocked out at the wine table. My coworkers were laughing at how much I was enjoying myself. I told Steph “If you aren't living passionately, what the hell are you doing?” I could plan for the future tomorrow. Right now I was going to live in the moment and focus on this great event. I think my coworkers all felt the same way.

          The night progressed and awards went out. I chatted with a bunch of people and got my pouring technique down for sparkling water. By the next event my wine technique will rise to match. Eventually people left and we began cleaning up. A bunch of us workers and some close friends were the last to leave and we walked en masse to the coffee shop. In those five minutes of walking I felt so liberated. So at peace. These were my people. The connections I've been hunting for so long.

          At the coffee shop they all filtered into the pub and I stood in line since I'm not 21 and got some chicken. Justine came back and gave me a hug and wished me good night. That was cool.

          I just wish the night didn't have to end. At least now I care about something. Most people hate their jobs, but I think the thing is to find something small about it you enjoy and start from there. Live passionately in small ways, by focusing on the one good thing that might happen to you in a day, like you favorite meal being served in the cafeteria, or a good grade and have that define your day rather than fears about the future, angst about life, frustration with friends, or attempts at finding love. Once you can find passion in the small things, then go bigger. Take the situations and events of life and enjoy them thoroughly, you have plenty of time to plan in the off time when you are alone.

          I ended the night eating in the common room, watching my roommate and some others try waltz and then salsa dancing. This is college.



    I'm on a writing storm lately.

  • Sketchbook Exhibit Trip

    with stops at Portsmouth Museum of Art and The Main College of Art in Portland.


  • the woods are lovely, dark and deep,

    but i have promises to keep,

    and miles to go before i sleep,

    and miles to go before i sleep.

    (09 april 2011

    peterborough, new hampshire)

  • Fine Arts Flickr Gallery of Juried '11


    The proud pines scratched the sky in swaying unison

    And the soft floral creatures rambled between tangled roots

    Foraging for flair, sniffing out the rare words

    That once grew and splashed in tune with the rushing stream


    You cannot speak of these stolen words with any soul

    For the dark pines screamed and scratched that angry stranger

    Who chopped the wild words from creaking boughs

    And plucked the fallen chunks and shards for fuel


    But the watchmaker only hears his ticking trade

    The whines of the pines are lost in the chugs and the cogs

    And the clock’s jewels flicker, each click with brilliant fires

    These flames smolder with words from the forest’s floor.


    But through the watchmaker’s lens

    The crying pines will be whole again.

    And the soft creatures will heal.

    And the world is safe.

  • Lucubrations Artistic Tuesday Album


    Recordings in Order:

    1. Dana Nolan and Valerie Stein Jamming on Guitar and Violin.

    2. Cedric Ashley reading a poem.

    3. Dana Nolan Screaming a poem accompanied by Valerie Stein on Violin

    4. Jeremy Munro reading Bukowski

    5. Tom Hickey reading a poem.

    6 and 7. Valerie Stein on Violin


  • The Magnolia in Front of the Dana Center

    Apr 23, 2011



  • 2011-Shakespeare Birthday   Full Album

     Photos from the Celebration

  •  it’s f-o-u-r and i’m humming songs about mariners like the birds outside. i’ve taken my placebo but the stress beat its ass and i’m now i’m just waiting for the sun to rise. in my head. i’m drawn to the water but even more to the fire; seen it been there done that. i’ll let it burnburnburn.

    i stumbled and gasped. it felt good, like blood rushing to a scape; stinging and pulsing and alive. a little reminder of who. why. where we are.

    (.  syntax.)

    i’m a native of the sea but i grew close to waterfire.

    “Isn’t it more beautiful to find life in something you once hated? rather than going to a place to meet life?”

  •  when people ask me what my favorite band is, i have a hard time answering. i love cocorosie but explaining their style and how i listen to it is too difficult for a simple, shallow conversation. i also can’t answer with ‘the playlist whose title matches my mood’ because that’s too vague and precarious and never a nice thing to respond with. so i default to death cab for cutie. it’s weird hearing people’s opinions on them. sometimes they’ll laugh and remember how awesome and visceral those concerts were, or sometimes they’ll smile and breathe out a nostalgic “ohhhyeah!” and recall their older favorite songs. other times they’ll grin and refer to “that song, the one about following in the dark” but what i don’t understand is the popular reaction i’ve been getting lately: where they’ll roll their eyes and talk about how they used to listen to them in high school and they’re surprised with my choice given my palette of tastes. they’ll loftily talk about how the lyrics are soooo overrated and the band sounds like shit now that they’ve gotten older and moved on to better things. maybe i’m naive and more aware of music snobbery now that i’ve become more comfortable with NewEnglandLiberalArtsElistism but i don’t know, i still like them. or maybe it’s just a telltale sign of an unwillingness to let go of an old love, of something that meant so much to me as a teenager.

    regardless of whether they ‘sound like shit’ or they’re still liked, i know that secretly, at some point, getting drunk on red wine in a paper cup to plans or transatlanticism still happens at even the most indie of parties.



  •  155mm f/5.0

  • 2011-Philosophy Picnic Full Album

    Despite a 9-4 faculty lead going into the last inning, the students came back for a 12-9 victory.

  • The other day I walked from the gallery I work at to lunch. I saw the attractive girl walking up. She was smoking a cigarette. I didn't look at her at first deliberately. Then we looked at eachother. Then we looked away quickly.

    The tile mosaic floor spread out before me, it seemed like it was going on forever. In a few hours this place would lose its relaxing charm and become a mecca of youthful activity. During the day though it is calm and little frequented. We always sit against a wall, in a fake corner. I wasted entire days just talking.


    What the end of the year taught me about living deliberately.


          So many moments of intimate conversation. The coffee shop had its distinctive smell. We sat at the usual table. Every night was the same. Sitting around with Ahmed and Justine and a rotating cast of people we know. I'd get back each night late, having a final the next day. Sometimes I just wanted free time after going all day, others I thought studying was in order. At the end of the year though all I wanted to do was to talk.


          Truly living deliberately is being in the moment. The week and a half that was finals this year I savored every single moment. The softball game brought everything to a nice conclusion. The cold, the wind, the rain beating against as we participated in sport. Good food abounded and I saw a lot of people for the last time, maybe forever. At least my last memories will be good memories, like Jon running home while talking on his phone, Ferg's epic slips in the backfield, Cedric's almost grand slam, and Brad just being Brad.


          If you want to know what college is in a nutshell: it is moments like those. Its the four hour conversations, the spontaneous cigarette/convenient store runs that are a big deal because you ride in a car, the cold walks from one end of the campus to the other at 2 AM, the horrible party music and cheesy parties, the classes that blow your mind, being on the hunt for free food, buying food for others, and just generally living. Its a unique experience like no other. It is one part study and mental change and one part change by going through unique experiences.


          Step out onto the street and just listen. Hear the quiet, the daily solace. Breathe in, then breathe in again deeply. Look to the future while respecting the end and living in the present.





    things  coming   apart
    have     their    own                order
    and                their   own

    as the order that binds them
                    magic grabs
       the pieces from the darkness
    between the spaces where they were

    and as if
             in loving care
    guides and whispers, soft persuasion uses,
         to the new born blankness
         of shatterings oblivion
                                          calling fragments
                                          to postures new and



    Shatterings   (Full Album)


    Photos of a fountain in College Station, Texas.


  •  i had one of those lucid dreams again that i found myself tugging along the late hours of the morning.  it was raining, like real life, and the water droplets that hit the oversized puddle by the shed sparkled like firecrackers, glowing with reds and blues and golds. somehow the rope would get loose and the dream would take the form of things i purposely don’t think about, like losing him and wanting to reconnect with them. i saw a flickering of a lighter and the plume of smoke and my heart ached for something i hated. in him and in me. and i stirred... and i’m left thinking about the fragmented remainders of what the dream wanted but i regain a hold of that rope and pull pull pull the damn thing until the slack is gone.

  • air
    waits formless

    for mist or steam to caress its contours
    searching out unseen currents.
    seeps and soaks
    drips and drops
    invading each crack and crevice
    moulders in darkness
    pushed and pulled to mounds and furrows
    incarnate energy even
    leaps and sparks
    along shafts of air
    and the lines of things
    but from this formless void in me
    flows only order
    order and pain
    grasping and possessing
    loosing and releasing
    fire in my veins
    air in my lungs
    the substance of my flesh
    rent in tears and blood
    form seeking form from void
    to void
    light seeking light from dark
    in darkness


  • So I got bored during all this time of rain and just started ranting to my computer mic. Musical sounds behind are Minor Threat songs.

    What Punk Rock Means To Me.



    I miss school a whole lot and I'm finding that looking at pictures of my old crew makes my heart ache. L said something similar too. I'm trying to keep my distance from that until the dawning of the newly graduated freedom is gone and sanity and normality return. Thinking of how much fun I had makes my chest tingle with sadness, with the depression of something too good to be true, too good to last. Thinking about the night I got so drunk on three beers and ran off with --- and toasted to Saint Anselm with a bottle of champagne on top of the rugby tower makes me hope that my senior year will be filled with such sexy, dangerous, collegiate shenanigans like that. There is a sharp clawing sensation under my ribs like something wants to break out but I know that it can't get free just yet. I'm not ready to come to terms with what was fun and what was had and what is over.

    My dealing with the breakup is a slow push and pull and sometimes, at night, when it's quiet and I catch myself yearning for a hand to hold, I discover the lump in my throat that has propped itself in my airway since the discovery of the lies, since the drug addiction and since the questioning. I get mad and tired and wish that I could hate - for all the mindgames he played and I played but the guilt sets in and I remember that I can't hate him; he wasn't a mistake. He wasn't someone I never should have been with. The love I fell into was cloudy and misty and light with some other worldly semblance of heaven. The photos say it all and the sex spoke for itself. I'm having trouble coming to terms with how it all collapsed and how I still blame myself for some of it and how I still feel as though I have love to give even though that mist has been burned away by the blinding light of disillusionment and truth.

    I hear that I will always love him and that those feelings will never go away. I was eighteen and fresh starting college and we found each other at the right moment. He gave me a power and a blessing I never knew existed and I fought for us as hard as I could. We spent hours talking about things people never talked about and we fell harder than anyone else ever could. I lost myself in him and he christened my body like he was the only man in the world meant to do so. We drank the best booze and smoked the best magic you could find and we had the best sex anyone could imagine. We swam inside each other and, like how the greatness of the year had to end, the good times died and we both drowned. Sometimes I wish I could regret it all, take it all back so I don't have to dwell on the loss. But I know that's impossible and like - said over his one beer and my two, "You had a good time. That's all you should think about."

    It's clear to me that I may be afraid to experience something like that again: the way my heart was set on fire by an obliterating passionate love and how we had to end with a 911 call and the denial of things no one ever saw. I miss the danger and intrigue of having someone so reckless and young kiss me like he did but I know having stayed tied down to something that wasn't moving forward with me would have been criminal. It was a sacrifice for myself that most musicians dream of experiencing so they could write a multiplatinum album about it. However, I'm stuck at the apex of the whirlwind and the suction is too strong to share. Leaning in and looking down is a tiny, seductive temptation and it's taking all my strength to stay upright, just, -.

    And sometimes rationalizing the inappropriate amounts of bottles drained is okay and the large glasses of wine is okay and the irresponsible nights of self-proclaimed sluttery is okay because I'm young and 21 and heartbroken and free for the first time in years. I'm not looking for anyone else, I'm not looking for someone to "fix" me and no, I could never love him the way he wants me to even though I am using him for something else. My statements are pieces of ragged truths that sometimes aren't taken too seriously but my little heart can't be broken again if the hubris of men wills them to ignore my honesty. I'm not on the market and I'm not a damsel looking for my John Wayne hunk-of-a-man to save me. I am the cat and the mouse and I'm looking for a rumble.


  •      The fog machine my friend broke out in his apartment set off the fire alarm, which freaked me out a bit so I peaced back to my dorm room, the following is an account of the things I saw on my walk back and the thoughts that followed on a Saturday night in April. It was the first nice night of the Spring Semester.

          As far as I could tell the girls were having a drunken dispute, this is not uncommon at college. I turned off my iPod (I was listening to some Laura Stevenson and the Cans) and listened closely, dropping eaves as I walked by. Three other people were there, probably friends not taking sides or just being just being drunk and lazy. One girl was sitting, crying in a short dress the other was standing up yelling at her. Sitting Girl looked cold and uncomfortable in her high heels. As I walked past I struggled with the decision whether or not to intervene. Normally my policy has been it is not my place. It all comes down to the fact that I didn't want Sitting Girl to be left alone. I could have walked her back to her dorm, made sure she was ok. Nevertheless I walked on. This gave me proof life isn't a movie because if it was I would have said something, then we would have fallen in love or something, unless life is an indie movie with an existential basis.

          I went into the student center which is open all night to write down the previous paragraph before I forgot it. I felt really alone at that moment and disappointed because of my failures with love. I wonder if the student center is where all the sexiles go on the weekends when they get kicked out of their rooms at 1-2 AM.

          A girl and a guy were walking across the street down the hill I was heading up. She was walking really fast and the guy was making what I assume were excuses about his dumb behavior which she wanted no part of. I really have no clue, I was listening to La Dispute to loud to hear.

          I walked to my dorm to go see if D was home to tell her about the arguing girls and ask her what she would have done but she wasn't home. The party zone apartments were packed with people, like an outdoor concert, everyone with road beers. I turned back to where the arguing girls were, when I got there they were gone. I guess the world is meaningless.

          In front of the freshman boys dorm some bros were leaving, all with road beers. A few others were tossing full keystone lights out the window onto the lawn. One almost hit me. I wanted to yell “Hey thanks for the free beer” but decided to keep observing.

          At the party zone people were everywhere and one of the apartments brought speakers outside that were playing “We R Who We R” by Kesha and a bunch of really drunk girls were attempting to dance. I stopped by at a friend's apartment but he disappeared after I said hello, D was nowhere to be found. So I left and went to the main thoroughfare that looked like a massive blob of people, where a few hundred were outside were getting their freedom on.

          It was good for me to walk through and do all these things alone. I broke my comfort zone and realized I still have some growing up to do. People in trouble that I can help right in front of me I should help, even if it doesn't end well. Living passionately doesn't mean you ignore the troubles right in front of you. It means you embrace them and give them your all. Right now all the bros are roaring outside, its 1:25 AM and the parties are going strong. There will be fights, there will be crying, there will be apathy, there will be joy, and tomorrow, there will be regrets.

         My biggest regret of the night was not helping. It still bothers me to this day. This is my confession. This manifesto, sadly is not for real.

    This isn't what I signed up for in college. But like Sisyphus, I'll jump in and make the experience my own I guess, although that mantra is getting a bit old.

  • The wanderer throws his seed in the air in the field. Birds eat of the seeds. The seeds crack in their beaks and the sound is pleasant.

    (Joyful fractures from nature’s infants)

    The wanderer’s face is old and rough, chipped out of marble, tough and wise, the face of an emperor. He listens to the sound of the birds eating, his hand atop his dog’s head. He listens and sorts out the noises.

    (A flinty, filthy fool looks at the birds)

    The wanderer’s dog keenly watches the birds with grey eyes, one paw lifted up as if to dash forward at an instant, snout in line with the flock. The dog leans forward, trembling slightly, but knows better than to dash forward. The dog hears much more than the wanderer, yet does not realize the meaning.

    (Dogs seek but never find)

    From the outside, the pair seems to be frozen in time, crystallized. The sage wanderer and the poised dog watch the flock of eager birds, which gobble up the seeds greedily.

    (A waste of life for the sake of birds)

    One by one, the seeds are snatched up by steely beaks, cracked, chirped, cawed and swallowed. The flock rises as one and disappears swiftly beyond the horizon. The sunset is orange, and the field is bathed by a harvest moon in a cloudless sky. The wanderer lets out a sigh.

    (A life is complete)

    He has seen many moons, and has grown tired. The birds have flown away, and the seed-sack is empty. As the sun sets, and the dog lays down, the wanderer ponders his journeys. Many lands and many fields have come and gone under his knotted feet, and he has always managed to find seed to throw, to find the birds to come and crack the seed with their beaks.

    (It is a thief who wastes what he has been given)

    But the seed is finally gone. The sack is empty. The sun sets. The dog sleeps, and the wanderer lays his head down for the last time. He is no longer a wanderer, but an emperor, a poet. Only he commanded the birds and the dog with such poise and knowledge, and seeds have never been put to such a noble use. The orange sun turns to red.

    (True nobility finds poetry in the field of existence)

    It has been a mournful day, a wonderful day, and a scarlet day. The pools of orange and red poured by the sun slowly flow back toward the horizon, towards the birds that do not remember what has happened.

    (A red-letter day for the lord of the seeds and fields)


    Deleuze Versus Bernard, A Conversation.



    Bernard: I'm really tired tonight, but remind me to talk to you something about Riot Gamez


    Deleuze: Hmm?


    Bernard: http://www.riotgames.com/careers/development-intern


    Deleuze: The majority of intern positions aren't telecommunication. I only got one because I applied for an actual assistant developer position, they liked me but I couldn't afford to move on what they could offer.


    Bernard: oh

    Bernard: lucky duck


    Deleuze: Smooth talking duck.


    Bernard: My parents always say that I don't seek opportunity

    Bernard: but I think its because there is none

    Bernard: here

    Bernard: I wish I lived near a major city.


    Deleuze: Same here. But you gotta work with what you got.

    Deleuze: I mean, I'm a waiter for the time being.


    Bernard: truth


    Deleuze: I may have lost the love of my life for failing to progress, but I at least took notice from it.


    Bernard: ya

    Bernard: and more than likely

    Bernard: I bet once your internship is over

    Bernard: riot will make you an actual offer

    Bernard: then you can be a cali guy


    Deleuze: That, or it opens up a lot of doors in all of game development.


    Bernard: california girls are unforgettable


    Deleuze: lmfao

    Bernard: ya


    Deleuze: I only have one unforgettable girl, but that's okay. I always knew I would be a bitter lonely old man. ;) I was just living a dream for a while.


    Bernard: ok Hemingway


    Deleuze: Man I wish I could even say hello, or hell, 'let's get lunch'.


    Bernard: why can't you

    Bernard: that's why the internet is great

    Bernard: you can psyche yourself up


    Deleuze: Because she hates me for being worthless for those months.


    Bernard: and set something in motion IRL


    Deleuze: And I don't blame her.


    Bernard: but you aren't anymore


    Deleuze: I know she doesn't want to talk to me.


    Bernard: Actually you don't


    Deleuze: I wish I had some intermediary to talk to her.


    Bernard: you can never know what someone thinks

    Bernard: since we are isolated islands of subjectivity


    Deleuze: You're right, I'm just going with what I think.

    Deleuze: I COULD be completely wrong and she still cares about me too.

    Deleuze: But I don't believe that's the case.


    Bernard: and you could be totally right

    Bernard: so you have to gamble

    Bernard: that's what life is

    Bernard: an educated gamble


    Deleuze: I'm not throwing the dice.


    Bernard: lol

    Bernard: you throw the dice by walking out your front door


    Deleuze: There was a point in time in which she needed me more than anyone else, and I came to her rescue. I wish she'd do the same for me. Just a call, just hello.


    Bernard: you are the man Hemingway

    Bernard: you need to call her


    Deleuze: Deleuze may be big and strong but I'll be damned if I'm not lonely.


    Bernard: you have to make the effort


    Deleuze: Not at this hour, and not today.


    Bernard: that's what being a man is

    Bernard: I know


    Deleuze: And probably not any day.


    Bernard: ok now you've moved from Hemingway to Bukowski


    Deleuze: I dated 2 other women in the passed year.

    Deleuze: Didn't even sleep with those two.


    Bernard: good


    Deleuze: Couldn't have given a shit less about them.

    Deleuze: They weren't interesting, smart, funny, quarky.

    Deleuze: They were - bland.


    Bernard: quirky


    Deleuze: Sorry, thinking of particle physics.


    Bernard: lol

    Bernard: quarky


    Deleuze: Why are you not in this channel?


    Bernard: people are sleeping


    Deleuze: olol


    Bernard: plus I say smarter things if I write


    Deleuze: The other day I cut off communications with some old friends of mine, mutual friends of her and I.


    Bernard: jane and waltar

    Bernard: Wal-Tar


    Deleuze: Yeah. They stopped caring, calling. Hung out with her. Guess she's more interesting.


    Bernard: well then you don't need them


    Deleuze: All the more reason why she wouldn't want to be with me.


    Bernard: psh

    Bernard: you're an interesting guy


    Deleuze: Not enough so in this case.


    Bernard: you've done a lot of cool shit


    Deleuze: Then you tell her that sometimes a shaman needs a bit of care too.



    Bernard: HURP DURP.

    Bernard: alright


    Deleuze: That's what she referred to me as, in a metaphorical sense.


    Bernard: I'll tell her you say hello


    Deleuze: No need.


    Bernard: and that you've become Bukowski


    Deleuze: I told Jane and Walter to tell her hello already.

    Deleuze: lol


    Bernard: yea

    Bernard: but she likes me


    Deleuze: I need not worry about any of this.


    Bernard: because I showed her the band “this is a stick up”


    Deleuze: It's not my right to ask her to be unhappy again.

    Deleuze: She's moved on.

    Deleuze: People do that.


    Bernard: yea


    Deleuze: I'm just not one of those people.


    Bernard: you'll get over her eventually then

    Bernard: when you meet someone more interesting


    Deleuze: For me you don't stop loving someone, you just try and live without them.


    Bernard: and quarky


    Deleuze: I won't.


    Bernard: You will.


    Deleuze: I promised her I was her, and she did likewise for me.

    Deleuze: I refuse to break that.


    Bernard: promises schomises

    Bernard: now you are just being a tragic hero


    Deleuze: It's who I am.


    Bernard: your hubris won't let you move on

    Bernard: good job Odysseus


    Deleuze: At least there will be epics written of my fateful programming journey for millenia to come?


    Bernard: By the way I am digging all the allusions I'm coming up with in this conversation

    Bernard: Is World of Warcraft the programming interwebs version of the isle of the lotus eaters?


    Deleuze: I could see the correlation.

    Deleuze: My memory is terrible, you know that.


    Bernard: its the one where you eat the flowers and you don't want to leave

    Bernard: you get the epics and you don't want to quit

    Bernard: fuckfkucckfkuffkckckckckckckc


    Deleuze: But I remember as clear as day, May 30th of last year. Her in the flowing green dress crying. I held her, kissed her one last time. Told her, 'be happy, no matter the means.'

    Deleuze: It was a beautiful sunny day.


    Bernard: well you're not dramatic at all


    Deleuze: I am, but it's beautiful in a bittersweet way.


    Bernard: I think you've idolized that moment too much

    Bernard: people do this a lot


    Deleuze: I've idolized a lot of things.

    Deleuze: But until I was off her road in my car, I didn't cry.




    Deleuze: Even in our final moments I stayed strong for her.


    Bernard: good

    Bernard: you're a man


    Deleuze: I wish she would do that for me.


    Bernard: if she did she wouldn't be her now would she

    Bernard: that's what people are dumb about

    Bernard: they always say I WISH THIS PERSON WAS X.


    Deleuze: No, she was that, at one point in time.


    Bernard: if they were then they wouldn't be the person you are in love with


    Deleuze: She's just not that person now.


    Bernard: oh well that is different hten

    Bernard: then*


    Deleuze: She changed. Which is fine.


    Bernard: hmm

    Bernard: I'd say just focus on other things as much as you can

    Bernard: remember when I always talked about girls I liked

    Bernard: well I don't talk about that anymore even though its on my brain

    Bernard: I focus on philosophy and reading and games

    Bernard: and talking with people


    Deleuze: I've tried to stop focusing for a year.


    Bernard: things got a lot better

    Bernard: only a year

    Bernard: people get divorced and don't remarry for a decade in cases

    Bernard: or never.


    Deleuze: First people said only a few weeks, only a few months, only a few years.

    Deleuze: My case will probably one of never.


    Bernard: well you'll have your answer when you are on your deathbed

    Bernard: that is when you get all the answers

    Bernard: "will I ever travel Europe"


    Deleuze: And I'll know at least I stayed true to at least one thing in my life.


    Bernard: if you are on your deathbed you can checkmark yes/no


    Deleuze: I can't betray my love.


    Bernard: Chivalrous of you

    Bernard: the thing about courage

    Bernard: is it looks a lot like foolishness


    Deleuze: I am. I'm very romantic, she can tell you that.

    Deleuze: Doesn't mean it's smart, or right.


    Bernard: the end result dictates whether its the former or the latter

    Bernard: *shrug*


    Deleuze: But if she's ever in dire straights, she'll know of at least one person. Her Shaman doesn't go anywhere very fast.


    Bernard: lol

    Bernard: tomorrow is a new day Deleuze


    Deleuze: Every day is a new day.


    Bernard: I always get these existential crisis at night


    Deleuze: I do every day.


    Bernard: most of the time its because you are tired so you don't feel like doing anything

    Bernard: and you take an objective viewpoint of life instead of subjective

    Bernard: thats why being alone sucks

    Bernard: because you are unable to be subjective in viewpoint

    Bernard: you are always objectively looking at life and judging it

    Bernard: usually finding yourself lacking.


    Deleuze: I'm surrounded by dear friends, they all tell me the same. Being single is silly for a handsome man.


    Bernard: you could just go fuck random girls


    Deleuze: But that's not my deal. I enjoy partying, I enjoy my psycamping, I enjoy social interaction - but there's only one lady I'd want for a relationship.


    Bernard: sex=//=relationship?


    Deleuze: The lady I fell in love with, drove 12 hours every other weekend just to go see for a few hours.

    Deleuze: Sex doesn't require a relationship, but there's a difference between sex on a whim and sex on love.


    Bernard: true

    Bernard: lets play League of Legends



    And they say my generation doesn't talk about anything worthwhile on the internet.


  • inspired by the Underworld soundtrack and, of course, Harry Potter.


    Suburbia was never the problem.

    The ethical dilemma that faced us as demonic teenagers was

    Moving forward in "punk clothes" clutching drum kits and amps tight

    Through the washed out backroads of New Hampshire.


    Suburbia was never the solution.

    The lack of consistency, the omnipresent hypocrisy

    Encountered both in school and the venues was

    Fighting and arguing for our place

    Learning to be self sufficient as punks and rebels who were destined to become twentysomething hipsters.


    Suburbia was never considered.

    Anarchism, Communism, Socialism, Nihilism, Agnosticism, Atheism were.

    Philosophies opposed to the established order became our mantra

    They became our Camus-like rebellion

    As we yelled and chanted those lyrics to save our souls.


    The best thing that could ever happen to a group in rebellion,

    Is for their voice to be railed against with all vigor and zeal.

    The pressure saying “give up!” will keep any movement going and validate it.

    We never had any of that. Suburbia never had any of that.

    Suburbia said nothing, it was silent in its ancestral home.


    Suburbia never did anything.

    Because it never said anything, and we only received support

    Things moved on, but as years passed the purpose was lost

    Locked away, buried in a chest, plunged into the deeps, never to be seen again in any era.

    It turned out, things weren't so bad, it became silly to say Suburbia was the problem.


    If you believe things aren't so bad and its time to stop being sad, then why say Suburbia was the problem, when it really wasn't?

    It was just an artificial mask to give rebellion credibility.

    People could point to Suburbia and say “It wants us down, this system says we can't do it”


    Suburbia was never the problem.

    Everyone else thought it was, parents became agents

    Cops enforcers, of some secretive suburban authority,

    Set to keep us down. But it was all a veneer. No one gave a damn about us.

    We gave Suburbia nothing, and now we're everything.

  •  she likes making lives out of dead things.


  • the greenhouse @ sherman 

    somerville, massachusetts

    19 june 2011

  •  i ache for the constant thumpthump of my heels on the concrete and an industrial, impersonal exhaustion and the verb of my eye with my fingers and my camera. i miss seeing things that bend my mind and make me stop and itch and ask what the hell the point is. new light, domestic abuse, falling houses and piles of salt. i liked all the angles of the narrow-walled galleries and the expensive coffee. i liked the nightly drinks and time spent with professors. old crow and cards and walking into a room of glossy-eyed philosophers. closer.

    new york tickled my wrist and kissed my neck and promised me so much more next time. i’m sore to go back.


  •  Sometimes you make up your mind about something without knowing why, and your decision persists by the power of inertia. Every year it gets harder to change.

    — Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being


  • i decided to strangle my reservations and it wasn't that hard- so here's a recording of a project i like to call Liquid Meter and the Leaky Quartet. it's a raw recording with my neighboorhood noises (i think a few chirps).

    the lyrics are as such:

    death be kind and ignore all my crying. i know you got a lot of pleas but replace my old ones for these. come when you may and tell my mother i sent you away. death be kind forget me


    i gave it a title so it's called cherry in the well

    there are a lot of versions of this song i hope i can one day really reify it

    alright, see ya

  •  train. bus. almonds and a cool breeze. new hampshire summer air sweetly scented like pine and mountains of oak and musk and fresh flora. so crisp and real and unlike what i came from and what i will eventually go back to. mailing letters past the due date that read of girls drunk on fatigue and insights on howls and Howl and the present effect of alcohol on her social skills. self conscious about the corporation versus the art and how the two are inappropriate toward each other, foreign intruders (of redundancy) who don’t belong in an office mail box. basket? holder?

    muscle and muscle and muscle and naps, an ampersand holding them together with fierce shiraz adhesive glue; veins and contours that taper into a form so familiar and missed and sad. gay men married to beautiful women. san francisco 1955. with the steams of and grinds of and maybe a wink of a working eye and the trickery of a phone number. a set up. a scenario of entrapment. roasts & blends.

    heartbeating and eye lids, the small-town relation. it’s okay. let’s move on.

    (i wrote this on a futon in the haus der munro.)

  • there is a moment overflowing
    when a passing breeze
    the leaves
    and the tree sways embracing the air
    and it is too big, too good
    too much
    billowing branches
    following, straining, holding, reaching
    stretching out to the passing air feeling
    and quivering rests

    hold and release this world too much for us
    everywhere too much
    and yet my fingers follow
    reaching and grasping

    memories of moments
    beyond me swept


  • Sound quality is eh, turning down volume helps.

    Done off the top of my head.

  •  the night of the red dwarves, the night when we let go.


  •  broken 50mm

    smoke & mirrors


    Something, Nothing, and Things.


          Everything about life it seems is made about the difference between doing something and doing nothing. Something is sold as preferable to nothing, except in the case of relaxation/vacations where people wish to do nothing as opposed to something even though they are doing a very clear something. Some thing versus No thing. I don't want to be sold on that ideology, even though it has long become habit. A father would say “What did you do today my son” to which the inevitable response is “I did nothing pops.” This dichotomy is present within our modern greeting as well “Hey man/dawg/bro/guy/dude/friendo/pal/buddy? What are you up to today/right now/some point in the future” which is responded with the following, unless the person is doing Some thing that is not classified as No thing “Nothing much man/dawg/bro/guy/dude/friendo/pal/buddy.” The point of this is we are all very concerned about personally doing something and making sure everyone else is doing nothing so we can include them on our something. The opposite case is where we feel/think we are doing nothing and wish to find someone doing something we could join in on.

          The question that comes to mind is “Is something better than nothing?” I will first point out that nothing really is something so we can discard that immediately and assume the definition of nothing to be that which is not something for the remainder. The entire modern way is based upon doing something over nothing, this is utterly undeniable. Regardless of the definition of something we feel as if nothing is essentially death. Something is very subjective, to one person reading is a something and to another it is a nothing. The point to realize is the danger of feeling as if one is doing nothing. Again, doing nothing is felt to embody death or worse, boredom. There is no way out of this mode of thought, unless one can come to terms with doing nothing, which if done, would lead to utter happiness.

  • It's absolutely amazing what can be done with spray paint and some magazine pages.


    This pain is deniable as it is debatable. This pain is strong as it is weak. Obtained at the hand of natures beast as it writhed and wriggled in anger at being caught by the tenacious predator known as man, its final charge, its final insult, its final wound inflicted is the sharp spike plunged into skin. At first a minor pain, but afterwards the innumerable holes ache, made worse by the saltwater still lurking around in his body. This being from depths never seen by the eater is taken out of its habitat and consumed with voracity. It is delicious.



    Man, I always thought it was funny how eating crab or lobster can be hard and kind of painful. Its like a last screw you to us shellfish eating human beings. It is tasty.



    Lucubrations is a Cultural Magazine for the Saint Anselm Community.
    It publishes creative work in any medium, including art, music, photography, film, poetry, literature, philosophy, and commentary,  both informal and formal settings. We welcome participation from all members of the community including students, alumni, faculty, staff, and the monastery.
    "Let us bring to daylight the impulses of midnight contemplation."


    Lucubrations Open House and Open Mic

    Saturday the 27th
    2 PM
    Bradley House 1st floor Lounge
    (The big white building next to the water tower. across from coffee shop.)


    A Chance for Freshman (and anyone else) to learn about Lucubrations ( St. Anselm's online Cultural Magazine), see what people have been creating over the summer,  see the Lucubrations office and Fine Arts Studios,  share some cool stuff, and get to know some new people. 


    There will be Food and Refreshments as well as an Open Mic, Slideshows, Faculty and Student Art, and more. Everyone is welcome. 

    We will meet at Bradley House Lounge for some food and a slide show and then walk to Comiskey for a tour of the Fine Arts Studios and Lucubrations Office and then an Open Mic in Comiskey 10. Bring your Music, writing, poetry, photography, art, or whatever to share.


    Open House Event on Facebook

    Lucubrations on Facebook

    To submit work to Lucubrations, you can send email to editor@lucubrations.org
    or better yet register at the site and post your work directly.






  • The Quality isn't the best and we missed the beginning (Jeremy Munro's epic introduction). The recording starts in the middle of Justine Johnson's reading, and then in order appear Tyler Lavallee, Prof. Banach, Valerie Stein, Lauren Miller, and Valerie Stein again. Thanks to all the performers. We had a great time!

  •  Images from trip to NYC and the Picasso Exhibit at MOMA.

     Full Album"

     Images from trip to NYC and the Picasso Exhibit at MOMA.

  • These are just some photos from this summer taken at the Cleveland Zoo in August.

    Full Album here:

     Living things

  • What is it about the late night?

    I'm tired, I'm cranky, I'm not focused

    yet up I sit and up I stay

    staring at a screen, waiting on a wheel

    that spins round, and round, and round

    internet's slow, everyone online, but I don't mind

    it's odd but I'm content to sit, to watch

    to ponder, but ponder's too heavy, I'm not doing much

    just sitting haunched, squinting with out glasses

    excited about this new world, this new place

    where I am free, I can be creative, I can express!

    me, do I want myself here? putting it on the line

    in front of strangers, people I don't know, never met, never saw

    I'm scared, but exhilarated, who cares?! I'm here!

    I'm free to be, free to think, to hope, to dream

    it's late I need sleep, classes to survive

    but up I sit and up I stay

    What is it about the late night?

  • So first of all I hoping I'm posting this to the right section, cause to be honest I have no idea, this is some kind of recount of my night...

    My roomate and I were heading back from the coffee shop with the full intention of enjoying our calzones while watching Howl's Moving Castle (awesome movie btw), when we run into a couple people we had previously met. Fighting the urge to be anti-social we strike up a conversation, which goes from Canada to boots, and of course parkour. My roomate has no idea what parkour is. Peter, Phil, and I all agree that it is imperative that she finds out. 

    And voila, the four of us are now in JOA looking up videos of parkour, my roomate is shocked, so Peter and I explain the idea of parkour, freerunning, and such. We video hopping on Youtube when we see a video titled parkour death (only fourteen), and I'm freaking out thinking someone has posted a horrible video, to find out it's a tribute, showing a fourteen year boy doing basic parkour tricks, and I admit it wasn't that impressive, but the kid was only fourteen, and then we see the top rated comments... and I hate people, not really but, I hate the inability of some people to have empathy and respect for the dead as well their friends and families.  Online with any death you will find posts that offers their support and prayers for the family and friends, but then you find these other ones the critisize the dead, and it's like a blow to their friends and family. Yes, they may have died because of a lapse of judgement, and maybe its the deceased fault, but posting this and critisizing does nothing to change it, and only makes it worse for those actually dealing with the death. 

    Sorry, tangents, they happen.

    Anyways, we eventually decide to play Apples to Apples, I love that game, except for the fact most of the time people don't get my humor. The cards I put down are hilarious, I should win way more green cards.  We're joking around I keep choking on my drink, tons of innuedo jokes, (Oh Baby! is way better thanThat's what she said.). We're having a blast, I have to admit one of my best nights here so far.  But then Peter he makes a face says something in some funny voice and I don't know why but all I can think about it my friend Chris.  My thoughts go hmmm... that seems like a face Chris would make, or a joke he would like.  I think this happens to a lot of people, someone reminds them of a friend they had.  But now I can't sleep, tonight was awesome, but memories are running rampant through my mind, and I say hello to nostalgia. I'm not sad. But I can't help but sit here, or rather lay here, while my roomate is sleeping rather soundly on the other side of the room, forego the occasional noise.  And well I'm just laying here thinking, wondering how Chris is, hoping he's happy, at least content, wishing I knew, and of course wondering what if?

  • Must be a genius.

    Must have a BIG

    loving heart for fuckups.

    Wear collared buttondowns, surfshorts

    and "slippahs" with shades.

    Long gray ponytail. Laugh.

  • An Excerpt From My Fake Manifesto - A Manifesto of Non-Collective Bargaining, of Individual Expression, of Striding Forth, of Dealing With the Teleological-Suspension of the Ethical, of the End of Self-Reflection, Introspection, and Other “ion” Words


    AKA – What a Philosophy Final Should Be


    An Example of Why I Know Nothing


    Words Written to Approximately Twenty Cups of Water and Big Band


    by Jeremy Munro


    The End of Self-Reflection, The Rise and Subsequent Loss of Dignity and Why Minor Threat, Eagles, and 3 AM Winter Nights Saved Your Life


    On one hand this is and is not a manifesto. On the other, it is a manifesto that is not a manifesto within a manifesto that is not a manifesto. Manifesto. Regardless of the name given to it (manifesto just sounds really cool and semi-esoteric) it is an explanation of series of stated beliefs. Note that they are stated beliefs rather than my beliefs. The reason for this is almost all the time I have no clue about four things:


    1. What I am actually talking about

    2. What I actually believe

    3. What I actually want to believe

    4. What other people actually believe


    If it suits you extrapolate this and apply it to your own life, I am not sure if its a universal experience (see reason number one and four).


    Part One – The End of Self Reflection


    Self-Reflection ended on an utterly arbitrary day, November or Early December of either last year or the year before or the year before that, but not the year before that. Self-Reflection also rose two weeks ago on move in day after its premature death last May.

    It was dark out, winter had set in with no vengeance which was very polite of it. Young Jeremy walked outside to snowball fights and yellow lights, drunk people cascading forth in snowy waves talking of freedom, youth, and temporal affairs. They fit the symbolism of snow perfectly. The light was more yellow than normal and 3 AM had a feeling of freedom, everyone else was asleep except these few soldiers Young Jeremy did not know. Anarchy reigned held together by former social convention. If only the old anarchists could live in that moment instead of perpetual discord. Self-Reflection ended in that moment, what was the self in the face of the recognition of a great moment?


    Part Two – The Rise and Subsequent Loss of Dignity


    Dignity rose, it peaced out because of bad whiskey. This is not a dope experience for barely younger Jeremy.


    Part Three – Why Minor Threat, Drawings of Eagles and 3 AM Winter Nights Saved Your Life


    Minor Threat was the impetus, Eagles formed the middle core and winter nights gave the atmosphere. If those three things happened together we'd all be better for it. Also Fugazi might not have happened, but that would be really sad because Fugazi is pretty dope. If those things happened together we wouldn't have needed the New Beat. The New Beat. We wouldn't have had the Shape of Punk to Come because I'm pretty sure the Refused wouldn't have Fugazi as a reference, this is just a guess.




  •  Images from 9/20/2011 Creative Tuesday.

    We had poetry from Cedric Ashley, Chris Obrien, Brittany Yost, Tom Hickey, Jeremy Munro, and Vincent Maniscalco. Carlo D'Anselmi and Jasna Numanovic did some watercolors, and at the end of the night Prof's Staley and Norton came by for a jam session joined for a number by Lauren Miller.

    Full Album: Lucubrations Creative Tuesday 9/20/2011


  • siblings grow up fast.

    26 june 2010

    putnam, connecticut

  • “Here’s to the crazy ones, the misfits, the rebels, the troublemakers, the round pegs in the square holes… the ones who see things differently — they’re not fond of rules… You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them, but the only thing you can’t do is ignore them because they change things… they push the human race forward, and while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius, because the ones who are crazy enough to think that they can change the world, are the ones who do.”

    - Steve Jobs, 1955 - 2011

    Rest in peace to revolutionary.

  • I'm so done with this I'm done with that and most of all I'm done with no maturity, this is no standard call its no moment to bash or lay the blame its just a statement. The shattered soul crying out from an instant coffee cup who realized strength is fleeting and courage is temporal rather than a stance that is possible to hold on sunny days instead of rainy days. Its sunny and the world might seem atmospherically right but raging inside of the head of a passerby is stress and anxiousness over a myriad of troubles plaguing the human experience. Screw that. This human curse is impossible to get through, Vonnegut spoke right when he said life was no way to treat an animal. Its like a symbolic literal statement that cannot be misinterpreted and if it was it would be right and wrong at the same time. This makes sense this doesn't make sense its my head firing off whatever the fuck my head fires off in order to think, its my hands doing whatever the fuck hands do so the keys can click over and over except in the times my inner monologue does not match what the hands have done to the keys in that case the subjective experience is abandoned and I hit backspace and then revert to hitting keys. A pause is another jolt back to objectivity as the internal voice runs dry. People are always concerned, most people want this, they want people to feel the suffering and pain inside them, teenage girls dream of it. I say it can go to hell. I don't want to help so I ask for it. I don't want help, and I ask for it. I don't want help and I ask for it. What the hell is wrong with me? What is my problem my condition my personal state that makes the brain v body v possible soul seem like this would be a great idea. This is the year of the end of self reflection, it is the year of sangria out of a box in a pink plastic faux wine cup J left at the apartment, its the year of pretending to be able to rap Mad Conductor when I really can't rap Mad Conductor, its putting up with peoples inability to cope with rifts and tension. Tension is a word thrown around words are words and metaphysics is about to put one up on you. I just broke the internal monologue because a sentence was removed. Funny how that works. The worst part is my life is not hard, its easy. This is anything but a complaint from difficulty, its a complaint from ease. Put the pressure on me so I break, punch me so I can understand what life's weight on others really feels like because so far, I have no clue. This isn't terminal boredom either. It is what it is what it is what it is. I talked once about a priori machinations of the universe without knowing what that meant. It sounded really cool. It is because of this I know I am not intelligent. I'm done with having a history with people, why did they have to come here and remind me of past faults, now I have to deal them instead of the other way around. Being put out of a position and strength, taken down from a high hill to the plains below is not tactically wise, but it is where I find myself, Sun Tzu you counseled otherwise.


          The funniest thing is tomorrow if shit goes down or the sun decides to supernova or a meteor crashes onto us or we suffer a sudden heart attack this will be taken one of two ways, prophetic or horribly absurd. Its the issue we face everyday, most are too afraid to recognize it. I won't recognize it though it passed my mind, acknowledging all the potential absurdity between life and death is no way to live and its horribly overrated.


    A cup sits on my desk, it says “Mighty Fine, Burgers, Fries, Shakes 'There's good, and then there's MIGHTY FINE.'” It is because of this I know I am human.

  • So we should definitely do a movie night and show this film, its about this guy who does these bus tours in New York City. They are very Lucubrations-esque

    He also did a small part in Waking Life.



  • after two weeks of being gone and after she had already made her decision but kept it to herself, he hugged her tightly, pressing his face against her hair. “you still smell like you,” he whispered, almost to himself. she couldn’t help but hurt for him. the night ahead of them was going to change their entire lives.



    I will linger in the spaces
    Where no light reaches
    Where no words come
    Where reasons unravel
    And thoughts crash one to the other
    Faster than memory collects them
    I will be madness
    Abandon the light
    Spill out my life
    On the floor along your passing shadow.
    And I can't say why.



  •  Full Album
    Seven Deadly Sins by Deana Del Vecchio

     This was an honors project for Philosophy 105, Nature and the Human Person

    I am a sophomore Physics student who has a great appreciation for art and uses photography as a

    means of expression.



    This project revolved around the Seven Deadly sins and trying to capture the essence of what they

    actually are. Each person is the sin in action.



    I did not want to portray Sloth simply as physical laziness, but rather as depressed state of mind.

    I positioned Sloth at a junction between two roads. Symbolically, I wanted to represent this as

    the decision crossroad where a person must make a choice between giving up on life or pursuing

    life to the fullest. Sloth is sitting underneath because he hasn’t chosen to go down either, but his

    refusal to choose is actually a choice.



    I chose to depict Envy as a school girl since that is a stereotype of innocence and purity. This

    school girl, though, is envious of the car which is contrasted against the bicycle she sits upon. In

    her right hand she holds the keys to the car, and the word ‘mine’ is scratched right below.



    My aim for this sin was to show that gluttony is the hoarder of material goods (such as food)

    to the point that these goods no longer bring pleasure. I tried to show this by having Gluttony

    going from one food to the next. Her body is resting on an empty bucket of popcorn while she

    squirts whipped cream into her mouth, but she is not enjoying that food because she is already

    concentrating on finishing up the cream to devour the cupcake resting on her stomach.



    Wrath is dressed as a moderated, yet somewhat fashionable, gothic girl. My generation views

    Goths as being people filled with pent up anger that they express through their style. Wrath has

    gone past the point of expressing her emotions through her dress, and has put her emotion into

    action by willingly harming someone else. She is shown to be standing with a shovel around a

    freshly turned grave with the hint of a person’s arm poking out through the dirt.



    This was by far the hardest sin to portray. Pride is not only a mindset, but also a way of life that

    expresses itself through a person’s actions. I tried to capture one of these moments by having

    Pride walking down a set of steps where in the background the viewer sees a few girls pointing

    and being all excited to see him (or so he thinks) while he casually acknowledges their existence

    with his upturned hand.



    Lust is shown debating between pieces of paper that have names written on them. She is selecting

    which man to have for the moment and which one to have for later.



    Greed is shown to be taking money from charity. He cares so much more for the accumulation of



    The Seasons


    Repentance is something I thought I had long done away with. What I never realized is that it is a theme constantly replaying in my life. After undergoing the events of the past few weeks, I realize I have some serious atonement to do for past acts.


    This summer I called it atonement by work. By working manual labor and beating myself everyday against the walls of houses with my paintbrush I found myself redeemed.

    This Fall I have no clue what my atonement will be, all I know is I fucked up and its time to earn my forgiveness. The hard part about this season is I have no idea how to atone for what I have done. This is a new theme.


    Perhaps this Winter will shed light on the matter, winter is coming fast and working in a good blizzard, subjecting myself to the indifference of the cold might fix things.


    How It Came To This


    The real trouble is that this is all my fault. I have only myself to blame for having things go down, hard. Now I'm choosing not shaving anymore because its time for a shift. I'm relying on Egyptian Licorice Mint Tea and turkey club sandwiches to cope.


    Shit always gets real after I realize I need to treat people better. Now this is the real constant theme. We all find ourselves needing to treat people and view people in a better way. This physical sickness I undergo writing this is the wake up call impetus to me recognizing the more metaphysical ill that still rages. The beer opener on my carabiner made me feel helpful again.


    Apologies are weird. They are statements of regret, little else. Regret is a powerful emotion then if people are able to respond in such a way that they forgive. My grandfather's lighter and pipe proved things persist on and burning bridges should not be attempted.


    People really can forgive. I had originally written “Can people really forgive” here, I went back and changed it after I finished. This part here, is really the end.


    How the Faux-Manifesto, My Mouth, and Good Faith Ended It


    The Faux-Manifesto made me arrogant, my mouth spread the lies, and good faith put into me by the other turned out to be a bad idea. The one provisional clause that came with this good faith was not to allow the person in question to be hurt, and I hurt them.


    I do not blame tea, or my roommate's fairly decent taste in techno music.


    Why Things Organized Neatly Proved Out to Be a Godsend


    It proved order could exist in the face of chaos. The human being can make a stand. Vermont spoke to me and said those wiser than me put faith in something eternal and thought it a good decision. Vermont also said putting faith in people can also bring about a positive product. Bob's Discount Furniture provided the vessel with which I medicated.


    She taught me that its possible to take happiness in the world, resurrecting my soul away from existentialism to my current indecision about the state of the universe. Its worth it in the end. At least we still have time.

  •  the snow was sad and pitiful and desperate. i dressed in the cold and the quiet and hoped for something daring to happen at the witches’ hour. beer and bullshit and dome lights. fog. ice and feathers. like old times.


    i was stubborn. distance upon distance upon brothers staggered forward up the stairs and onto the couches. i had my bed and met them in the morning.

    skip thump thump skip thump skip: rhythms of anxiety and neglect and rapidity.

    the film grain sharpened the contrast between your skin, your swim trunks, the rocks and the water. i love that photograph but i try to forget about it. i dove into that reservoir. the island shaped the receding sediment to form veins in its mass. the water was cold for the fourth of july but our lunch stayed warm and we ate in a calmed silence on a damp patch of moss. like i said, i try to forget about it.

    skip thump thump thump thump…skip.

    his hands fiddled with the century’s most revered invention. wrists cuffed purple. dark. trying to move and not to move with the fluidity of the candid snapshot. organic and mechanical pulling strangely with each other. affection. alive, bitten, tired. telling.

    it’s an overall different feeling. hopeful and backed-away. thump thump thump skip.





  •  with the snow and the wind and the confused chirps on birthdays, i wonder what it would have been like if i had left. not working with older, beautiful women and younger ones. not wandering through woods and mud and grass with officers at night. not making love to pulp fiction and watching it instead. not cruising through suburban new hampshire roads at three in the morning and not finding the frank lloyd wright house buried behind tree branches. not kissing in the snow and crying in the snow and falling in front of menacing statues of canonized saints. not laughing my ass off to archived conversations on skype. not listening to clean guitar rifts at the wee-hours of the morning in apartments that weren’t mine but felt like home. not sleeping on pull out couches or on floors on a barely legal halloween night, not afraid of mirrors and spiders and christ. not failing at making mudslides and mojitos. not making them at all.

    i could have stayed in rhode island or not or stayed in england or not and sang badly with people i knew i’d come to hate. i could have retreated to small areas and spaces that never had a name and lost my own. i could have done drugs with girls i grew up with and played tennis with and saved my soul for someone or something that could have felt comfortable but never felt comfortable and eventually could have changed me in the end. i could have walked the bike path for the rest of my life. even in the snow. i could have given up on the fight and never have met them at all. either of them. any of them. i could have lived at home. i could have stayed. i could have gone to sleep.

    but no. that’s not the decision i made. i chose to stay awake.




  • Hide in your eyes, mirrors tell the worst lies.

         I’ve been doing a lot of observation lately. Not for any particular reason, I was just starting to notice commonalities in people on campus. There are a couple of different categories of which I’d like to elaborate on. The goal of my personal observations was mostly to answer the question, “Why is my school called St. C’s?” in addition to the question, “Why do people enjoy going home so much if they’re in college?” 

         Being enrolled in an exceptional liberal arts college, one would expect a lot of academic talent in the student body. Wrong. More and more, I realize that most people are lacking a grasp on maturity and intellect. This is grouped into two sub-sections, of which answer both of my original questions. 

         Kids who have been sheltered their whole lives who desire to claim “independence” is one of these groups. They party. They don’t go to class. They go crazy. They ruin everything. And what is the consequence? Mommy and Daddy come running to buy their precious son a brand new pair of fucking pants from Ralph Lauren and make sure Bobby has enough good winter clothes from the Gap to survive the cold. These kids have no moral intelligence, could be A-B students, make terrible decisions and expect everything to be handed to them. Enough facebook friends to last a lifetime and plenty of tagged red solo cup pictures and they don’t mind a D+ on their last humanities essay. They are the loudest people and most outgoing, so this is why the term St. C’s has erupted across New England. 

         2nd group of people I have come across: sheltered kids who have no desire for independence but are seeking “to fit in.” They join lackluster group activity organizations, gain 1-2 friends that they drag to all activities, and pretend that they provide some sort of service to the fucking school. Most probably went to a catholic school where the workload was a joke. So all of the sudden when they actually get work they get pissed and end up spending 5 hrs a day on hw to try to compensate for the fact that they weren’t prepared for college, while still claiming “my high school was SO legit.” This group has also been handed everything to them, so most have no cleaning skills or intelligence because their parents have been doing everything for them their whole lives. Which leads to them constantly talking to their parents, becoming their parents, and going home every weekend to make themselves feel better about not enjoying college because it actually requires working and self-management. Because these students can’t fathom maturing or doing things for themselves, they seek the thing most familiar to themselves: their parents. They never come to find themselves, they continue their childish tendencies because who’s stopping them? No one at school because they’re never there, and certainly not their parents who don’t want precious Cindy to feel uncomfortable :(. This is why so many people go home. 

         I thought for so long that college was going to be a new world. A new place where I could enjoy my morning breakfast and be able to talk about philosophy or culture when I desired to do so, while also being able to enjoy casual conversation about music and entertainment. Wrong again. Eating dinner with the few people that share my interests and think for themselves, I witness: bros yelling across the dining hall, bitches complaining about food, athletes acting like they run the place, it’s like high school all over again. And then I realized, this is the world. A lot of kids don’t grow up anymore. Walking back to my dorm, I’m surprised I haven’t seen any bros savoring the last bit of snow on the ground to have a little impromptu snowball fight. Should this have to be a surprise? 

    Conclusion: Maybe I should stop observing.


    Editors Note:

    This reached the desk of an editor, he thought it was a dose of honesty. In the end, its one person's perspective, not the universal.

  • Guy Fawkes Day


    Blow up my heart
    and leave its pieces
    slowly gathering in bits
    protoplasmic slithers
    crawling back across the
    Reform the shrapnel shards
    to unforseen configurations
    captured by the phantom pull
    of a gravity you do
    not know you have.

    Hope is dynamite
    explodes the past
    to ever branching, flowing outward,
    starry fingered, curling trails.
    Hope is a whisper
    to the flying pieces
    to settle softly
    along the gradient
    lines of force
    that point in silence
    to the future.

    Hope is a bomb.
    Blow up my heart.


  •  Here's an opporunity to create. Saint Anselm is currently involved in Enough Is Enough, a campaign against bullying, violence, and abuse. As a collective effort, we were asked to produce some sort of artistic, literary or musical response to the mission this campaign has set forth.

    Enough Is Enough has provided us with some information they'd like to convey. The boundaries are grey and the space is unlimited; do with this as you will. I'm excited to see what comes out of this!

    We're specifically encouraging a message of anti-violence:

            •Despite the attention given to extremely rare cases of multiple homicides on campuses, secondary and postsecondary schools and campuses are generally safe environments.

            •While schools and campuses are generally safe environments, any act of violence is unacceptable in the very places our nation's students should expect the greatest peace and security in order to be successful in their academic pursuits.

            •Schools and campuses are not, by nature, violent places. Too often, the violence that erupts in the academy spills over from outside the campus. To this end, it is imperative that any effort to stem societal violence before it reaches our nation's schools and campuses MUST involve parents, students, and community members, in addition to administrators, counselors, and teachers.

            •Those committed to putting an end to school and campus violence must work with students along a continuum that builds community. Most students recognize that violence is not a desired outcome, but it is service to others and the building of community that offer the best hope of preventing violence and/or putting the support systems in place for an effective recovery, should a violent incident occur.

            •Because of their rarity, acts of violence are largely unpredictable. While we all want assurances that we -- and those we care about -- will be safe as we go about our daily routines, ultimately, we can only work toward building a shared community in which such acts of violence are not glorified, and in which all members of the community are supported and intimately known.

            •According to the U.S. Department of Education, "violence and antisocial behavior are less likely to occur in schools with the following characteristics: positive school climate and atmosphere; clear and high expectations of all students; strong student bonding to the school; high levels of student participation and parent involvement; and opportunities to gain skills and develop socially."

    If you can send me the prompt and date/location of the Open Mic as well as the web links for the Lubrications site, I'll make certain that your event is a part of the campus wide marketing. We're working to design a multi-pronged marketing campaign, so if you could email those things to me by Monday, that would be absolutely fabulous.


  •  POWER TO THE POSTER: Posters For A Cause, Digital Art & Imaging I

  • Open Mic Poster by Chris Cadena

  •  11 november 2011

    art critique with visiting artist, barbara grossman, in the comiskey art center.



    I realized two days after the end before the beginning and upon subsequent completion the end was the beginning is the end. Words man, words say things, they open up a world of indefinite reality set upon vinyl to a record player of life. A side, B side, each has its qualities and each has its way of being. Can the tortoise shell glasses redeem the sacrificial lamb from its wrongs upon the hill of judgment? Can a semi-religious statement be made to seem like one come from the mouth of a non-believer? Mark off the prices of idiosyncratic Black Friday stores, raid them for their wares, for their solutions to ancient living. Turn statements and maxims on their heads and understand than going forth, that moving is preferable to standing still. Relativity doesn't apply here Einstein, understand this kind of statement too is funny because it confronts an expression. Understand wordplay might be more important than understanding, that the Black Forest contains secrets of mythological understanding set upon a pedestal of nothingness and lies. Understand that saying you are mighty fine and being mighty fine are one in the same. There is no lie at play here. The cliché goes that people always lie when they say “I'm fine” but in this case you should speak it truly. You are fine. You are alive. You are fine. You breathe. You are fine. You can eat a calzone and send that motherfucker down your throat, through your digestive tract and enjoy the crap out of it.

    Understand that being this in debt, that spending these cold nights and short rides that feel like infinity at the life store is a good idea. They have a fine selection of coats this time of year and a coat is precisely what is needed to protect yourself from the frigid air. Understand the deeper implications of that statement. Understand that discount furniture is a sham, yet it is worthwhile at the same time. Understand I have no clue what I am talking about. You should be able to see right through me, through the cult of personality in which I worship myself. See through the cult of personality that everyone has about themselves, no man is humble. No man is an unintentional martyr. No man, no woman is the lamb. They are all the zebra and few morph into lions. The lions do not move the world. History is for the zebra they told me. Understand what that means, because I don't. Be adept with the mind, be sound in spirit, and vivacious in body. Be not the ideal of what I want. In fact, better that you are the opposite. Better that you try to convince yourself you can make it on your own and this rubs off on me. That we go our separate ways and eventually never see each other again. I will flee to Seattle. I will flee to Portland. I will become the South. You will become the corrector of my geography. Proctor the test of determinacy while I stand back in chaos and squander around in my propensity to incorporate the words “striding, mode, and forth” in all writings. Understand my spell check doesn't believe in calzones, that putting this up for people to read won't change anything even though I think it will. Understand that “meta” thinking is precisely what is needed now to counteract the consequences of whiskey. Understand scotch on the rocks is a man's drink and anyone who can drink it authentically is in fact a man and not a boy. Understand that carrying a pipe, a lighter, an emergency cigarette defines manhood, not physical brawn or ability to intimidate. Intimidate by presence, by continued existence in the face of stares and adversity, in the face of the alternative goth kids trying to convert you to melancholy and depression is a waste of time. Understand that writing half a sentence that comes from nowhere and ending that sentence is. Understand that forgetfulness is not equated with being a being about being. Prefer to be while to be be. To Do is to Be. To Be is to Do. Do Be Do Be Do. Sinatra is a god, he is the man of men. The fedora is his crown and the stage is his throne, the microphone is his scepter. This writing is about him, it is about Dean Martin, Hemingway, Bukowski, Lebowski, for they are all in the same camp. They are all men. Dean Martin is because of his swag. Hemingway because of his beard and because he lived by a lighthouse so he could find his way home while drunk. Bukowski is because he had the courage to voice who he was and lay all things bare in self introspection and he was an old dirty bastard ass motherfucker sonofabitch. Lebowski is because he IS “the dude.” Understand that understanding understanding is not understanding anything real or finite about understanding. This is what I want from you. This is not what I want from you. This is just a mindset. A snapshot and it too will fade in eight minutes when I stand in the coffee shop, waiting for a turkey club, which is the holy grail of hating humanity close while loving it at a distance.

  • I.

    tents searched
    i slept with two blankets
    no necesito
    and prince slept with none
    on some
    laid by
    kevin with one eye

    the space for us has walls of air
    and privacy is a favor done by not looking
    the same white man
    with a white beard
    and carrying like a fisherman says
    that common sense is expedient of tradition
    and i hear him to my back left
    by the benches where drummers stalk

    you cannot
    drink the same liquor

    there is a ripple of beautiful heads
    shaved balding oily chunks floral swipes
    of brown torquiose golden hair
    all flashing the sky's reflection
    as they are
    nodding at a call for politeness
    nodding to the call of "it just is"
    and the hair burns

    that smell of eyebrows
    the nicotine-stained curling of eyelashes
    melting away from fire catching
    the excess paper of a badly rolled cigarette
    climbing above my nose

    their heads burn in my eyes
    as they call for cleanliness
    as a well-slept Ms. whatever
    with the latest running shoes
    implores our people to fight against crack
    and violence
    and the red eyes of the affected are red
    either with phallic righteousness
    or chemicals
    and none of us speak to the toxins
    rising from our styrofoam plates
    from the trucks painted by missionaries

    and the air walls tell me he is looking for me
    the radio tells me with suicidal poetry that he is looking
    and my justification my love of solitude battles
    my justification my love of humanity
    and my love of humanity is torn by the loyalty of nature

    now when skateboards smack down their wheels
    i hear guns
    and my nerves pick up


    Janet sits in the right corenr.
    Aldo nods, nods-
    again- teeth- row- motuh and eyes
    independent, rich,
    give me many signs.
    Why do you think?
    or what tail can you see
    to the second body of a lie?
    Where did they meet?
    Over the foster-care-jungle-
    the incarcerarting desert?
    What's the history of this place
    with marble women leaning from knees-
    looking up at
    looking up to

    When my neighbors start engines,
    lightly let fall screen doors,
    trip over the recycling
    in the garage
    not on the curb.

    Venezuela had the second largest heavy oil reserves in the world
    before the fire a man stood up,
    claimed his 19 million from Hugo Chavez,

    An idea for categories: health and food security (for whose sake do not concern)
    Nueva Ethica Socialista
    Approach from all this?
    Shut... can we approach from all this?

    Fact check. Drag. Heavy with water and dissappearing caffeine.

    Evil. Charts. Iran. Saudi Arabia. America, you nail clippings
    are still in the wounds.

    What method/presentation/use of statistic/// can help counter?

    I hung from a silver ribbon
    tied to a latex balloon
    still wet from the spit-
    blew it like a trumpet over the promontory
    dancing with mica

    a spider.

    I'm Venezuela trumpeting and shining red
    along the webs
    over Colombia
    under Colombia
    over Brazil
    under Brazil
    and beasts of happiness.


    i trip on the wooden palates
    that you call a porch

    quick ideas are our watch dogs
    breaking skin in playfulness

    you smiled from under the same
    snowflake patterned hat
    and your hair which
    stands whichways
    is the only ballerina
    in your
    cracked cement
    weeds coming up
    a body escaping
    a black trash bag
    out of a trunk
    into a ditch
    toward the forest's chest

    you walk where you've been
    i am a ghost among believers
    tossing pennies

    graves are cigarette filters
    mustard brown

    bologna or grey peanut butter
    there was a cross in my napkin
    it pinched my lip
    there is no recycling
    my pockets are not shaped for
    i keep them with holes
    i cut out my pockets

    my wrists are bleeding

    i kiss my own knees
    staying centimeters
    heating the shack of my fallen head

    when i leave it disappears
    no one will be there

    but they are waiting with
    or death

    the leash has no cat
    the anarchists lost their child
    give them whiskey
    de sombre a sol

    the acid pushes my forehead up
    my pupils are turning into my skin
    the world is breathing
    the solid things are oscillating
    at me
    my hands are purple and old
    they are bigger that my shoe

    i thought your ukelele was an AK
    i'm sorry for running
    i thought you had a gun

    you do have a gun and you gave it to me
    tell me how i got here
    what is the history of this place?

    they call me for money
    they call me and threaten me for money
    i built a boat
    from the dumpster
    and read it while i sailed
    to Ecuador

    and when i came
    they ripped out my piercings
    pushed my shoulders down
    and said i would believe
    i spat in their face and ran to the bathroom

    these walls make my tongue burn
    the porcelain and marble
    reflect artificial light
    artificial light makes my stomach jump
    so i turn to the toilet and
    my body shuts off
    the soft tissue paper
    comes out in my vomit
    i vomit all over the clean towels
    all over the polished handles
    in the candles
    around the bath tub

    i take the tags off the new towels
    and pocket them
    because i have no paper

    no one is in the hall way
    except the heavy boots
    dragging a black stick against metal bars


    wild smile
    i saw you
    i saw your foot skip a bit uneven
    i saw you almost trip
    my porch
    the world is my porch
    and i saw you stumble
    i express my joy in silence
    and am not afraid
    as intervals of clanking
    become wider
    stopping before....
    at my cave of knees

    they tell me i'm not well
    and to stand up straight
    but i'm going to pass out
    and when i pass out
    they will charge me with...

    the back of my head exploded
    i am a cat


    my feet are heavier when i walk with
    the coasts of my mouth
    crash up against my cheeks
    and suspend a tear

    in my head there is a village
    half finished instruments lie tested in the common spaces
    authors lie naked with authors who are also muses
    and in the night
    a group of rebels stand outside of the fire's light

    that is the laugh that grows in me
    an idea maybe
    but a reflux from my heavy feet
    delighted to play at overcoming

    other's eyes are cement
    in my air
    a bag of cement decieves my back
    i can carry a television
    but not cement

    the rebels come upon me unaware
    i laugh with authenticity
    an unquestionable laugh

  •  1 thing

    2 tell you.

    3 strikes you’re out,

    4 not answering to me.

    5 reasons why this week sucks:

    6 days ago I asked you something.

    7 minutes before you responded, each minute hurt.

    8 um’s later I walked out the door forever.

    9 at night pitch black, freezing cold and lonely out.

    10 times you called me. Stop. It’s over. Leave me alone.


  • promises, accomplishments & change

  • you saw me lie and admire the somber sound of wood on wood. you noticed deceitful eyelids before i ever considered them. wind and water and waiting tore things apart. sand changed you.

    i am the lamb and you are the lion and after unspoken gods come back to earth, we will lay down.


  •  listening to cocorosie and understanding that i just have to execute, not dwell.

    it's the second week of my second 52 weeks project. i'm pushing myself.


  •  kemi alabi

    perini lecture hall, saint anselm college

    19 january 2012

    manchester, new hampshire

  • Cheryl Bagtaz

    Benefits & HRIS Specialist




    My earliest memory of anything connected to diversity was in 1974. I was in the 8th grade in Braintree, MA. A federal judge, Arthur Garrity, Jr, ordered that students from Boston’s schools would be bused to other communities in an effort to achieve racial integration. I remember black students coming to our school. I remember watching news footage of the riots and protests. I was among a large group of students who participated in a walk-out in support of the black students being able to go to school in their own neighborhoods. We all got suspended. At the time my mother worked third shift at the First National Bank of Boston in Dorchester. As she was leaving work in the morning there would be National Guardsmen lined up on the street to protect the students getting on and off of the buses.




     September 1974 outside South Boston High School


    "Boston Busing Riots" 1974    MLK in Boston



  •  Karina de Brum

    this isn't a big revealing moment but I grew up in a hugely diverse place. as a little kid Shel Silverstein was one of my heroes, your call reminded me of this.

    "My skin is kind of sort of brownish pinkish yellowish white. My eyes are greyish blueish green, but I'm told they look orange in the night. My hair is reddish blondish brown, but its silver when its wet, and all the colors I am inside have not been invented yet."

    Shel Silverstein "Where the Sidewalk Ends"

    I'm walking down memory lane... this is the last one for you..

    No Difference

    Small as a peanut,
    Big as a giant,
    We're all the same size
    When we turn off the light.

    Rich as a sultan,
    Poor as a mite,
    We're all worth the same
    When we turn off the light.

    Red, black or orange,
    Yellow or white,
    We all look the same
    When we turn off the light.

    So maybe the way,
    To make everything right
    Is for god to just reach out
    And turn off the light!"

    Shel Silverstein <


  • I started college in the Fall of 1964. By that time there had been many demonstrations, and Martin Luther King was a recognizable figure. It was a confusing time because there were a lot of mixed motivations for what people were doing. As a fairly ignorant kid, living by that time in a very typical suburban setting, it was the music that called attention to the extent of the injustices of racism, and rallied a sense of unity with those who were doing something about it. Blowing in the Wind was sort of an anthem, whether it was sung by Dylan or Peter Paul and Mary. There was a very strong sense of a division between what was just and unjust, and the “generation gap” talked about so much at the time was marked by being clear about rejecting racism. I got dragged along by some of my friends to demonstrations. The emotional importance of singing We Shall Overcome while standing with those who shared deeply this commitment meant a lot. ( I was only in a situation where I felt threatened once or twice. My strategy was to get behind the nuns).

    One of the musical figures that might not be so well known as Joan Baez or Pete Seeger was Phil Ochs. I think his best stuff was written in speaking out against the war. One good example would be Draft Dodger Rag. He wrote some stuff that was pretty bitter, Here’s to the State of Mississippi., and In the Heat of the Summer. And he wrote some stuff that is quite wistful, for example, Flower Lady. Music then had the power to trouble one’s conscience, as in Is There Anybody Here? The song that seems the one most people remember him by is There But for Fortune. I recommend them all to you. I still have them on my old reel to reel set up, but you can get at the performances now in ways easier and more familiar to you than that.

    Phil Ochs: What are you fighting for?
    Phil Ochs - I aint marching anymore  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L5pgrKSwFJE&feature=results_main&playnext=1&list=PL4A0F47A25C48C04D

    Phil Ochs on You Tube


    In 1992, my husband and I were living in the Los Angeles area in a town called Gardena.  We had lived in our neighborhood for a little more than 2 years and became close friends with one or two of our neighbors, but hadn’t met everyone.  One evening my husband was sitting on the front lawn while our two dogs played around him. One of our neighbors ran out of her house screaming for help because her husband was having an epileptic seizure.  My husband ran over to help her by staying with her husband to keep him from hurting himself while she called 911.  Once everything had calmed down and they were settled again, my husband came home and the event was soon just a past memory.


    Several weeks later, the 1992 Los Angeles Civil Unrest, also referred to as “the Rodney King Riots” erupted.  The sky was filled with smoke from fires in surrounding areas and people were filled with fear from the news reports of violence and anger.  Driving home from work that first evening took almost 3 hours for what was normally a 30-minute ride.  When we arrived home, there was a note on our door inviting us to meet with the rest of the neighborhood in the middle of the street.  As we joined the rest of the group, one of our neighbors, who we then discovered was a minister, asked everyone to join hands in a circle and pray for the safety of the city and the end of the violence.  The minister was the same man that my husband had sat with weeks earlier when he had an epileptic seizure. 


    After the prayer, the people in the circle started introducing themselves and we met the rest of our neighbors for the first time.  We agreed that we were safe if we stayed on our street, and there were offers to share milk, food, and baby diapers so there would be no need to leave the street to venture out to a store.  One of the neighbors announced that we should create a block club right then and there.  Another neighbor took a look at my husband and I and hesitantly said, “I don’t think this is the right time to talk about a club.”  It took me a minute to realize that this man didn’t want us included.  At that point the minister’s wife spoke up and told the group what a wonderful thing my husband did that day when he ran over to help her with her husband when he was in distress.  She went on to say that my husband’s actions were the perfect example of being a good neighbor and a good person.  She said, “This is exactly the right time to talk about creating a block club.”


    It’s important for me to tell you now that my husband and I are Caucasian and we lived in a Black neighborhood.  I had never felt discrimination because of my race before until the moment it became clear to me why that man did not want us included in the block club.  He didn’t even know us.  He made the statement based only on our race. 


    That day will always stay in my mind.  That day was when I not only experienced racial discrimination, but actually understood what it felt like. 


    Carol Richards, CAP-OM

    Administrative Assistant

    Rodney King



  •  My civil rights story was a memory of my parents getting a phone call saying that my older sister who was away in college at Goucher in Maryland had been arrested while trying to integrate a movie theater in down town Baltimore.  When she came home on her next break she spoke about having her contact lens solution taken away so she couldn't swallow it to commit suicide.  She was in jail with many others who were protesting with her and was out on bail after a night. My parents supported her effort and I have always been proud of her for her brave action.







  •  "Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart until, in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful grace of God."  -Aeschylus

    I was only around 9, but I remember very vividly hearing hearing Robert Kennedy's announcement of Martin Luther King's assasination. I still remember the tension and hopelessness of the atmosphere. It was the first time I had heard of Aeschylus, and I resolved to read about the ancient Greeks who could say such things.

    I have an even more vivid memory of standing at the bus stop just 63 days later and having a neighbor run out of the house and tell me that RFK had been assasinated that night in California. I had the feeling of being caught in the swirl of events that were out of control and it felt like the world was ending, but I remembered the calm words he had left us with at the death of MLK.


  • I'm pretty much all about diverse diversity. I'm all about a perceived repeating of myself too. Also I'm all about the plight of people in Berlin the in the final days of and immediately after WW2. Especially the German women. The mass rapes, the violence of the Soviet's putting down a hard earned revenge on the innocent masses, well everything went full circle there. They were paying in kind for the wrongs inflicted on their people. Wrongs that have been ignored by the West I'd say. This is pretty polarized for me. Normally I'm not so cavalier about throwing wrongs and shit. I'm just saying, some crazy shit happened then, but in the mire of human beings thrown to their almost teleological end, there were some crazy insights like this one “Talking in the line, I find myself coming down a level both in the way I speak and in what I say, immersing myself in the general emotion – though this always leaves me feeling a little slimy and disgusting. And yet I don't want to fence myself off, I want to give myself over to this communal sense of humanity; I want to be a part of it, to experience it. There's a split between my aloofness, the desire to keep my private life to myself, and the urge to be like everyone else, to belong to the nation to abide and suffer history together.” Funny how someone in a different time and with a completely different set of circumstances can come to the same thoughts as me. Funny how this woman, who incurred rape at the hands of Soviet regulars and then had voluntary sex for protection with a First Lieutenant and later a Major could think something thought across the board by many people like her. But anyways. Its cool how people can have the same ideas.

    That book was about the troubles of women after the war sure, but it painted men in such a light that it seemed men would never be the same. She wrote like all the women would be fine, collectively they were pulling through, but the men, well they were defeated, their honor was tarnished first by the war, next by the treatment of their wives, sisters, and mothers at the hands of the victors. While reading this I felt like Ivan. I felt like I was lacerating myself for being born now instead of in an era and place of ultimate strife. Of so much chaos and breakdown of the societal veneer. It took this laceration for “civil rights” to set in. It took this for me to care. Even if it was only caring at a distance. I was and still am caring about something that happened 67 years ago. All its participants are either dead, dying, or were too young. Soon they too will pass out of the living historical canon and only be remembered by words. Either way though it made me think one, very simple moral thought. People shouldn't do that. And by that I mean create a world system with so much hate and false propaganda that makes people brutalize another, and then upon their defeat have the new victors commit the same acts in a collective revenge. Not all Germans were innocent. Not all Soviets were innocent. Still though. Collectively these were simple people. The Soviets were farmboys and poor peasants, who saw all they know burned to the ground and mutilated by the Germans. Its all too easy to take the almost logical step and just pay in kind. Its all too easy to think ourselves better, here in our set of Ivory Towers. Our college, our state, our country, our culture. We think we could never be this way, on either side of the line. But really the conscience that makes you feel bad made the SS feel bad for wanting to spare Jews. It made the Soviets feel bad for not wanting to rape and plunder. It also makes us feel bad for not helping the homeless or motivating us into action for others. Feeling bad about doing something is two way street man.

    So I felt “in tune” today. I cared about people for a reason outside my own happiness. No matter how shallow that was. The gravest mistake is to think our moral system will keep us from falling. Whether it be your religion or perceived beliefs. I pose a simple question I hope you'll take away “If you grew up in either of these societies and went through all these people went through, would you be any better?” I don't think I would be. I'm no stronger than anyone else. So remember that. Remember that equality and civil rights is more than seeing each other as equals. Its acknowledging the fact that given the situation, we need to be ready to cope with putting those beliefs to the test. And thats what Martin Luther King talked about. He's not talking about some warm hearted, well to do bringing people into the fold, making everyone happy. He's talking about fixing a system and then recognizing that this needs to not happen again and if it does you have a set of choices. You either stand up to a structure that violates that simple idea. Even though it will mean your death or you collude (which I don't blame anyone for) or you hide. Self-Sacrifice is the only action I'm willing to deem authentically moral. Feel free to ignore this warning. When shit hits the fan I'm not gonna blame you. This isn't a call to justice. Its a call to just recognizing how history and the cycle works.


  • Suicide Note by Janice Mirikita

    An Asian American college student was reported to have jumped to her death from her dormitory window. Her body was found two days later under a deep cover of snow. Her suicide note contained an apology to her parents for having received less than a perfect 4.0 GPA.

    How many notes written
    Ink smeared like bird prints in snow.

    Not good enough, not pretty enough, not smart enough
    Dear mother and father,
    I apologize
    For disappointing you.
    Ive worked very hard,
    Not good enough.

    Harder, perhaps to please you.
    If only I were a son, shoulders broad
    As the sunset threading through pine,
    I would see the light in my mothers
    Eyes, or the golden pride reflected
    In my fathers dream
    Of my wide, male hands worthy of work
    And comfort.
    I would swagger through life muscled and bold and assured,
    Drawing praises to me
    Like currents in the bed of wind, virile
    With confidence.
    Not good enough, not strong enough, not good enough.

    I apologize.
    Tasks do not come easily.
    Each failure, a glacier.
    Each disappointment, a boot print.
    Each disappointment,
    Ice above my river.
    So I have worked hard.
    Not good enough.

    My sacrifice I will drop
    Bone by bone, perched
    On the ledge of my womanhood.
    Fragile as wings.
    Not strong enough.

    It is snowing steadily
    Surely not good weather
    For flying this sparrow
    Sillied and dizzied by the wind
    On the edge.
    Not smart enough.

    I make this ledge my altar
    To offer penance.
    This air will not hold me,
    The snow burdens my crippled wings,
    My tears drop like bitter cloth
    Softly into the gutter below.
    Not good enough, not strong enough, not smart enough.

    Choices this as shaved
    Ice. Notes shredded
    Drift like snow.

    On my broken body,
    Covers me like whispers
    Of sorries
    Perhaps when they find me
    They will bury
    My bird bones beneath
    A sturdy pine
    And scatter my feathers like
    Unspoken song and cold and silent
    Breast of Earth.



    Jonny D Dialogue 4 - Yo Dude, You're Just Like Everyone Else


    “Ya know I have all these abstract thoughts and big plans about apocalyptic conflict.”


    “Yea, what about 'em?”


    “Well, when it comes to writing, shit is never realized, I never get the feedback and shit, I just write words and they mean nothing the next day, where is the emotional involvement? Writing is just an excuse to drink tea or wine or something I think.”


    “Thats bullshit, people love your writing, you're very talented.”


    “Now you are sounding like my conscience dude.”


    “Maybe I am. I dunno when the scissors get taken to your head who knows what I am. Haircuts are the opportunity to herald in a new era. A new era that you have started with quite well. Your onset stomach ache saved the day today didn't it.”


    “How did you know about that?”


    “You told me. I think.”


    “Right...Well yea. Writing. Shit. Conflicted. I don't really like that girl the way I thought I would. Friendship would be dope. Another hit and a miss. Another Number to add to the list. These cold nights are doing bad things to my propensity to walk. I might just do it anyway. Its early yet. I have all these plans I say I'll do when the time is right, but half the time its just procrastination. Not to mention I have friends to hopefully get back. I miss them more than anything at this point. Fuck stress over this shit. So entitled.”


    “Welcome to being human. Buck up. Listen to happy indie music and lets do this haircut.”

  • Yo. Check it. Something I've been working on for awhile. This is as much as I'm willing to share so far.
  • Alright everyone. I know the story is getting mad exciting. I'll tell you what happened next as soon as we get this business out of the way. Calm down. Its time for me to tell you of the Ten Tenets. Fuck yea alliteration. It starts with some philosophy, some self-reflection, and of course a good dose of delusion. So you would think that we would have discussed at some point what it meant to be a human in this new world, now that the end times had come and passed. You would have been only half right. The first thing we discussed on that path is what it meant to be a human back before the Red Dusk because the answers to both questions are actually kinda close. Human life in any situation is kinda like a haircut. You have to trim it constantly to get things just so and as soon as you solve a problem another set of hairs will grow in. It never stops. Unless you go bald, then I guess balding is death? I dunno. If I learned one thing the point is life will never be just perfect, although sometimes there are moments everything feels all alright. Shit, I say the phrase “If I learned one thing” “If we learned one thing” “If you learned one thing” entirely too much. Yes Kevin I know I love repeating myself, don't be a cock. Anyways bitches, there are two ways to live life, one is as the observer and the other is the doer. Most people are a mix of both. The reason I feel so redundant, feel the need to editorialize on my own thoughts and point out their redundancy is because I am mainly an observer. Most of my thoughts are stolen from observations of people or stories heard and modified. I am extremely self-conscious because of this. I spend so much time watching I hold the same standards of watching others to myself and assume others watch me, as much as I watch them. This is absurd. I'm not in their conscious which is an island of subjectivity. I take no titles as narrator of the Misguided Men.I am the observer to the doing actions of others. I am imitative/innovative rather than just innovative. I realize I just gave myself a title. Well fuck you. Deal with it. Nothing is perfect. Now, the way people lived before and after the End Times is somewhat the same. Some people observe and others do things. It is kind of like follower versus leader, but it is not entirely the same. The thing is that no matter the situation, human beings adapt to what their goals are, whether they are aware of those goals or not. Before the End Times people were concerned with status and money, these people lived in delusion of the objective things that exist. Others focused on religion or philosophy, aka the objective facts of the universe. Now, after the Red Dusk, we, the Misguided Men focus on delusion and ignoring the objective facts in our face. We have more in common with the moneylenders in the temple than with the Shepherd and His flock. The thing is though, the crazy part about us is that we are not ignoring the objective facts of the universe. Nay, We are not ignoring God and his angels or the Devil and his demons. No, we are fully aware of their existence and we push forward in delusion because the objective facts are so grim to our eyes. We choose to observe rather than do. We want to sit back and find some solution to our problem that more than likely doesn't exist or more importantly cannot exist! This is why we are Misguided. We are fully aware that God wants to offer us our onion. We are fully aware either side will gladly take us, yet we stay in the middle. The objective facts of the universe are thus: 1.God and the Devil exist, they are the prime executors of the universe however that works. 2.God is the objective truth of the universe. This is his system he created. 3.We do not want to go to God because his plan of perfect harmony stares us in the face. You see it's all about the children, just like Ivan said. If we go to heaven, God's Plan will be right in front of our faces. It will make all these struggles okay. It will make the abuse of children okay because we will have full perspective, full hindsight. We do not want this to happen. We do not want to see “the lion lie down with the lamb.” 4.Our rebellion is absurd because we are ignoring the objective way of the universe. We are as wrong as saying that 2+2 = 4 or that Jersey Shore is anything but awesome. 5.Even though our rebellion is absurd we choose to be Misguided. We choose delusion until we can find a solution. We preserve history to remember where we came from. To remember The Way Of Things. To remember the children. 6.We approve of alcohol as it helps stir up delusion. 7.The Misguided Men have no leaders nor are we communist. We just are. 8.Membership is open to Men as well as Women. We just like alliteration so the name is Misguided Men and these are the Ten Tenets. 9.The idea of the Road Trip, the Study Abroad, The Blackout life lesson are all important because they are formative life experiences. Even though its absurd to cultivate anything of ourselves, do it anyways. We'll figure this out eventually. 10.We'll figure this out eventually. Take a drink. “This is Water” What it meant to be a human back then, before the End Times is the same thing it means to be human now. We just have a little bit more knowledge. If the absurd wasn't apparent before, its fucking unmissable now. Take that.
  • In tandem with Enough is Enough Lucubrations is hosting an Open Mic.

    Enough is Enough week works to bring to light all types of violence and promotes peace. For this Open Mic we encourage you to bring poetry, writing, music, or art that either highlights violence, whether physical or emotional, or promotes peace.

    You can also submit  stories, poems, video clips, or music to  editor@lucubrations.org and we will show it at the Open Mic if you can't make it.
    Share the media or story that made you aware of the impact that violence has on people's lives or that convinced you to speak up. The work does not have to be your own but can be and you are welcome to submit YouTube videos as well. 

    Whether or not you have anything to present we encourage you to come and enjoy the show.


    Coure Council Logo


  • "Hands" drawing by Amanda Massey

  • Jordan Levesque. Clip from Original Song.


    Matthew Eriole. Clip from Original Song. 

  • Some Poems for Enough is Enough


    Sheryl Luna Shock and Awe

    Patricia Lockwood: Rape Joke

    June Jordan: Poem about My Rights

    Poem by young girl who killed herself because of bullying

    Marge Piercy: The friend

    Anne Sexton: Briar Rose

    Marge Piercy: The Rape Poem

    Adrienne Rich; Aunt Jennifer's Tigers

    Stephen Dobyns: How Could You ever be Fine

    Adrienne Rich: Rape

    Jamaica Kincaid: Girl

    14 Slam Poems supporting Women

    14 year old reads her poem about what it is like to be a girl.

    Vera House Survivors Poems



    Here are Some Poems that speak the truth about Rape Culture:







    Here is another excellent collection from Trista Mateer




  • Lucubrations Open Mic

    Lucubrations Open Mic
    Thursday February 11. 8:00 PM
    (Signup starts at 7:30PM)
    Comiskey Room 10 

    Valentine's Day Open Mic!
    Share your poetry, writing, music, or other creative work, or just come to watch. Food and Refreshments.
    Signups start at 7:30


    poetry  Poetry

      music    Music    

    Comedy/Theater Scenes

  • Have you seem the Mixed Media work down in Comiskey? There is some really great work there.

    Full Album: Mixed Media Spring 2016



    Mixed Media 2016

  • Open Mic Banner


    Lucubrations Open Mic
    Thursday March 17. 8:00 PM
    (Signup starts at 7:30PM)
    Comiskey Room 10 

    St. Patrick's Day Open Mic!
    Share your poetry, writing, music, or other creative work, or just come to watch. Food and Refreshments.
    Signups start at 7:30


    poetry  Poetry

      music    Music     

    Comedy/Theater Scenes




  • 155. Their Words
    by Paul Goodspeed

    My words are fumbled.
    I mumble my jumbled muddle of middling mediocrity.
    My piddling pedantic political poetry,
    my petty piddling privileged punditry
    pales in proximity to their passionate powerful poignant profundity.
    Their words rub me raw with woe and wonder,
    love and lugubriousness,
    beauty and baleful bathos.
    Meanwhile my words are energetic gestures at juvenile justice;
    foolish futile fusillades at fearsome Fox News foes.
    Their words are deep, dark and dangerous,
    doubling me over in moving mellifluous meter and vivacious verbose verse.
    My words speak of society and sociology and structures,
    of omnipresent all-enveloping oppression.
    Their words speak of truth;
    of terrible tears and gut-wrenching glory,
    of tragedy and terror and transformation,
    of horror, humor and of hope.
    My words thud in juddering blundering bumbling boisterousness,
    vicarious rambuctious revolutionary vindications,
    extraneous excessive inexpressive exhortations.
    Their words are living livid and lively,
    expressive and electric, elegant and elegaic,
    mordant and moving and meaningful,
    sarcastic and silly and solemn.
    My words are stupid, soporific, sophomoric,
    self-absorbed sophontic sentences,
    tendentious, sententious and pretentious.
    Their words are worth writing,
    lovely and loving.
    Their words.


  • Those of you interested in art, writing, poetry, music or other creative activities should stop by the Lucubrations Open House Saturday at 3PM. There will be food and refreshments, a tour of the Comiskey Center for the Arts, and an Open Mic. We're meeting in Bradley House at 3 then we'll walk over to Comiskey.




    No matter how much orientation you get, do you still feel a bit disoriented and off-center? If so, we may have some people you'd like to meet. We won't provide you with orientation or direction or help you acclimate to college life, but we might spin you round and round so the world looks pretty for a few seconds.


    Lucubrations Open House and Open Mic

    Saturday the 27st
    3 PM
    Bradley House 1st floor Lounge
    (The big white building next to the water tower, across from coffee shop.)

    Lucubrations is an online cultural magazine as well as an alternative culture community of writers, artists, poets, thinkers, photographers, musicians, and creative people that sponsors events, trips, activities, and fun stuff for the Saint Anselm Community, as well as its fringes.


    A Chance for Freshman (and anyone else) to learn about Lucubrations ( St. Anselm's online Cultural Magazine), see what people have been creating over the summer,  see the Lucubrations office and Fine Arts Studios,  share some cool stuff, and get to know some new people. 


    There will be Food and Refreshments as well as an Open Mic. Everyone is welcome. 

    We will meet at Bradley House Lounge at 3to get acquainted and then walk to Comiskey for a tour of the Fine Arts Studios and Lucubrations Office and then an Open Mic in Comiskey 10. Bring your Music, writing, poetry, photography, art, or whatever to share. If you have some art or photos, can play an instrument, have some poetry, or can do anything creative, bring it along!

    Lucubrations is online at http://lucubrations.org.
    The word lucubrations is based on the Latin word lucubrare and means study by candlelight, nocturnal study or meditation, and the writings or thoughts that result. You can find out more about what it what it does here: http://www.lucubrations.org/content/lucubrations-history



    Open House Event on Facebook
    You can RSVP, here if you like.

    Lucubrations on Facebook
    Like us on Facebook to get updates

    To submit work to Lucubrations, you can send email to editor@lucubrations.org
    or better yet register at the site and post your work directly.


    Lucubrations is a Cultural Magazine for the Saint Anselm Community.
    It publishes creative work in any medium, including art, music, photography, film, poetry, literature, philosophy, and commentary,  both informal and formal settings. We welcome participation from all members of the community including students, alumni, faculty, staff, and the monastery.
    "Let us bring to daylight the impulses of midnight contemplation."






  •  Pictures from Robert Frost's Home in Franconia, where he lived from 1915-1920.

  • Please enjoy a selection of photos taken by me during the 2016 Summer Vacation. In this album, I traveled from to Longbeach Key, Florida to the great waters of Niagara Falls to Corning, New York, home of the greatest Glass Museum. These pictures are a selection of the many photos I took on my journey. I specialize in color photography, which can be seen throughout this album and many others that I have. 

  • Open Mic Night tonight at 8PM in LLC Classroom




  • On Interrogating the Statues of Dead Men

    By Kemi Alabi

    when you ask

    the statues of dead men

    how they got here

    they will admit—

    they don’t remember

    they don’t remember how the tattered meat

    of their bullet-plowed muscle

    repacked itself neatly into marble

    when asked about the loaves of spine,

    once flexed into so many pieces

    they fed the starved courage of all the broken-jawed saints,

    the statues of dead men will admit—

    they don’t remember when theirs stiffened into something

    so whole

    when you explain

    god stopped showing his face around here

    that we’re not sure if it still looks like ours

    when you explain

    we chisel our heroes into metal and stone

    that you’re here to mine for ghosts

    the statues will stay silent

    this is when you demand

    they stop speaking architect

    and say something more than legacy and adorned silence

    but notice they do not possess the entombed voice of the hero

    there’s no wrecking ball dense with breath where the heart would be

    just rock

    or maybe a stale pocket of hollow

    no answer

    just another blank stare

    when you beg the statues

    to scrape the stoic from their joints

    just enough

    to buck out a rain dance

    before the city burns down

    before the flames leave nothing but the salt of our spit

    and abandoned prayers charred onto altars

    you will notice how blood refuses to ribbon its way through stone

    you will notice how still impossible becomes

    when it faces the tremble of theliving


    Sergio Castillo hides a prank

    in the middle of a college campus

    sculpts 50 steel doves

    shapes them in the graceful arc of a single, soaring bird,

    then pins them to a block of cement, flightless,

    he calls it Free at Last

    the symbol of a nation united


    impotently perched

    on the granite-etched words of its only king

    “We must

    come to see

    that the end

    we seek

    is a society of peace.”

    and until we do, the birds will stay

    paralyzed in their metal,

    stranded in the gunpowdered smack of a dream on pause

    don’t mistake this for proverb

    this is riddle

    don’t mistake this for threat or eulogy

    this is cock-eyed double dare

    when you ask the statues of dead men

    what it takes to finish what they’ve started

    they will always say nothing

    when the cavalry leaders are too statue to speak martyr,

    too marble to march hero before us,


    twig-limbed human

    must prove yourself flesh and blood enough

    to make the world move

    this is cock-eyed double dare

    when you ask the statues

    what it takes

    listen closely

    they will say


    they will wait for you to notice

    there’s a wrecking ball swinging to the beat of your pulse

    there’s rescue growing potent in the shift of your bones

    there’s legend hidden in the knuckles of your unslung punch

    listen closely

    for the tender crack of their bloom

    there’s chance stowed in the unfurled fingers of a fist freed at last

    notice the hands of time beginning again

    notice how much they look like ours


    via Peter M. Labombarde

    Common Dust

    by  Georgia Douglas Johnson

    And who shall separate the dust

    What later we shall be:

    Whose keen discerning eye will scan

    And solve the mystery?

    The high, the low, the rich, the poor,

    The black, the white, the red,

    And all the chromatique between,

    Of whom shall it be said:

    Here lies the dust of Africa;

    Here are the sons of Rome;

    Here lies the one unlabelled,

    The world at large his home!


    Can one then separate the dust?

    Will mankind lie apart,

    When life has settled back again

    The same as from the start?




  • Lucubrations

    by Paul Goodspeed


    It begins with background chatter crackling like a comfortable fire on a cold night

    And home-baked bread that tastes like hospitality, sweeter than hand-harvested honey

    Then she steps up to the mic and reels us in, collecting the scatter and quelling the chatter

    And despite quirky quips called out with a smile, the program commences


    With each song I float away on angelic acoustic music

    Each lyric carefully carved with exquisite care

    Each song its own path to profundity


    I remember when I first stepped into the room like a child taking his first steps

    Some sophomore sunset evening in spring or summer

    Hooked, and every month I’m reeled back in


    It’s a safe harbor ‘midst the storms of college

    A source of sustenance more nourishing than any mere food

    Someplace to let my raw words drift into the silences like smoke


    I won’t remember the words, the song titles, the lyrics or rhymes

    I won’t remember the specific stacatto bursts of a certain someone’s sweary streams-of-consciousness

    I won’t recall particular poems, the seams and joints of their careful construction


    I’ll remember the feeling of flying, letting those songs carry me to the clouds

    I’ll remember to “shake the dust”

    And I’ll always, always remember to fuck Aquinas!

  • LoveLove

    Thanks to Prof. Dannin for the Sign Design for the Standing in Solidarity Event!
    Lucubrations Open Mic
    Thursday February 16. 8:00 PM
    (Signup starts at 7:30PM)
    LLC Classroom
    Valentine's Day Open Mic!
    Share your poetry, writing, music, or other creative work, or just come to watch. Food and Refreshments. We'll have Pizza from Portland Pie for the Common Core Homeless Teen fundraising event:
    Signups start at 7:30


  •  Here are Some Poems that speak the truth about Rape Culture:







    Here is another excellent collection from Trista Mateer



  • Image





    Here are some of the submissions we got for the "It Happened Here" Feature. Some of these have been changed to remove identifying features. We also had some courageous and touching stories shared at the Open Mic.

    Each Voice that speaks out, makes other victims feel less alone, and less to blame. Each voice makes it easier for others to break the silence. Rape Culture can only exist when we look away and don't see it for what it is. Thanks to all these courageous voices for starting the process.


    I was hanging out with a group of men on a weekend when an underclassman walked by in a short skirt and a crop top. The men made jokes about her outfit saying, "that girl is definitely getting raped tonight." I have never felt more uncomfortable.



    It truly happens anywhere. The smallest things contribute to the fear that all women share. At the dances here is where a lot of men feel safe harrassing women. Women get catcalled and feel that they need to be careful with how they dance because if they aren't, a man might feel like he has the right to touch you



    A couple years ago. party off campus and had a really nice time. As I was saying goodbye to people with my boyfriend, another guy I knew, walked up, took me in his arms and kissed me. He was quite drunk and seemed to think this was a friendly way to say goodbye. I was stunned - embarrassed, worried what people would think, worried what my boyfiend might think, and, despite knowing better, wondering what I had done to invite that behavior. My boyfriend turned to me and said with a smile, "Boy is he going to regret that in the morning!" It broke the tension, and put the blame squarely where it belonged - on my the guy. I left the party feeling shaken and awkward, but not in any way guilty.
    Sympathy for victims is absolutely necessary, but sometimes putting blame squarely where it belongs is the best approach. My boyfriends support enabled me to feel strong in the truth that I had not asked for or invited this problem.





    When I was a freshman, I spent my first weekend at Saint A's in "uppers" with my friends. A senior guy began talking to us. He had a bottle of vodka in his hand. He started telling us we needed to take shots. When we tried to refuse, he called us "pussies" and told us we were in college now and we had to do this kind of stuff. After his tormenting, I ended up taking a few shots. At some point, my friends left and it was just him and I standing in the crowd. He then told me he left something back in his room, and he insisted I come back with him to get it. Not knowing where my friends were, I followed him through the crowd to a dorm building I did not know the name of. We went into his room and he shut the door. He convinced me to take more shots. He tried to kiss me. I told him I had a boyfriend. He told me "kissing isn't cheating." I told him no. He told me I wouldn't have came to his room if I didn't want this to happen. He got closer. He cornered me in his room and began kissing me and sliding his hands down my pants. My body froze for what seemed like forever before I shoved him and again told him no. He continued to try to persuade me to stay as I headed for the door. He told me I couldn't leave because I wouldn't be able to find my way back. I left anyways. Tears ran down my face as I stumbled back to JOA thinking about everything I thought I had done wrong.


    Keep giving people an outlet to share their stories. Also, more education on what victim-blaming means. I still have a lot of guilt about what happened to me, and I resent having that guilt. I am fortunate enough that I was able to get out of this situation before things escalated any further. My heart is with all the women and men, on and off campus, who have not been so fortunate.



    Some guys in a car called me a "bitch" in the parking lot.



    When I reported my sexual assault the people at Student Affairs just kept asking me if I had been drinking, and were no help at all in making sure the guy who assaulted me had to stay away from me.




    Catcalling, inappropriate commenting, and unwarranted touching. These three actions are among the most common, if not the most common, forms of sexual harassment/assault that happen at Saint Anselm College. However, we should not underestimate the damage that they can cause. I am twenty-one years old, and I have been sexually assaulted twice in my life. Both incidents occurred before I entered as a freshman at Saint Anselm College. Although I am not one of the one in five women who are sexually assaulted while in college, my previous experiences of sexual assault have weighed heavily on my mind during my time here. Throughout my time at Saint Anselm College, I have had to deal with much catcalling, inappropriate commenting, and unwarranted touching. All of these actions have intensified my post-traumatic symptoms from my sexual assaults and have made it difficult for me to heal and to move forward. It is difficult to find your worth again after being sexually assaulted. You feel confused, ashamed, weak, dirty, vulnerable, naked, exposed, and alone... or at least I did. Victims of sexual assault are more likely to develop anxiety and depression. They are also more likely to engage in self-harm behaviors and to abuse substances. I know this first hand. The process of healing from sexual assault is difficult. It is not made easier by an environment that allows catcalling, inappropriate commenting, and unwarranted touching to happen anywhere at any time. All of these actions are forms of sexual harassment and they are damaging. Personally, they have been damaging to me as a victim of sexual assault. However, any woman can and should feel violated by these actions. We need to work to create a culture of inclusiveness, respect, and love at Saint Anselm College and in our society. We need to become active bystanders for our fellow brothers and sisters. We need to hold accountable those who catcall, who make inappropriate comments, who touch without permission, who rape, and who abuse. We need to listen to those who have been affected by sexual harassment and sexual assault and then we need to defend, protect, and lift them up! We need to do this and we need to do it together. Together we can work to make the world better for our sons and daughters so they do not need to be afraid. Where should we start? I suggest by listening and learning. Listen to those who have been affected by these actions. Learn about how to be identify inappropriate behavior and how to be an active bystander.






  • Erin Schuster's "love letter to Lucubrations. The sanctuary in the steady, unwavering, inviting corner of the world across the street from the rest of campus. "
    Thanks to all of you that made it a safe space for us to grow into voices this year.

    The Constant by Erin Schuster


  •  Poetry related to the killing of Oscar Grant, the inspiration for Angie Thomas's novel The Hate U Give, which we are discussing this month on campus.https://saeedjones.wordpress.com/2010/07/11/elegy-for-oscar-grant-or-a-found-poem-made-of-links/

    Elegy For Oscar Grant: A Found Poem

    Posted on July 11, 2010 | 6 Comments

    by Kehinde Wiley

    In a painting that no longer exists // One boy kissed into bliss

    by myth, who can’t remember // to see as beautiful what I thought would destroy me.

    In a painting no longer // Maybe he was too calm during the taunts of the police.// “If you were smoke,” he said, “you’d be the smoke that rages from a forest fire, close and wild and dangerous.”

    He is the thing that happens only once // His name wasn’t even a word. // Let him go.




    Three poems for Oscar Grant

    March 15, 2009

    Submit your creative expression to the Oscar Grant Memorial Arts Project – see details following poems, deadline March 21

    Face down

    by Dee Allen

    This poster is featured both in the Bay View’s March print edition and by the Oscar Grant Memorial Arts Project, <a href=http://urbanhabitat.org/rpe/oscar. – Artist: Jocelyn Goode" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/23G76mHu4x-Y3x4tUummMM9_YGuommk_DHrhMBot8cAgicLSpQWh3Nw4_6AeVKP0MGsI-S-VyBz_JoevxTzQDo1I5hlvbAt5KXZKcJvQjIEqgRVh7u1C_HuuJ1DvVqCUNgi-p4M1" width="384" height="563" style="border-width: initial; border-style: none; transform: rotate(0rad);" />

    This poster is featured both in the Bay View’s March print edition and by the Oscar Grant Memorial Arts Project, http://urbanhabitat.org/rpe/oscar. – Artist: Jocelyn Goode

    Smashed vehicle windows

    Cannot scream.

    Burning dumpsters

    Cannot unleash their agony into the smoky evening sky.

    Neither damaged

    T-Mobile nor

    McDonald’s nor

    Wells Fargo

    Can feel pain.

    Underground subways

    Cannot fight their sudden closure.

    So there’s no need to wring hands & agonize

    Over property destruction.

    Demolished property

    Can be replaced.

    The once

    Full lives

    Taken by law enforcement

    Never are.

    Brutality, never an “accident.”

    It’s systemic

    And replicates itself

    In different cities to the nth degree.


    Stony hearts blame such handiwork

    On “a few bad apples.”

    And everyone knows

    How that tired old maxim goes.

    Tell that to the last

    Victim inside the chalkline.

    Reason for anger,

    Cause for alarm,

    Millions have seen.

    Father of one,

    Age 22.

    First cruel hours

    Of the new year.

    Young witnesses.

    Four cops.



    Face down.

    Cold concrete.


    Hot lead.

    Close range.

    Loud boom.




    Here lies

    Father of one,

    Age 22.

    Face down.

    Subway platform

    Was the killing field.

    The truth cannot be erased,

    Try as the guilty might,

    Covering their crime.

    Father of one,

    Age 22.

    His name joins

    A seemingly endless

    Sea of names,

    Compendium of martyrs

    To their same last sights:

    Uniforms & weapons drawn.


    Needless State violence

    Upon the unarmed.

    A little Black girl of four

    In Hayward goes to bed

    Without her father tucking her in.

    A Brown woman sleeps

    Without her lover’s face to awaken to the next morning.

    Reason for anger,

    Cause for alarm.

    The powderkeg

    Called Oakland exploded twice.

    Now that a legitimized

    Slayer has been captured & released

    Into the general public on bail,

    A new explosion looms over the future’s horizon.

    More fire

    Put to the ‘keg.

    Perhaps the murderer’s protectors

    Will take notice this time

    Because that young father they’ve targeted

    Was one of us –

    He could’ve been anyone

    Anyone’s son, anyone’s brother,

    Anyone’s neighbor, anyone’s friend

    Anyone Black & Brown

    Could be the one in submission, lying face down

    In the path of a lethal device

    Engineering their quick demise.

    For Oscar Grant III – 1986-2009.

    Dee Allen is a local poetry writer, spoken word performer and activist from San Francisco, who can be reached at Pathogen@SINISTERSPIRITS.COM. He writes, for the Oscar Grant Memorial Arts Project: “This was the best way I could pay homage to the memory of an African working-class man from Hayward. Considering what he went through minutes before his death at the hands of Bay Area Rapid Transit police officers Mehserle and Pirone, who should’ve been indicted and punished two months ago, the outpouring of community support needs to continue, nationally and locally. The fight against police brutality and corruption needs to continue. Bay Area Rapid Transit’s management needs to know that the public will not forget this act of violence committed by their own officers on those who depend on their subway train system for transportation. No community – Black, Brown or White – needs any more young sacrificial lambs slaughtered because of some cop’s racist, classist powertrip.”

    Coastal Northern California Urban Night

    by Nina Serrano

    The soft orgasmic moan of a whale in moonlit water

    The howl of the coyote on the hill

    The owl hoots in a neighborhood tree

    The opossums scurry across the street

    The sirens scream through traffic

    The helicopters hover over people and picket signs

    The mayor fumbles feeding promises

    The hope of change and a new president

    emboldens embers of equality

    that hide in the night shadows

    slightly out of reach of dawn

    *Glossary: The Oakland protests to the Jan. 1, 2009, BART police murder of Oscar Grant.

    Nina Serrano can be reached at ninaserrano34@gmail.com.

    Forty-one shots and 19 hits

    by Raul (Curly) Estremera

    Forty-one shots and 19 hits!

    That terrible nine millimeter sound –

    with hollow point bullets strewn all around.

    And Amadou Diallo WAS DEAD before he hit the ground.

    A life – snuffed out in the wink of an eye.

    Then the killers went free, while a mother cried.

    Forty-one shots and 19 hits!

    Oscar Grant the third

    Whose young voice will never be heard?

    Because of a coward, and racist RAT

    Who put a bullet INTO HIS BACK

    Then took his hate, along on his flight.

    But throughout days and half the night

    The people raged and took up the fight.

    A community’s pain and struggle, so well invested

    That Johannes Mehserle was finally ARRESTED.

    But the struggle it seems was to no avail

    When a racist judge granted him bail.

    But don’t worry, good mothers, let’s remain as ONE

    Because our struggle for his justice has only begun.

    So don’t stop the march or neither the rally

    til the whole group of that night will face the tally.

    We have marched it seems throughout our history

    But the year ‘09 will see us through victory.

    Forty-one shots and 19 hits!

    Abner Louima, dancing to the rhythm of a third world beat,

    Stepped out of a club and onto the street.

    Was suddenly arrested and brutalized,

    Then after the beating was – SODOMIZED

    And this heinous crime was done by who?

    You guessed it my people – the punks in blue.

    Forty-one shots and 19 hits!

    Patrick Dorismond, MURDERED and put to rest

    By New York’s finest, Ghouliani’s best.

    Thousands came to join the family

    To pay their respects in peaceful harmony.

    The police then attacked them -WOE AND SHAME

    But the people responded with some of the SAME.

    They burned the flag and overturned barriers.

    Then policemen responded with personnel carriers.

    But the people united and had their way.

    And so the cops learned that dreadful day,

    What even Al Sharpton would have to say –

    Not to mess with the people when they come out to pray.

    Forty-one shots and 19 hits!

    To the murderers in blue, hear my accusations:

    You serve as the soldiers of the ruling class,

    But your days are numbered, and your killings passed

    Cause it’s time for the people to whip some ass.

    We’ve seen you murder workers and persons of color.

    Destroyed Native people and other cultures.

    Then laid claim to some eagle,

    When you’re really vultures.

    Forty-one shots and 19 hits!

    To the people in the audience I’m here to say:

    Will you heed my message or turn instead

    Go back to your computer and live in your head

    While they’re MURDERING BLACK FOLK.,

    Just shooting them dead

    There’s only one way to clear the confusion

    And one clear path to a sound solution.

    We’ve tried everything else


    Why not revolution!

    Why not revolution!

    Why not a revolution

    Within yourself!

    Forty-one shots and 19 hits!

    To the family of Oscar Grant III

    Raul (Curly) Estremera is a member of the Labor Action Committee to free Mumia Abu-Jamal, coordinator of the Committee in Solidarity with Cuba and Latin America, former member of the Citizens Tribunal (against police brutality), former member of the Black Liberation Army (New York), former Political Prisoner, former chairperson of the South Bay Mobilization to free Mumia, former chairperson of the Mexican American Self Help Organization (Lompoc, Calif.), former vice president of the NAACP (Lompoc, Calif., chapter), former executive director of the Western Region Puerto Rican Council, former chairperson of the Antillanos y Sur Americans Unidos (Lompoc), former chairperson of the People’s United Front, former chairperson of the Pueblo Unido (to stop the installation of the Fallon statue), former coordinator of the Cap APP0 for Oxajaca. He can be reached at dragonlibre@california.com. This poem has been published by the Oscar Grant Memorial Arts Project.

    Curly read this poem on Feb. 20 to community gathered in support of the family of Richard Lua. Richard Lua was murdered by San Jose Police on Feb. 11. He went into medical stress from a taser shot when he was trying to get into his home and died at the scene.

    Oscar Grant Memorial Arts Project: Creative Expressions, a Catalyst for Social Change

    Graffiti qualifies as artwork for the Oscar Grant Memorial Arts Project. This is among many that have been submitted. – Photo: James Wacht

    Graffiti qualifies as artwork for the Oscar Grant Memorial Arts Project. This is among many that have been submitted. – Photo: James Wacht

    Early in the morning on New Year’s Day, 22-year-old Oscar Grant III was shot and killed in Oakland, California, by a Bay Area Rapid Transit agency police officer. Grant was unarmed – the young Black man’s arms behind his back, his face pressed down against the cement. Onlookers video-phoned the horrific spectacle as his life was taken from him.

    The goal of the Oscar Grant Memorial Arts Project is to gather the creative works dedicated to Oscar Grant from artists, musicians, writers, photographers and others. Any form of creative expression will be accepted. It could be a video of a dance work, audio, song, poster, photo, art project, links to web pieces etc. Selected portfolio work will be featured in several Bay Area publications, print and online. If you have any questions or would like to contribute to this project, contact christinejoy@urbanhabitat.org. All submissions should be sent to artwork@urbanhabitat.org by March 21, 2009.

    People are angry. Thousands have been appalled by the Oscar Grant shooting and have taken a new stand to fight injustice. Many have chosen to creatively express their stance through art. Songs have been written and dedicated to Oscar Grant. Poems, paintings and posters have been created. Graffiti artists have painted murals.

    For this project, Media Alliance will act as a clearinghouse, collecting and archiving copies of the material and coordinating its presentation by partner publications, including Urban Habitat’s Race, Poverty & the Environment Journal, Media Alliance, InColor magazine and Street Spirit Newspaper. This work is supported by a grant from the Akonadi Foundation.

    This project is co-sponsored by Media Alliance and Race, Poverty and the Environment. Media Alliance’s mission is to defend, develop and strengthen independent media to support the creation of a truly democratic society and to build capacity of low income people and communities of color to create and be represented by media responsive to the communities needs. MA helps create alliances between media creators and media consumers to bring light to under-reported issues, build public support for fundamental rights to communicate and lift up best practices for the inspiration of a broad range of communities, regionally and nationally.

    Race, Poverty and the Environment is a project of Urban Habitat. Since, 1990 RP&E has been exploring issues at the nexus of race, class and the environment. Founded as a joint project of the Urban Habitat Program and the California Rural Legal Assistance Foundation’s Center on Race, Poverty & the Environment, since January 2004 RP&E has been solely a project of Urban Habitat. Urban Habitat builds power in low-income communities and communities of color by combining education, advocacy, research and coalition-building to advance environmental, economic and social justice in the Bay Area.




    Oscar Grant's Glimpse Of The New Year - Poem by Rashida Mack

    I am an African American 22 yr old man, 
    I am told to hit the ground, 
    pushed down, 
    I am lying on a Los Angeles platform, 
    As commanded, 
    Face down, 
    I hear a shot, 
    Then feel pain
    I am shot, 
    Fading black.

    Your Happy New Year to me, 
    Now called a mistake? 
    Glock 9mm, 
    Taser gun, 
    Glock 9mm, 
    On my stomach, 
    Face down, 
    Taser or Glock, 

    My body lies face down, 
    Shot down, 
    On the ground, 
    Murdered in the first degree, 
    On January 1st,2009, 
    In the United States of America.

    My name was Oscar Grant.


    Rashida Mack



    poem for Oscar Grant

    >> SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 2010

    Poem by Bay Area writer and poet Ann Jacobs

    By Ann Jacobs

    face down on the ground, hands behind his back
    an officer of the law feared he was about to attack
    exactly what you can do when two cops are on top of you
    sadly this is an old story, it's really nothing new

    ...Black men killed for nothing more than a whim
    even pinned down, they put an end to him
    but many eyes were watching the incredible sight
    and vowed not to let his death be just a slight

    those "sworn to serve and protect" tried to lie
    but they were on caught on camera with no alibi
    Let this man's death not be in vain
    we must stop this from happening again

    witnesses were not scared into silence
    the world cries out for an end to senseless violence


  • poets header

    Other Voices Poetry Series Spring 2018 Saint Anselm College

    Save the Dates! We have three exciting poets coming this Semester in the Other Voices Diversity Initiative Series.

    Each event will have an afternoon workshop, a dinner with the poet, and an evening reading.
    Slots for the workshop and dinner are limited. You can RSVP and register at the links below.


    Thursday, March 1   Hannah Larrabee.  Workshop at 3 in LLC  Reading at 7 in Perini 

    Wednesday March 21: Chen Chen.  Workshop at 3 in LLC  Reading at 7 in NHIOP West Wing 

    Wednesday April 4: Natalie Shapero.  Workshop at 3 in LLC  Reading at 7 in NHIOP West Wing

    Thursday, March 1   Hannah Larrabee  Workshop at 3 in LLC  Reading at 7 in Perini

    Sponsored by Other Voices Diversity Initiative, Lucubrations, Philosophy Department, and Conversatio

    Hannah Larrabee is the author of Murmuration (Seven Kitchens Press, 2017), Sufjan
    (Finishing Line Press, 2017), and
    Virgo (Finishing Line Press, 2009). Her poetry is inspired by the beauty
    revealed by science and its intersections with human meaning. She writes about
    astronomy, birds, fossils,
    ecology, natural forms, ancient Egypt, art, and theology, and relates all of these to the magic of  human
    experiences of love and beauty.
     She was recently chosen by NASA to add her work to the artists project
    associated with the 2018 launch of the  James Webb Space Telescope. She’s had poems appear in

    Rock & Sling, Lambda Literary Spotlight, The Fourth River, HOUSEGUEST, Printer’s Devil Review
    among others. Hannah teaches writing and works for a software company in Boston. She has a Master of Fine
    Arts degree in Creative Writing from the University of New Hampshire.


    March 1 Hannah Larrabee Workshop and Dinner Registration

    Wednesday March 21: Chen Chen  Workshop at 3 in LLC  Reading at 7 in NHIP West Wing
    Sponsored by Other Voices Diversity Initiative, Lucubrations, Philosophy Department, and Conversatio

    Chen Chen is a Chinese-American gay poet and author of When I Grow Up I Want to Be a List of Further Possibilities,
    which won the A. Poulin, Jr. Poetry Prize, the GLCA New Writers Award, and was longlisted for the National Book
    Award. The collection has been named one of the best of 2017 by The Brooklyn Rail, Buzzfeed Books,Entropy,
    and Library Journal. His work has appeared in Poetry, Tin House,The New York Times Magazine, Poem-a-Day,
    Best of the Net, The Best American Poetry, Bettering American Poetry, and The Best American Nonrequired Reading.
    Poets & Writers Magazine featured him in their Inspiration Issue as one of “Ten Poets Who Will Change the World.”
    He has also been featured on the PBS Newshour, NPR, and Out.com.




    Chen Chen March 21 Workshop and Dinner Registration

    Wednesday April 4: Natalie Shapero  Workshop at 3 in LLC  Reading at 7 in NHIP West Wing
    Sponsored by Other Voices Diversity Initiative, Lucubrations, New Hampshire Institute of Politics,
    Sociology Department, Philosophy Department.

    Natalie Shapero is the author of the No Object (Saturnalia, 2013) and Hard Child (Copper Canyon Press, 2017).
    Her writing has appeared in
    The Believer, The New Republic, Poetry, The Progressive, and elsewhere, and she
    is an editor at the
    Kenyon Review.
    Her latest project is an examination of the effects of capitalism on persons trapped within its effects through poems
    that take on the voice of people such as employees of Walmart. Her poetry “invite[s] the reader to leap into
    previously unconsidered lives and viewpoints while also recognizing in those lives and viewpoints certain elements of
    human experience that are common to us all. Essentially, literature can argue for the humanity of each and every person.”

    She earned a BA in Writing Seminars from the Johns Hopkins University, an MFA in Poetry from the Ohio State
    University, and a JD from the University of Chicago. For the 2011-2012 year, Shapero served as the Steven Gey
    Fellow with Americans United for Separation of Church and State. Shapero is Professor of the Practice of
    Poetry at Tufts University.



    Natalie Shapero April 4 Workshop and Dinner Registration





    Hi Poets,

    Tea and Poetry Workshop 

    Wednesday 8/28 8 PM  Bradley Third Floor

    Welcome back to another year. Come with your favorite poems or prompts or just some thirst for tea. Tea and Snacks as always. Bring a Friend! Drag a Freshman along!

    You can subsribe to the Workshop mailing list HERE

    Bring a Friend! Snacks and Tea as always.


  •  Cover from last year's Zine.