Not My Hand--Teresa Lok

This year I went to the Chinese New Year parade and I was lucky enough to get pretty close to the front lines, so I was able to take some pretty nice pictures. The beauty of this picture is that it was accidental. I was trying to get a photo of the confetti falling down, but this little boy's hand reached out in front of my camera as I was taking it.

Tame--Lisa Fraser

away in a car
the air smells of daisies
wrapped in a silk ribbon,
dripping water down an arm.
the salty breeze comforts pores.
lifted from creamy thoughts of yearning,
the banked road hugs the shores.
the wheels rotate backward
on the ash-asphalt road.
we keep moving.

moving along.

An Ocean of Things--Ron Mouadeb

Last night I dreamt I was buried beneath the waves.
There was comfort in the pressure
of water and sand on skin and bone.
Still, I could see upward,
and the sand in my eyes fragmented sunlight into starlight.

Night became day; day became night.

I woke up with salt-stained hair
and sand beneath my nails,
this time trapped under my sheets.
Fluorescent light begged to penetrate my eyes.
But the dream was gone and the sea, dry.
My bed was a desert, bleached and overexposed.
That morning I would have traded cotton for sand
and down feather for salt.

I'll close my eyes again and turn my head.
I can smell the ocean on my pillow
and hear the waves coming for me again.

Shooting Stars--Teresa Lok

As a lover of arts and crafts, I love making paper stars. I have a couple of bottles of these and I just love how they look when you pour them out.

The Call--Aaron Monteabaro

Rondeau after the Storm--Lisa Fraser

Tame taffeta slides between us,
your arms around me, robust.
I must get around to breathing in the soap-scented skin
once lathered in tantric trance and sin, now clean. So that she won’t know.

Your laugh rumbles, softly, curls in my ear,
like August surrendering to September.
We slip, smoking out the bubbles of summer nights
filled to the brim with stars. You are not mine.

Tuesday green leaves sway outside — a curtain of beads,
dancing in our celebration of the clandestine. Creamy thoughts of yearning rise.
Quixotic clouds graze past the blue of skies, seducing
a rainbow of imbued dye to arch over us.
We riff, repeat, blow out the bass and I must get around to drinking you.

Change--Rebecca Forbes

Apple Juice--Teresa Lok

I love collecting cool-looking bottles and jars. When I came across this one at Lamarca (in New York City), I told myself I just had to get it regardless if the apple juice inside was good or not. The apple juice was delicious. The bottle currently sits on top of my desk and it looks stunning when the sun hits it.

The Realization--Jhaneel Lockhart

I was staring absent-mindedly at my computer screen and taking long drags of my cigarette when it came to me. A minute ago, I had been on the phone with a man from the hospital, as he explained to me that my roommate had been hit by a car and was in critical condition. When I hung up, everything flashed before my eyes.

Looking back, I don't know quite how to describe our relationship. I suppose we were friends. For years, we had shared a closet-sized studio in the city and did almost everything together. We were so close that everyone thought we were sisters — or lovers. We were neither, just two best friends.

Still, I'd always had a quiet dislike for her. I hated the way she left hair in the bathroom sink, the habit she had of clinging to every male friend we knew like an abandoned puppy, and the way she managed to manipulate people into feeling sorry for her. She demanded way more time than I was ever willing to give. Yet I was always there, holding her hand and hating every second of it.

I'm sure she hated me too. Ours was the kind of friendship that lifestyle magazines run giant spreads on, with advice from psychologists and large headlines with words like TOXIC. We had met each other in college and quickly become close, each of us seeing ourselves in the other. All girls have drama, but what we had was so vicious, it would make fully armed soldiers cringe. Our daily conversations were filled with passive-aggressive remarks and thinly veiled insults aimed below the belt, but always quickly followed by sweet smiles and sugary apologies.

I was cruel, constantly taking advantage of her feeble self-esteem. She was bad with men: always unsure of herself in relationships and always willing to give too much of herself. And I capitalized on this knowledge. It was like the perfect kill, the way I would lay in wait for the first sign of vulnerability and then attack, making her confidence plummet in seconds with just the right words. Her stories were always the same — none of her relationships ever lasted and she never knew what went wrong. But as fate would have it, she was popular with guys.

She was a pretty package — straight long hair, nice face and a body that looked like it was sculpted by some sort of Michelangelo. She spent hours in the gym perfecting it, polishing a product she knew was in high demand. Her appearance was her most precious achievement in life. When we were out together, we pretended not to notice that everyone was looking at her and that the cat calls were never directed at me, while inside she smirked with triumph. Her attacks were less venomous than mine, and they usually came in the form of comments about what a sweet personality I had, as she sized up my bad hair and chubby figure, comparing everything to her own slender frame.

Things between us weren't always so contentious though. What kept us going was that most of the time, we actually got along really well and I don't think either of us could imagine life without the other.

So, it was with some consternation that I listened to the man at the hospital describe the gory details of a collision that left my friend lying battered and dying.

I thought about how lonely she must have felt, there all by herself. First, the thought came sadly, but soon my mind grew wild with excitement, as I wondered what would happen if I wasn't there the moment she opened her eyes. It would be the one time when I wasn't stopping my world to make sure everything was right in hers. For once, just maybe, she didn't have to be the center of the universe.

As I reveled evilly in the thought of her spending the night alone, I sat down at my desk and checked my email. Then I checked the other one. I was disappointed to see that both inboxes were empty. Looking for something to do to prolong my newfound sense of peace, I clicked open Solitaire and started playing.

For awhile I got lost in the motions of the game, but soon my emotions came bubbling to the surface and it occurred to me that even if I wanted to, I couldn't stay away. I couldn't stand not being the first face she saw when she woke up. I had a pathological need to cater to her and make sure she was alright.

And I realized that in all our fights and in all my pouting, it had always been my decision to give her my attention. She had never really demanded it. And my face burned with the recollection that she had never approached me pouring out her soul about her less-successful romantic pursuits. Rather, it had been I who was always perpetually prodding, seeking ammunition that would make me feel better about myself, as she tossed her hair over her shoulder with that effortless grace.

Maybe what I perceived as slights on her behalf had never really been real. It seemed to me that I had been looking for an excuse to continue thinking badly of her, while all she ever did was love me.

She was my best friend. And while she was suffering in a strange, cold and probably stinking hospital room, I was playing games and thinking despicable thoughts.

It was there, sitting at that desk, that I realized I was a truly horrible person.

Forget Forgot--Ron Mouadeb

How heavy the mind
that never forgets

How soon the novelty wears off
How weary we become
How fragile the steel cage
How lonesome it may seem.

How heavy the mind
that never forgets

How often we recall
How repeatedly we dream
How quickly we lose sight
How hurtful it may seem.

How heavy the mind
that never forgets

How easily we float
How soundly we sleep
How forgiving we can be
How ridiculous it may seem.

How heavy the mind
that never forgets
when tomorrow morning comes.

Tuesday--Lisa Fraser

Arbitrary and contrary
to the most ordinary
The outcast looks to the sky
for February
The leaves and branches
H
A
N
G
like august leaning into September –
lazy, long,
begging to be remembered


Like a curtain of beads
Tuesday green leaves
sway
brushing the spirit of wondrous soul

Set adrift on a journey unknown
stars, now
De -
throned,
cast light upon the rolling stone


And Tuesday O P E N S her arms to the afternoon
Memories of June rush in
The quixotic clouds grazing
past the blue of the sky
Seduces autumn to imbue his dye …

Tomorrow the clock will be reset
into this time when thoughts and wind
intertwined with the chiming of reminders
accompanying Tuesday

Levity--Rebecca Forbes

Sometimes upside-down is right-side up.

Vampire Weekend: Innovators or Innovatively Mediocre?--David Oropeza

For generations, social trends have come to play a decisive role in determining how the public
reacts to a band's music. If the media machine is selling flannel shirts, ripped jeans and scraggly hair, then obviously you have Nirvana and a thousand kids that look like they should be in Nirvana. Now grunge is over and the last few years have seen an explosion of the indie scene. Its fashion, music and mindset have all been woven into the new fabric that pervades our ads, television shows and movies. The icon of this new landscape is partly made up of a goofy sense of humor, an unassuming personality and probably thin arms — a guy who may or may not be wearing non-prescription frames.

In short, nerds are cute.

I mention this to demonstrate that Vampire Weekend has not completely deserved this huge, almost hoagie huge, fame that is fattening up the blogs and message boards. Rather, I think their — self-titled — debut album couldn't have come at a better time. Audiences were already warmed up before we stopped “giving a fuck about an Oxford comma.” Throw in the culturally foreign genre of music of Afro-pop, a drummer with enough pocket, and some water and poof, presto, pronto: an immaculate VW comes from the microwave still steaming.

I think VW debuted as musicians who were just learning how to work together but who also had enough talent to write a clean, (almost) guilt-free pop song. Ezra Koenig has a fantastic ear for melodies and the quirky lyrics that fit within them. What I think is most interesting about his vocal delivery is the rhythms he incorporates into his singing, something he has carried onto their new album Contra in tracks like "Horchata" and "White Sky." Both include the off-beat vocal rhythms that have not only produced VW’s characteristic crispness and freshness, but have also broadened the band’s appeal.

Keyboardist Rostam Batmanglij, who arranged the strings for their first album, complements Koenig's songwriting with a refined playfulness that is almost synonymous with the band’s image. Think Mozart's bastard child in 2010. The ending of "The Kids Don't Stand A Chance" is laden with strings, tremolo picking, keyboard and harpsichord. It's a great example of Batmanglij’s arranging talent. The instruments switch off on the leading melody, blending into one another and creating a surreal, almost watery sound. Pretty stuff to say the least.

Despite the strong singles, there are also fully realized duds on the debut. "Walcott," "Campus" and "Bryn" are somewhat brainless pop tunes with no substance behind them. A hummable tune fit for an elevator ride. The songs drive, drive, drive to a wimpy payoff of a junior high school eargasm of a chorus. VW's consistency in their music works both ways. What they become popular for — sparse and rhythmic quirky tunes — can also lead to draggy and uninspiring songs. You have a song like "Mansard Roof," which follows their formula perfectly, and then "Bryn," which staggers in trying to keep up with the status quo.

VW reaped the benefits of being aesthetically relevant. They also put just enough spin on their music to make it deceptively fresh and current. It wasn't by innovation but by an alteration that VW was named the forerunners of new music. Borrowing African music forms and mixing it with their wholesome indie sound for a song like “Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa” is one of the few innovations VW can actually hold.

To call VW innovators requires much more than a debut album with a couple of appropriated influences and catchy singles. It requires an honest and virile passion, something I have never felt while listening to VW. It never made a mark past the surface and, when I was done moving my head from side to side, I still felt emotionally distant from the music. Though they are a band that can make good and catchy music, I don’t think they are innovators in what they do. VW is one of those bands that captures your attention for a strong month. They are an innovatively mediocre group, one I certainly wouldn't mind listening to for a dedicated amount of time, but they didn't reinvent the wheel. Their music isn't awe-inspiring, but it doesn't have to be. In the end, they are a good contemporary band that we probably won’t remember down the line. We will romance it and call it sweet names but, in a couple of years, our love letters will be lying right next to our Pokemon cards and Yo-Yos.

Simplicity--Rebecca Forbes