Spring of 2011

5

12

8

5

5

2

2

6

1

6

12,7

2

10

7

8

9

Jessica Andrade, “Abby Normal”

Jermane Cooper, “Stain”

Karla Cordero, “My Name is Culture”

Nicole G. Corrigan, “I”

Joyce Jacobo, “Drawing a Portrait”

Jenna Jauregui, “Suspension”

James Jones, “How to Build a Workbench”

David Lütke, “jalousie”

Troy Manning, “You Can’t Keep a Good Word Down”

Alex Enrique Montoya, “Mating Games”

Amy Salisbury, “Middleman” & “The Blue Paper Poem”

Jeff Schoneman, “that gap, in three”

Jane Sim, “You Gonna Believe”

Evan Smith, “Certainty”

Jacob Thum, “Debt without Color”

Brandon Youngdale, “A Parable of Culture and Identity”

5

3,7

8,11

2,3

8

3

11

6

11,12

Tiffany Balucanag

Philip Mykel Flores

Morgan Hall

Jenna Jauregui

Gladys Jimenez

Adam Olalde

Lexi Pollard

Nancy Rossignol

Amy Salisbury

Artwork & Photography

Poetry & Short Stories

Metonymy Smith felt a certain obligation to follow in his parents’ footsteps as a writer. His sister, Synecdoche, sensed no such onus whatsoever. She, in fact, felt wholeheartedly that it was her duty to put an end to the Smith family’s enduring legacy of verbal oppression.

Synecdoche’s initial act of subterfuge was enrolling in cosmetology school. Within a week, however, she was taken aside by her instructor and reprimanded for her persistent silence. “A silent hairdresser will never do,” said her teacher.

Dropping out of the school, Synecdoche considered going to a four-year college. But what majors required mini-mal contact with words? She considered becoming a music major with an emphasis in classical music, but figured that would entail some involvement with opera. She began a class in auto shop but quickly realized that, in this career, she would not only be sullied by coworkers’ colorful slang, but with coaxial cable grease to boot.

With their parents out of town for the weekend, Metonymy, with much hesitation, approached his sister to enlist her help with editing his story for his high-school English class. To his surprise, she reluctantly assented to the task. He watched, in silent self-castigation, as a sickly pallor swept across Synecdoche’s face as she read. With a red felt-pen she began to make marks. Slowly, her pigmentation assumed more color. With each notation she made, it seemed, a distinct redness accrued to both page and face.

Metonymy began wondering if his story was angering Synecdoche. As he continued to observe her, however, he detected a certain glee in her deliberation. Reaching the tale’s end, she looked up at him in an eerie crimson triumph. He looked at the paper she handed him, marveling that that much ink could be wrung from a vessel so small as a pen. Knowing her preoccupation of late with finding a suitable trade, he asked, “Have you considered becoming a butcher?”

While the obliteration of words indeed seemed a reasonable direction to pursue for one with Synecdoche’s con-victions, she understood that becoming an editor required substituting one word for still another as much as it did simply eliminating them. Though much damage could indeed be done in this field, she decided far more could be inflicted if she were to become a linguist.

The bombardment with words Synecdoche experienced in the following years of university study was truly excruciating, but her determination proved adequate to the demands. She continued into graduate school and was assigned for her mentor a professor of linguistic analysis with deconstructionist commitments. He denied any objective correspondence between words and the things to which they refer. “Language,” he said, “is a closed system that ultimately refers only to itself. It is the prison in which we live.” Synecdoche could barely suppress her excitement at finding, in this cobelligerent soul, one who could affix a name to the oppression she had long felt—or at least a name on which they could agree to agree.

Synecdoche’s parents, given her generally quiet disposition, were oblivious to any concerns with her chosen field of study. They were even delighted about it until she returned home for a visit between semesters.

The explanation Synecdoche gave her mother when asked about the word “ear” tattooed on her nose failed to satisfy. Synecdoche told her that meaning was merely subjective and that the relationship between words and the things they signify wholly arbitrary. When, at the dinner table two days later, her father noticed the word “nostril” on her right eyelid, she was informed her visit was over. “Well, I have something to say and I am not going to be just another pretty face,” she replied.

In the months following, Synecdoche continued to acquire tattoos of body-part words in unconventional loca-tions. By the time of her graduation, no prominent feature survived unlabeled. Many university faculty members thought her a role model of progressive thinking, and she easily garnered the honor of valedictorian. She consid-ered having her speech written on her body and reading it as it was projected on a screen, but saw there was no longer room enough on her skin to contain it.

As Synecdoche scratched her nose while pondering a novel approach for her speech, she was startled at the feeling of an unusual growth. Tattoos were great but giving her graduation address with a colossal zit was clearly another matter. She felt her skin on her face tightening and went to the bathroom mirror to assess the damage.

Synecdoche shrieked at the sight of the flesh of her nose as it discernibly mutated into an ear. Her once fair re-flection was coming to resemble a portrait by Picasso. Tears streamed freely from her left eye while mucus oozed slowly from her right.

The sun dangled somewhere between Winter and springWhite rays brightened hazy cloudsBlurring the yawning skyMy head in your blue-jeaned lapI squinted beneath the shining glare

You kissed my sun-starved nose asWe lay in the tall unmowed grassCool, thick and green after heavy rainSavoring silence, we cast Billowing parachutes to capture Birdsong and hushed, dancing branches

Wild turkeys tiptoed through dry, dead leavesScraping shadows beneath weighted wingsWe sprang to our feet, raced across the yardBare toes pressing soft dark soil and feathery bladesWhooping loudly with arms spread, we chased the fowlBack to the other side of the gap-toothed fence

That was the day purple weed blossoms Stuck in my untamed mane as weFrolicked like two friskyFoals set free from cold damp stablesTails snapping against the waningAfternoon breeze carryingWarm dandelion wishes

Wrack your body: balesof hay, tossed one-hand,one arm—one farmboy overalled

in a photograph. Nothingfor smiling on a grass stack,pitchfork grim, grinning;less color and less looney tune,

the sinew winds back again.And, again, the dim radiodial pulses and backpressures:a wide view through and out,

containing, but gaping too narrow to sail. A steer kicked a woman, and the cement patriarch punched. One fist,

one floored. Jenna Jauregui2

[one]i have a dog.

no, not that dog.

[two]i know what you want.

you want to hear the soundof wind blowing through pine trees.

and you know what you get?you get to hear ‘the sound

of wind blowing through pine trees.’

[three]smell roast chicken--

see my grandmother in her wooden kitchen--listen to her say ‘jeffrey’--

feel her hug me--understand my heart, that moment--

no,you have it all wrong.

I think I like my new decorations.I have all of my favorite things.

Playing pool, the beach, surfboards,boats, sun, horses, and Indian stuff.

Pipes, and handmade wood things.Music boxes, flutes, wood hanging beads.All handmade.

hawk featherpeyote stitch striped curtains comfortable office seats.

I like old barns, cemeteries andkind of hokey, gift shop, Indian plates.

Only if they are special, like a gift from a neighborwhen I was really sick -- so it means a lot.

Like the handmade pipe by Larry with coyote tailwood with antler bowlnever will stand up righton the stand my brother made.

and the TV antenna always tiltingnever working.

calendar and office lamplaptop wireless speakersspeaker phoneVictorian lampshadetrees and people sitting in treesand cemeteries and statuaries in cemeterywith grey clouds encumbering by pine trees.

Wrought iron fences with vistas beyondof a little town in the mountains with a storm coming on,

and redwoods with little people, in comparison.Shadows in Trees

and tree houses with little bobble heads and beesexercise rubber bands with bursts of sun in the middle and green foliage beyond with fans to cool ya.

Handmade plates all carved in Celtic design hats and bags and bean bag chairs blankets and pillows and paintings I’ve made.

and fans to cool you.

Divided by the big smokestack in the middle

The Wall Furnace

The Dividing Line between My

college diplomas and my hippie lifeand paintings I’ve made, places I’ve beenfriends I’ve had, and pets.

And my grandparents I barely knew.

And the box with Summersmoon

Wrack your body: balesof hay, tossed one-hand,one arm—one farmboy overalled

in a photograph. Nothingfor smiling on a grass stack,pitchfork grim, grinning;less color and less looney tune,

the sinew winds back again.And, again, the dim radiodial pulses and backpressures:a wide view through and out,

containing, but gaping too narrow to sail. A steer kicked a woman, and the cement patriarch punched. One fist,

one floored.

3

Jenna Jauregui

Lexi Pollard

Philip Mykel Flores

I am a drawing.

I can peer out at you through the ink letters. Can you see me? Can you see the young girl with skin fair as buttermilk, wrapped in a comforterdecorated by sakura blooms?

This morning I heard Fuji-san tremble, and I live in Los Angeles.

No.

I do not come from Japanese roots.

But I know tragedy—the heart-rending images flashing across a television screen, or just down the street. These are the moments I send gazes heaven-bound to make sure light still shines down upon us.

War. Earthquakes. Paranoia. Sadness.

If these things could bury us in darkness, the sun, moon, and stars would disappear into the void. We should then see nothing but what lies at our feet.

Yet all these sources continue to illuminate our world as always, revealing what we have never lost even when the earth moved—People.

There are still people who feel for us Who reach out for us Who remind us we exist And as long as we exist

There is no disaster able to truly shatter our spirits

These are the words written along my arms, creeping towards my face.

I draw so you can see me.

I draw to send comfort When I am at a loss For words To heal the wounds Time and love must seal.

Can you see me?

4

my name, abby normal, ghost white skin, is

bleached white from the sun, myclear blue eyes blotted

with, white specks of dust,my freckles,

perfect imperfections.-oranges and lemons,

square or, rather oblong withdimples in between, or

warts with extra baggage. -spoons, forks, and knives,

bent, chipped, or dipped in wax bodies contoured just slightly

enough to see; their ingenuity.-pennies, nickels, and dimes,crushed by railroad; bruised

or damaged, with fingerprints,rainbows of color; a hint of personal use.

-gummy bears, bottle tops, candy wrappers,some chewed, glued, bitten, mouse

slobbered, nut covered inthis rusty tin can lid.

perfect imperfections,my freckles

with white specks of dust,clear blue eyes blotted

bleach white from the sun, myghost white skin is

my name…

Recognize her by voice not by color Don’t judge because she is brown Nor assume things because she is female.No! She did not get pregnant at 16, insteadShe gave up that life to study in collegeNow she sits among the intelligence. Yes! She has brown hair butDon’t assume she is uneducated, insteadHer power with words will change the world.She fights with language that inspires. Yes! she has brown eyesNo! It does not mean she bows to a man, instead Her guidance restrains other women from domestic violenceYes! She is Latina butShe is not a master of domestic duties, insteadShe is an expert of her life as a woman, A fighter, and Latina.So recognize her by voice, not by color.

I paved the lattice: rails and tracks.I have plowed and plucked the fields.I have witnessed treaty settlein the eyes of Guadalupe Hidalgo.I have laid my head, in a bungalowprison of “Gum San” hills. Foundmyself, unarmed in war, in the PineRidge of Lakota. I sailed the sea, for months, shackled feet for shoes.Still, I am the zephyr.I am metonymy:custom and convention, phonology,inflection, dialects, dictions,oratories and whispers of traditions.I am a constant:American.

Tiffany Balucanag5

this sunday is heavydust and sunlight rest onthe blinds and a girlyawns in the streetmore thinking will be done

some days we never leave the bedyoung bloods young cardinalsnew england sounds good to meat the age of twelvei turned pro at breathing

and we’re jumping sets of stairsdays like this don’t come backthey stay in photographs andsuburban sidewalk chalk drawings andthe orange scent on our hands

ugly couches are perfectfor sleeping onwe share pillows and wake upwith floral prints on our faces

The indistinguishable buzzing hum of superficial voicesThat pulsates like the beating heart of beehive

Over bleary eyed backslaps and cackles.The air is thick with the smoke of cigarettes reduced to ash,

Nostrils sting with the pungent acidic smell of amber alcohol.Glasses poised on lips, condensating between fingers.

Past, present and future boiled down into anecdotal storiesTearing through the tongues of strangers seeking comfort in strange ears.

The ageless faces congregate like shipwrecked survivors, Victims of chance or fate.

Like schools of small fish or the massive roaming mammals of the seaThese Homo sapiens return to their familiar nesting grounds

In search of new mates.Love, an abstraction sold as a scarce commodity,

Is mined in the action of want and desire,A fire in constant need of fuel.

Can we ever find solace in the conscience of others when all things die alone?Can we ever shed the rotting fabric of the old world’s ways?

No, there are only animals and their mating games.

Nancy Rossignol6

Everything is beautiful.Everything is right.

The eye Is back.The ceiling SkyOf black Has crackedAnd sunk to sewThe floor below.I knowThat blue,A basic hue,Is meantTo representSubdueOr lowSensation,Not elation,Splendor,Adoration,Bliss,Or what is missedIn missing you.As my defender,What I’d seenBefore was moreThan loreOr Benzedrine.BetweenThe tattered sheenAnd liquor storeAnd saintly,Modest tales of yore,It seemed that SkyWas nevermore.

There are a million questions out there!I am just sad I won’t be around long enough

to ask all of them.But I am glad I have lived long enough

to answer a few of them.Only nine-hundred ninety-nine thousand,

nine-hundred ninety-seven left!I love you,

Goodnight,See you tomorrow, Dear.

Philip Mykel Flores

7

The world is my sanctuaryI am the architect

Profile infiniteAppearance undefinedDivergent in structureInconsistent in form

Intensity in pigmentationEpidermis in every hueFlorid of Silhouettes

Glorify a higher powerInnumerable deitiesRituals of Adoration

Bountiful DialectsVernacular GibberishAesthetic Discourse

Fusion of MasqueradesInstrumental Brawling

Choreography in HymnExotic in Nourishment

Miscellaneous in CuisineConglomerate of Entrees

Mastery of PicassoDexterity in Creation

Illustrations of ArtistryIdiosyncraticUniqueness

ExtraordinaryThe world is my playground

I am the fabricatorMy name is Culture

We are blamed for what we did not doShamed for hurt we’ve not caused you

Our regret has arrived long overdue For already ago out the flame we blew

A flash of light marked our debut As the bullets crash into the Sioux With brash hearts of see throughTurning all to ash without review

Of this day we cannot eschew Only defray for what we did not do

Hands weighed with the blood of glueSprayed on white skin as a the clue.

Morgan Hall

Gladys Jimenez

8

Culture and Identity sit down. Culture puts his backpack, full of magazines, well-taken notes, organic energy bars, and standardized practice test books next to his seat. She pulls out a new Smart Water bottle out and takes a swig. He sits straight and confi dent, things are how they should be. Identity follows behind the chair, placing her bag, full of books, philosophy books and novels (who am I? And am I alone?), at the leg of the chair. He reaches for the plastic Kirkland water container that’s next to the squished peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Tipping the container upside down she fi nishes the last few drops left. He hunches a little in her chair, not from insecu-rity, but because he can’t see Culture’s eyes from underneath the lamp hanging from somewhere up there. She still can’t see them, the lights block his vision, so he sits back.

Culture orders a Chai Latte, with fat free milk of course. Identity gets confused by the menu. Can I just get a coffee? Uh ok, do you want cream or anything? No, thank you.

They begin to talk. About things, stuff, anything really. Culture has a lot to say; a lot to say. Well, this happened then. And that means this. This person said this. A new study showed this. Identity tries to participate, tries to understand. But why did that happen? What does that mean for you, for me? How is that important? What differ-ence does that make? Culture answers the questions. Cool and fast. Answers that in-clude more info. This is what’s important now. This is what people are doing. This is what is important… for now. Culture waves her arms. He’s excited, passionate, she’s got something to say! Identity looks at him, wondering how to be like her. I can’t, I just don’t fi t. I’m not that smart, good, strong, whatever.

Wait! Something Culture said reminded me of something I read! Ah ha! I do have something to say! Something does make sense. Something does matter. He reaches in her bag. Pass the sandwich. Oops, the Cheez-It®s are smashed. Oh well, found it! Some book with a weird drawing on it. Is that person naked? Identity tries to preface, tries to connect the book to their life. He says the writer’s name: Kah-lel Gi-bron. Culture ask where he’s from. What did he do? What race? What ethnicity? Is he a woman? Sexual orientation? I don’t know. But listen to this, she turns to the page with the folded edge. He read… so, what do you think? Pretty good, right? I feel like it’s important, meaningful—I like it. It made sense to me. It made me sense. Feel. Culture sits back. It doesn’t fi t. Her conversation. His thoughts. Her world. Culture asks why it matters. What are you going to do with it? I’ll hold it. Hold it where? Identity shares. Culture says I’m sorry, that’s tough, good luck with that. Identity says thanks, refolds the edge, closes the book, and smashes the Cheez-It®s. They fi nish their drinks, and get up to leave. Culture puts on his Hollister sweater, fi tted, slim. Identity puts on her old sweater from the Eighth Grade volleyball team, worn, com-fortable. Culture leaves, confi dent the world will go on. Identity leaves, confi dent the world will go on, and he’ll be left behind. Our conversations made more sense when Purpose and Meaning hung around, but, come to think of it, I don’t know if they ever hung around.

9

Through the experience of human COUNT THE WAYS, symbols are eternally giving birth to new understandings of the essence of the x quotient, the new math, as it emerges, ever elusive, out of the unknown mist of creation. She was the parks department commissioner. Caught us paintin’ on her playground walls. Doomed us cartoons forever. This may be because of the particular and unique set of gifts the parks department commissioner has given especially to you to fulfill your own unique dot dot da dot da. We can all go back to runnin’ our business, AHEM.

To runnin’ our business. First, the capacity to have and to respond to realities that exist in a non-material way such as dreams, visions, leveling the leech, spiritual teachings, goals, and killing our oppressor. [indistinct chatter] Come to mama, you hot little digits! Values are the way people pattern and use their energy. OH, MMM! MMM Innumerable blessings, countless felicitations. Thank you beyond number and additional good stuff! The four grandfathers, the four winds, the four cardinal directions, and many other relationships that can be expressed in sets of four: let me lay my 20s on ya!

Second, the capacity to if I dared to take a chance would someone lead me. Come on you metal metatarsals of unknown or unrealized potential to do or be something more or different than the genius who created me. Shoo! Get on down the road requires a merging of the person’s total being with the activity at hand. Ironically, a position I had assumed all too often. Nobody home in soulville is the special gift of our little mouse sister. Others have used a she-bear or the wolverine to symbolize the same thing. Now watch me dance.

Mama used to always say to me, Fleet, from the West we can look over to the East, to the place of Evermean, wicked witch from the East, and there we can see our-selves standing naked to the universe, vulnerable and small before the stars. Mighty Zeus! He’s checkin’ us out. Mama had high ideals. You know what I mean? Just like a mirror can be used to see things not normally visible (e.g. behind us or around a corner), I been a two-bit, carnie hustler all my life. And I want a heart. The love learned in the South is the love of one person for a you gonna believe?

10

Morgan Hall

Amy Salisbury Morgan Hall

Adam Olalde

11

Like days you can’t put numbers to,Or sounds you’ve wrung your eardrums through,Like faces few you thought you knew,Or stately titles in the queue;The unexciting sleep today,When touch and taste are torn away,When life and death are blank and weighA heavy sigh.Exhale.Decay.

I look at you, and in your eyesI see me. What I’ve always seen.

You see a Stain.Of darkness over me.

The Stain you perceiveIn its deceptively deceiving nature

Overwhelms you-fooling not your eye,But unveiling instead

The hatred in your heart.

I can’t see your heartAnd I don’t need to. Your eyes betray

That you are Stained.It shows only when you see mine;Unconsciously, the memories stir

abandoned to the lawsof those who came before

or perhaps laws more personally defined.But definition is not necessary.

My Stains are permanent, beyond mere

Erasing-Yet time and deedsCan cure others.

Lend me your time,Enough to prove

My Stainis no brand.

Allow my deeds to revealYour Stain is unfounded.

Amy Salisbury

12

About The PALM The Pride Annual Literary Magazine is a student journal of fine arts first conceived over a decade ago. The magazine, produced entirely by mem-bers of The Pride student newspaper of Cal State San Marcos, features poetry, short stories, photography, and artwork submitted by both un-dergraduate and graduate students of CSUSM. Throughout its history, The PALM has sought to celebrate the diversity of the CSUSM campus community, and this edition seeks to explore the intricacies of identity and culture in relation to that diversity.

Contributing Editors Ashley Day Chris Giancamilli Jenna Jauregui Lexi Pollard

Editor / Copy Chief Amy Salisbury

Editor / Publicity Sandra Chalmers

Layout Design Morgan Hall

AcknowledgementsThe staff of The PALM would like to thank Advanced Web Offset, Inc. for the printing of this magazine, Professor Joan Anderson of the Literature and Writing department for serving as Advisor of both The Pride and The PALM, James Jones, the president of the Creative Writing Community and Workshop, for contributing to the conception of this magazine, the Student Media Advisory Council, and the College of Arts and Sciences for educating the students whose knowledge contributed to the production of The PALM.

The Pride © 2011

The Pride © 2011