EDGE OF EDEN2013

STUDENT WORK FROM COLLEGE OF THE ATLANTIC

(Amanecer. Milpa. Chimay, México) MARIA ALEJANDRA ESCALANTE

FRONT COVER: (untitled) KATJA FLUKIGERLAYOUT AND GRAPHIC DESIGN: ZURI CAMILLE DE SOUZA

Edge of Eden

A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR/

Thank you for your beautiful contributions to Edge of Eden this year. Here is the human experience of life through print, photography, ink, paint, words, thoughts, textures and colours. Thank you to Donna Gold, the printing press and the Publications Committee for the work done.

Enjoy/

Zuri Camille de Souza 2013

Edge of Eden

WATER LINE I

The first time we failed at love, I began to walk the length of the islandas if I were an estuarypitched to a westering.My mother walks anywhereshe can, as long as it’sfar enough. She taught methat the difference between leaving and going “is the place your eyes are fixed, butnever stop moving, sweetheart,” and that words are like bones because when you diethey’re all that’s left.

Keep the floodplain stories, keep the letters, keep the bones you found below mytide line. I could havebecome the sort of personwho is invisible, but that’swhy God gave methis birthmark, like anX spray-painted on thefront door. I’ve been flushed since birth, but I still fought you with a come-and-go because wasn’t a lesson in the world that my mother couldn’tteach me withher feet.

ELOISE SCHULTZ

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(Pachystomias) MOSES BASTILLE

(Regalegus) MOSES BASTILLE

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(untitled) BROOKLYN BARON

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(so many wasps) SONYA HALLET

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(masjid jamek)

they had to cutthis cityout of the flora,raise it upinto Kuala Lumpur; amuddy estuaryas isnecessarilytrue

for all confluencesof people

NATHAN THANKI

(untitled) MAYA CRITCHFIELD

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El Mayab

No sé si es el comienzo o el fin del mundo.¿Acaso venimos todos de este lugar, o es allá a donde nos dirigimos? Del mundo de los mayas, o al mundo de los mayas.De lo elemental, o a lo elemental.

Los animales de la noche. Todas las noches.Es música.

¿Qué estuve haciendo allá? Solo veía abismos. Abismos.

Recuerdo:No existe el tiempo.Solo horas, solo momentos.Es el momento de cenar, es el momento de leña al monte.

Recuerdo:Tantos nuevos rostros.¿Les dices adiós, o hasta pronto?

Acción:Cierro mis ojos.Todo es como un sueño.

Recuerdo:Creo que estoy acá para ver subir el sol,y para verlo desaparecer en un mismo día.

La luz del alba imponente, no se atrasa.La del atardecer más sensible.El atardecer es mi momento favorito del día.

Mi casa.Una casa de palos que resiste un huracán.Dos huracanes, tres. 60 años.Solo se necesitan dos salidas para que corra el viento cuando es fuerte.

Una casa, que como los pájaros a sus nidos, han construido con sus propias manos.

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¿Cómo?Se levantan con el sol a escarbar el monte y su madera.

Por supuesto.No se necesita más. Una casa. Mi casa.

Siento:Roja.Seca.Tierra de antepasados. Tierra.Tierra fértil.

Tierra que huele a sandía, a naranjas, a animales. Tierra que busca la lluvia.

La santa lluvia.Lluvia que viene en mayo.Lluvia que espero caiga esta noche.

Están tan cerca de ella, de la lluvia.Son amigos, enemigos, conocidos, temidos, bendecidos.La lluvia la predicen las estrellas que tienen un aro de luz alrededor. Bubuljá, aro de lluvia.

¿Cómo lo saben?Esperan la lluvia.Si viene, el hombre de maíz será uno.

Hombres de maíz.Es su vida, su trabajo, sus manos. Su oro.

Amarillo como el sol. Amarillo como Papá Sol.

Sus manos.Sus manos fuertes, sabias.Sabe moverse entre el monte, saben dónde ir. Yo las sigo.Al monte.

Al monte.

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Sus manos.Mujer de sonriesa, mujer de maíz. Ella sabe cuentos en Maya.Me los cuenta al oído.

Sus días:Cortar madera.Tomar. Cortar. Tortear.¿Cuántas? Miles.Cortar. Dar. Dar más.

Mujer de sonrisas, mujer de maíz. Me cuidaste como a las semillas. Como a tu hija.Mujer sabia del monte.

Pregunta:¿Saben lo difícil que es caminar en el monte y no tropezar contra las rocas?

Respuesta:Sus pies son hábiles. Me guían.

El sol caliente, los pájaros hablan siempre diferente; las hojas cáen,algunas flores moradas o amarillas nacen.

La nubes no cubren el cielo. Las nubes corren.Por un cielo azul clarito.

La tierra se pega a mis dedos. El maíz se sostiene enterrado. Me pierdo entre la tierra.

El silencio.La admiración. Surreal.

La magia:¿Cómo lo hacen, sembrar entre rocas?¿Vivir entre piedras?4 semillas de maíz, 3 de calabaza, 3 de frijol en cada hoyo.

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Algo mágico tiene que estar sucediendo. Saben lo que hacen.

Mi creencia:Todos los días.A la tierra se le debe amar.

Vivir para la tierra, vivir por la tierra.

Los hombres de maíz.

Lo cuidarán por siglos, al maíz. Lo defenderán de todo, de todos. Lo pensarán, lo amarán.Lo sembrarán.Sus semillas son su riqueza.

Yaan wáa chéel? Ba ax? Ch íich` tu jaantaj ixi im . ¿Hay tordos? ¿Qué? Pájaros que comen maíz.

Parece que todos lo quieren. Es un mundo de maíz.

Un hombre con kilos de comida en su espalda. Se llama Julián.Su cuerpo es fuerte.Su cuerpo es la herramienta vital.Lo conocen.Lo entienden.El cirro, la energía vital.

Ixtamal.Hombres de maíz.

La vida del maíz:Guardar. Sembrar. Esperar. Cuidar. Cosechar. Guardar. Desgranar. Hervir. Lavar. Moler. Tortear. Comer.Trabajar. Quemar. Guardar. Sembrar.Un fin eterno.

Recuerdo:¿Cómo explicar la vitalidad de su expresión,

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y el cansacio de sus ojos al mismo tiempo, con palabras, con símbolos?

Todos los días ir a la milpa. Vivir de la tierra.Entender sus ciclos.Mamá Luna es importante. Mamá Luna le llaman.Tierra:La tierra es sagrada. Es humana.

Está viva.Comí mil limones, mil toronjas, mil naranjas. Mil toros, mil cerdos, mil pollos, mil borregos, mil jabalís, mil armadillos.

Todo viene de la tierra. Es diferente allá.

Magia.Yaan kaab.Hay miel.Litros.La danza de las abejas se ha convertido en dulce de la vida.

Sus manos.La vida en el monte. Buena vida.

Teoría:Abismos entre realidades.Las realidades descansan en los picos de las montañas. Los abismos entre montañas.Unas montañas están más cerca de otras.Se construyen puentes, siempre inestables.Hay picos que jamás se verán.Están en lados opuestos de la tierra.En los abismos también hay vida.Son abismos infinitos.

Santo fuego, dale luz a quienes emprendan el viaje por aquellos abismos desconocidos.

Mi alma está agradecida.

MARIA ALEJANDRA ESCALANTE

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(Dalcahue, Chiloè Island, Chile) DEVIN ALTOBELLO

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Whale Skull

In the rain it smells of death.In this season I am reminded too often of it.The tiny structures of bone,lacey, hollowed out calciumflexible, algae-spotted in the wet.Where the bone separates from itselfit opens like a mouth,mossy teeth nestled next to aspen leaves. Grooves run down the bone,the acid rain in dainty riverscarrying calcium debris down the skullinto the damp earth at my feet.This ground, littered with yellow leaves,has felt my pacing — imprints of time —on its surface.

MAYA CRITCHFIELD

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My Darling Brother

I wish I could have walked with youAll through your lifeI wish I could have heard all the wordsPeople have thrown your wayI would have held your hand tight

I am standing here now telling you They were wrongI promise you, little darling

I wish I could have walked with youI would bite through their voiceAnd smash their teeth against brick wallsRip their lying tongue from their mouthAnd twist their bones up tight

But I know that wouldn’t make things right.Little beauty, smeared in their liesBe strong

Light of my lifeI promise you, they were wrong

KRISTEN OBER

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(Squall) MARKETA DOUBNEROVA

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(mosaic) JANE NURSE

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(study of spices) ZURI CAMILLE DE SOUZA

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(untitled) BROOKLYN BARON

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(untitled) ZOE MAILENA FASSETT-MANUSZEWSKI

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(untitled) MAYA CRITCHFIELD

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The Island’s Song

This is the song she singswhen the tide is high and drawn up tight to her shoreline,a high-necked dress of indigo:the reflection of stars on her heaving breast.Slow breathing, the swell of midnight tide is soft and deep,her waters gulp down a dropped pebble and show their living,phosphorescent teeth.

Morning: the crows sing her song,their black coats ragged and patched,beggars calling for alms along the rocks;she gives them what she can:stranded crabs and periwinkles to pick through —shell protesting against carved black beak,though always, it yields given time.

A soft fog crawls up her shore,and falls to slumber at her feet.She gathers her skirts of evergreen and goose down,lets the ocean wash her ankles of clinging sand.There is not sea enough to wash her away yet.

MAYA CRITCHFIELD

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(untitled) KATJA FLUKIGER

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adagio

he became The-Man-Who-Doesn't-Dream one day in the fall (he can't remember exactly when);

they had been fading for some time,and the last of them had flown south by the end of autumn.

the sound of their wingbeats receded from the sky.

in the dreams he no longer has, he always wears a black suit, as though he's just come from a funeral(his own, probably).

he does not know where he is going, or where he is, or who he is waiting for(or why this dog keeps following him).

he is alone. dusk, and the street is empty.

dreams resemble birds, or the idea of birds. The-Man-Who-Doesn't-Dream imagines them in a cage somewhere, unable to reach him. fluttering lonely against the bars.(except that maybe, that's not how it is).

(had he really taken care of them?)

dreams are finicky.

what he had been before accuses him now, as the shed skin speaks to the snake;the foundation shakes.

it is winter, and The-Man-Who-Doesn't-Dream spends his time doing waiting things- playing cards with himself and collecting lost objects(memories, stray hours, bits of string, murmurs).

he falls asleep and wakes up. no time has passed; it is tomorrow. he sleeps and wakes, sealed under the ice to wait for spring, sleepwalking in and out of graveyards

he is lost without his dreams.

The-Man-Who-Doesn't-Dream is imagining the day when he will fall, backward, — and he will be flying, his coattails billowing on either side,

like the black wings of his dreams.

MOSES BASTILLE

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adagio

he became The-Man-Who-Doesn't-Dream one day in the fall (he can't remember exactly when);

they had been fading for some time,and the last of them had flown south by the end of autumn.

the sound of their wingbeats receded from the sky.

in the dreams he no longer has, he always wears a black suit, as though he's just come from a funeral(his own, probably).

he does not know where he is going, or where he is, or who he is waiting for(or why this dog keeps following him).

he is alone. dusk, and the street is empty.

dreams resemble birds, or the idea of birds. The-Man-Who-Doesn't-Dream imagines them in a cage somewhere, unable to reach him. fluttering lonely against the bars.(except that maybe, that's not how it is).

(had he really taken care of them?)

dreams are finicky.

what he had been before accuses him now, as the shed skin speaks to the snake;the foundation shakes.

it is winter, and The-Man-Who-Doesn't-Dream spends his time doing waiting things- playing cards with himself and collecting lost objects(memories, stray hours, bits of string, murmurs).

he falls asleep and wakes up. no time has passed; it is tomorrow. he sleeps and wakes, sealed under the ice to wait for spring, sleepwalking in and out of graveyards

he is lost without his dreams.

The-Man-Who-Doesn't-Dream is imagining the day when he will fall, backward, — and he will be flying, his coattails billowing on either side,

like the black wings of his dreams.

MOSES BASTILLE (Farmer) DEVIN ALTOBELLO

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(Cormorant) SONYA HALLET

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(untitled) ZOE MAILENA FASSETT-MANUSZEWSKI

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कल

कल रातम सोया

दरवाजा खलाहवाबारिशवरषाबदो

घर का कीमती धन

Yesterday

Last nightI slept

with the door openwindrainraindrops

the purity of home

ZURI CAMILLE DE SOUZA

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(Laundry) MARKETA DOUBNEROVA

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(Maria, 2013 Proyecto Mexico) KATJA FLUKIGER

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(untitled) KATJA FLUKIGER

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the wash of wind.the wash of wind.

slim shivers of birch stammeringthrough the mountain’s cool shade.

ADDIE NAMNOUM

FIN

CONTRIBUTORSAddie Namnoum

Brooklyn Baron

Devin Altobello

Eloise Schultz

Jane Nurse

Katja Flukiger

Kristen Ober

Maria Alejandra Escalante

Marketa Doubnerova

Maya Critchfield

Moses Bastille

Nathan Thanki

Sonya Hallet

Zoe Mailena Fassett-Manuszewski

editor/layout design: Zuri Camille de Souza