staff

editorletter from the contributors:

Al QamarCharlotte Curtis

Hannah SaittaMark Calabio

Mindy LamRose Quezada

Saki ChanShannon McPeak

Sonya RediVannie Nguyen

Vy Lam

OCCIPITAL LOBE : visual processing

TEMPORAL LOBE : auditory processing, higher visuals

FRONTAL LOBE : emotional control, strategy

PARIETAL LOBE : somatosensory and visuo-spatial mapping

Steve Bass Editor-in-chief

Vannie Nguyen Managing Editor

Shannon McPeak Text Editor

Vivian Moon Layout Editor

Stephanie Nowinski Asst. Layout Editor

We do not take responsibility for the accuracy of this brain representation. For clarification, ask your bio friends.

The publication may have been funded in part or in whole by funds allocated by the ASUCSD. However, the views expressed in this publication are solely those of Mania Magazine, its principal members and the authors of the content of this publication. While the publisher of this publication is a registered student organization at UC San Diego, the content, opinions, statements and views expressed in this or any other publication and/or distributed by Mania Magazine are not endorsed by and do not represent the views, opinions, policies, or positions of the ASUCSD, GSAUCSD, UC San Diego, the University of California and the Regents or their officers, employees, or agents. The publisher of this publication bears and assumes the full responsibility and liability for the content of this p u b l i c a t i o n .

Our cover art for this issue is Charlotte Curtis’ “Magnified.”

space

Galaxy page

vacant, full of

same/similar/segments

ephemeral language coming in sections,

fizzing out like folding stars

clinging on to light.

meteors

tumbling

full of something, like a

being.

similar to exception, or extracting meaning

from a feeling that is fleeting in directions

of sensational emotions

birthed from within and growing

while I talk and talk and talk

into words and punctuation

that devalue with inflation

of my pretense

before definition

there was feeling

which surged from a hole

like an oil well, oozing with darkness

a face

round with words to say

so thrown and caught by a page they’d be saved in

a memory net

meaning looks elsewhere

to a split-veined word

carrying

consequence

so I ask questions no more

and resign to speak in codes.

august types with black ink. by Rose Quezada

maniasubmissions@gmail.com

ask us questions atmaniamag@gmail.com

poetry

1

It hurts from the upside

Down

Whispering pain to everything

But the frown

Gracing the edges of your sanity

But who says that this is the end

After all, the road may bend

Your eyesight may limit your motivation

Leaving you nothing but trepidation

You are your own stand still

Oblivion lies on the left

Of what’s right

Try but you will

Lose your best fight

Swift words never see the countering blow

But who says that this is the end

After all, the road may bend

The twilight may limit your dedication

Leaving you nothing but inspiration

You are your own stand still

You look to the north

Afraid you’ve gone south

Muttering excuses

For the sin of your mouth

You think amen will save you

But who says that this is the end

After all, the road may bend

Tonight may limit your admiration

Leaving you nothing but this generation

You are your own stand still

the morningby Cindy Lam

galleryby Hannah SaittaT eRoad May Bend

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Opposite page (clockwise from top-left):1 “ How was your day?” by Cynthia Mar2 “Jawbreaker” by Charlotte Curtis3 “hhjkljk” by Cynthia Mar4 “Untitled” by Cindy Lam

Current page (clockwise from top-left)1 “Once Familiar Home (an imaginary place we both miss)” by Charlotte Curtis2 “The Fly By” by Charlotte Curtis3 “Portrait (Lisa)” by Charlotte Curtis4 “Portrait (Dawn)” by Charlotte Curtis5 “one” by Cindy Lam

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“Sing of Love” (left) and “Three, Four at Your Door”by Charlotte Curtis

gallery

7

The rising sound of electric staticBuzzes down the metal tracksThe train is coming.

For a moment, I stare at the empty space ahead of meAnd wonder what life would beIf I cross the yellow paint on the platformWhat would it be likeTo stand on the edgeJust to reach the blue staticTo see itTo feel itTo be it.

I find myself standingThe desire swelling up in meAnd moving my legs ever so closerToward the dirty chipped yellow paintSTAY BACK OF THIS YELLOW LINEThe bold yellow become an invisible wallAnd rationally suffocates desire.

The static grows louder nowLiving and screamingThe train is coming.

I long for the farthest reachesPast the yellow beyond the tracksAnd into the blue static.

Metal clankingLoud screeching of breaksDeafens the staticAs the train reaches to a halt.

by Vannie Nguyen

So I have this dream, okay. Where I’m flying. Only it’s not really like flying at all, more likeI’m running, Jumping higher in the air with every stepUntil the atmosphere is thin, so thin I can’t Breathe.They’re chasing me with sirens and choppers, And I’m running so fast,Except that I’m struggling to find a foothold. Because, you see, there’s nothing in the airBut clouds and sunshine as far as I can see. And I’m falling.

by Mindy Lam

My hair got caught on a cloud when I tried to catch youbut you were too fastand so I just hung therein painwaiting to fall on the worldhoping you would catch me.

by Sonya RediMy pillow is hardBut I don’t careI just need a sleeping brick.

My head is hardBut I don’t careI just need a sleeping brick.

by Mindy Lam

darling, I’ll love you until we die

so why don’t you fucking die already

by Mark Calabio

When I’m tired and uninspired,I write in prose; however,

I like to rhyme from time to timeto show that I am clever.

by Saki Chan

You look past your lids peacefullyAnd dream a dream You wish when You were wakingTwitching TossingTossing twitchingThose eyesFluttering FlashesTime elapsesYour sleeping faceStill in contrast toYour waking one.In the darknessI think deeply.Morning comesWhen misery cantYou slowly spreadYour soft smileIt is your waning faceI wake up to.But I like this face too.Your sleeping face.Your self-seeking faceThe one you yourself cannot seeThe one I myself can seeWith that will I TranscribeWhat is with timeTil dawn peaksDreaming peacefully.

by Vannie Nguyen

poetry

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by Sonya Redi

If you’re missing the essence of your soul You might know where he isAll curled up with meWhile I make my morning tea.

If you feel arms around youA feeling of longing, yearning andIncessant kissing; Behold!That would be your other half missing.

There is a valley of love down that hillOn the cliffs of it, I am hanging Losing ground, clutching a twigTwig, separating My world from Ours.

In love that mirrors the emotion I want to giveIn friendship that reflects the strength I want to feelIn those hopes, I looked and looked awayI put them in a box, and decided I was naive.

Why, I can climb up and stroll awayStroll away into this sleep-walking worldAway from that valley, with only the thoughtOf that Perfect moment.

When every piece in life’s puzzleOnce misplaced were finding their wayAround one galloping glow in the centerWaiting to interlock and meld.

In that box, of all things ephemeral but beautifulWas a face. Was a fantasy. Was a faraway truth. In our time, on that argosy of magic sailI could see the glimmer of that keyThat could only be for that lock.

On that box. Of all things that could Grip you by the soul And dunk you, in that valleyIn that roaring river Of sincerity, of finality, of something worth living for.

A tall frame, a tint of glasses and greyOut of the corner of my eyePassing by. Down in that box,Something rattled. And then went quiet. And floated atop, hovering aboutThe words in bloodWhen I stood behind you.

Life, you have always dealt me 3Like Portia’s casketsOne in GoldOne in Silver And, One in Lead.

I’ve battled. Burnt a trail in the forest. Rummaged in your wickedness.Weighed myself.But, no. I will prick through the thicketAnd, find my casket. My casket of Lead.A journey not as smooth, not as easy.

Alas, I am compelled by something Isn’t that amazing?!Something, my mind cannot control!And that my soul desperately wants.It is your most challenging card. But it is the one I want. The one that is mine.

And, that …Is how I know from the choice of 3Gold, Silver and LeadThat you’ve dealtAnd you’ve Dealt me.

That is how I know. Who I am.What I do.And, that I was meant for you.

by Al Qamar

poet

ry

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