Normal Noise Magic Issue 2 Normalnoise Volume 4 Issue 2 // S19

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normal noise magic issue 2 NORMALnoise volume 4 issue 2 // S19

the magic issue 3 the magic issue 3 Area Codes 7 Aryanna Chutkan FICTION

Start of Nothing 8 Nicole Enriquez

Dark Magic: 14 Cindy Reynolds The Modern Writer’s Melancholy

Stretch Tryptich 18 Evan Underbrink POETRY

The Cut 20 Elizabeth Rowe

Independentisme Mágic: 24 Martín Hans Eslava Magic, Magicians and Catalan Separatism

Notes on Opportunity, 28 Chandler Arndt POETRY from a snowy hotel room

Señora Lopez’s Taste of the Border 30 Alyssa Lindsey FICTION

Clandestine: 35 Carolina Marques de Mesquita Or, Why the Jonas Brothers Reunion Means Everything

Not Every Sunrise 37 Ariella Nardizzi

Now You See Me, 42 Chandler Fritz Now You Don’t

Magic.java 44 sage POETRY

Artist Spotlight 45

4 NORMALnoise Dear reader,

As the editors of Normal Noise pondered the theme of “magic,” we entertained thoughts of mythos, make- believe and our mysterious gravitation towards themes starting with the letter “m.” What could be more charming than 45 pages of musings on all things mystical? You may be surprised to find that the reality of this issue is less paranormal, more political commentary. Fewer fairytales, and more first loves.

This issue is for skeptics and believers alike. Whether you believe that unicorns exist or not, we ask that you consider the magic that can be found in the most mundane places. In this issue, dear reader, you’ll find reflections on the romanticization of mental illness, the reconciliation of overlapping cultural identities and the strange magic of living in the spaces in between. We’re spellbound by the ordinary and seek to understand the unexplained. All the while, we know that the truth might evade us – still, we believe that the pursuit of knowledge comprises its own kind of magic.

As both of us wrap up our final issue with Normal Noise, we remain most enchanted by the incredible minds that make up our community. For eight issues we’ve watched our contributors conjure stories, artwork, and critical thought engaging the matters of greatest cultural, political, and social importance to ASU and Phoenix more broadly. We know that Normal Noise will continue to be a space where students shed light on the mysterious, the forgotten and the misunderstood.

On behalf of Normal Noise, we thank Barrett, the Honors College at Arizona State University; our faculty advisor, Dr. Mina Suk; Vice Provost and Dean Dr. Mark Jacobs; Associate Dean Dr. Kristen Hermann; Vice Dean Dr. Nicola Foote; and Ellyse Crow for their continued support and guidance. We thank our contributors, whose dedication to this publication inspires us and pushes us to continue producing high-quality critical content every semester. Lastly, we thank you, the reader, for engaging with us as we attempt to create an environment of collaboration, reflection, and community at Barrett.

Sincerely, Carolina Marques de Mesquita & Kaylie Volpe Editors-in-chief, Normal Noise

Normal Noise is a semesterly magazine supported by Barrett, the Honors coeditors-in-chief Carolina Marques de Mesquita College at ASU. Each issue provokes conversation about the complexities Kaylie Volpe of everyday life through long-form journalism and art. features editors Leilani Jimenez Alyssa Lindsey Normal Noise is student-run. Views expressed in the magazine do not reflect those of the administration. Contact the editors at copy editor Michelle Ailport [email protected]. literary editor Chandler Fritz

Like Normal Noise on Facebook, check out our website at normalnoise. design & arts editor Zac Stone wordpress.com and follow us on Instagram @normalnoisemag. faculty advisor Mina Suk, Ph.D.

the magic issue 5 6 NORMALnoise Area Codes Aryanna Chutkan

Parvati kneels in front of plates of fruit and candles. She coats the jagged seams of her body with spiraling flowers. She puts her finger on the map, and mouths the words to a song in a language she doesn’t speak. She stares at the idol on the wall, and when she doesn’t feel it stare back she scorches her fingertips snuffing out her candles. As she walks away, her family looks down and down and down on the half-burnt scrawled out prayers she leaves in her wake. Parvati can see the water out the window; she counts the miles from her ancestors’ coasts like minutes until the storm rolls in. She thinks about the way the sky promises rain that never comes as she wraps her dreams up in threadbare American flags. She goes out at night and lets the waves wash over her bare feet. She waits with her face tilted up towards the moon like there's something she needs to hear. She stays like that, eyes closed face bathed in moonlight, until her candles burn out and she can't stand the silence. She’s got a nasty kind of craving for Americana, so she stays up late and sucks someone else’s cigarette smoke through her teeth. She worships in empty grocery stores at 3 a.m. with boys and girls who never asked her name, and while they’re busy ripping at the seams of her stitched up life, she sings a prayer, knowing full well that there won't be an answer. Parvati is a patchwork quilt of a person, looking for something to fix her ripped seams, and, in the washed out greys of her town, this is not unusual. Parvati swears up and down that she is not that kind of girl, but when that perfect American girl from three doors down offers her a ride to the beach she does not refuse. She forgets to pray when the bonfire is lit. Instead she screams along to love songs in red, white, and blue like a call and response hymnal that she never learned the words to. She dances with girls that are too perfect to ask too many questions, and imagines that she fits here. She ignores the hollow feeling in her chest that comes with every song about blue-eyed girls. Parvati fills her empty spaces with a shiny U.S.A. She wears the word in the hollow of her throat, and tucked behind her collarbones. It tastes cold and sickly-sweet like the red, white, and blue popsicles handed out on the Fourth of July. Parvati whispers the word like a prayer as she bleaches her hair, and slips on new blue eyes. She smacks her lips and looks at her brand-new American self. She buries her gods' idols in the cold sand at the beach, and doesn’t meet the shining eyes of her great-grandfather’s portrait. They do not belong in this area code.

Aryanna Chutkan is a political science and French major interested in Francophone Africa, linguistics and colonialism. Her writing deals with themes of adulthood, relationships, identity and self-identification.

the magic issue 7 Start of Nothing Start of Nothing Start of Nothing Start of Nothing Start of Nothing Nicole Enriquez

8 NORMALnoise One of my favorite lyrics of all time is growth. When a romantic relationship from Frank Ocean’s song “Ivy.” The song ends, how you recover from such in- begins powerfully with “I thought that I tense emotions and what you take from I thought was dreaming when you said you loved that relationship are monumental steps me/The start of nothing, I had no chance to finding the right one. It’s very easy to that I was to prepare/I couldn’t see you coming.” use your first love as the benchmark by Ocean describes that surreal experience which you judge future relationships. of someone telling you they love you for But not all love is experienced equal- dreaming the first time. It’s a dreamy and euphor- ly: anthropologist Helen Fisher argues ic — even hallucinatory — experience. there are three types of love that all oc- when you In some instances romance comes out cur independently from each other in of nowhere, surprising you and taking different parts of the brain. Fisher stud- you on a whirlwind adventure. Other ied the cognitive and neurobiological said you times romance blossoms out of friend- processes underlying love and attrac- ship and evolves into something more. tion to develop the Three Loves Theory loved me/ Relationships grow mysteriously, and to explain the different components of they’re complex and unpredictable. Or each love experience. so I thought. In order to truly understand this theo- The start First loves are powerful, but ry, I decided to interview a fellow Arizo- they’re so much more than a collection na State University student, Noah Har- of nothing, of a few magical moments. A first love ris, a current junior studying elementary is different from a relationship with any education. She and her boyfriend met other person because of the significance when they were 14 years old and have I had no of experiencing such intense emotions been together for six years. I was in- with someone for the first time. One spired by Harris and how her relation- chance to reason for the intensity of these emo- ship has endured from adolescence into tions can be explained from a biochem- adulthood, during periods where rapid ical perspective. The startling changes emotional, psychological and physiolog- prepare/I you notice within yourself resemble ical change transform who we are. That going through puberty, a time when ev- her relationship withstood so many of couldn’t see erything is new and unexplainable. A these changes is remarkable. surplus of unfamiliar hormones in your Their story begins in an ordinary body lends to the intensity of first love. freshman history class. When I inter- you coming. Another factor that heightens this viewed Harris, she reminisced about the experience is that love is a motivation- first time she met him: “I had a weird al state. According to data published in feeling. I knew we would be good to- “Reward, addiction, and emotion regu- gether. At the time it probably didn’t lation systems associated with rejection mean anything, but it was a gut feeling.” in love” in 2010, research using magnet- For most people the gut feeling de- ic resonance imaging from the National scribed by Harris happens during the Center for Biotechnology Information first stage of love, which Helen Fisher shows that the brains of men and wom- categorizes as lust. Lust occurs in the en in love were activated in the part of reptilian part of the brain, the one that the brain connected with cravings, ben- controls our desire for instinctual repro- efits and losses. In other words the brain duction. Essentially, this love is based creates love, or rather your first idea only on the premise of physical attrac- of love, to get what it desires. In order tion. The best way to describe this love to get what you want, the brain manu- is to reference Romeo and Juliet, figures factures love to motivate you. This can overwhelmed by the power of first love. also explain why your first relationship In the famous tragedy’s Folger Shake- produces such a long-lasting effect upon speare Edition, Romeo describes love your mind. as a “smoke raised by the fume of sighs; First love produces a psychologi- being purged, a fire sparkling in lover’s cal effect that is vital to one’s personal eyes.” Yet there is no attachment. Once

the magic issue 9 the lust has come and gone, there is al- emotion regulation systems associated most always an instantaneous reach for with rejection in love,” the “self” parts of another. their own brain will light up when they The second love is passion. This -oc think about the other person, which is curs in the mammalian part of the brain something that doesn’t happen when when two people experience a true they think about anybody else. When I emotional connection. People in this discussed this phenomenon with Har- stage often get caught up in the fantasy ris, she gave me a different perspective: of creating a perfect life with somebody. “I think we’re a good example of oppo- Passion cannot exist without lust, but in sites attract, and sometimes it makes me order for this stage to last, there must wonder how we’re still together because be a significant amount of emotional we’re so opposite. It’s not always obvi- chemistry and a continuous sharing of ous, I can’t really see myself in him, but experience between two people. A lack That’s the there are little things that we have taken of newness within the relationship will from each other.” cause this phase to die out, and losing closest to Being able to self-identify with some- this passion can be a heartbreaking mo- one stems from the sentiment of uncon- ment. I asked Harris if she could recall ditional love. Harris’s definition of un- such a moment in her relationship. She heartbreak: conditional love is simply “being there responded: “I think the closest to heart- for someone no matter what and caring break I’ve ever experienced is when we when I say for them despite all of their bad quali- find ourselves in a rut. If I’m not trying ties.” The promise of “no matter what” as hard or he’s not trying as hard, or if always sounds easier than it actually is. we’re not intentionally working on our to myself, The guarantee of selfless and unrelent- relationship, then things will get in a rut. ing commitment towards another per- That’s the closest to heartbreak: when I this could be son requires effort and time. Ultimately, say to myself, this could be ending, and I no string of words or collections of sci- don’t know what to do from here.” entific evidence can truly replicate the After speaking with Harris, it’s clear ending, and knowledge of what it’s like to love and the biggest challenge in any relationship to be loved. is trying to maintain that spark. She put I don’t know Although dating and relationships it beautifully: “You have to make time among younger generations continue because life gets so busy. In the begin- to change and take different forms than ning it was so easy because it was just what to do they have in the past, I think anyone there. But now you have to work for could reach Fisher’s final stage. Millen- that spark, and when it is there, you get from here. nials and Generation Zers don’t have to glimpses of the past and how things were live long lives in order to find the one in the beginning.” That doesn’t necessar- for them, and Harris’ case is one exam- ily mean the magic is entirely gone, but ple Frank Ocean sings: “I ain’t a kid no that relationships require work. In the more/We’ll never be those kids again.” passion stage, the true test of compati- He is reminiscent for the person that he bility will be whether or not two people used to be, and reaches the bittersweet can brave the test of time. realization that he’ll never be the same After passing the first two stages, one following his first love. Yet even though reaches the final stage of commitment. a relationship may be the start of noth- Long-term commitment is when pas- ing, in the end, you will always walk sion prevails, along with the idea the away with so much more. relationship will endure indefinitely. One of the most extraordinary features of this type of love is that couples who have been together long enough will Nicole Enriquez is a sophomore studying begin to see themselves in that person, business law. She wishes she could spend all her time in a coffee shop making playlists for Spotify, merging with their significant other. but for now she’s perfectly content with just According to “Reward, addiction, and making them for herself.

10 NORMALnoise “Thank you” by Cai Garcia, 2018. 50mm digital photography.

the magic issue 11 “Half Alive,Fully Aware, Completely Lost” by Cai Garcia, 2019. 50mm digital photography.

“A Mid90’s Summer Night’s Dream” by Cai Garcia, 2019. 50mm digital photography.

12 NORMALnoise “Stranger Things” by Cai Garcia, 2018. 50mm digital photography.

“Siren” by Cai Garcia, 2018. 50mm digital photography.

the magic issue 13 Dark Magic: The Modern Writer’s Melancholy Cindy Reynolds

It was 3:24 — an ambiguous time just before dawn, lingering chill from the night entering the room from a slight crack in the window. The time had nothing of significance to me besides my bizarre ability to look up at exactly this time each morning. I had to be up in about two hours, but something about the time between 2 a.m. and 4 a.m. had a remarkable effect on my ability to write, to think, to dream. Perhaps it was my deictic thoughts that led me to this moment, percolating into a potent brew I couldn’t bear to sip once the sun had risen.

14 NORMALnoise I began writing as a hobby as many of had to be of tragic origins. I had to be us do. I discovered the world of fiction sick to write, and the sicker I was, the The displacement after realizing the title of writer was not better my products were. only reserved for grown-ups who had Why had I created this metonymic of my own gone through college to get a writer’s link between writing and melancholia? degree. Though hesitant to place such melancholy to the a bold title to my name, I continued to In his article “Writing While Under activity of writing create worlds of my own, characters of the Influence of Depression,” published epic proportions and scenarios of ques- on Oct. 26, 2017, on The Creative Penn, supported the Dark Magic: tionable origin. I had full control of my author Mark O’Neill speculated that words, and for the first time in my life, depression in writers is largely influ- dangerous illusion I had the ability to determine how life enced by how much time they spend that writing had The Modern Writer’s would progress. writing alone. Writing, a predominantly I wrote obsessively. From the moment solitary activity, is produced by our own I would wake for school to the instant thoughts and done on our own time. to be of tragic before I fell asleep, I was scribbling in The great anglophone writers of re- origins. I had to Melancholy my notebook or typing drafts on my cent history valued their own privacy phone to save for later. and solitude when writing. Sylvia Plath be sick to write, My love for writing was a form of so- battled depression throughout her life- lace, giving comfort during the times I time and found writing to be an outlet and the “sicker” I felt trapped in the throes of my life. The for her thoughts. Jennifer Latson wrote pen was the magical wand I could wave in her article, “Why Some Blamed Poet- was, the better my to my heart’s content to create control. ry for Sylvia Plath’s Death,” published in The strokes of ink were simply the il- Time on Feb. 11, 2015, that Plath wrote products were. lusions of the lives I could command, a fervently towards the last few months balm for the one I felt I was a pawn to. of her life and slept very little. In 1963 Parts of me withered with each word Plath committed suicide. Many of her I wrote, leaving behind the faint cries poems were published posthumously by for help from a past me that no one else her husband, English poet Ted Hughes. could hear. William Faulkner wrote “As I Lay 3:24 a.m. was my favorite time of Dying” over the course of six weeks the day. Mulling over my increasingly between midnight and 4 a.m. and pre- cynical thoughts through my writing ferred to write at night. Faulkner once disguised itself as a form of solace and revealed to the public that he “always comfort when in effect it did the oppo- [kept his] whiskey within reach” when site. I channeled some of my favorites: he wrote and often couldn’t remember Plath, Faulkner, Salinger. his thoughts once came morning. He Perhaps I was experiencing what struggled with alcoholism up until his James Kaufman, professor of educa- death. tional psychology at the University of O’Neill linked imposter syndrome Connecticut, calls “the Sylvia Plath ef- with high rates of depression in writ- fect.” Coined in 2001 in his article, “The ers. Linked to the substantial amount of Sylvia Plath Effect: Mental Illness in time writers spend alone to write, im- Eminent Creative Writers” published poster syndrome occurs when writers in the Journal of Creative Behavior, the become skeptical of their own abilities Sylvia Plath effect describes the distinct and accomplishments as if they were vulnerability of writers to mental illness. people pretending to be writers — im- Among many of the greatest writers, posters. one can observe high rates of mental J.D. Salinger, following the unex- illness and substance abuse, sometimes pected fame that came with publishing leading to premature death. his controversial bildungsroman, “The The displacement of my own melan- Catcher in the Rye,” spent the rest of choly to the activity of writing support- his life avoiding the limelight. In their ed the dangerous illusion that writing 2013 biography of the writer, “Salin-

the magic issue 15 “Moonsong” by Kelsey Phillips, 2019. Digital illustration.

16 NORMALnoise ger,” David Shields and Shane Salerno poems from her original manuscript. It past due that we make these narratives claimed Salinger spent ten years writ- wasn’t until 2004 that a new version obsolete; after all, writing is simply an ing “Catcher” and the rest of his life “Ariel” was released in its original order. expression of humanity. It’s time to re- regretting it. Salinger hadn’t expected Hughes knew all too well that tragedy turn the favor to these creators. anything more than criticism from his was a well-loved product of the culture 3:24 a.m. is still my favorite time of friends and family; the worldwide expo- industry and chose to alter her works day. As the breeze drifts into my studio sure “Catcher” received was more than to fit his own narrative. Perhaps Plath from the window beside my bed, parts he ever wished for. would not remain so exceptionally ro- of me continue to wither with each word Perhaps Salinger experienced his case manticized and misunderstood if not I write but leave behind the faint whis- of imposter syndrome from the success for his role in creating her legacy. pers of a past me as they bid farewell to of “Catcher.” In response to the over- Beyond the quixotic magic surround- a brighter me. whelming fame that followed the novel’s ing these tormented writers was a world publication, Salinger quickly withdrew far from eloquent words and seamless from the life he was previously living, chapters that I didn’t know existed be- avoiding the spotlight (coincidentally fore my 3:24s. It was the world of Sylvia parallelling the actions of his protago- Plath’s aching legacy and of J.D. Salin- nist Holden Caulfield). ger’s lifelong regret — the self-destruc- But I wasn’t producing the inner tive world of writing so many fall victim monologues of 15 different characters to. in the span of just six weeks, nor was I a writer suddenly brought to incredible It didn’t register that my metonymic fame with my writing. link between writing and melancholia Why was I up at 3:24 each morning was destructive until I attempted to pick in search of the very solace that others up my pen a few weeks into my soph- couldn’t find? omore year. After months of stepping Like a magician turning a handker- away from writing during my designat- chief into a rabbit in the blink of an eye, ed sleeping hours, I was eager to start I, too, had performed my own magic again. trick: turning my solace into the prolif- Yet I couldn’t do it. eration of my pain. Although I wasn’t Over the course of several dozen at- Plath or Salinger, I wasn’t immune to the tempts to write, it was clear this wasn’t Sylvia Plath effect. the typical case of writer’s block. Writ- Perhaps the modern culture industry ing had become an expression of my encourages us to romanticize mental vulnerable mental stability and a mark- illness. Literary and pop culture cele- er of the suffering I couldn’t reveal phys- brates the tormented writer. Like the ically or verbally. tortured artist, another product of the I don’t blame writing for the trou- modern culture industry, the tormented bles I experienced as I partook in it; the writer has become the archetypal mark- clandestine writing I created during my er of literary tours de force. 3:24s was a substance I indulged in and In the case of Plath, the public’s per- ultimately abused. ception of the author was largely dis- As open dialogues about mental ill- torted by the postuhumous publication ness become commonplace, the shame of her work. Following Plath’s death, I used to feel about my writing contin- Ted Hughes became her literary execu- ues to fade along with each piece I share tor, and all of her work was left to his au- with the public. Although the occur- thority. His decision to release her poems rence of mental illness is not exclusive to and collections when he did played a artists and writers, we continue to exac- substantial role in enshrining her in the erbate the stigma by treating it as if it is. mind of the public as a tormented writer Moreover, the romanticized narratives with a tragic fall. Notably, Hughes pub- we’ve created for writers such as Plath, Cindy Reynolds is a sophomore studying biolog- lished “Ariel,” a collection of her poetry, Faulkner and Salinger pose barriers ical sciences and English literature. She recently received a 99 percent on her organic chemistry in 1965. In the 1965 version of “Ariel,” to addressing mental illnesses, despite exam and is constantly torn between taking a nap Hughes edited, re-compiled and omitted growing dialogues about them. It’s long or throwing a 30-second dance party.

the magic issue 17 Stretch Tryptich Evan Underbrick

I. In the year of my first Eros, under a willow tree, I read Dante, and saw the stars:

“that one, there. left of Orion’s shoulder, further up and further in

I shall walk the billion years, the billowous clouds of dark matter on golden seas of light between fey Vulcan sparks.

To see in tennis shoes the expanse sin fine, and reach arbitrary perfection within unchained choice, then choose, and choose, and then…”

Mad mockery, dark quiver-squall horrors, my life pitiable beyond laughter, if thee are not Thee, but me; so all the celestine is ordure, and God but Tantalus bones.

II. How marvelous it would be To walk in the caverns made by moonlight on still rivers, bigger than the world. To plod along in a mirror's bones and blood. To see the concave become convex.

Give me clear mirrors! Point them up Curve them in. Let me see the universe in a pin.

18 NORMALnoise In scrying bowls let me go on sun waves and star seas, In fleet foot dance, on bended knees.

For all is warped within me, with cataracts of gall and tear-blur, I need a warped mirror just to see.

III. I stretch out, touch infinite expanses left hand a birds nest from St. Kevin’s cell, right dipping to waters the holy spirit o’er-hovers. Feet in language with near-vellitious variety: head cracked in awful generation, racing forward, reaching back.

Logic, labyrinthine, with infinities stacked to endless degrees innumerable times. The human mind-

But I should think these things, which are experienced and known by the human mind, and should be for me encompassable... should I have the time unlimited. The villainy of “should!”

But to be limitless would be the end of being human. And, being inhuman, would the infinite seduce infinite desire? Or be as mundane as sand, and the space between the stars.

Evan Underbrink is a student of Italian in a very long- term love affair with Dante Alighieri although there is the occasional tryst with Seamus Heaney and Osip Mandelstam. He aspires for a Ph.D in the field of religion and literature and currently holds a B.A. from Whitworth University and an M.T.S. from Duke Divinity School.

the magic issue 19 The

CutElizabeth Rowe

2020 NORMALNORMALnoisenoise Since “you are what you eat,” my ation, I chose dark blue flowers for my grandmother is a can of Diet Pepsi, a first pair of earrings. It was only going My mom stood third of a head of lettuce and a quar- to be a quick pinch! My legs stuck un- ter cup of roasted almonds – the roast- comfortably against the synthetic seat to the side. Her ed ones have less fat. Growing up, it cover; my hands clenched together in was confusing for me to see my grand- my lap. My mom stood to the side. Her nervous smile mother puppet-mastered by something nervous smile worried me, so I pretend- so mundane as eating. She would sit ed to be calm. The shock of it rushed, worried me, so I rigidly at the table as I ate breakfast, her burning, up the crest of my ear into my hands clasped tightly together, foot tap- temples and down the sides of my neck, pretended to be ping, looking anywhere but at my food. a hot, wet pain. I did not move. She suffered this way from the time she I was almost as excited to receive a calm. The shock woke until 1:45 p.m. at her first meal. pair of shiny black Mary Janes with a Soon, others’ admiration of her “fitness” 2-and-a-half-inch heel. Imagine all the of it rushed, sickened me. I knew that when women possibilities with an added 2 and a half commented on how good she looked inches. I paraded around the house, the burning, up the they were really complimenting her echoing click click click down the hall- self-control, envious of her debilitated way announcing my arrival. crest of my ear body. “Heel, toe. Heel, toe,” my mom guided My grandmother and I often sat to- as I walked proudly for her in our kitch- into my temples gether in her living room on her pristine en, and “toe, toe, toe” as I went up the white sofa. To me, this place exists sep- stairs. In the church pew, I mimicked my and down the arately from time. I’m no longer a little mom’s assured posture: neck long and girl, but when I sit with my grandmother feet crossed at the ankle tucked neatly sides of my on her sofa, I step back into my child- just underneath the chair. hood. The air in the room is unmoving, I practiced crossing my Mary Janes neck, a hot, wet The eternally perfumed with the dry scent of as I sat with my grandmother under rose potpourri. On the coffee table, there the shade of a gentle palo verde tree, pain. I did not is a bowl of flowers encased in spheres of watching the people shifting around glass. Alongside is a photograph of three us, costumed in whites and pastel col- move. women walking, the fleeting gestures of ors. It was only early April, but the air their skirts stolen by a camera. In the left sweltered and swam with heat. I could corner, the pendulum of the tall, proud feel the weight of it wavering about my grandfather clock sways imperiously. throat and forehead. As I reached out Here, among living things preserved, we to take my third glass of icy pink lem- would rest. We were still, beautiful and onade from the table beside us, I heard cold. my grandmother hiss. She turned to me How many of our conversations with a taut smile. began with “Don’t you tell your father “Another glass?” she asked. “If you about this”? At 10 years old, I knew the keep on like this, you’ll get fat, you gory insides of every marriage (and af- know.” Spitting out the word “fat” as if fair) on the block – who was in love and it burnt her mouth. I set the cup down, who was in it for the money. I was her my cheeks hot. favorite, she told me. There on her sofa More than worry about becoming fat, I felt invincible, glowing with the magic I suddenly became aware of all the fat of being chosen. She would leave me that already clung to me. I stood close to there in reflection while she’d go to her the mirror before dance class, prodding upstairs bathroom to “regloss her lips.” the softness around the waistband of I never once mentioned it, but I could my pink ballet tights. I did crunches in hear the sounds of her retching and my room when I got home from school, coughing all the way downstairs. hoping that would do the trick. It never I was so excited to turn eleven because really did. Needing to become thin shift- Cut it was the year I was finally allowed to ed from a quiet ache in the back of my get my ears pierced. After much deliber- mind, an occasional whim, to a pastime,

the magic issue 21 “Body” by Dempsey Wilken, 2018. Mixed media. to a full-time job, an infatuation. It descend deep past my sternum. So often springs of emotion, gushing with color, was going to solve all of my problems. I did I press against my ribs that my skin heat and sound. They cooed around would get the lead role in the upcoming would bruise on the protruding bones. someone’s newborn baby. recital. My parents would be proud of No one ever mentioned the barred cage “She’s so tiny,” a girl exclaimed. “Only me. The girl I liked would notice me. that emerged shamelessly through the a week old.” I lingered at the edge of the As my body disappeared, I recoiled back of my leotard. My mom began to group, wary, the blur of motion over- further and further within myself. My worry, though, the winter of my junior whelming me. hollow stomach became my home, hous- year. She didn’t say a word, but I think “Would you like to hold her?” the ing what remained of my person. The she knew. Once, she gently placed her mother asked. Before I could respond, body was wound weakly like a crescent hand on my upper arm, curving her her warm body was in the trust of my moon, almost fetal, and blue with cold, fingers around its circumference. Her arms. She gently clutched my thumb, my mind dormant, sunken deep below brown eyes welled with tears, horrified her hand wrapping around it, and gazed the ultramarine waves of my own arctic to find that she could encircle my arm calmly at me, her eyes deep pools. From sea. I developed a mysterious pleasure completely with her middle finger and my eyes, a child stared back at her. She in feeling my skeleton. When I brushed thumb. She did not ask me questions she saw everything, and she did not turn my fingers across my back, I dragged my did not want the answers to. away. I felt the soft rhythm of her in- hands across the metal bars of a radiator. Walking into the dance studio one bit- hales and exhales. Who would take care I would lay in bed at night and press my ter winter evening, I found myself swept of her? Her heart beat against my palm. palm hard against my stomach, feeling it into a flood of dancers, each of them Deep pools. I closed my eyes:

22 NORMALnoise I moved and once it began, I could not stop my motion, contorting and crashing through space, so suddenly unteth- ered. My vision shook in yellow-struck I needed angles. My head howled with seventeen years of things unsaid. I needed it back: the body, the body, my home. I needed it back: to be mine. I watched the locks of my long brown hair tumble to the linoleum floor from the plasticky seat of the salon the body, chair, wondering at how long they’d been with me. My mom stayed home, too nervous to come with me, afraid she would see some stranger when the salon the body, chair spun around to face her. I wasn’t sure either, when I looked in the mirror, if I would recognize myself. When the my home. stylist swung me around, the first thing I thought was, “I look like my dad.” My short tufts of hair coiling into a cowlick, just like his, above my left eye. But I still looked just like me, older and different, with the same downturned lips, the same mismatched eyes. Is this beautiful? Is this name I give the striking force of my boots against the pavement, sharp teeth against soft lips, the blooming bruises and scraped palms? The crack of my knuckles, the flesh of my thighs, the beat of the blood in my veins: is this beautiful? I think so.

The picture frame on the coffee table was turned face down, and the clock slumbered silently. The white couch just distinguishable, cloaked by old bed sheets. Dust jacketed the white, depart- ed shapes. Shafts of sun pierced the stillness from foreign angles, creating abstract figures of light and shadow. In the stagnancy, something rose among particles unswayed by gravity. My lungs swelled with air, and my heart ham- mered in my chest. I could feel the world moving around me. Stars in the night sky outside gleamed fiercely, the brave wind rushed through the winter-worn streets, and the trees shook their limbs Elizabeth Rowe is a freshman currently studying undismayed by the cold. Oh! How vital psychology and French. You can find her dancing, longboarding and eating breakfast foods at inap- I felt just then, my whole being burning propriate times. Whatever she ends up doing, she with the brilliant movement of Earth. hopes to do it creatively.

the magic issue 23 Independentisme Mágic: Magic, Magicians and Catalan Separatism

Martín Hans Eslava

From the Cauldron Rises a Dirty on government buildings and on nearly become known as el procés, literally Bubble every street fence. “the process.” The powers of the procés The past two years have been partic- The llaç groc, or yellow ribbon, is one include the ability to dazzle the public ularly exciting in the sociopolitical en- of many separatist symbols. Catalan into supporting blatantly undemocratic vironment of Catalunya. New regional separatists are those who want inde- and corrupt endeavors. Examples are elections in December 2017 continued pendence from Spain believe they have numerous and include: to teeter the balance between unionists a right to so-called auto-determination The use of public funds for clearly and separatists in the Generalitat, Cata- and believe Spain is a tyrannical coun- partisan causes such as the funding of lunya’s parliament. Meanwhile, tourists try which holds political prisoners. Sep- Catalan embassies to internationalize from all over the world (more eager for aratists vary in their degree of activism separatist sympathy (diplocat––a pub- the beach) observe from afar in incre- and ideology though their powers of lic-private consortium associated with dulity at the violent demonstrations in sorcery surge from the same origin. parliament). the streets of sunny Barcelona. Tourists Within the past 20 years, the sepa- The demolition of an independent may find locals bickering on the street ratist movement, through its political judiciary with a law that proposed the over the placement of yellow ribbons action and ideological platform, has government hand-select judges (even

24 NORMALnoise those with no judicial background). ical representations and full-blown po- press, voting rights and the nebulous The quiet proposition of the president litical alchemy conjured before the very “will of the people” in his drive for inde- and cabinet to raise their salaries even public. Smoldering from the cauldron of pendence. However, what Torra and his though no parliamentary budgets have separatist spells arises a dirty bubble. separatist cabal have really done is set been approved. up their own smoke and mirrors by al- Following an illegal referendum for Vic and Smoke and Mirrors lowing propaganda and partisan tactics independence in October 2017, there In Vic, a medieval community on the flourish. seems to be no end to political tension outskirts of Barcelona, one can prover- in sight. The results of the referendum, bially hear the singing of the medieval Pòlonia and its Magicians as reported by the Catalan Govern- minstrel down its many cobbled alleys. Pòlonia is a weekly comedy show ment, were as follows: 92 percent voted Yet that is not all one can hear these on Catalunya’s TV3 multimedia televi- yes while just under 8 percent voted no. days. In August 2018 a more extreme sion channel which satirizes the recent While this seems like a landslide and example of separatist public propagan- week’s political misgivings through clear victory for Catalan nationalism, da emerged in Vic, making headlines, monologues, parodies of popular songs voter turnout was only 43 percent, rep- “Vic recuerda cada día por megáfono and reenactments (interviews, speech- resenting less than half the population. que la independencia es el ‘objetivo,’” in es, urban conflicts). While the elaborate It seems most unionists stayed home, Cronica Global in Spain for its eerie Or- machinations of its parent channel, TV3, refusing to participate in an illegal wellian undertones. At 8 p.m. every day cannot be explained in full detail here, referendum. In the upcoming nation- in Plaza Mayor, a robotic, monotone it is sufficient to say TV3 is semi-offi- wide general elections (April 2019), voice on a giant speaker announces the cial state propaganda, with many of its the separatists will now attempt to list following message: “Do not normalize programs espousing an unashamedly candidates who are currently in jail. the exceptional situation of national ur- partisan viewpoint. This includes biased Meanwhile, Catalan politicians remain gency. Remember every day that there coverage, false pretense interviews and dispersed across Europe in self-imposed are political prisoners and the exiled. the glorification of ETA terrorists re- exile, magically teleporting from federal Do not deviate from our main objective, sponsible for the murder of hundreds. authorities overnight, in an attempt to the independence of Catalunya1.” The Unionists are conspicuously missing avoid jail sentences from Madrid. The message remains totally inappropriate from news panels and talk shows while disgraced ex-president fled to and cur- display of partisanship by the local sep- separatist activists are often invited to rently resides in Waterloo, Belgium – aratist government, characterized by perform their favorite magic tricks be- the irony. charged language such as “political pris- fore the camera. In September 2018 separatist poster oners” and the “exiled.” Journalist and prominent Catalan ac- boy Gabriel Rufián, who has been ex- Onerous to many Catalans who don’t tivist Jaume Vives i Vives analyzed the pelled from Congress for insults and share this ideology is the classification Twitter accounts of 30 directors/hosts other puerile behavior (La Vanguardia), of the struggle for independence as the of TV3 on his YouTube channel, “Re- advocated in an interview for “pop[ping] central issue afflicting the region. One sistència Catalana.” He confirmed 85% the bubble of magic independence.” might ask: where are the giant speakers are separatists based on the rhetoric of Magic independence epitomizes the protesting long waiting lines at hospi- their personal accounts during the ep- frustrations of separatists who believe tals? Where are the speakers promoting isode “La PRUEBA irrefutable de que instantaneous and relatively effortless legislation to provide pensions to the el- TV3 MANIPULA - Por Jaume Vives.” independence is counterproductive. derly, legislation which has been stalled Writing for El Temps, a Catalan-lan- While the Spanish constitution and Eu- in parliament because of separatist pi- guage newspaper, Cris Chaika high- ropean Union beg to differ, separatists geonholing? Unionist detractors note lights in his 2017 article “La trama believe their right to auto-determina- that this very public display of separat- ultracatòlica i els seus mitjans afins tion is righteous in both the philosoph- ism does not ensure the political neu- contra la República catalana” that while ical and legal sense, and that it should trality of the public sphere, which must Vives i Vives has obviously upset sep- be recognized rather than materialized belong to all – separatists and constitu- aratists with his unionist views, he is out of thin air. On the other hand, it tionalists. also a controversial figure in Spain for represents a pipe-dream to the union- Quim Torra, current president of his conservative, Catholic platform in ists who stand by the legal process and Catalunya and a regular no-show to an increasingly secular state. Despite judiciary. Parliament, once accused the opposition any ad hominem attacks against him, Of course, the tricks propagated by of setting up cortinas de fum (curtains of his analysis of TV3 producers is really the procés pervade throughout Catalan smoke) in parliament to distract from plain for all to see. In fact, anyone could society. There exists in the daily life and the real objectives of the state. Torra have done this research since all the in- popular media of Catalunya both mag- feigns democratic values such as a free formation is public. What distinguishes

the magic issue 25 Vives from others is that he is simply the While the episode remains emblemat- Onerous to many first to take the time to go through each ic of resistance efforts among many in Catalans who account, documenting once and for all the separatist movement, Puigdemont’s the impartiality displayed by journalists portrayal as E.T. underscores the in- don’t share this at TV3. Why hasn’t anyone done this creasingly dejected attitude of those before? Perhaps TV3 and its associates Catalans who don’t belong to his politi- ideology is the fight very hard to ensure the status quo cal party and who wish to move on. TV3 isn’t challenged. Pòlonia is not free from constructs Puigdemont as the prodigal classification of this bias, but like Torquemada may (or son, though this son of Catalunya can may not) have said, there is some truth never return lest he is handed over to the struggle for to every heresy. Spanish authorities. Meanwhile, he oc- independence Despite skewing many events through cupies the media’s attention and acts as a partisan lens, Pólonia also pokes fun at a sort of antipope, the legitimate presi- as the central separatist politicians and, by extension, dent who has Torra sub in for him. at itself since the network often func- In another episode titled “Res és im- issue afflicting the tions as a separatist social club. Two possible,” or “Nothing is impossible,” scenes from Pòlonia stand out when Pòlonia directly addresses “magic inde- region. One might it comes to magical realism in Catalan pendence.” It features, yet again, Carles politics. Pòlonia constantly pokes fun Puigdemont à la David Blaine. Like ask: where are the at former President Carles Puigdemont the real magician, Puigdemont walks giant speakers who, in one sketch from May 2018, around Brussels, trying to convince the morphs into E.T. and must return to Gi- populous he is still relevant yet he is re- protesting long rona, his hometown in Catalunya, with ally powerless in exile. He walks around the help of Quim Torra. confidently in the episode, waving his waiting lines at The episode is rich with the duo’s buf- hands and performing cheap tricks. For foonery. During one of the sketch’s most his first trick, he shows a woman a pro- hospitals? ridiculous moments, Carles imitates spectus for the independence of Cata- E.T. by pulling out a glowing and gross- lunya. It originally reads that indepen- ly protuberant finger and touching Tor- dence is possible in 8 months. However, ra’s stupefied face with it. Puigdemont after waving his hand over it, it turns thus bestows the dignified office of the into 180 months. In drastically chang- president to Torra, who exclaims, “This ing the prospectus, Pòlonia satirizes is the procés? It’s getting really weird!” Puigdemont’s optimism for magical, This episode wouldn’t be complete with- overnight independence. How could he out the image of Puigdemont (in a shawl return to Spain promising the impossi- like E.T.) and Torra riding on a flying ble? Instead, he pretends to delay it in a bike, only to fall out of the sky halfway political copout disliked by Rufián and through – a metaphor, perhaps, for the his gang. absolute mess that is the coordination In another trick, Puigdemont asks between the separatist parties. someone to vote for the next president

26 NORMALnoise of Catalunya. After reading the voter’s Vic outside Barcelona to the monastery by 50 percent or less of a population ballot and discovering a vote for a poli- of Montserrat ... there is magic in the air. as in the illegal referendum of 2017? Is tician Puigdemont can’t exert influence Veritable magic. Maybe it is the sirocco, such a concept, nebulous as it is, even over, he waits a few seconds before the the hot wind from across the Mediterra- legitimate in a democracy? Is democ- vote magically changes into one for nean, that makes everyone in Catalunya racy supposed to be a magical bubble? Quim Torra. He reminds the voters that so callous – or wonderful – all the time. Maybe. But sometimes that bubble must if they don’t vote for Torra, he can’t re- Old and dolça Catalunya: time warps be popped, the spell lifted, and reality turn to Spain without being arrested. In here. One moment, one can be in Zara embraced. Salut! his final seconds of monologue, a cheeky and the next before the inquisition of Puigdemont fingers through some cards the public sphere. An interesting dichot- bearing the emblems of all of the po- omy emerges here which juxtaposes the litical parties he has belonged to and inherent magic of the Catalan landscape founded over the years, and declares his and culture with the not-so-pretty po- best trick has been to remain “flexible” litical discourse of the bureaucrats and every election. Indeed, unlike American intellectuals. politics, multiple parties are founded The magic of the disappearances, and discarded in this way across Europe, tricks and contortions of the separat- sometimes existing for only a couple of ists go beyond European politics. Why election cycles. Finally, Puigdemont asks should anyone care about the situation the viewer to stay tuned: “And so, don’t in Catalunya? After all, an American stop looking at me because if you do, the more than a thousand miles away does only thing that will disappear is me.” not live under the influence of the same Ecclesiastes wisely proclaims nothing hex. No real secessionist movement af- is new under the sun, especially under flicts a strong and United States. Even this scorching Catalan sun. Despite the then, Americans might be inclined to constant tire of political enmity and lack support Catalan secession since sepa- of bipartisanship (sound familiar?), one ratists also seek to leave a monarchy. cannot neglect the power Catalunya However, as believers in democracy, we holds in its venerable ancientness. Sep- should recognize the dangerous viola- aratists indeed argue that the region has tions against the democratic rights of ancient sovereignty. The Catalan peo- individuals being carried out in Catalu- Martín Hans Eslava is a sophomore double majoring in biological sciences and flute ple at one point conquered Athens and nya. Powerful politicians are using their performance. He has contributed poetry to Normal colonized islands in the Mediterranean. spells to mislead a portion of the popu- Noise in the past and has also been published One can still see the fire of this warrior lation into supporting the unattainable in Lux Undergraduate Creative Review. Martín’s people, even the twinkling eyes of white- while consolidating their own power interests range from collecting antiquarian books to following global politics. haired pensioners. Once all tension fades and coffers by dividing society. Can and night appears, one can still hear the democracy really be reduced to voting Stills from Pòlonia, “Res és impossible,” troubadour singing down a coolly-shad- alone, as suggested by separatists who September 2018. ed alley. This mystery and allure from endorsed the illegal referendum? Can the streets of Girona and Tarragona to the will of the people be determined

the magic issue 27 Notes On Opportunity, from a snowy hotel room Chandler Arndt

The rover walks along the surface of a place that has already far outlived any nomad Only meant to spend a few nights The rover’s wheels are as much dirt as prints on the soil when nothing grows but daytime after 90 days 5352 days a storm and missed voicemails out in the cold longer than expected

Did the ice crunch under the rover’s wheels, precarious, how I walk from the car to the lobby? I can never tell what I’m looking for when the storm is against my skin and any moment of warmth is a potion a sad Happy Birthday turned incantation

a power all my own revitalizing, or at least, for now, healing.

Chandler Arndt grew up in Gilbert, Arizona. His poetry has previously appeared in Lux Undergraduate Creative Review.

28 NORMALnoise “Black Hole” by Lucy Song, 2019. Composite digital photography.

the magic issue 29 Señora Lopez’s Taste of the Border Alyssa Lindsey

When looking at a map of Bristol, a person could easily mistake the town for a misplaced puzzle piece. Not as glamorous as the Twin Cities of Minnesota, the twin cities of Bristol are just a glorified border. Nestled in the middle of two states, the city is divided by its main street which is aptly named “Main Street.” Just one step and a person could be in Virginia’s Bristol or Tennessee’s Bristol. Gina still remembered when she arrived at the world’s easiest border crossing. It was a week after a two-hour bus ride across the border between her hometown, Tamaulipas, and El Paso. After extensive questioning and identification checks by the uniformed border patrol agents, she hopped on her Greyhound for a thir- teen-hour bus ride to Bristol. Gina’s tía Olga was waiting for her at the station, an umbrella blocking her from the sun. She stood, fanning herself with her newspaper even though there was barely a glimmer of sweat on the bridge of her nose. Gina had never met her aunt before. Even though tía Olga was the closest in age to her mother, her mother did not speak much about her until the week before she died. Stepping gingerly into their old Ca- maro for another round of expensive chemotherapy, her mother handed Gina all the money in her coin purse along with a slip of paper containing a name and an address. “Mija,” her mother told her, “We should take a long vacation after all this is over. Go away for awhile and visit my sister in America. After all, the treatment seems to be working.” Olga was a short lady, not just in stature, but in the way she spoke. At first, Gina found her silence and clipped words to be off-putting, but she soon became used to the spaces in between their talks. When Olga did speak it always came as a surprise. Her voice was soft, but with an edge behind it that demanded the attention of whomever she was talking to. Gina also marveled at Olga’s unlined face. Remem- bering her mother back home in Tamaulipas, all wrinkle lines and deeply set eyes, her American aunt was ageless despite being two years older than her mother. With not even a smile line. Her tía Olga had been living in Bristol for the past twenty years. She moved there to live with her late husband, a man Gina knew only from the single picture sitting on her aunt’s bedside table. A quiet looking couple, arms wrapped politely around each other. The only hint that it was their wedding day in the clothes they wore. He had died two years before. An accident. Her aunt didn’t talk about him much, choos- ing to answer Gina’s questions of “how did you meet him” and “what was he like” through another of her long silences. Or on the rare occasion, a change in subject. Gina had the feeling her tía had been lonely spending the past two years in her small home in Bristol. While her husband left his house to her, eliminating the need for a

30 NORMALnoise Señora Lopez’s Taste of the Border Alyssa Lindsey

job, Olga still worked at the bank. As an accountant, she was free to speak only in numbers and her favored long silences. That Wednesday morning, Gina was running errands for her aunt. Even though Olga had moved to Bristol long before Gina, it was Gina who knew the best days to buy fresh produce for cheap and even when the bakery’s bread had just come out of the oven. Today she walked down the redundant Main Street, smiling at neighbors, even the ones who stared at her as if they were seeing her for the first time. Gina was used to their wide-eyed faces. In a town like Bristol, small and Southern, the people of color could be counted on one hand. Gina was one of them. Maybe due to her mestizo coloring, her mother being the light tan of a Spaniard while, she assumed, her father was the deep brown of the indigenous. Her accent also made it hard for her to mask her foreignness. She was sure her neighbors thought her exotic and mysterious, when really, she was just shy. Embarrassed by the way she pronounced “Bristol” or even “bowl.” While walking down Main Street, Gina spotted some shops down a side road she had never noticed before. Strolling down this side street she spotted a familiar sight. As far away from home as she was, to see a piece of her homeland in Bristol was entirely unexpected. Looking like another puzzle piece shoved desperately into the wrong place, the carniceria was indistinguishable besides a small sign on the door that read the name and business hours. SEÑORA LOPEZ’S TASTE OF THE BOR- DER. OPEN MONDAY-SATURDAY 11AM-9PM CLOSED SUNDAY. The name amused Gina from the moment she saw it. A taste of the border? Miles and miles away from the one the sign referred to? When she opened the door to the meat mar- ket, she couldn’t help but release an involuntary gasp of surprise. It wasn’t the smell of sizzling carne or even the sights of bags of chicharrones and sleeves of gansitos. What surprised her wasn’t even the sound of a woman singing her mother’s favorite song. It was that the woman singing was not only wearing a long dress, small heels, a red scarf, but also her mother’s face. Gina stood in the doorway in shock. This woman was definitely not her mother. She couldn’t be! And yet she could see it in the shade of lipstick she wore, how her hair was pulled back tight against her scalp. “Mija,” the woman said, ending the song as soon as Gina had walked inside, “How can I help you?” “Mamá?” Gina asked hesitantly. Her head was spinning, the last time she saw her mother was at her funeral but here she stood, color in her cheeks and younger than she looked even when she was alive. The woman looked confused, and Gina’s heart plummeted. “I’m sorry, muñeca,” the woman sighed, “I always seem to get mistaken for other

the magic issue 31 girls’ mothers. I actually don’t have any kids.” She laughed with apparent sadness, “I guess it just wasn’t in the cards for me.” Gina let this sink in and looked more closely at the woman. Disappointed, she realized there were some small differences between the woman she was looking at and her mother. Her mother had a shorter nose, it bunched up when she smiled, like un conejo. She also had a small mole right under her left eye and looking at this familiar stranger, there was indeed no mole. “Sorry,” Gina said with embarrassment, “Lo siento, you look so much like her!” “No worries, muñeca!” the woman smiled, “My name is Señora Lopez. What brings you to my shop?” Months passed and Gina continually found herself drawn to the warmth of the carniceria and the woman who owned it. It was nice to find someone who under- stood her history and with whom she could speak freely in her native tongue. Where her aunt was all pauses and silence, Señora Lopez was full of chattering conversation, always in a mixture of Spanish and English. Her Spanish with the smooth accent of some western city in Mexico; Gina liked to imagine it was somewhere near the sea. A beautiful village surrounded by palm trees, where the sound of the ocean waves masked the sound of the grumbling freeways of the city. Gina had the feeling that she was one of the carniceria’s only customers, having never seen another person in the small shop or heard anyone reference it at all. But even then, the store was always filled with freshly cooked meats and goods imported from Mexico. La Señora was always happy to see Gina, happy to fill her in on the day’s drama and today was no different — except that it would be Gina’s final visit to la Señora and her familiar shop before returning home. “Georgina!” Señora Lopez exclaimed, “It has been too long since you last came in!” Gina chuckled, la Señora was the only one to call her by her full first name. Wor- ried that she would be given too much attention for her old-fashioned, very Mex- ican name, Georgina had shortened it when arriving in the States. She had gotten used to being called Gina, sometimes imagining what it would have been like to have been born in America with an even more American name. But here was this woman that still reminded her of her mother, calling her by her first name, and again she felt a sharp ache as she thought of her mother. “Are you alright, muñeca?” Señora Lopez asked. “It has only been a couple days,” Gina said, replying to la Señora’s previous state- ment. “Pero, I do have some bad news to share.” La Señora’s face darkened just slightly. Her marooned lips still curved in a half smile, she asked, “No news is bad news unless you are dead.” She laughed sheepishly at her poorly delivered joke, “What is it, niñita?” Her Spanish with the smooth accent of some western city in Mexico; Gina liked to imagine it was somewhere near the sea. A beautiful village surrounded by palm trees, where the sound of the ocean waves masked the sound of the grumbling freeways of the city.

32 NORMALnoise Gina laughed with la Señora, already used to her awkward jokes and interesting sense of humor. She sighed, “I leave tomorrow. Back to Mexico. I can only take ad- vantage of mi tia’s hospitality for so long before we both go crazy.” Gina looked at la Señora, worried the news would cause her to become distant, but the woman simply smiled widely. “Ai!” la Señora exclaimed, “I am so jealous of you, muñeca! How wonderful it is to have a homecoming!” Gina nodded shyly. She also was excited to see her old home. To start looking for a job and maybe reconnect with old friends. Her mother was right, life goes on. “Thank you, Señora,” Gina smiled. “I wanted to let you know before I left, I could not leave without a goodbye.” La Señora smiled brightly back. “And I am glad you did, feel free to take whatever you wish from here for a snack on the bus. Only the best for my best customer.” Gina thanked her and walked the aisles before selecting a small box of brightly colored galletas. She walked back to the Señora, who was busy at work on sorting new ship- ments of fruta. “Let me help you,” Gina insisted, and joined the shopkeeper in peaceful organi- zation of the apples and oranges. Usually the shopkeeper was all words, nothing but stories of her friends here in Bristol, but today it was quiet, peaceful. Today, Gina was determined to know more about the topic that la Señora would frequently dodge. She sprang for the opportunity to fill the comfortable silence. “Señora, please,” she insisted, “tell me how you came to this place, what brought you here?” She watched as Señora Lopez’s face turned pensive until shooting Gina a look that admitted defeat. She smiled. “I came here for the most obvious a woman leaves her home and her familia for a newer and less kind one. Por un hombre. For a man.” She sighed. “I met him when I was least expecting it. I was engaged to another, a boy from the village that my parents had found for me. He was shy, so very unlike the boys I would chase when I was younger and knew nothing about anything. But then I met this man, an American on vacation. He was the whitest man I’d ever seen! I spotted him outside my house, taking pictures!” She laughed. “Imagine, the home you lived in all your life and a tourist is so ... what is the word? Ah yes, astounded! He is so astounded by it that he goes and takes a picture of it. I asked him what he wanted, scared this white man had come to take my house away. Scared even though I knew this would no longer be my house after I married my husband-to-be. But then he looked at me and I knew I had no reason to be scared.” Her voice fell to a soft tone. “I looked at him and saw the messy light of his hair pulled up into a ponytail, his clothes worn Her Spanish with the smooth accent of some western city in Mexico; Gina liked to imagine it was somewhere near the sea. A beautiful village surrounded by palm trees, where the sound of the ocean waves masked the sound of the grumbling freeways of the city.

the magic issue 33 softly around the edges. I knew I had no reason to be scared. Because here was this man, looking in awe at this house I took so often for granted, and then he turned and looked at me with the same expression.” “He didn’t know much Spanish, but I didn’t know much English either, so we made the perfect pair. I would visit him at a traveler’s inn early in the morning. I’d bring him fruit or freshly baked rolls from my house. He told me his name was Wil- liam, but I found that so hard to say, so I called him Will. We fell in love, as I’m sure you’ve already guessed,” la Señora continued, smiling softly. “Neither of us meant to, the other knowing that the possibility of a future together was so small. But then we did and there was no stopping it now that we had. He asked if he could marry me and I said yes. Left my home and my family. Not even a note. I do regret that. But I knew that my parents would soon be busy finding other matches for my five younger sisters, so hopefully they wouldn’t miss me too much.” She kept going, the words spilling out now, “I left with him and I never looked back. He took me to his home right here in Bristol, a small house almost directly on the borderline. I remember feeling entirely in awe of the beauty of this place. No longer did I live in a village in the jungle, but instead a city in the United States! Right then, I realized I knew what it must have felt like to him to see the house I lived in and want to take a picture. I’d never seen anything like this place and to be able to stand in front of the home of the man I loved is something I will never forget.” Gina watched as the look of nostalgia in la Señora’s eyes grew sadder, the honey brown of them turning dark. “Thank you,” Gina told her. “Gracias por esa hermosa historia.” La Señora smiled sheepishly, shrugging her shoulders in a self-conscious way. There was another comfortable silence between them and at last Gina broke it once more. “My mother used to say something about friendship and love. La amistad está en las historias que cuentas. Friendship is in the stories you tell.” With that, la Señora seemed to relax, the pressure in her shoulders lifted. “Your mother sounds wonderful,” she said. “You must be impatient to go back to her tomorrow.” Gina nodded, feeling for the first time in a while, happy at the thought of her mother. “I am,” she said, tears forming around her crinkled smile. “I have so many stories to tell her.”

Alyssa Lindsey is a junior studying global health and creative writing. When she isn’t frantically overcommitting to everything and anything, you can find her playing trombone in the ASU marching band or relaxing with her rescue dog, Chepa.

34 NORMALnoise Clandestine: Or, Why the Jonas Brothers Reunion Means Everything Carolina Marques de Mesquita

Boy bands, and the girls who love Beat with the Jonas Brothers’ faces on lyrics were sweet and poetic, each of them, have always been favorite targets the cover, eager to hang the quarter fold them played multiple instruments, their for public shaming. In grades six and posters contained within. So it’s no sur- performances were accompanied by live seven, my love for the Jonas Brothers prise that, when the Jonas Brothers an- orchestras. The real issue was the audi- was only slightly diminished by others’ nounced their musical reunion in early ence: teenage girls, a demographic easy accusation that boy bands did not cre- March, I got multiple texts from friends to ridicule and deride. Music, maga- ate “real music”. In spite of these criti- and family alerting me of the news. zines, books and television with young cisms, I’m unsure there will ever be an Despite their popularity, boy bands girls as target audiences are generally era where boy bands don’t capture the are rarely taken seriously by music crit- agreed to be of little cultural impor- hearts of adolescent girls. My moth- ics and the general public. Boy band tance. Consider the Beatles, who only er still fondly remembers listening to mania is always at least a little bit of a became paragons of music when their Menudo, the Puerto Rican boy band clandestine thing. Of course, now that primary audience shifted from teenage that catapulted Ricky Martin to fame in the Jonas Brothers are older, spent five girls to young and middle-aged men. the mid-80s; today, BTS remains a fix- years disassociating from Disney and My boy band craze was followed by a ture of American pop culture. are married to the most beautiful wom- period where I emphatically denounced As for me: as a pre-adolescent, I at- en in the world, we’re all free to admit the pop genre and lauded “real music;” tended not two, not three, but four Jo- that we liked them all along. That “Suck- 80’s hair bands, guitarists in school boy nas Brothers concerts. Ten years ago, I er” debuted at No. 1 on the U.S. Bill- uniforms, glam rock. When I got a lit- was probably listening to “S.O.S.” on my board Hot 100 suddenly validates the tle older, I decided that grunge and alt- iPod (after having spent more than an Jonas Brothers as “real” musicians. rock were acceptable as well. I’m not hour trying to figure out how to use the Our sudden regard for the Jonas quite sure what kind of solace I found click wheel). I swooned at their honeyed Brothers is less a sign of their musical in listening to Van Halen or Guns N’ lyrics, and like every boy band lover, maturity than it is of our past reluc- Roses, but I’m sure that my tastes were imagined they were singing about me. tance to admit it. Because, really, the partly informed by my desire to declare I bought every issue of Bop and Tiger Jonas Brothers were always great: their a certain level of aesthetic superiority

the magic issue 35 over my peers. I railed against the ig- same level of maniacal self-awareness norance of “this generation”, boasted of that our generation does today. What my refined taste, turned my nose up at would 12-year-old me think of my cur- everyone who preferred Paramore to rent tendency to intellectualize the most Aerosmith. mundane facets of my coming of age? This is hilarious, mostly because I Honestly, would she even care? don’t think anyone can argue that en- I tossed out my Tiger Beat posters in joying KISS is an indication of a refined high school, during a particularly ruth- cultural palate. Really, I just felt like an less round of spring cleaning. But I kept outsider, and pretended to disdain what everything else: the merchandise, the everyone thought was cool because I CDs, the photos. I think of the preado- had no idea what was cool. lescent me: I wish I had her bravery, and This isn’t to say I pretended to enjoy sometimes I think that I do. Ultimately, the classics. I head bang to “Bohemi- we are never quite that different from an Rhapsody”, à la “Wayne’s World”, who we are at age 12. just as hard as everyone else – I’m not a monster. But as timeless as they are, Boy band I always knew that Def Leppard wasn’t speaking to me – they were speaking mania is to people, mostly men, 30 years my senior. I begged my parents to let me see KISS, Mötley Crüe and Def Leppard always at when they toured in Arizona, but I never had quite as good of a time as when I least a little saw the Jonas Brothers live. A 13-year- old girl and her good sport of a mother – I’m certain we looked a little out of bit of a place watching Gene Simmons thunder around on stage. The Jonas Brothers, however, were clandestine speaking to me: they made a generation of young girls feel seen and heard, as thing. *NSYNC did before and One Direction would do after. To feel seen and heard at 12 is no small thing – at that age, everyone seems to know something you don’t. To this day, walking past a group of middle schoolers – at the movie the- atre, at the bus stop, or at a Starbucks – makes me nervous. What if they find something to make fun of? What if they burst out laughing as soon as I turn around? I know now that they’re just as afraid of being cast out as I was – still, my panic lingers. I make pre-adolescence sound like it was torturous, but really, it was terrific. The return of the Jonas Brothers evokes childhood nostalgia, yes – but it also reminds me of what it was like to enjoy things plainly, without a hint of irony. Carolina Marques de Mesquita is a graduating At 12, I could relish in the banality of senior studying political science and English literature. In her spare time, she enjoys coffee, pop culture without qualifying my taste; yoga and admiring local succulents. She has an my friends and I did not possess the opinion about most things.

36 NORMALnoise Not Every Sunrise Ariella Nardizzi

the magic issue 37 6:32 a.m. I sat with my face to the sky, posted anywhere. No way to capture the campsite. It’s strenuous, yet humbling, the colors changing right before my eyes. moment, except through my own eyes. to physically carry everything one may As the grainy-black night disappeared I looked up from my phone and was need for survival on their own back. from sight with every passing moment, immediately reminded why I was awake. the sun’s warm rays pushed past the far- The sky was painted a million different This Havasupai trip was my first time away horizon. The sky blushed a vibrant colors as the sun shone brightly through backpacking. I was thrown into the pink mixed with every shade of orange the wispy clouds. The pink mountains midst of it all, praying I wouldn’t be your mind could imagine. The moun- reflecting off the pure-blue lake seemed squashed under the crippling weight of tains before me illuminated, the snow- too beautiful to be real. my thirty pound backpack, which I’d be capped peaks dotting the sky as they, Instead of worrying about capturing a carrying over rugged terrain for three too, reflected back a violet hue. photo or charging my phone, I decided days. Packing light, with only the neces- The waves of Lake Pleasant lapped to let go. sities, is quintessential for a trip like this. softly at the shore as the wind nipped Not every sunrise needs to be cap- Along with my food, water, and first aid at my exposed skin, my cheeks flushed tured. Not every moment needs to be kit, I completed my pack, stuffed full to a rosy pink. All was silent except for the documented. the brim, with my camera, like the cher- rustling of the reeds behind me. The rest Sometimes, it’s best to just let it wash ry on top of an ice cream sundae. of the world had not yet stirred. over you. I closed my eyes and felt the Throughout my weekend in this “Gar- As the sun began to glisten over the warmth of the rays hit my face as the sun den of Eden,” I felt like I was constant- mountains and my eyes encountered crept higher and higher from the hori- ly playing catch-up as we adventured the first sign of a new day, I instinctively zon, slowly lighting up parts of the earth through the brush at the bottom of the reached into my pocket for my phone. in front of me. canyon. As everyone ooh-ed and aah- Vaguely aware that my battery was at Sitting in the sand, shivering from ed at the deafening Mooney Falls, the 1 percent, I pulled it out and unlocked the cold while wrapped in a blanket, I grandest waterfall in the canyon, I fid- the screen. As I readied my phone for watched the sky turn from a star-speck- dled with my camera and attempted to a beautiful shot of the rising sun, my led black to baby pink to a powdery protect it from the excess spray of water. phone suddenly went black. blue. While everyone walked briskly to reach “No!” I froze, hitting the power button There are no pictures from this mo- as many falls as possible before dusk, I frantically as I prayed for my phone to ment. sacrificed many water breaks to snap turn back on. a photo or capture my friends bold- My thoughts now distracted from the The excursion that posed the biggest ly cliff-jumping into the idyllic, azure beautiful rising sun, I cursed the device challenge for me as a photographer oc- pools below. under my breath, annoyed that it had curred in March 2018 over spring break This destination had been on my buck- survived the whole night, only to die in when I trekked 10 miles down into the et list for almost six years, yet I felt like I a split second. Grand Canyon to explore the majestic was spending my precious time trying to There would be no captured photos Havasupai Indian Reservation. The des- preserve it, rather than enjoying it in the of the stunning sunrise. No documenta- ert oasis is known for its pristine aqua- moment. After one day of this, I decided tion to prove I had actually woken up at marine waters and towering waterfalls, living took precedence over capturing. 6 a.m. to witness the morning’s beauty. all hidden miles from the rest of civiliza- I wanted to have photos to remember No way to Instagram this moment. No tion in a remote location. this place by, but pictures are nothing way to take a photo, even if In short, this place looks like heaven without the memo- it were to never be on earth. ries attached to To reach the Supai village, them. one must backpack to the

38 NORMALnoise Off-the-grid: my favorite way to be in contrast between a cloudless sky and nature. the vermilion dirt is an image that never Most of the time I don’t even have gets old. The waves of service, which is what I take as nature’s There’s nothing better than hearing way of forcing me to disconnect with the the click of a camera shutter, notifying Lake Pleasant rest of the world for a little bit. But, per- me that the moment is forever preserved sonally, not spending time on my phone by a million pixels that I’ll be able to look lapped softly isn’t difficult. I don’t feel a constant need back at and fondly remember. I love the to scroll, Snapchat or send messages rewarding feeling of capturing that per- at the shore when I’m surrounded by nature. fect moment — the mid-laugh, so can- One thing that I often do use my didly perfect and real, or the blending phone for, however, is photos. As a pho- of a myriad of colors in a fading sunset, as the wind tographer who especially enjoys land- each shade beautiful in its own way. scape photography, I’m always hoping Lately, though, I’ve been conflicted nipped at my to capture the beauty I’m observing. Yet, between capturing the moment and just it always seems impossible to do — the being present. exposed skin, camera can’t quite capture real life. Photography is an art. It takes skills There’s something magical, almost and practice. At the same time, land- hypnotizing, about the stark Southwest scape photography is so rewarding be- my cheeks landscape that draws me in. Perhaps I’m cause — really — it’s hard to take a bad enamored by the desert because I grew photograph. flushed arosy up in a small seaside town — the feeling When shooting nature, the logis- of sand beneath my toes, the salty sea tics don’t matter as much. Capturing pink. air constantly permeating the neighbor- the setting sun with the perfect level of hood, and the blue. Oh, so much blue. brightness or the crashing waves along Where the baby blue sky met the deep the seashore with the right shutter speed blue ocean on the far-off horizon was is what sets apart the hobbyist from the always mesmerizing to stare at. perfectionist, but it isn’t everything. In But coming to the desert, where ev- a world so beautiful, any physical doc- erything was brown, was a whole new umentation of it, though it may not be ballgame in terms of photography. It done justice, will be beautiful. was vast, much like the ocean which seemed to go on forever, but in a more humbling kind of way. In the desert, the barren landscape made the image all the more striking. The challenge then became: how do I convey all this space in a single, wide-shot photograph? Ariella Nardizzi is a sophomore studying journalism and global studies. She loves What enthralls me about shooting the anything outdoorsy, constantly craves Mexican Southwest is how well it photographs; food, and aspires to travel the world with her the gleaming of the sun camera in hand. When she’s not off exploring, against the moun- she enjoys hammocking and rock climbing. tains at golden hour or the crisp

the magic issue 39 “Golden Hour at the Grand Canyon” by Ariella Nardizzi, 2019. 18mm digital photography.

40 NORMALnoise “Southwestern Tones” by Ariella Nardizzi, 2018. 40mm digital photography.

the magic issue 41 Now You See Me, Now You Don’t Chandler Fritz

This semester marked the first time I good time. I attempted to mount an ar- to measure blood in metric, so you’re had to tell someone in my class about the gument against horror movies but was welcome for the research. When I was blood thing. Though “the blood thing” is quickly defeated by the chorus of cou- in the third grade, my class took a field really a poor way of putting it, people as- ples, a blanket per pair, and ultimately trip to the Halle Heart Museum, which sume I mean I have some kind of blood retreated behind the couch to listen to a is an entire institution dedicated to cel- disease, which is not the case at all. It’s podcast about bees. ebrating blood. This would be like tak- more that I have a thing with blood — I When I met my fiancée, she said one ing a kid who is afraid of heights to the frequently pass out when I see it. Which of her favorite movies was “The Con- Grand Canyon and making him walk a is not a swell thing, not so not swell as a juring.” I liked her a lot, so I lied and tightrope made of beef tripe. I made it on blood disease, granted, but not so swell said mine was “There Will Be Blood,” 2 feet until we reached a giant mechan- still. It would be OK if it weren’t a public even though I had only seen the final ical heart, the crown jewel of the mu- matter, if it were suffered only in pri- murder scene frame-by-frame on my seum. Cranking a wheel would pump vate, like having a penchant for failing laptop while standing an arm’s length blood through its squishy arteries and the I-am-not-a-robot tests when mak- away. This was not a difficult lie for ventricles. Thinking about this freakish ing online purchases. Instead it makes me to make; I have lied to most people thing being what keeps me alive over- for a showstopper on any occasion: at I admire about having seen any Quen- whelmed my eight-year-old mind, while baseball practice, in biology class, in a tin Tarantino movie, including my film the potential metaphors that could be shared room at 2 a.m. I imagine it is hard professor during my Film and Media drawn from this experience are enough for Thomas, my roommate sophomore Studies 101 final. to make me light-headed today. year, to forget the moment I exited our Once, in middle school, I disclosed It’s also an oddly important part of bathroom covered from chest to neck in my secret weakness to my best friend. Christian culture. Having been raised blood, having mistaken a bleeding nose He asked me how mad I would be if he in the Evangelical church, it was almost for a runny one, exclaiming before top- tied me to a chair and made me watch a rite of passage, a second baptism, to pling forward, “Fetch me a cold water.” “SAW.” watch “The Passion of Christ” when But at least he’d never suspect me for a “Would you actually do that?” I asked. you turned 17. It was a whole deal at robot. “I think it’d be funny,” he admitted. my church to stay late after Good Fri- It would be still more swell if I didn’t The trickiest part to having my thing day service to watch a screening of the surround myself with bloodthirsty with blood is that there is so much blood movie in the sanctuary so we could all friends. On a cabin trip I took with in this world. It’s not just horror movies see Jim Caviezel’s wounds on the big friends in high school, everyone decid- — it’s video games, first-aid diagrams, a screen and hear the curtain tear on our ed it would be a good idea to watch a decently prepared steak. In fact, if there righteous surround-sound system. Pas- gory horror movie set in the same town are seven billion people alive, that means tors used to sneak images of the gory where we were staying. To me this there is at least 39 billion liters of blood crucifixion scene into their sermons to sounded like purposefully ruining a on this planet, and it makes me queasy make His suffering for you seem more

42 NORMALnoise visceral. For this reason, I spent most the piglet’s scalp, which was strictly off cause for real terror until I ascertained Good Friday sermons with my head limits and — I would argue — far more that everything was indeed dry. Pret- buried in my Bible, wondering what the concerning than fainting at the sight. ty soon, the faces around me started to casting director looks for people audi- I had made it clean through four years materialize into looks of panic of hor- tioning to play Jesus. of college (which includes watching ror. The thing with blood has a fancy “Get Out,” thank you very much) when “Dude,” the young Zhivago said. “You medical name, thank God. It’s called va- last Thursday happened. That’s March just passed out.” sovagal syncope, which is real no mat- 14, 2019. I take a class on Stalinism in “We thought you were having a sei- ter how much it sounds like basil bagel Eastern Europe with only four other zure or a heart attack!” one girl said a sink of pee. People have different trig- students, two of which show up con- little too loud. At the time I remember gers which cause them to faint; some sistently. One of them is a stud, there’s feeling relieved that nobody had called pass out from straining on the toilet, so really no other way of putting it. Solid an ambulance. really, I’m lucky. I’ve had it since I was jawline, thick hair that he knows what “Yeah, the blood,” I said, gesturing seven, when I first fainted in the kitchen to do with and an actual 5 o’clock shad- towards the empty screen with a lazy after spotting an elbow wound that re- ow. If he’s the young Zhivago then I’m hand. sulted from a bike spill. It started there the young Raskolnikov. “You look terrible,” my professor said. for my poor mother, who has found me On this fateful day in mid-March, “Like death.” unconscious in select places around the our class watched a Czech movie called Suddenly Zhivago handed me a cold house—even the shower. I had learned “Closely Watched Trains,” which fea- bottle of water and told me to drink it. I from a Yahoo Answers user in Alabama tures a character named Milos. Milos is did, and when I offered to pay him for it that the quickest way to stop a bloody hopeless when it comes to talking with later, he refused the money like the god- nose was to fervently blow your nose to women. His post as a young train dis- damn chivalrous hero that he was. get the “bad blood” out, which made a patcher has him apprenticing under a “I think you passed out because you good deal of sense to a sixteen-year-old suave senior dispatcher, who (among looked so much like him — like Milos,” raised by naturopathy. The next time a other sexual feats) sleeps with Milos’s my professor told me next class after bloody nose struck, I was in the show- cousin in their boss’s office. Milos can sharing the story with those who had er and decided to close my eyes and test only fantasize of such luck. The movie had the misfortune of being absent. “It the theory, which had less than desirable is set in Nazi-occupied Czechoslovakia must have been like watching that hap- results. and was made in 1966, so the message pen to yourself.” “Oh my gosh,” my mother said, before is clear. Milos represents a castrated na- I got excited to tell my fiancé about darting out of sight when I came to. tion, impotent under the rule of a stron- my big show when she picked me up “It was an accident,” I told her. ger fatherland. In a crucial scene, Milos after class. This was an event; I had re- “Take this,” she said, her hand ap- fails to make a move on his paramour, ally done something today. We went to pearing behind the shower curtain with Masa, who does most of the romantic McDonald’s to celebrate. a clean white towel. legwork by sneaking into his bed late “What do you think will happen if I “Are you sure?” I asked absently. “I’m one night. After falling asleep frustrated ever have to give birth?” she asked jok- all bloody.” by his nerves around Masa, Milos wakes ingly, pulling into the drive-thru. Even given all these things, the thing up to American planes dropping the “I’ll just be in the hospital bed next to with blood would still be perhaps just first round of bombs that will eventually you,” I said, crossing my fingers. “Soli- as annoying as an allergy if it weren’t free the captive Czechs — including the darity.” for the thing with masculinity. That’s lovely Masa, who has long since aban- Sitting in the parking lot licking an ice a real thing, even if just sounds like it doned his bed. When he realizes he has cream cone, she asked if I ever felt em- was taken out of the academic lexicon. lost his chance with Masa to the brav- barrassed about it all. I hadn’t passed out in college since the ery of other men, he rents a room at a “Not really,” I told her, smiling. “The incident with Thomas, which prior to brothel and attempts suicide by slitting good part about the blood thing is that this writing, had been a secret kept his wrists. And that’s where we’ll pick up I’m never around to watch it happen to safely between us. Passing out in high the action in LL 120. myself.” school was a different matter; everyone I was on the floor and my body felt had their thing in high school. When I incredibly snug and warm, my eyelids passed out freshman year during a pig heavy. It felt like I had woken up from a dissection, it was only because my bi- great outdoor nap. Strangely, my groin Chandler Fritz is a senior studying English. He writes and performs regularly for ASU’s variety ology partner insisted on cutting open felt particularly warm, which was a comedy troupe, Tempe Late Night.

the magic issue 43 Magic.java

sage makes video games and has been coding pretty much longer than he has been alive. You can check out his work at seldomentertainment. com.

44 NORMALnoise Cai Garcia is a psychology and vocal Cai Garcia performance double major, Mordecai spends his days studying the mind and preparing for the next performance singing in concert halls or acting on photography stage with his family in comedy. Always looking ahead, Mordecai strives to be a role model for pg. 11 – 13 himself and for those around him.

Kelsey Phillips Kelsey Phillips is currently studying drawing with a minor in business. She has been drawing her entire life, and hopes to one day find a career in digital illustration illustration or concept art. Her artwork is available on her Instagram @keymintt. pg. 16

Dempsey Wilken is a junior studying women and Dempsey Wilken gender studies. She spends her free moments making handmade collages and is fueled by peanut butter and banana smoothies. She posts collage her collages and (future) zines to @calcordia_arts pg. 22 – 23 on Instagram.

Lucy Song Lucy Song currently studies engineering at ASU, but enjoys art in her free time. She is a self- taught photographer specializing in non-human photography photography, and hopes her work will inspire others to look for silver linings in seemingly simple pg. 29 and common subjects.

Ariella Nardizzi is a sophomore studying Ariella Nardizzi journalism and global studies. She loves anything outdoorsy, constantly craves Mexican food, and aspires to travel the world with her camera in photography hand. When she’s not off exploring, she enjoys pg. 40 – 41 hammocking and rock climbing.

the magic issue 45 Calling all writers, artists, creative minds and inquisitive personalities

Here at Normal Noise, we’re always on the lookout for contributors, whether they be in areas of writing, copy-editing, graphic design, or art.

Join us by emailing [email protected], following us @normalnoisemag on Instagram, or checking us out at normalnoise.wordpress.com.

46 NORMALnoise fin. AA Barrett, Barrett, the the Honors Honors College College publication publication