Volume I: Sanity
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Transcript of Volume I: Sanity
Ellie SuttmeierKirsten Samanich
Nicole ArochoSamantha Wallace
Lets you and I conjure together. You watch me and Ill watch you and I will show you how to show me how to show you how
to do our marvelous human tricks together.
Cover art by Sallie RobinsonBackcover art by Nicole Samanich
For as long as there has been art, there has, for some reason, been a tradition of the artist creating in a mystical and shrouded space; isolation and aloneness seem to be prerequisites for true art. Fortunately, many artists have voiced their dissatisfaction with this model of creation, asking for a way in which the creative act becomes also an act of community.
Metanoias mission is to be an answer to that question. This literary and art magazine features works that were created through collaborations of artists across genres and art forms, both together in a physical space, or in online forums. The goal of these collaborations was to bring artists out of their dark corners where they work alone, and into a place where thecollective intellect became a force that expanded the creative experience.
Oxford defines metanoia as a change in ones way of life resulting from penitence or spiritual conversion. While Metanoia is not so concerned with repenting sins or converting spiritual beliefs, we are, through our publication, striving to change the landscape of artistic creation by inviting artists to create within and across their communities. The theme of our first issue is sanity, a topic we believe is broad (and complex) enough to allow for a wide range of freedom and exploration during the creative process.
Table of ContentsLeo Oliva / Sanity / 5
Carly Doyle / Driving at Sunset / 6Bethany Fraga / Fire / 7
Carly Doyle / Study of the Sky: Exceptionally Flat / 8Johnathan Flechas / An Inner Chance / 9
Chau Nguyen / City vs. Nature / 10 - 11Thomas Duncan Fulller / I Thought I Heard Somebody Cry / 11
Kathlyn Quan / The Catholics and Republican Ate the Title So All Thats Left is Me / 12, 14, 16- 17
Voltaire Austrackas / Dysmorphia / 13Leo Oliva / Medicine Man / 15
Cris Cucerzan / Lounging / 18 -19Karla Cote / Sea Mount / 19
Bernie Coleman / Doctor, Doctor / 20Louisa Clarke / Release / 21
Sallie Robinson / Painted Dancers / 22Bernie Coleman / not together/sture self / 23
Nicole Samancich / Foreshortened Skeleton / 24Kyle Allen / Drops / 25
Lily Weiner / Christmas Day / 26Louisa Clarke / Whispers In The Wind / 27
Karla Cote / Mangroves / 28Katharyn Howd Machan / The Things My Parents Do With Blood / 29
Katharyn Howd Machan / Consider The Cold In Watchful Darkness / 30Ngia Nguyen / Looking For More / 31
Nicole Samanich / Searching /32Jillian Kaplan / Ginsberg / 33
Bethany Fraga / Water / 34Leo Oliva / Sketch for the Sleepless 35
Caitlin Ghegan / Please Speak Well Of Me / 36 - 37Johnathan Flechas / Free / 38 - 39
Driving at Sunset
There are sparks rushingpast my face, swelling into
clouds of blood and highlighter orange.Your mouth is a black hole,
demons snapping at your tonguefrom behind molars and goldenliquor foams between your lips,
spilling down down downonto my bare feet, stinging
with shards of precious stones embedded in the skin from chasing myself
out of my swollen skull.What is left I sedate
with every single thing.
Carly DoyleStudy of the Sky: Exceptionally Flat
The wallpaper is drifting farther awayacross the walldown the hallI cannot conceptualize going to find itwhile we sleep at nightand rock ourselves awaketo find sad pale wallswith bits of string:romanticized houses that still have picture molding.But they dont and posters can drift too,leaving that empty spaceof what the wall would look likeif sunlight never touched the skin of paint.
Ninety minutes from nowmy brain will begin to flake apart,cells dripping from my sinuses;tears of blood. I will force myself to movemy aching feet, bones hollow.The snow is hole punch wastelittering the cracks in walkwaysand the doppler effect renders me motionless,stretched between the mountainsand cinderblock buildings.
In real life Im not crazy,in real life I use my coat pocketsjust like everyone else,for receipts and chap-stick andlittle numb hands.
Thomas Duncan FullerI Thought I Heard Somebody Cry My shriveled brain shifts and smashesagainst the walls of my skullas I sit up from bed,sick with feelings of dread and regret.Flashbacks of scrambled eggs are stacked in the kitchenwhen, famished and pissed, I fought fruit fliessince my roommate thoughtyou could compost inside. Thoughthree bottles of wine managed to beneatly aligned. I left the party - alone, and walked along the waters edgeaway from the town and I founda man planning to die, a gun buried under his chin.I said, would you mind if I sit down? No, of course, go right ahead. Giving up so easily? Theres not much left.We have everything we need.
What about poverty?or war? I stammer, near-sighted.Are these not worth fighting to end? He asked of me: Do you honestly believeyou have a chance? Would you honestly want to knowwhat people think of you? For a split-second I could see his faceand his awarenessunwinding like a cassette tape.
Kathlyn QuanThe Catholics and Republicans Ate the Title So All Thats Left
is Me Tommys hair is different. Its blue. A bright blue. Like a neon blue. Like blue signs. Blue ocean. Blue whales. When did he dye it? Wasnt he Catholic? We used to go to Sunday school together. Does he still go? Werent Catholics sup-posed to be, like, ultra conservative? I frown. What? I put my hand to my hip, feeling my face turn red from thinking too hard. Never mind, its his business. Hes going into the coffee shop down the street. I shouldnt be going into his business. I see him waving at a girl. Maybe his parents are getting divorced, but wait! Wouldnt my mom know about that? She loves listening to gossip. He sits down at a table with the girl. Off with their heads! The day is just starting. I watch my shadow on the doorstep, sitting right next to me. It smiles and waves. I wave back. I can see people in the cafes, in the stores. They dont see me watching. Theres a little girl crying as she holds her moms hand. I never held my moms hand. Is her hand hard and callused? Or is it soft? Theres a boy too. Hes drinking coffee. He wont grow anymore. People who drink coffee are short like dwarves. Like leprechauns. Its almost twelve. The suns high in the sky and Im almost certain that I can see the moon peeking out from behind the clouds. Its dancing with the stars. The angels are up there too, thats what my dad tells me. He talks to me when I sleep like hes still alive. There I am, sitting in front of my apartment. My mom insisted I stay with her, but Im twenty-one years old. Im an adult. I deserve to have my own life. And thats when I left her and her bitterness at home. I moved out just a few weeks ago and, frankly, Im having a glorious time. Mia, cmon, were going to be late! Jude shouts, his head poking out from the window, Remember to close your door! I look behind me. My door is still open. Jude is my best friend. His car is his pride and his joy. Its like a baby. He turned sixteen years old just last summer and worked hard to buy something to call his own. It runs on electricity. It stops global warming. Electricity is like my laptop. And my cell phone. Hes not in school today. He decided to skip. Skip, skip, skip to my Lou. I tell him school isnt important when your mind isnt in the right place. Jude was so excited about his car when he came over to my house, showing everyone in sight. He was suddenly Mr. Popular or so he thought. He claims ev-eryone wants to be his best friend, but thatll never happen. No one can replace you, he reassures me all the time. Half of the school wanted to ride in it and the other half hated him for being Republican. The girls wanted to be seen with his car. They wanted to be photographed in front of it like some sort of Nascar strip
girls. The guys wanted to drive it because the engine hummed so quietly it was almost impossible to hear. It makes for a perfect getaway. It glides across streets, practically flying. Pure flawlessness. The car is sort of gray, sort of shiny, sort of dull. Its the color of cement when poured out onto the sidewalk. Its pretty when people sprinkle glitter onto it. The door creaks as I open it and slide to the front seat. As usual, his shoul-ders hunch over the wheel, his mouth attached to a plastic bottle filled with yel-low and red and brown. You look out of it. What are you drinking? It looks like PMS took a massive piss, I wrinkle my nose, squinting. He snorts, the liquid suddenly spurting from his chapped lips. I back away quickly, using the window to support my weight as I try to mop the up seat. Watch it, Einstein. These are new clothes. I bought this outfit a while ago. The jeans are worn down from the many times I had to run in the rain, the top smells like oil and turpentine. Jude grins at me. Are you feeling better? You had me worried last time... And the time before that. Im feeling good. I dont know what hes talking about. Im perfectly normal. I can hear James Brown singing, I feel good. Dunananana. I knew that I would. So, did I tell you that my moms going to be out of town for the next two months? I pick at my nails, watching at the streets going by. Jude rolls his