Issue 4 Low Res

November 2010 - February 2011
Issue No. 4
Tte--tte
Mindy Nettifee and
Amber Tamblyn
on Hollywood,
Octomom,
and the
Ultimate
Salvation
That Is Poetry
Editors on
Editors
HWJ asks Frontier

Psychiatrist the Hard
Questions about Online
Publishing... and If FP
Wants to Go Steady
On the Holidays
ADVICE from von Hottie

FOOD from The Domestic Diva
MOVIE REVIEW Christopher Nolan &
Gratuitous Tragedy by Rachel Ana Brown
Film
Femme
The Lady Behind

Spains Pragda
Film Festival
Theres No
Glass Ceiling
in Your Kitchen
The Feminist Housewife

Reclaims Homemaking
Our Room Is the World

November 2010 - February 2011
Page 11
Issue No. 4
Tte--tte
with poetry's new
dynamic duo
above photo and cover photo by Tommy Shih www.tommyshihphoto.com
poetry & prose
features
11
25
34
39
Not Without My Truth Stick:

The Amber Tamblyn & Mindy Nettifee Story
BY AMBER TAMBLYN & MINDY NETTIFEE
Five Minutes with RZONE

BY KATHRYN XIAN
Frontier Psychiatrist:
Music, Bikes, Drinks, Words, Love
Water Cooler
50
Kindness over Genius
51
BY ANNE MARIE KELLEY
BY KELLY ZEN-YI TSAI
My Lover Is a
Former Fat Kid
BY DUY NGUYEN
19
Haleakal
BY ELIZABETH KUELBS
BY JENNIFER MELEANA HEE

& MAYUMI SHIMOSE POE
43
Mundaneum
Woman on Film
47
Love, For Me
49
Little Riddles
An Interview with Marta Sanchez

BY KATHRYN XIAN
Before Breakfast
BY KRISSA CORBETT CAVOURAS
BY KATE McCAHILL
Hawaii Womens Journal | 2
53
Endless Necklace
BY KEITH MEATTO
contents
columns
8
Ms. deMeaners
17
The Domestic Diva
21
The Feminine Critique
23
Wellness Manifesto
27
The Feminist Housewife
29
View from the Moon
Holiday B.S.
to Help You Fight the Holiday B.S.
BY von HOTTIE
Holiday Drama Soup

BY JENNIFER BRODY
REEL REVIEW Gratuitous Tragedy:

Christopher Nolan's Lady Problem
BY RACHEL ANA BROWN
Toxins and Chemicals: That's What Pretty

Girls Are Made Of? Part Two
BY IVY CASTELLANOS
At Home with Homemaking

BY ANDREA DEVON BERTOLI
Connectivity
BY JAMES POUNDS
31
Kitchen Medicine
37
The Feminine Critique
45
The Balancing Act
Intuitive Eating:
Three Days to a Healthier Lifestyle
BY LORELLE SAXENA
details
5
From the Managing Editor
Contributors
UNLIKELY READS
"The Price of Remaining Human"
BY SUZANNE FARRELL SMITH
Making Womb
BY THERESA FALK
photo by Tommy Shih
photo by Justina Taft Mattos
HOW TO REACH
HAWAII WOMEN'S JOURNAL
HAWAII WOMEN'S JOURNAL
a project of the Safe Zone Foundation 501(c)3
a Hawaii-based nonprofit organization
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editor@hawaiiwomensjournal.com
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c/o Safe Zone Foundation
4348 Waialae Avenue #248
Honolulu, Hawaii 96816
DISCLAIMER
The Safe Zone Foundation (SZF) dba Hawaii Womens
Journal (HWJ), its Publisher, and Editors cannot be held
responsible for errors or consequences arising from the use
of information contained herein; the views and opinions
expressed do not necessarily reflect those of the SZF,
HWJ, Publisher, and Editors, neither does the publication
of advertisements constitute any endorsement by HWJ,
Publisher, and Editors of the products advertised.
Our Room Is the World

PUBLISHER
Kathryn Xian
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
Jennifer Meleana Hee
MANAGING EDITOR
Mayumi Shimose Poe
CONTRIBUTING EDITOR
ART DIRECTOR & LAYOUT
Anna Harmon
Kathryn Xian
EDITORIAL ASSISTANT
Andrea Devon Bertoli
PROOFREADER
Suzanne Farrell Smith
PHOTOGRAPHERS
CONTRIBUTING WRITERS
Gintare Janulaityte, Marisol Lopez, Justina Taft Mattos,

Bianca Mills, Katie Piper, Tommy Shih, Lucas Stoffel,
Christy Werner, Kathryn Xian
Keith Meatto
Jennifer Brody
Mindy Nettifee
Rachel Ana Brown
Duy Nguyen
Ivy Castellanos
James Pounds
Krissa Corbett Cavouras
Lorelle Saxena
Theresa Falk
Mayumi Shimose Poe
Amber Tamblyn
Kelly Zen-Yi Tsai
Anne Marie Kelley
von Hottie
Elizabeth Kuelbs
Kathryn Xian
Kate McCahill
[from the managing editor]
rying to fit how I feel about

Hawaii Womens Journal
into 1,000 words or less is
like trying to Rubiks a cube back to
solid color faces. Its like trying to
love people as fully as we should
without worrying about how much
time well have with them; to
imagine how to live on just sweet
potatoes, quinoa, and vegetables
after a lifetime of bacon; to save all
those drowning when weve been
outfitted with a roll of lifesavers
candies instead of the real thing. Yet
we do all these seemingly impossible
things because to us there seems
no alternative, such is the pulsatile
nature of our hearts.
So, without obsessing over the
algorithms, place the cube in your
hand and pivot the first row.
Here is how it began: I miscarried.
I was depressed. I got a short story
accepted for publication at the thenfledgling Hawaii Womens Journal.
And then I latched onto HWJ like
it was a life raft. I volunteered my
proofreading skills, my passion, my
OCD. I began to live life in terms of
deadlines and issues, forums and
new features. I devoted myself.
I bounced hundreds of e-mails
between
the
editor-in-chief,
publisher, and myself with clever
metaphors of gestation and birthing
without ever allowing myself to
acknowledge the irony.
And then, this is how it continued:
I acknowledged the irony. But it
now seemed less ironic than fitting,
because this is exactly what Hawaii
Womens Journal is to me: an ohana.
Being involved with this journal is a
constant reminder of the improbable
ways that we are connected and are
ever reaching out to connectthe
pieces slowly rotating into place. I
became managing editor via Jenn
Hee, who since high school had
been an acquaintancebut only

that. It was later, after reading her
grown-up words (via her blog), that
I learned we were of such the same
mind: Lucy Grealy and Ann Patchett,
minus the cancer; two heteronyms
of the same person, la Fernando
Pessoa. Strangers in adolescence,
long-distance writer-friends in our
twenties, colleagues into our thirties.
But what first brought us hereto
these pages, this support group,
this it-takes-a-village familywas
the flapping wing of Hees yes to
publisher Kathy Xians request for
an editor-in-chief: our very own
butterfly effect. Thats all it takes.
Saying yes to each others dreams
instead of no.
While joining HWJ in the last
semester of my MFA program may
not have been, in hindsight, the
best for my mental health, I knew
I was in the right place doing the
right thing because of the way it
was feeding me. I would put in an
entire days editing and not look at
the clock once. I would lie in bed at
three am trying to fall asleep, but
my mind would still be percolating
so all I could do was turn the light
back on, grab a notebook, and list
inspiring people I hoped would
write for HWJ. And even exhausted,
all I could feel was grateful to be a
part of this fine family.
Were nearing our one-year
anniversary, and what we are trying
to do with HWJ becomes clearer
to me, issue by issue. We are not
a glossy full of sexy women so
skinny you want to strap em down
and force-feed em hamburgers (or
vegan tofu burgers, to placate Hee).
We arent necessarily pushing the
hot button issues, you probably
arent going to hear it here first,
we dont care whether tartan or
faux fur is in this season, and we
photo courtesy of Mayumi Shimose Poe
wont try to convince you of any

right wayto solve a Rubiks cube,
to think, to eat, to live. What weve
got to offer is smarts and hearts, wit
and grit, and the community we are
building out of diverse voices. These
voices may seem disjointed, but the
more you read, the more you see
that they are facets of the same gem,
heteronyms of the same writer, faces
of the same cube and community.
HWJ can be and is all mixed up, but
also everything and every voice has
its place.
HWJ works because Xian seems
to know every single person in
the world and how to get them
to volunteer. Because Hees brain
radiates like an x-ray to find the heart
of every piece. Because our associate
editors volunteer their time, and in
exchange we help them hone their
editing skills. Because contributing
editor Anna Harmon, editorial
assistant Andrea Devon Bertoli, and
proofreader Suzanne Farrell Smith
can find a hair on an ants ass (to

parrot Xian) and spend equal time
editing and cheering on authors
words. Strict roles do not function
well here: the publisher weighs in
on submissions; the editor-in-chief
bullies and keeps company with the
publisher when shes in layout hell;
our many planning meetings often
get waylaid by juicy details about
love lives and vegan cookies; and all
of us are responsible for drumming
up the talent you see displayed on
these pages. As for our writers,
the difference is this: we kick it old
school. We take it back to the days
when editors read a piece of writing,
noticed a shine amongst what was
a little rough, and worked with
writers to polish their work rather
than throwing out the gem with the
igneous. HWJ works because writers
offer up their raw and beautiful words;
we put them through the editorial

gauntlet, which is less a gauntlet and
more a mine in which we, oops, cause
a collapse and leave them trapped
until theyve uncovered a deeper
understanding of their work and can
dig themselves out; and then with
gorgeous graphics and fancy fonts
and mad layout skills, Xian polishes
the entire project such that those
writers submit again, or volunteer to
edit, or encourage others to read and
submit to us. HWJ: The rough is the
diamond. HWJ: We mine your mind.
HWJ: Will this slogan joke ever die?
The best compliment weve
received was this: HWJ has been
inspiring to read so far I opened
up an empty Word document today,
something I havent dared to do for
months, even though I tell people
that I want to be a writer.
I read that and thought: ah-ha,
our work is done. This is exactly what

we want for our readers: the daring
to do whatever it is that, beneath
the surfaces you present to the
world, keeps your aorta pumping.
One persons blank Word document
is anothers garden complete with
organic compost pile is anothers
joy at meeting his or her first child
is anothers channeling a lifelong
obsession with organization into a
geek-sexy career as a librarian. HWJ:
We say fuckyeah to your wildest
dreams.
So, maybe its okay that I cant
quite fit my feelings into 1,000
words, that things dont quite line
up. There are 519 quintillion possible
arrangements of Rubiks colored
pieces, but theres only one way to
solve any overwhelming problem:
begin. v
Mayumi Shimose Poe, Managing Editor

Hawaii Women's Journal
Water Cooler
Martini me one time,
vodka me twice
I need to drink more
before I make nice.
~ Anne Marie Kelley
The old office party,

a vicious device,
business in black tie
is boredom plus vice. v
poetry
contributors
Andrea has a master's in political

science and women's studies but is
more interested in her kitchen and
garden. She has worked at a French
bakery, an organic farm, and a caf
and is currently makes raw and vegan
goodies at a vegetarian market on
Maui, where she lives with her boyfriend. She writes about
food news, vegan baking, and feminist housewife life at
www.bakerymanis.wordpress.com.
Jennifer Brody
A graduate of Harvard University

and a former film development
executive, Jennifer cooks and
writes in Los Angeles. In 2009, she
launched her blog Domestic Divas,
which focuses on local, organic
cooking and wine reviews. She is
currently writing her first novel.
email: domesticdivasblog@gmail.com
blog: www.domesticdivasblog.com photo: Jeri Rogers
Jennifer Meleana Hee is a vegetarian

cook and baker at Kale's Natural
Foods, a blogger for Peace Corps
Worldwide dot com, and the editorin-chief of the Hawaii Womens
Journal. She has been published in
The Smart Set, Worldview Magazine,
and innov8. She is the proud owner
of the only Bulgarian street dog in Hawaii.
blog: www.jennmeleana.com
email: editor@hawaiiwomensjournal.com
photo: Ryan Matsumoto
Anne Marie Kelley
Although Anne Marie currently lives

in Colorado, she grew up in Honolulu
and comes back to visit her family
often. She has a B.A. in poetry. She
spends her free time traveling the
world and penning silly pieces of
verse that make people smile.
Elizabeth Kuelbs
Rachel Ana Brown
Rachel Ana Brown is a native of the

Big Island of Hawaii but moved to
New York to fulfill her childhood
dream of becoming Catwoman. She
currently resides in Brooklyn. Her
work has appeared in the Allegheny
Review, the Susquehanna Review,
Honolulu Weekly, Plenty Magazine, and Bamboo Ridge.
blog: www.bigislandrachel.blogspot.com
Elizabeth Kuelbs lives at the edge

of a Los Angeles canyon where she
dreams of Maui rain. She is an MFA
student at Vermont College of Fine
Arts, a soccer mom, and Co-CEO
of a small real estate investment
company. She has work published
or forthcoming in Vestal Review, Six
Sentences, Beyond Centauri, Cover of Darkness, and
Highlights. email: elizabeth.kuelbs@roadrunner.com
Ivy Castellanos
Kate McCahill
Ivy is a freelance writer, currently

shopping her first screenplay
and finishing two unruly, very
insubordinate novels. She has
worked in the health and wellness
field for over ten years and holds
a masters degree from the Johns
Hopkins School of Public Health in Health Education,
Behavioral Health, and Health Communications. email:
ikcastellanos@gmail.com
Krissa Corbett Cavouras
Krissa was born a writer and is

becoming a librarian. She has
worked in publishing and the
nonprofit world and is currently
working toward her masters degree
in Library and Information Science
at Pratt Institute. She has written
book reviews for www.gothamist.com and worked
on copyright resources for the Columbia University
Library. She lives in Brooklyn and can also be found at
www.petithiboux.com.
Theresa Falk
Theresa is a writer, performer, director,

and educator. Her work has been seen
on stage in Creating Face, in Unbinding
the Foot: An Asian American Women's
Journal, and Strong Currents. She
teaches English, speech, and womens
literature at Iolani School.
Suzanne Farrell Smith has essays

published or forthcoming in The
Writers Chronicle, Muse & Stone,
Hawaii Women's Journal, Tiny
Lights, and In the Fray. She is
finishing her first book, a hybrid of
psychology, philosophy, and memoir
that excavates lost memory. Suzanne worked for over
a decade with elementary school children as a teacher
and language arts specialist. She lives with her husband
in NYC, where she now freelances as a writer, editor,
and proofreader, and hosts a writing salon.
blog: www.suzannefarrellsmith.wordpress.com
Kate McCahill is a writer, editor, and

visual artist living in Cambridge,
Massachusetts. Her current project is
a collection of essays based on a year
in Southeast Asia and India. She holds
a bachelor's degree from Wellesley
College and an MFA in Writing from
the Vermont College of Fine Arts.
Keith Meatto
Keith Meatto is a writer and college

English teacher based in Brooklyn.
Recent fiction publications include
Artifice, Harpur Palate, and Lit
N'Image, and his short story Oh,
Baby appeared in HWJ issue 2. He is
also co-editor of the music and culture
journal Frontier Psychiatrist, about
which he was interviewed for this issue. Hes a graduate of
Yale College and has an MFA from the New School.
Mindy Nettifee
Mindy is a Pushcart Prizenominated

writer and performance poet. She
has competed in five National Poetry
Slams, toured across America and
Europe, opened for the Cold War
Kids and Meiko, and is the author of
Sleepyhead Assassins. Mindy is also
the co-producer of The Drums Inside Your Chest and
is executive director of the Write Now Poetry Society,
working to build audiences for poetry.
Duy Nguyen
Duy Nguyen is a Bostonian living in

Los Angeles where she works as a
Producer and Production Coordinator.
When she is not making TV magic, she
has dreams of being the next Amy
Hempel. Her life goals include traveling
the world, eating everything, and
become a Red Sox season ticket holder.
blog: http://wineandcheesebookclub.blogspot.com
James Pounds
James Pounds has had more than a

few iterations: writer, green builder,
designer, yoga teacher, karate sensei,
and corporate sales exec. He holds an
MFA in Writing and is currently seeking
a home for Grand Finale, his second
novel. He writes under the name Jim
Pat Pounds when he wants to feel like a cowboy. email:
jimpat.pounds@gmail.com. www.japounds.blogspot.com
Lorelle Saxena
Lorelle Saxena, M.S., L.Ac, is a licensed

acupuncturist
and
practitioner
of traditional Chinese medicine.
Originally from Honolulu, Lorelle now
lives in Santa Rosa, California, where
she maintains a private practice. She
welcomes any questions at:
lorelle@thesaxenaclinic.com www.thesaxenaclinic.com
Mayumi Shimose Poe
Mayumi is managing editor of HWJ

and American Anthropologist. She has
fiction, essays, and poetry published
in American Anthropologist, Dark
Phrases, Eternal Portraits, Frontier
Psychiatrist,
Hawaii
Womens
Journal, the Honolulu Advertiser,
Hybolics, the Phoenix, and Stepping
Stones. She currently lives in San Francisco with her
husband. email: mayumi.shimose@gmail.com
blog: www.mayumishimosepoe.com
Amber Tamblyn
Amber is a Venice, California, native. She

has been a writer and actress since the
age of nine. She has been nominated
for an Emmy, a Golden Globe, and
an Independent Spirit Award for her
work in television and film. In 2005
Simon & Schuster published her debut
collection of poetry, Free Stallion. She
is the producer of The Drums Inside Your Chest, an annual
poetry concert (www.thedrumsinsideyourchest.com) and
the nonprofit Write Now Poetry Society (www.writenowpoets.org).
Her second book of poetry and prose, Bang Ditto (Manic D.
Press), was released last fall.
Kelly Zen-Yi Tsai
Kelly is a Chicago-born Chinese

Taiwanese American spoken word
artist who has performed in over 450
venues worldwide, including three
seasons of HBOs Def Poetry. She
has been profiled on Idealist in NYCs
New York 40 (top forty New Yorkers
whove made positive social change;
www.bit.ly/agWbuQ) and AngryAsianMan.Com's 30 Most
Influential Asian Americans under 30 (www.bit.ly/c0wtSr).
www.yellowgurl.com, www.youtube.com/kztsai
twitter: @yellowgurlpoet photo: Kevin Kane
von Hottie
von Hottie is performer, pinup, and guru

living in New York. You can follow her many
adventures at vonhottie.com as well as on
Twitter @askvonhottie and Facebook.
blogs:
www.vonoracle.blogspot.com,
www.vonhottie.tumblr.com
Kathryn Xian
Organizer and filmmaker Kathryn Xian

is the non-executive director of Girl Fest
Hawaii and the publisher of the Hawaii
Women's Journal. Xian was awarded the
2005 Ellison Onizuka Human and Civil
Rights Award by the National Education
Association and is the recipient of the
2006 Soroptimists International of the America's Women
Making a Difference for Women Award.
Ms. deMeaners
von Hotties guide to
navigating a modern life
Holiday B.S.
to Help You Fight
the Holiday B.S.
by von Hottie
photo by Lucas Stoffel
he holidays are a great time for

reconnecting with your family. After
all, they love you so much and they
want to know every detail of your wildly
thrilling life. However, all that attention can
be so overwhelming that it might take you
the rest of the year to recover. Here are some
tips to help you when family time turns into
awkward timeand some of my favorite
things about the season that dont involve
small talk over the cheese dip.
Ten Awkward Questions Your Family

May Ask During the Holidays with
Sassy Responses and Answers You
Can Actually Use
Q: So youre living together?
A: Yes, but we only do it up the butt.
Q: When are you moving back here?
A: When they open up the Ritz for
permanent residence.
Q: When are you getting married?
A: As soon as Justin Bieber turns 18, or
when Scott Baios life coach says hes
ready for me.
Q: When are you having babies?
A: Stare blankly until they repeat the
question, then answer: Well, how long
does it take to go through the worlds
wine supply?
OR
A: Were still practicing.
Q: Do you still talk to that old/young

ugly/drunk/addict/fat loser?
A: I talk to Cousin Joe all the time!
Five Awesome Things about the

Holiday Season That Dont Involve
Your Family
Q: Are you dating anyone?

A: There are some guest stars, but no
leading (wo)men.
OR
A: Yes, but (s)hes really famous and on
tour with his/her band. Thats why you
never see him/her.
OR
A: I prefer to call it community
serviceand yes, Im very committed to
my civic duty.
1) AUTUMN LEAVES. Leaves, gluestick, paper,

child. Babysitting duties: done. Its tempting,
but try to glue the leaves to the paper, not
the child.
Q: What are you doing with your life?

A: Getting my Masters in Awesomeness.
2) WINTER LIPGLOSS. Better than mistletoe,

testing out a threesome of gingerbread,
caramel, and pumpkin-flavored lip glosses is
the best excuse for making out.
3) TWINKLE LIGHTS. Lie in the dark and watch
the world sparkle. Make as many wishes as
you want.
Q: Did you put on weight?

A: Only the sexy kind.
4) HOT CHOCOLATE. Oh, its so cold. Oh, I

better drink this rich, decadent cup of hot
chocolate. Its a matter of survival!
Q: How did you lose weight?

A: Prosecco has fewer calories than
french fries, so now I just drink my
feelings.
5) SHOUTOUT TO HAWAII NEI. Morning:

Open presents by the fireplace. Afternoon:
Party at the beach! v
Q: Are you still . . . (They trail off because

they cant remember anything about your
life.)
A: Ruling the world? Kicking ass and
taking names? Yes. Its okay, my life often
gives other people an existential crisis.
If you have pressing etiquette concerns or

questions on how to best navigate this modern
life, please e-mail:

vonhottie@vonhottie.com
poetry
Kindness
over
Genius
for Sarah Gambito who said somethin like: in my twenties, i was most captivated by
genius, but now, in my thirties, i realize how rare authentic kindness is.
i've got to agree with sarah.
sacrificed so many nights not sleeping,
in my twenties, i thought genius

was the hot shit.
exploded an atomic mushroom cloud

of emotional distance around me,
muthafuckas who taught themselves

how to play twenty different instruments
found my own energy and ingenuity

outpacing me, running over me foot by foot.
a combination lawyer/ER doctor/

and clinical social worker
genius doesnt have time

for feelings or social skills
or farmville on facebook,
a novelist who writes for ten hours a day,

goes to sleep for two, gets up and writes for another
ten
now, genius bores me.
the tedium of the workaholic,
the blistering erections of human achievement,
all while the geniuss life crumbles
around him or her.
the phone goes silent.
birthdays and holidays go missed.
vacations never get taken.
genius doesnt believe
in these sorts of frivolous things.
i know, because i have been
a sufferer of genius.
not to say that i am one,
but ive nearly died in its pursuit,
for bubble tea dates on rainy afternoons,

guitar hero marathons, or knowing
what ones loved one is crying about
when the crying eventually does come.
genius is so often absent
swinging around in its own genius world,
gorilla-knuckled with broad teeth and a thick skull,
blowing through the jungle,
not caring who he or she crushes.
to live like this is not extraordinary
not when compared to the open hand
that on monday, tuesday, wednesday,
thursday, friday, saturday, sunday
stays here
no flinching, no quaking, no fists.
not extraordinary when compared
floral photo by Marisol Lopez
poetry
to the open hand that stays here

through powdery blizzards, balmy springs,
and scorching summers.
to the open hand that stays here
and isnt worried about whatever hand things
it could be doing right now?
or if it really is appreciated and recognized

by the entire world in its true value as a hand?
to the open hand that stays here and extends,
fingers and wrist rooted in the whole person,
one who is right here, right in front of me,
not racing ahead to seek out the next solution,
the next innovation, the next trend.
to the open hand that stays here and remains,
unafraid to be kind, in the midst of so much genius. v
photo by Katie Piper
Kelly Zen-Yi Tsai
or what are all the other hands are up to?
[feature interview]
Not Without My Truthstick:

The Amber Tamblyn & Mindy Nettifee Story
photos by Tommy Shih
my and Emily. Thelma and Louise.

Georgia OKeefe and Frida Kahlo.
Sybil and Sybil. Some women
are impressive solo, but their combined
quadruple x chromosomes cause wonder
woman powers to activate off the creative
charts, together possessing: a whole lot
of artistic genius and a fervent estrogenfueled dismantling of the status quo
with just a touch of multiple personality
disorder.
Enter Mindy Nettifee and Amber
Tamblyn.
Mindy Nettifee is a poet by day and
a poet by nighther day job is her art,
her words, the open book of her life
performed unprim and very loosely proper
on the stage. We love her for her fulltime
poetessness, because that means that
she is fulltime dedicated to making the
world a safer place for poetry, one funnysharp verbal sticking-it-to-society at a
time. In addition to being a Pushcart Prize
nominee, she has headlined for Girl Fest
Hawaii and has a publication list as long

as the queue to Macys before opening
on Black Friday. Her latest collection of
poetry, Rise of the Trust Fall, was released
this year. We recommend it if you like
your intelligent commentary, personal
revelation, and wake-up-bitch slaps in the
same space.
Amber Tamblyn manages to balance
the life of a Hollywood actress and antiHollywood poet with as much grace and
wit as a nonviolence practitioner balances
Glenn Becks tirades. Her first episode
in the television series House and her
latest film, 127 Hours, both premiere this
November. Her latest book is Bang Ditto,
named after the sound that was made
when she met Mindy Nettifee. [Kidding.]
Mindy and Amber are a poetic power
couple, not just for their words on the page,
on the stage, and Sharpied in dark corners
across Americas bathroom stalls (mens
rooms, too), but because they founded
the nonprofit WRITE NOW Poetry Society
in 2007 to support poetry organizations
and spread the enduringbut not always
pop culture friendlyglory that is poetry.

WRITE NOW is dedicated to finding
ways to connect audiences and readers
with great poets, and championing
the kind of heart-breaking soul-easing
mind-blowingly good poetry that knows
a jugular when it sees one. They also
perform as part of the annual The Drums
Inside Your Chest poetry series to expose
unlikely audiences to the nations best
performance poets. Basically they do a
lot more for poetry across the nation than
the American debt does for China.
We let them interview each other
because we didnt want to be the literary
equivalent of a third wheel. And because
weve been dying for some tte--tte
action ever since we launched HWJ. And
because when Mindy and Amber start
talking, believe usyou would rather step
aside so you can grab a front-row seat and
revel in their subversive and sassy banter.
Jennifer Meleana Hee, Editor-in-Chief,
and Kathryn Xian, Publisher
Mindy Nettifee: Lets get started. What are you wearing?

Amber Tamblyn: My sorrow.
M: Interesting. It looks more like jaded optimism. (Amber
laughs.) Is sorrow in this fall?
A: Its Duane Reade couture. Lets talk about this South African
Chardonnay were drinking.
M: It tastes like a $9 bottle, but it only cost us $7.64. Which in
this economy could buy me preemie twins, or at least a nice
oil painting of preemie twins.
A: Save your money. Just rent em
from Octomom.
M: It doesnt matter who my father was; it matters who

I remember he was. Come to think of it, thats also how I
party.
[The interview rapidly devolves into something sponsored by
a $7 bottle of chardonnay. It picks up again two days later at
9am via IM.]
M: Are you happy, Amber?
A: This is a huge question and maybe not one that I should be
answering in the morning, in between my first cup of coffee
and my groggy remembrance of last nights pathetic red-wineand-Pringles-in-bed attempt to finish a poem that refuses to
be finished. Sometimes booze is the
answer, Mindy. Sometimes there is no
answer.
M: Is Octomom the new face of

feminism?
M: I think Pringles make you angry.

And I think its time for us to go on one
of those power cleanses where we
only drink wheatgrass and say please
and thank you to all the furniture we
meet.
A: Elaborate on that, Mindy.

M: Do you think Octomom represents
some kind of sixth wave? The
elevation of the uterus to a pyramid
scheme? The logical conclusion of
IVF and collagen and casual sex and
casual surgery when combined with
the fetishization of Angelina Joliestyle motherhood?
A: I think youre right.

M: Lets get serious. How has writing
poetry shaped or changed you as a
human?
A: She is a little bit of everything.

Starlet. Welfare mom. Angelina Jolie
stalker. If you were an artist and your
medium was Botox, she would be
your St. Peters Basilica.
M: Which side of you is the business and which side of you

is the party?
A: Poetry has helped me to not hate

the woman I am. In the entertainment
business, women face an inevitable
bitterness about everything from our
bodies and how they age to the lack of
strong female roles, to Heidi Montags
general existence, etc. Writing poems about that stuff has
given me the ability to have an out-of-body perception of
sorts, to be able to examine my lifethe universal life of the
actressand find humor in the superficial silliness of it all.
Who knew auditioning for The Smurfs live action movie and
getting asked if I would lose a little weight to play Smurfette
would be so fucking funny? I did, Mindy. I did.
A: Is that a trick question? Anne Frank in the front, Anne

Sexton in the back.
M: In fairness to the casting director, Smurfette is really

small.
M: So you party like Anne Sexton?
A: Smaller than my birth weight.
A: Yes.
M: Wow. Thats kind of a metaphor for being a young actress:

its an all-male-cast film aimed at young people, theres only
M: What I really want to ask about you is this: Is being a poet

and a famous actress compatible?
A: Im like a well-groomed mullet.
one role available for a woman, and shes

blue but blond. A white girl is being cast for
the part, and she has to return to the size
she was as a fetus to get the part. All right.
No more actress questions. The subject
matter is too dark. Lets talk with fake
British accents about literature. Who are
the female authors that have inspired you
in the last few years?
A: You. Next question.
M: FINE. Your first writing mentor was a
manJack Hirschman, an unashamedly
political force of castle-storming wisdom.
What did he try and impress upon you
about what poetry is all about? How has
your view of poetry changed since those
first lessons?
A: I dont think Jack ever tried to impress
upon me anything, I think I was just in love
with his style of writingI still ambut I
eventually had to find my own voice. I am
still not sure what that voice is. Im still
finding it, even though Ive been a poet all
my life. Jack helped to build the fireplace
inside me. Ill spend a lifetime looking for all
the right kindling. (Spit, poet!!!)
M: Can you exercise power as a woman
without being seen as a joyless bitch?
A: As long as that power runs on a 28-day
cycle, otherwise no and the following:
TEARS, TRASH THE HOUSE, READ OLD
DIARIES, TEARS, CHUG CHARDONNAY,
TAKE WHAT MY MOM SAID OUT OF
CONTEXT, TEARS, CHUG THE LAST OF THE
CHARDONNAY, REPEAT.
[Mindy laughs and gets coffee on her
keyboard. Interview resumes twenty
minutes later.]
A: Its my turn to ask the probing questions.
When was the first time you described
yourself to someone as a poet? The first
time you allowed that to be your job
description?
M: I had a professor in college who was a big

influence on mePatricia See. She taught
dream workshops in a womens prison and
was this epic, incredible teacher. She would
make me say I am a poet over and over
until I could say it without cracking a selfdeprecating smile, or making fun of myself,
or being embarrassed in general. And it
helpspracticing just being exactly who
you are and owning it out loud. But I still
feel like a real ass saying it when someone
asks me what I do. Its equivalent in America
to saying youre a mime, or that you burn
money for a living; its like admitting youre
a completely useless member of society.
Which is interesting, because given the
chance to defend poetry and the poets
that inspire me, I go nuts. I actually morph
into a high horse. Whatever! I think being
conflicted at times about your self-worth is
healthy. Keeps you honest.
A: What is it about the word poetry that
turns people off and away from ever coming
to a poetry show?
M: The word poetry connotes emoting
and heartfeltedness. Or achingly boring
intellectualism (sestinas about Voltaire). Or
(the worst!) empty, showy, hyperpolitical
discourse. That rhymes. Or all the pop
culture tableausnooty finger-snapping
hipsters at open mics, wearing berets
with and without irony. These notions
arent entirely wrong. Ive been to many,
many poetry shows and felt incredibly
uncomfortable, like a trapped animal. I think
thats what turns people off of going to a
poetry show. At best, its the Lisa Simpson
of art forms. Its the dorky younger sister of
hip hop and comedy.
A: Do you think that will ever change?
M: Were trying! My goal is just to never
put on a bad show. To stake my reputation
on it, so that more and more people see
how funny and rad and inspiring it can all
be when its good.
She would make

me say I am a poet
over and over
until I could say it
without cracking
a self-deprecating
smile, or making
fun of myself, or
being embarrassed
in general.
A: Why are your feelings for Amber Tamblyn so incredibly

strong and often inappropriate?
M: You pull off this crazy combo of Bambi eyes and dick jokes
and essential oils. It just sort of haunts me.
A: Describe the best poetry show youve ever had and what
made it so great.
M: My favorite show in the last year was at this old repurposed
Baptist church in Long Beach. It had been taken over by the
Agape folks, and they had added gongs and mandalas to the
space, and everything else was old school churchgiant
ceilings, stained glass, wooden pews. One hundred or so
people showed up, and we drank wine out of Dixie cups and
ate M&Ms in the fellowship hall, and then put on a Poetry
Revival show with music and poetry and funny bits. At one
point, we got everyone to dance for a thirty-second dance
party. And it just felt like we were lifting the spirits of the
dead and the tired right out of the beams. There was so
much joy. I saw a friend that night who was in a really bad
placebut he had this huge smile on his face and was just
like, I needed this.
A: What female writers have influenced you the most?
M: Marge Piercy. Gabrielle Calvocoressi. Olena Kalytiak Davis.
Brenda Shaughnessy. Victoria Redel. Wislawa Szymborska.
My performance poetry contemporaries that make me keep
writing just to try and impress themPatricia Smith, Rachel
McKibbens, you, Cristin OKeefe Apotwicz, Jeanann Verlee,
Karen Finneyfrock, Sonya Renee, gah!!!! I could go on and
on.
A: If you were an essential oil, what would your name be?
M: Thymeisonmyside. And I would rub it on my side.
A: A question that people often ask me as an actress is, What
advice do you have for struggling women? How would you
answer this, Mindy? Subquestion: How would you answer it
with two glasses of Makers Mark under your belt?
M: Advice for struggling women? Women who are struggling
in general? Start taking your circadian rhythm seriously. Eat
real food. Dont let men or anyone tell you who you are and
what you want. Protect yourself. Be trustworthy so you can
attract people you can trust. Read like crazy. Be curious and
learn everything you can about everything you come across.
Figure out what makes you happy and do it as much as
possible. Find out what makes you angry and do something

about it. Acknowledge yourself whenever you make good
choices. Enjoy your own company. Subanswer: Dolly Partons
Jolene.
A: And lastly, what the hell is wrong with Christine
ODonnell?
M: Besides that shes a total reactionary and a mouthpiece for
the Tea Party and Reagan-era Republican platform of social
and economic policy that has been ruinous for this country
and driven the ever-widening and increasingly dangerous
divide between the uber-rich and working-class poor? That
shes a graduate of the Claremont Institutes Homophobia
101 for emerging conservative leaders? That shes Sarah
Palin II: The Revenge? She just said at her big debate, What I
believe is irrelevant in the context of advocating the teaching
of creationism in science class. And I think thats true. What
she believes is irrelevant. She is just a vessel for the delivery
of another Republican seat in the Senate. Its white privilege
at its worst. It doesnt matter if you have the experience or
qualifications to be a senator; it only matters that you cling
to the right wedge issues and spew jargon passionately. She
makes me sad. Except that Im not a witch commercial.
That made me happy.
M: Ok. I get the last question. If your resources were unlimited,
Amber, what would your dream creative project be?
A: I sometimes feel like I am living the dream project, and
part of the dream is the struggle. Being able to afford a
nice house in Venice Beach and New York City where my
Blacksmith Collective folks can come and rest on their tours
(BC is a poetry collective of friends I am fortunate to be a
part of, for those that dont know). To be able to wake up in
Honolulu next to Mindy Nettifee and know that my morning
will consist of the best of conversations and the best of
papayas with lime. To be able to live as a poet and an actress
and do them both successfully. To the dream aspect of this
creative project, though, I would add all-day back massages
from Hillary Clinton and a knife collection designed by Annie
Duke.
M: Here here! v
For more Mindy and Amber action:
www.thecultofmindy.com
www.amtam.com
www.writenowpoets.org
www.drumsinsideyourchest.com
[the domestic diva]
Holiday
Drama
oup
by Jennifer Brody
ts said that the sign of a good chef is what he or

she can do with soup. When Im in my own humble
kitchen whipping up a bowl of broth, I keep this
thought in the back of my mind. Its there when Im
sampling a new chefs wares at a fabulous restaurant. It
was there when I was traveling in Japan this summer and
discovered that every meal either (1) was soup (I ate my
weight in porky ramen, hearty soba, and pillowy udon)
or (2) ended with a bowl of soup (miso mostly, studded
with miniature clams and swirling tendrils of seaweed).
No doubt youve heard the expression Let them
eat cake. For me, its Let them eat soup. Soup is my
mantra, my prayer, my security blanket, my remedy for
every affliction, my ultimate comfort food. Its there to
ease my symptoms when Im suffering from the flu. Its
there to warm me up when the weather turns cold and
soggy. Its there for me when Ive had one of those days
when nothing goes right no matter what I do (dont we
all have those?). The meditative power of soup is so
strong that it transcends any drama in my life, bringing
me back to my center.
Simple, unassuming soup has also made cameo
appearances at the best meals of my life. When I dined
at Alinea in Chicago, one of the worlds top restaurants,
Chef Grant Achatzs Hot Potato Cold Potato was the
most memorable disha sphere of hot potato, black
truffles, and butter stuck on a skewer, suspended over
a tiny bowl of cold potato soup pooled in a hand-carved
wax bowl. To eat it, you pull the skewer out so that the
hot potato, truffles, and butter fall into the soup, and
then you drink the whole thing in one gulp like a shot. In
a word, this dish is revelatorythe hot and cold mixing
in your mouth, the butter and truffle melting on your
tongue. If the sign of a good chef is his soup, Chef Achatz
is a freakin culinary genius.
Soup can also be the calm in the storm that is the
holiday season. So, when the holidays roll around with
their endless array of family gatheringstables loaded
with turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, green bean

casseroles, and pies; the aunt who wears too much
red lipstick yet always kisses your cheek; the cousin
who recently discovered the joy of Axe Body Spray; the
divorced parents who are forced to dine together; the
soon-to-be ex-boyfriend you catch kissing your sister
under the mistletoe; and the grandmother who still
treats you like youre twelveI find that the best escape
from holiday drama is seeking refuge in the kitchen with
a stock pot, some homemade vegetable stock, and one
of the seasons best offerings: winter squash.
I love to roast acorn squash gently in the oven and
then puree it with vegetable stock, garlic, and toasted
curry powder. I finish it with light coconut milk and just a
smidgeon of maple syrup. Then, I serve it up with tender,
ginger-braised leeks. To me, this soup is the perfect
encapsulation of the holidays: savory and sweet, with
curry powder adding just the right amount of spice.
Soup defies the shackling expectations of other
holiday offerings: you can spice soup up and experiment
with inspired seasonal ingredients, and nobodys gonna
hate you for tampering with a time-honored tradition
like great-great-grandmas sacred mashed potatoes
recipe. Also, unlike most holiday favorites, soup can
actually help your waistline. Studies have shown that
people who consume soup at the beginning of meals
tend to consume fewer calories overall and lose weight.
Not only does this simple soup taste fabulous, but
squash boasts an array of health benefits. Its rich in
vitamin A (a potent antioxidant), potassium (good for
blood pressure), and vitamin C (immune function), and
it has a special type of fiber that prevents cancer cells
from attacking the colon. In addition, it has a long shelf
life: it keeps up to six months as long as its stored in a
cool, dry place.
So, spice up your holidays and keep the drama out
of your party and in your soup bowl! v
Curried Acorn Squash Soup

with Coconut Milk and GingerBraised Leeks (Vegan)
Cooking time: 60 minutes
Serves 4 people
Ingredients
Soup
1 large acorn squash or two small acorn squash,
halved and seeded (any winter squash may be
substituted)
1 tablespoon olive oil, plus more for drizzling
1 teaspoon fresh thyme
1 tablespoon curry powder, lightly toasted
1 garlic clove, peeled
2 cups of low-sodium vegetable stock
(preferably homemade)
1 cup of light coconut milk
1 tablespoon maple syrup
salt and pepper
Ginger-braised leeks
2 leeks, tender white parts chopped
1 tablespoon fresh ginger, minced
1 cup of low-sodium vegetable stock
1 tablespoon olive oil
salt and pepper
photos courtesy of Jennifer Brody
Directions
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Place the acorn squash in a roasting pan. Rub the inside
of the squash with the olive oil and thyme, then sprinkle
with salt and pepper. Turn the squash face down and
poke holes in the skin with a knife. Place the squash in
the oven and roast for about 45 minutes or until the
flesh is tender.
Once the squash is cooked, remove it from the oven.

Once its cool enough to handle, scoop out the flesh
from the skin and place it in a blender. Add the toasted
curry powder, garlic clove, and vegetable stock and
puree until smooth, adding more stock as needed for
desired consistency.
Meanwhile, prepare the ginger-braised leeks. In a

medium-sized pan, saut the ginger in the olive oil over
medium heat for 2 minutes. Add the leeks and saut
for one more minute. Next, add the stock and bring to
a simmer. Cover, turn the heat to low, and continue to
cook the leeks for about 20 minutes or until all of the
stock has been absorbed. Remove from heat and season
to taste with salt and pepper.
Pour the newly pureed soup into a pot on the stovetop.

Bring to a simmer and cook for 10 minutes. Stir in the
coconut milk and maple syrup. Season to taste with salt
and pepper.
To serve, ladle the soup into bowls. Top with gingerbraised leeks. Drizzle with good olive oil, top with a little
fresh-cracked black pepper, and enjoy!
poetry
Haleakal
A ranger waits
twisted miles above mynah song
and fluke splash, in that keening blue place
where sharp black slopes thrust
from molten womb pierce cloud veil,
in that high place
where wind denies lungs
and threatens wingless with flight.
When you go you dont believe. You wont believe later.
But when you are there
obsidian reflects sunfire and breathless you
walk inside the station to lean on the cinder block wall.
You see hergravid with heat which has not yet
burned the brochures or wooden counter.
You want to take your children down now
before she cracks and sparks.
They run to her, of course, because she is warm
and they are cold and afraid to fly.
She buttons her jacket to shade her radiant veins, leans
over to speak of nene birds, silversword,
the sky-shattering birth of islands.
They inhale embers she spits with her words,
hot flecks of making that glow inside them with
small connecting brightness. v
by Elizabeth Kuelbs
photo by Christy Werner
[the feminine critique]
REEL REVIEW
Gratuitous Tragedy:
Christopher Nolans Lady Problem
f I was a superhero or a morally

ambiguous antihero who commits
crimes but has a good reason for
doing soyes, Ive spent a lot of time
thinking about this, dont judge memy
nemesis would be Christopher Nolan. As
the writer-director of genre-revitalizing
movies like Batman Begins and The Dark
Knight, as well as cerebral auteur films
like Memento and this summers hit
Inception, Nolan shows himself to be a
nuanced and talented storyteller who
trusts his audience and his own abilities
in equal measure. He is well on the way
to becoming the moviemaker of our
generation and is already a god among
the geek community, which is why its so
vexing to see him consistently fail when
it comes to creating female characters.
Women in Nolans movies are little
more than ciphers and catalysts whose
extreme suffering motivates the male
leads; they are bit players in their own
lives, perpetuating the tired notion that
a woman is only as important as the
man she affects.
This is how a Nolan movie typically goes:
a handsome guy is mentally unstable and
by Rachel Ana Brown

cant have normal human relationships
because the love of his life was tragically
taken away from him and he now lives
to rectify that tragedy. Memento, The
Prestige, Batman Begins, The Dark
Knight, Inceptionits as though Nolan
came up with a protagonist he liked
so much that hes going to run with
it until the studios stop giving him
money. Its no wonder Nolan took to
the Batman mythos like a vigilante to a
dark, mugger-filled alley: his formula for
tortured heroes with tragic pasts found
the perfect vehicle in Bruce Wayne, a
man who has to dress up as a bat and
fight crime to cope with the murder of
his parents.
him in battle, hes not just fighting some

guy in a scarecrow maskhes fighting
his beloveds attacker and its personal!
The Dark Knight takes it one step further
and uses Rachels excessively violent
death as motivation for not one but two
mens quests for vengeance. After the
Joker blows her up, her fianc Harvey
Dent is so traumatized by the Rachel
Explosion that he loses his mind and
goes on a murderous rampage against
the people who failed to save her.
Batman, for his part, broods about the
Rachel Explosion for a scene or two, and
then defeats the villain with extra facepunchy zest because the Joker killed his
beloved and its personal!
** PLEASE NOTE: SPOILERS AHEAD**
And now, with Inception, Nolan once

again gives us a tortured hero, Cobb,
who blames himself for his beloveds
madness and subsequent suicide. This
is bad enough, but Nolan also pulled
a bait-and-switch on his lady fans by
casting indie darling Ellen Page (Juno,
Whip It) in a starring role, but then
giving her character Ariadne nothing
to do onscreen except get Cobb to
talk about his dead wife. It makes little
In fact, Nolan created a new female

character, Rachel Dawes, for Batman
Begins and The Dark Knight, perhaps
because hes not content with his
stories if theres not an imperiled
woman in there somewherecomic
book continuity be damned. In Batman
Begins, Rachel gets attacked by the
Scarecrow so that when Batman faces
narrative difference whether Pages

character exists or not, and her role is such
a waste of a good actress that I almost
wish Nolan hadnt bothered. The only
reason shes there, as far as I can figure,
is because shes a woman, and women
can get men talking about their feelings
and all that other so-called girly nonsense.
It doesnt matter that Cobb literally just
met her; hes more than willing to show
her incredibly personal and heartbreaking
moments from his past, things he wouldnt
show his male teammates even though
theyve been working with him for years
and already know all about his wifes death
and the damage it caused his psyche. Cuz
theyre men, thats why, and men dont
talk about their feelings with each other.
Its irritating to see a great moviemaker
like Nolan reduce his women characters to
vehicles for male catharsis and redemption.
This kind of gratuitous tragedy perpetuates
harmful societal attitudes about women
by portraying us as helpless damsels in
distress and, worse, by treating our stories
as important only if they include a man. Our
narrative relevance is directly contingent
on our impact on male characters, which
is why the trail of dead women in Nolans
wake is so distressing. In his movies, the
death of a woman is tragic because of
how sad it makes her male partnernot

because she was a human being with a
story of her own.
To be clear: I dont think that Nolan is a
misogynist. If you asked him how he feels
about female characters in movies, hed
probably say theyre just as important
as male characters and that he tries to
write them to be strong, independent,
and believable. But Nolan is a product
of institutional sexism. His treatment
of women is normal by Hollywood
standards, and because Nolan is male,
he has the privilege of maintaining a
blind spot toward sexism. He doesnt
see how he shortchanges his female
characters because, hey, at least hes not
putting them in gratuitous sex scenes
like all those other sleazy directors. His
women are smart, sexy, and kind, and
they possess emotional depth, which is
an improvement over the usual wilting
flowers and femme fatales that populate
mainstream Hollywood fare, but these
women still dont have a reason to exist
outside of their relationships to the male
protagonists. They dont have lives of
their own, and what lives they do have
are tragically cut short to give the heroes
a reason to do whatever it is the movie is
really about.
If all of this sounds like a conspiracy theory

dreamt up by a Mad Feminist scheming
away in her studio apartment with her
comic books and sparking Tesla coils, first
of all, stop spying on me, and second,
try and remember the last time you saw
a movie that passed the Bechdel Test.
Created by cartoonist Alison Bechdel,
the test provides three simple criteria a
movie must fulfill to be considered even
remotely female friendly: the movie
must (1) contain at least two named
female characters, who (2) talk to each
other about (3) something other than a
man. None of Nolans movies make the
cut. Very few movies do, but Nolan has
already reimagined so many genres of
filmsuperhero flicks, sci-fi, psychological
thriller, espionagethat its reasonable to
expect him, at this point, to break a few
gender boundaries.
Christopher Nolans next project is
his third and final Batman movie, The
Dark Knight Rises. Therefore, I issue my
nemesis a challenge: include at least one
kick-ass woman who doesnt die by the
end of the film. At least itd be a good
start. I recommend Catwoman, a morally
ambiguous antihero who commits crimes
but has a good reason for doing so. v
illustrations by Kathryn Xian
[the wellness manifesto]
Toxins and Chemicals:

Thats What Pretty Girls Are Made Of ?
Part Two
ve been faithfully semi-crunch

(aspiring but not quite ready for the
rigors of full-fledged granolahood)
for nearly five years. I try to use certified
organic products and support companies
committed to natural body care, but
occasionally I lapse into my old mainstream
ways (Im a recovering Shiseido habitu).
Last issue, The Wellness Manifesto dished
on the ugly truth behind Big Cosmetics
exposing the insolent yet customary
use of toxins and harmful chemicals in the
personal care products we use every day.
Postrelease of that column in HWJ issue
3, I asked a random sample of Wellness
Manifesto readers (mainly, my family and
friends): knowing about the mlange
of poisons in commercial products, do
you plan to switch to safer, more natural
alternatives? The responses varied from an
acquiescent and unenthused probably
to an incredulous me? Give up my supafly
black nail lacquer?
Could it be that we live in a society where
the pursuit of looking good negates all other
variables, including the safeguarding of life
and limb? Are we so fervently committed
to being well-coiffed and smelling like fruit
parfaitstanding by the products we love
like Tammy Wynette stood by her cheating
manthat we consciously accept the risk,
no matter how significant? The ugly truth
is, theres nothing beautiful about the vast
majority of commercial cosmetics. An even
uglier truth? It is completely plausible for
companies to create products without
these injurious ingredients, yet we continue
to support businesses that knowingly place
our health in jeopardy. Are we completely
and irreversibly product whipped?
Fortunately, going full-crunch isnt the
only option. There are a number of safe,
organic product alternatives on the
market. Granted, theyre harder to find,
by Ivy Castellanos
and youll have to sift through a bevy

of products masquerading as pure,
natural, gentle, and organicwhich
are merely marketing terms without legal
underpinnings. It would be fundamentally
impossible to eliminate all suspect
ingredients from your cabinet, but every
savvy girl needs to be versed on the
following Nine You Should Definitely Nix.
PRETTY POSER AWARDS

According to the Campaign for Safe
Cosmetics, a coalition effort to protect
consumer and worker health through
corporate, regulatory, and legislative
reform, the following ingredients are
among the most toxic and deleterious,
yet they lurk in the everyday products we
use. Because these insidious ingredients
are linked to a growing body of evidence
suggesting long-term health ramifications
such as cancer, birth defects, learning
disabilities, and other illnesses, they
have earned their place on The Wellness
Manifestos Pretty Poser Award list.
1. Parabens
Parabens are a group of synthetic
preservatives used to prevent the growth of
microbes in cosmetic products. Commonly
found in shampoos, conditioners, lotions,
cleansers, and scrubs, parabens are
linked to cancer, endocrine disruption,
reproductive toxicity, neurotoxicity, and
skin irritation. According to the Breast
Cancer Fund, measurable concentrations
of parabens have been identified in biopsy
samples from breast tumors and have been
detected in urine samples of adults from
diverseethnic,socioeconomic,andgeographic
backgrounds. The most frequently used
parabens include ethylparaben, butylparaben,
methylparaben, and propylparaben.
2. Formaldehyde
Used to prevent bacteria from growing in
water-based products, formaldehyde is
commonly found in shampoos, liquid body
soaps, hair gel, and nail polish. A known
carcinogen, formaldehyde has been linked
to skin sensitivity and cancer. Products such
as baby shampoos, soaps, and body washes
often contain formaldehyde-releasing
preservatives (FRPs), which, because of
regulatory loopholes, are not required by
the FDA to be listed as ingredients.
3. Synthetic Musks and Artificial Fragrance
These are chemicals added as scents
to cosmetics such as perfumes, body
sprays, and lotions. Studies suggest they
disrupt hormone systems and trigger skin
sensitization when exposed to UV light.
Synthetic musk compounds have been
found in blood, breast milk, body fat, and
in the cord blood of newborn babies. Since
fragrances are considered an industry
trade secret, companies are not required
to disclose any information on specific
fragrance ingredients. The blanket term
fragrance therefore potentially includes
hundreds of chemicals in a single products
secret fragrance mixture. Fragrances, found
in virtually every personal care product, can
contain neurotoxins, are among the top
five allergens in the world, and are linked
to immunotoxicity and neurotoxicity.
4. 1,4-dioxane
1,4-dioxane is a frequent contaminant of
cosmetic ingredients, but because its a
by-product of the manufacturing process,
it typically does not appear on ingredient
labels. A known carcinogen, as well as a
suspected kidney toxicant, neurotoxicant,
and respiratory toxicant, 1,4-dioxane is
commonly found in products that create
suds, like shampoo, liquid soap, and bubble
bath. Beware of products containing sodium
laureth sulfate, PEG compounds, and
chemicals denoting xynol, ceteareth,

and oleth.
5. Phthalates
Otherwise known as industrial plasticizers,
phthalates are ubiquitous in personal care
products. They preserve scent and color,
function as conditioners, and are often
added to fragrance ingredients, where they
often go undetected because of loopholes
in labeling requirements. They are found
in products such as nail polish, hair spray,
deodorant, body lotions, and perfumes/
colognes. Research suggests they disrupt
the endocrine system and have been
associated with the feminization of male
babies (indicated by decreased anogenital
distance). Phthalates are also linked to birth
defects, infertility, and poor sperm quality,
and they pose a particular threat to male
sex organs.
6. Lead and Other Heavy Metals
Metals such as lead, arsenic, mercury,
aluminum, zinc, chromium, and iron can
still be found in products such as sunscreen,
lipstick, whitening toothpaste, eyeliner,
and nail color. Often contaminants of
constituent ingredients, these metals have
been linked to cancer, birth defects, and
reproductive toxicity, nonreproductive
organ toxicity, neurotoxicity, allergies/
immunotoxicity, and bioaccumulation
(when compounds accumulate in the body
and are taken up and stored at a rate faster
than they are metabolized or excreted).
7. Triclosan
An antimicrobial agent that accumulates
in the body, triclosan has been linked to
hormone disruption and the emergence
of resistant bacteria. Found in antibacterial
soaps, deodorants, toothpaste, and myriad
other products, the heightened use of
triclosan raises additional concerns about
bioaccumulation and its impact on wildlife
systems. The Centers for Disease Control
identified triclosan in the urine of 75
percent of the U.S. population. In 2005, the
FDA found no evidence that antibacterial
washes containing triclosan were superior
to plain soap and water.
8. Hydroquinone
One of the most toxic ingredients in
cosmetics, hydroquinone is a carcinogenic
chemical typically associated with skin

lighteners, disproportionately affecting
women of color (who are more likely to use
such products). A chemical contaminant
linked to increased skin cancer risk,
hydroquinone is also found in cleansers,
moisturizers, conditioners, and other
ingredients with the root toco, such
as tocopheral, tocopheral acetate, and
tocopheral linoleate.
9. Nitrosamines
A group of carcinogenic compounds formed
when constituent ingredientsspecifically,
nitrites and aminescombine. Because
nitrosamines are impurities as opposed to
added ingredients, they are typically not
listed on ingredient labels, yet they are
in everything from mascara, concealer,
and conditioner to baby shampoo and
self-tanning lotion. The UK Department
of Business, Enterprise, and Regulatory
Reform characterizes nitrosamines as more
toxic in more animal species than any other
category of chemical carcinogen.
BEING INFORMED IS
THE NEW BLACK
Until the cosmetics industry cleans up its
act, its in our best interest to assume the
Devil Wears Product. Heres what you can
do:

Be a Critical Consumer
Adopt the habit of investigating personal
care product labels as scrupulously as you
would a bag of Doritos. Did you know that
many of the chemicals used in U.S. cosmetics
products are banned in other countries?
Products sold in European countries, for
example, must adhere to more stringent
EU standards. Aiming for products that are
EU certified will minimize your exposure
to suspected carcinogens, mutagens, and
reproductive toxicants.
Do Your Research
The Environmental Working Group has
developed a comprehensive cosmetic safety
guide called Skin Deep. This searchable
database details product safety ratings and
ingredient lists for nearly a quarter of all
products on the market. Check up on your
favorite products and find safer alternatives
at www.cosmeticsdatabase.com. Another
useful site is The Story of Stuff Project,

which features a series of short online
films and curricula created to inform and
inspire sustainability and social justice.
Check out The Story of Cosmetics link for
an introduction to the hazards of personal
care products and their implications on
consumer and environmental health (www.
storyofstuff.org/cosmetics).
Grab the Industry by Its Carcinogenic
Cojones and Demand Safer Products!
Bookmark the Campaign for Safe
Cosmetics website. Access information,
receive action alerts, and get involved.
Contact companies that have not
signed the Compact for Safe Cosmetics,
a pledge to remove chemicals linked to
cancer, birth defects, and other health
problems from cosmetics and personal
care products. (Do a little investigating:
Are your favorite brands friends or
foes?)
Urge your U.S. representative to
support the Safe Cosmetics Act of
2010, legislation that will prohibit the
use of harmful ingredients in cosmetics
and personal care products (see www.
safecosmetics.org).
In an age when Este Lauder owns Aveda,
Clorox buys out Burts Bees, and ColgatePalmolive is daddy to Toms of Maine, safe
and natural can be vague misnomers.
Many companies remain committed
to safeguarding health and upholding
product integrity, and a second wave of
once-shady enterprises have pledged to
align themselves with the pro-consumer
and ecoconscious movement. But until
the waves of grassroots change wash over
the shores of Big Cosmetics, why not give
Plan B a try: practice product minimalism.
Fewer products used = decreased
exposure to nasty shit = healthier, happier
bodies (and a nod of approval from
Mother Earth). Lets disassociate health
and beauty from prepackaged bottles and
treatments and send a message (boldfaced,
hyperpunctuated, in ultramegacolossal
font) to Big Cosmetics: Stop polluting our
bodies. Our health is not for sale. v
REFERENCE CITED
The Campaign for Safe Cosmetics
N.d. Chemicals of Concern. www.safecosmetics.org/
section.php?id=46, accessed August 2, 2010.
artists' corner
Five Minutes
with RZONE:
A Chat with
Kathryn Xian
here are few times when you age brings maturity. I realized that
encounter an artist with a painting is also really therapeutic for
signature style who is virtually me. When I am painting, it is one of
unknown to the larger public but those few moments when my mind
possesses world-class talent. There is one hundred percent focused on
are even fewer times that this artist is what Im doing. And that feels good. I
under the age of thirty. Many artists guess I can say that I create because I
can spend a lifetime trying to find have this unstoppable desire to paint.
their artistic style, but some are born I dont know where that comes from,
artists, their rare gift developing as but when I am doing it the process
naturally and early as their first words. brings me peace of mind.
Royr Urbano, also known as RZone, is
one of those artists. Girl Fest Hawaii HWJ: How did you find yourself in
chose Royr to be the featured artist Hawaii?
for their seventh annual festival. Girl
Fest is a weeklong event that seeks RU: I wanted to paint and travel,
to prevent violence against women you know? Painting is not my only
and girls through art and education. passion. I always end up grabbing
Art is one of the most powerful ways my bags and traveling. There are two
to impact communities, and Girl reasons: one, I am looking for better
Fest chose RZone to
opportunities.
My
create the festival
country [Venezuela]
You can spend a what a beautiful
cover representing its
lot of money and messhas this mix of
seventh annual event
because of the unique
time without the a high cost of living,
way in which she so
certainty that your corruption, [juvenile]
positively depicts the
delinquency, and of
art will earn you course bad politics
female image. As Nonanything back. But, that make it a difficult
Executive Director of
Girl Fest, I wanted to
that is the definition and dangerous place
find out about the
to live. And reason
of love, isnt it?
woman behind the
two: there are so many
color-laden walls of
things to see, to eat,
her well-crafted paintingsto hear to learn. Why stay in one place? So
Royrs words disembodied from their far, Ive been in Italy, Spain, Monaco,
strokes and canvas.
Nice, New York, Miami, Vegas, and
now Hawaii. But I love Hawaii. I think
HWJ: First of all, where are you from Ill be here for a while.
and how did you get into art? Why
do you create?
HWJ: Describe the art scene that
surrounds you. How does it differ
RU: I am from Venezuela. Since I was from other contemporary art scenes
a little girl, [painting and drawing in Hawaii?
have been] my favorite games. I used
to draw characters [of] women on RU: I think I am part of the underground
sheets of paper, and each character type of scene. Definitely a lot of the
had a name and personality. They artists that I know are not the type to
were part of my own soap opera. I paint tortoises and dolphins, or waves
hid these drawings from my mom, and surfboards. I wont critique that
putting them under my bed. I was kind of art at all, Im just saying that
ashamed of them. But when she there is a big difference between the
discovered them, [she] ended up art scene in which I am surrounded
sending me to an art school. Today and the mainstream Hawaii art
painting continues to be one of the scene.
things that I enjoy the most. With
HWJ: Who or what is your greatest inspiration? Is there

anything that prevents you from creating art?
RU: I have many artists that inspired me. I found a bunch
of Brazilian graffiti artists [who I think are] geniuses of the
new era. I also know another bunch from Europe. I get really
inspired with some of my artist friends. When I talk about art
with them, about their processes, their fears, and insecurities,
it helps me a lot with my own process that is pretty
inspirational. What can prevent me from painting? Certainly
money and time. Art must be really good. You can spend a lot
of money and time without the certainty that your art will earn
you anything back. But, that is the definition of love, isnt it?
HWJ: Do you think its harder for women to become
recognized and established as artists, and if so, why?
RU: Art has no gender requirements. If the piece is good, that
should be enough. A good piece can stand by itself without
name or explanation. [However, the] art scene is another

story. Marketing is another story, too. I think its easier for men
because they can travel [without worry]; sleep wherever, and
market themselves in ways women cant. For example, I need
two suitcases to travel, I need to know the person I am staying
with wherever I go, if its a hostel, it has to be a [safe] one, etc.
[But] if you want to get recognized, you must to be able to put
yourself out there.
HWJ: If you didnt have art in your life, where would you be
in the end?
RU: In the end, I would only have myself. Love would follow. v
RZone (Royr Urbano) will be a featured artist in the Girl Fest
Gallery entitled Transformation displayed through the
months of November and December 2010 at Bambu Two in
downtown Honolulu. For more information about the gallery,
her art, or about Girl Fest, visit: www.girlfesthawaii.org.
images courtesy of RZONE
[the feminist housewife]
At Home
with Homemaking
t was pretty easy to write the

required reflective essay when I
finished graduate school: I told the
Political Science department that I just
wanted to bake muffins. Despite good
grades and fellowships, the wonderful,
engaged professors, and enlightening
courses, it was clear that I no plans for
a future in academia nor the nonprofit
sectoractually, I really just wanted to
stay home. In a sense, I spent eight years
in college to become a housewife.
Of course, it was about more than
staying home and making muffins,
but that is how this journey started.
My last semester of grad school
was primarily thesis writing, which
meant I had a lot of free time at
home. Quite a bit of that time was
spent in the kitchen, but I also began
to do some crafts and to garden in
my yard. I baked for housemates
and friends, cooked wine-infused
lady dinners, and tested new
ingredients and recipes. I learned
how to sprout, transplant, and
harvest vegetables; I even made my
own Christmas cards and baked as
gifts. I initially took these projects
on as hobbies but quickly became more
committed to the ideals behind these
actions. Like womens studies teaches,
the personal is political, and I began to
understand that the choices we make for
our home life have political resonance.
Growing vegetables was a means of
refusing corporate control of food, and
sharing homemade foods made with
local fruits and vegetables was an implicit
protest of purchasing and consuming
dangerous foods such as GMO crops. I
have always been a passionate vegetarian
and environmentalist, but I came to
realize that all my home-based choices

had a larger resonanceand I knew
that I wanted to learn more about home
cooking, backyard gardening, DIY (DoIt-Yourself) projects, and other projects
that traditionally fall under the banner of
"homemaking."
Homemaking generally, and the term
housewife specifically, are often used
condescendingly, but I am consciously
reclaiming these terms to embrace the
ecological, healthy, and soulful principles
behind homemaking and the feminist

ideals that inform this project. There are
a million tasks that could be considered
as homemaking, but I am comfortable at
a happy homemaking medium. I dont
yet make my own soap or underwear, but
I do provide sustenance for my partner,
share food with loved ones, and grow
and source clean, organic foodsand I
am desperate for my own little flock of
chickens. Am I a throwback to the June
Cleaver ideals of housewife life? Certainly
notas a vegetarian, I would never wear
pearls. By embracing these principles
photos by Kathryn Xian
by Andrea Devon Bertoli
do I become a foodie? Perhaps, but I

dislike the elitism implied by that label.
Maybe this homemade lifestyle is better
defined as femivorisma movement
of feminist homemaking defined by
Peggy Orenstein as being grounded in
[principles] of self-sufficiency, autonomy
and personal fulfillment (Orenstein
2010).
Radical homemaker is another term
that seems appropriate for this direction
my life has taken. Shannon Hayes explains
in her book Radical Homemakers:
Reclaiming Domesticity from a
Consumer Culture (2010) that,
generations ago, the household
was considered a unit of production
rather than consumption: families
worked together first to grow food
and then to preserve, cook, or
barter with their bounty. Things
have changed drastically in those
few generations: most of us work
long hours to earn money so
that, between the TV watching,
Internet surfing, and bill paying,
we can drive for miles to buy
overprocessed, premade foods
devoid of adequate nutrition. Hayes
suggests that perhaps we could quit this
cycle of overwork and overconsumption
entirelyand I (mostly) agree with her.
I know this is entirely radical to the
American work ethic and to those of us
engaged living in a consumer culture
that is to say, all of us. Even though I
really wanted to do some homemaking,
I still despaired for months about my
inability to find a good paying job postgraduationafter years of acquiring
student loan debt, I found myself making
just over minimum wage at a bakery job.
Though I had some money saved from a
fellowship, I learned to live well on very

little income, sometimes sharing the rent
but most of the time doing it on my own.
There are lots of ways to save money
or learn how to do withoutto simply
consume less and perhaps even make
or grow our own. Radical homemaking
encourages us to think that we can be
productive on a different scale, moving at
an easier pace. This column will focus on
this desire and my homemaking project
to simply do more, with less goods, and
be happier and healthier in the process.
But what does this homemaking life
really look like? For me, homemaking is
based around the concept of production:
growing foods, cooking those foods, and
sharing with others; making instead of
purchasing. It can also mean undertaking
DIY projects such as making your own
curtains from found materials, refitting
vintage dresses, and using recycled
objects for household repairsall of
which can be accomplished without
purchasing a thing. Of course, these tasks
take time to complete, and because of
long work hours few of us have the time
to undertake canning produce or sewing
clothes. But if we were able to step off
the overwork and overconsumption
cycle, perhaps we would realize the
disconnect between working and income,
and perhaps society as a whole would
benefit if we each considered that they
may not be necessarily intertwined. It
requires a shift in attitude to see growing
and cooking as productive work: current
societal attitudes have convinced us
that productivity is defined by working
outside the home to earn money. But
what if we could learn to see time in the
garden as productive and actually looked
at it as a way to save money? What if
we considered cooking a wholesome
meal as equally important to a few extra
hours at work? What if we rethought all
of our purchases and figured out how to
get something similar for less money?
Is it possible to work less and still have
as much? How much is enough? Of

course its possible, but it takes work
and this is why I refer to homemaking as
a project.
Indeed, this homemaking project takes
quite a bit of timethe cooking, baking,
working in the garden, doing all those
dishesand it helps to have a partner
in the process. Perhaps these tasks just
seem like household drudgery, but for
me they are a physical manifestation of
the ideals that I hold dear, including less
consumption, more ecoconsciousness,
and healthy and mindful eating. But how
is this possible in Hawaiia place known
for its high cost of living? I currently
work part-time at a small health food
store and I previously worked on a farm;
neither have paid well but both have
kept me supplied with good food. But I
also live on very little incomeas most
other homemakers dowhich is a direct
result of a conscious desire to live very
modestly. I drive a ten-year-old truck
only because I smashed my fifteen-yearold car; I have never owned a television;
I dont own expensive handbags, and
my cell phone does not have games
or applications. But, like many other
humans, I still want to travel to beautiful
places, buy unnecessary but pretty
candles (ditto for cute undies), and try
out expensive new flours. Though some
homemakers are able to completely
opt out from consumer culture, most
of us are not there yetbecause there
are still those student loan bills to pay,
the car insurance, and the requisite
family holidays. But I think that even
the smallest steps one makes at home
have a huge impact. Maybe you dont
care to can tomatoes, but what if you
grew some of your own herbs for your
next pasta sauce? You will definitely save
money not buying herbs at the store,
and you can experience the infinite joy
of a dinnertime harvestnever mind the
fantastically delicious sauce.
I am sure that any type of homemaking
sounds hopelessly awful to some people,

and I am sure there are lots of feminists
that would disparage this decision to not
climb the academic or corporate ladder.
But over the past few years, I have
learned to let go of societal pressure to
find a better job or earn more income,
and I gave up the feminist directive to
break that ever-present glass ceiling. And
what it did was open up a space to find
fulfillment and productivity in the kitchen,
garden, and home. Making the proactive
choice to grow and cook foods at home
and to simply consume less outside the
house has political resonance that I am
determined to continue nurturingand
to share what I learn along the way. I am
still figuring out many things, but I am
definitely at home with homemaking. v
Making the
proactive choice
to grow and cook
foods at home and
to simply consume
less outside the
house has political
resonance that I
am determined
to continue
nurturing...
REFERENCES CITED
Hayes, Shannon
2010 Radical Homemakers: Reclaiming
Domesticity from a Consumer Culture.
Richmondville, NY: Left to Write Press.
Orenstein, Peggy
2010 The Femivores Dilemma. New York Times
Magazine, March 11: 1112.
[view from the moon]
photo courtesy of NASA
Hawaii: I lived on Oahu for three years as a

boy. No tunnel through the Pali then. It was up
and over, slow and beautiful. Kailua streets were
unpaved, and we lived where Kailua Beach Park is
today. Waves broke into our lanai during storms.
Coconuts bounced off the tin roof at night.
Terri and I were married on the beach in Kauai by a kahuna
priestess. The plaintive conch shell call echoed between green
mountains and waves, between here and there, then and
now. Whales responded to that call, breaching out beyond the
breakers like honored guests. Mist from crashing surf hung in
the fragrant air.
Prior to departing for the islands, my older sister assured me,
Youll remember the smells. I did. As a child, I cried the first
time I left Hawaii. Terri and I both cried this time.
Women: I attended a writing seminar in which an older man
was obviously struggling to complete an exercise requiring he
write in the voice of a young woman of color. He asked the
panel if it was even possible to capture that voice since he was
not young, female, or a person of color. One astute panelist
replied, Well, Tolkien wasnt a hobbit either. Ill take that as
implied consent to press onward despite the fact that I am
heterozygous. I am a pickle jar of chromosomes. I am yang to
your yin, dill to your sweet gherkins, but together we fill the
jar. Perhaps something I write will flesh out the other half of
the big circle and create synergy.
Journal: (1) a record of experiences, ideas, or reflections kept
regularly for private use; (2) a periodical dealing especially
with matters of current interest; (3) a publication that appears
at regular intervals.
So, what do I have to add to a journal? What experiences,
observations, and reflections can I impart? Hopefully,
something universal. Something with humor? Perhaps even
a transcendent moment. To do that, I must first strike a chord
within my own soul, make myself laugh, and fill myself with
wonder.
As the first XY-authored column for HWJ, View from the
Moon will expose the ludicrous side of life, by exposing
its bloated, pale, often gaudily tattooed and navel-pierced
underbelly. The side wed like to keep hidden, because so often
what we often think will turn out cool is laughable. You want
to show me your belly? I didnt think so. What well try to do
is share a smile as we attempt to deal with this unbearable
lightness of beingwhile looking at other peoples bellies.
Where to begin? As the Munchkins instructed Dorothy, simply
at the beginning.
onnectivity
C
by James Pounds
ve forgotten my cell phone and cannot shake this feeling

of impending doom. Its called being out of contact. Zero
connectivity. Being on the verge of sailing off the edge of
a flat world. Im ashamed how panic-stricken this makes me
feel.
known euphemistically as roaming areas. Roaming calls

were captured in the net of those pirates who charged
whatever usurious rates they desired. I had bills where three
minutes of not paying attention cost me two or three gold
doubloons.
Why is this? Im a guy who religiously avoided connectivity

for years. When I was assigned my first cell phone for work, I
didnt give the number to anyone. It was a tool for me to call
out, not to be bothered by incoming calls. And I was in sales!
Things were different then. Calls were expensive. This was
before nationwide networks, when there were uncharted
oceans between cities where privateers set up networks
I coveted my privacy in those days, relished in the precious

time between towns in my vast western territory. I had time
to think. By the next town, I had a plethora of words built up
over a couple of hours of windshield time. I had no tolerance
for my thinking being interrupted by a ringing phone and
recall telling one of my fellow road warriors, When they pay
me like a heart surgeon, then they can put me on call 24/7.
And older phones

were BIG! I had one of those brick phones.
[editor's
essay]
Cousins of WWII walkie-talkies that could develop your

dominant arm bicep until the other arm looked atrophied by
comparison. It was like doing curls with a five-pound dumbbell
and was about as ergonomically satisfying as holding a kayak
to your ear. Next, I was assigned a mobile phone that came
in what resembled a small overnight case. The reason? The
remote battery took up three-quarters of the case. You had
to jack the phone into the battery to talk. Needless to say,
that one never left the front hump of my company car. Thank
goodness for miniaturization, but phones then became
so small, my sausage fingers couldnt cope with the tiny
keyboard and the screen displayed numbers and letters my
eyes couldnt make out without reading glasses. The newer
on-screen touchpads are an improvement, but Im waiting for
my home refinance to be approved so I can pay for one.
How to Sell
Your Body Parts
Things are different now. I dont leave home without

performing the pocket pat-down to make sure Im loaded for
connectivity. At my last job, I carried two phonesmine and
the companys. I worried about frying my testicles by carrying
phones in both pockets. I was already concerned by the news
that cell phones might also cause brain cancer. Now it was my
testicles. But thats a small price to pay to stay in touch.
Stay in touch with whom? When was the last time I received a
call that couldnt wait? Heaven forbid I not be available when
my wife has a last-minute grocery item for me to pick up. Or
when a telemarketer is bent on torture. Most of the time I

check caller ID, and if I dont recognize the number I dont
answer. Its an exercise in disconnectivity. Did I mention that
it only rings when Im in church, in a lecture hall, or asleep
because thats when I forget to turn it off? I try not to remind
myself that Im paying a pretty penny to be interrupted,
embarrassed, or awakened by unimportant conversations or
misdialed numbers.
Of course, thats simply the iceberg tip of the 24/7 need to
connect to the nothing thats happening. If I dont check
my e-mail, Facebook, Twitter, or Linked In every few hours,
theres a predictable Pavlovian response. I twitch like an
e-junkie waiting for my satellite fix. My testicles seem to lack
that extra spark.
I could wax philosophical about how alone together weve
become in the midst of such total connectivity. The other day
I saw a young couple, obviously on a date, texting each other
from across the table. They never talked or made eye contact.
Ah, the new intimacy.
But I dont want to talk about that right now. Just leave me a
message at the tone. I wont pick up. v
Enjoy the View!
Jim Pat
[kitchen medicine]
Intuitive Eating:
Three Days to a Healthier Lifestyle
any of my patients ask me to

prescribe them a cleanse or
detox plan, citing a friend who
has felt rejuvenated or a celebrity whos
dropped significant pounds after doing the
Master Cleanse or a juice detox. But I dont
prescribe cleanses or detoxes; regardless of
the diet industrys best marketing efforts, I
dont see people as intrinsically dirty or
toxic. Our bodies are not carrying pounds
of toxins around; in fact, our bodies do a
mighty good job of cleansing themselves.
Unless were coping with illnesses that
severely compromise the function of
the liver, lungs, heart, or kidneys, those
organs are doing amazing daily work
keeping us detoxified without purification
interventions.
Generally speaking, traditional Chinese
medicine eschews extremes: a cleanse
involving serious caloric restriction and/
or a severely limited diet (such as one
containing only juices) should cause the
responsible TCM practitioner to raise an
eyebrow. And with good reason: many
detox or cleanse protocols offer little to
no critical nutritional components such
as protein, fiber, vitamins, and minerals.
Besides messing with your gastrointestinal
flora and function, these sorts of extreme
cleanses have the potential to inhibit your
bodys ability to rebuild muscle tissue,
maintain an appropriate fluid balance, and
manage blood sugar levels.
I suggest patients ask themselves why
theyre interested in a cleanse program.
Are they hoping to lose weight? Do they
suffer from indigestion, bloating, or acid
reflux? Do they suspect they have some
food-based allergies? Do they want eat
more healthfully but dont know where
to start? Do they feel generally unwell?
Are they hoping the cleanse will work as a
reset button for their body?
The bad news, of course, is that achieving
by Lorelle Saxena
a healthy body weight, optimal digestion,
and general well-being all require the same,
long-term, dedicated commitment to taking
care of ones self: there is no such thing as a
reset button for the body. The good news?
Having made such a commitment, good
health is within your reach. And it starts
with what you eat.
Sometimes patients feel better if their
first steps toward eating healthfully are
planned for them. There is a lot of conflicting
information circulating about what healthy
eating actually means, which is often what
draws them to the idea of a cleanse in the
first place. Instead of doing a cleanse, what I
suggest is that they take a few days to enjoy
the simplified, healthy, easy-to-prepare
food plan detailed below.
This plan is not a cleanse. Rather, it is a
way to learn how to be intuitive about the
effects on your body of the food you choose
to intake. It is well-balanced from Western
and Eastern nutritional perspectives. It
is straightforward, because you can cook
everything in any pot with a steamer basket
and because it sticks to a brief list of foods
that are easy to get at mainstream grocery
stores. Its safe, because it includes enough
protein and fats to maintain healthy body
function; because it's devoid of bad fats (if
not generally low fat); because its high
fiber content makes it difficult to consume
enough of the things that would make it
high calorie yet it contains enough calories
so as to avoid starvation/storage mode;
and because it comprises low-glycemicload foods so that your blood sugar should
stay stable and you wont feel the urge to
gnaw off your own arm. And its shortI
recommend following this plan for only
three days and then taking two more days
to gradually transition off of it.
As with all dietary changes, consult with
your doctor first if you have diabetes or
any metabolic, renal, hepatic, or cardiac
disorder and stop following this plan and

consult a healthcare provider if you feel
nauseated, faint, or otherwise unwell.
The rules can be followed as rigidly
or as loosely as you like. If youre someone
who takes comfort in structure, by all
means follow these to the letter. If youre
less structure oriented, think of these as
guidelines. For example, if you absolutely
cant give up caffeine for three days or if you
cant stand sweet potatoes, that doesnt
mean it wont still be helpful to follow the
rest of the plan. Finally, be forewarned:
lots of water combined with the fairly high
fiber levels in this plan mean you'll visit the
bathroom more than you usually do.
GATHER YOUR INGREDIENTS

Choose organics or products from farms
you know dont use pesticides or chemical
aids. This list should provide plenty of food
for the three-day plan.
Shopping List
Eight to ten pounds of raw dark leafy
greens. Buy a wide variety, such
as kale, chard, collards, dandelion
greens, and spinach. Ten pounds is a
lotbut greens will make up the bulk
of your food intake for the next few
days, and raw greens cook down into
much smaller-looking quantities.
Lots of fresh raw fruit. Aim for lots
of different colors: bright green
apples, dark magenta raspberries, the
improbable neon orange of a papaya.
Quinoa, about a pound
Dried lentils, any type, about a pound
Cashews and almonds, raw or roasted,
no salt added, one cup each
Three sweet potatoes
Coconut milk, preferably in a carton
(found in the dairy aisle) or one can
One or two avocados
COOK YOUR FOOD

Wash 1 cup of quinoa by putting it
in a pot or bowl, filling the bowl with
water, and rubbing the quinoa grains
together under the water between
your fingers. Strain out the water and
repeat a couple of times. Then put the
quinoa in a pot with 2 cups of water
and bring it to a boil. Cover, reduce to
a simmer, and cook for 15 minutes or
until all the water is absorbed and the
grains are tender. This makes about 3
cups of cooked quinoa. You can also
prepare quinoa in a rice cooker, but if
you do, you should weigh down the
grains so that they dont end up all
over the cookers lid (see instructions
below on cooking the lentils and
quinoa together). Store uneaten
quinoa in the refrigerator for up to
three days.
Sort through the lentils to make
sure there are no pebbles or debris
among them. Wash in three changes
of cold water and then simmer 1
cup of lentils to 1.5 cups of water
for about 15 minutes or until tender.
You can also cook the quinoa and
lentils together, simmering 1 cup of
lentils, 1 cup of quinoa, and 3.5 cups of
water in either a pot or a rice cooker.
Scrub a sweet potato and cut it into
chunks, then put it in a steamer basket
in a pot above a few inches of water.
Cover the pot and bring the water to a
boil, then reduce the heat. Check the
potatoes by poking with a fork after
about 10 minutescontinue cooking
until fork tender.
Prep your greens by cutting off tough
stalk ends and chopping larger, tougher
greens (like kale and collards) into
1-inch pieces. Put them in a steamer
basket over a few inches of water in
a pot, cover the pot, and steam them
until theyre lightly cooked. Times will
vary for different kinds of greens: for
example, hearty kale and collards can
probably be steamed for 5 or more
minutes, while more delicate chard
and baby spinach should be cooked
for only 3 to 4 minutes. A good rule
of thumb is that, no matter the green,

it should still have a definitive shape
and a bright green color. You can save
some energy and dishwashing by
putting a steamer basket full of greens
in the same pot you're cooking your
quinoa injust make sure to do it
towards the end of the cooking time
for the quinoa so you dont overcook
the more tender, delicate greens.
EAT AND DRINK

Drink at least a gallon a day of roomtemperature water. I like to drink a
quart upon waking and then a quart
with each meal.
Drinking raw, organic, freshly juiced
fruit juice is okay (as long as the fruit
has been juiced right before drinking
and doesnt have any additives), but
try to cut out the rest: no coffee, tea
(herbal or otherwise), juices, milks
(soy, rice, almond, or cow), wine,
beer, or spirits.
Eat MOST OF ALL huge amounts of
steamed dark leafy greens (no limit).
Consume at least half a small plateful
three times a day. The greens should
make up about half of your total food
intake daily.
Eat SECOND a lot of fresh, raw fruit;
no limit here either but try for a

variety of colors consumed and make
sure youre still eating more greens
than fruits.
Eat THIRD for protein: small amounts
of steamed quinoa and/or boiled or
steamed lentils, no more than a half
cup of each per meal. (If youre still
hungry, eat more greens.) Aim for
three servings of quinoa and lentils
per day, for a total of 1.5 to 3 cups
combined quinoa and lentils per day:
1.5 if you have a small frame and 3
cups if you have a larger frame.
Eat one small sweet potato (or half of
a larger one) daily (to be consumed
during any of your three meals).
Eat JUST A LITTLE of good fats:
avocados, raw almonds, raw cashews,
and coconut milkat least a handful
of nuts and a couple of ounces of
coconut milk, if not more, every day.
Snack all day. These are all small, light
meals, and you should supplement
them by feeling free to consume
more fruit, greens, sweet potato, and
small amounts of nuts and coconut
milk. You shouldnt feel hungry at any
pointif you do, eat.
No salt, no pepper, no spices, no
herbs, no cooking oilsnothing that
wasnt detailed above.
Sample Meal Plans

Breakfast: steamed greens and some
sliced sweet potato, followed by an
apple and a shotglass of coconut milk,
OR quinoa (without lentils) mixed with a
sliced apple and chopped almonds and
drizzled with coconut milk.
Lunch: greens, half a cup to a cup of
a quinoa and lentil blend with sliced
avocado on top, followed by a plum, OR
greens tossed with lentils and cashews,
with some lemon juice squeezed over it
all, followed by an apricot.
Dinner: greens, half a cup to a cup of
quinoa and lentil blend with chopped
cashews on top, followed by a bunch of
grapes, OR greens, half a cup to a cup
of quinoa/lentil blend, and chopped
almonds tossed together with a squeeze
of lime juice, followed by a pear and a
shot glass of coconut milk
BE IN YOUR BODY
I dont advise strenuous exercise on
the few days that youre following this
plan. Because its relatively low calorie,
its easy to become fatigued if youre
working out. It is also very low sodium, so
profuse sweating could cause problems
with body fluid regulation. Additionally,
the protein levels in this plan arent high
enough to allow for the kind of significant
muscle repair that strenuous exercise
can necessitate. Instead, make a point
of doing some gentle exercise every day,
particularly movement that links the
mind and body: a meditative walk or
mellow jog, a restorative and nonheated
yoga session, a qi gong class. Itll be fine
to resume your more athletic endeavors
in just a few days.
ON PSYCHOLOGICAL HUNGER
Intuitive eating is not necessarily going
to be easy. You probably will miss your
bacon or Greek yogurt with honey and
granola drizzled on top. When I did the
plan myself, I missed dairy. But you know
how when you have a complicated life
question to figure out, it can be a good
thing to stay away from TV and Internet
for a few days? How, once distractions
are taken away, things just seem to line
up more clearly? Thats what intuitive

eating is supposed to achieve, but in
terms of food. Its the same basic idea
behind fasting, except that fasting is
much more extreme and not really suited
to most peoples lifestyles (in which we
are busy and cant afford to be spacey
from hypoglycemia).
TRANSITION OUT WHILE

PAYING ATTENTION
On days four and five, come out of the
plan gradually, easily, and intuitively.
Using the plan as your foundation, start
adding in different foods, beginning with
foods that are easy on the digestion and
simpler in flavor: choose lean proteins
before heavier ones, steamed whole
grains instead of processed flours,
cultured dairy (like yogurt and kefir)
before straight milk. Notice how your
body feels today and compare it to how
it felt three days ago. Listen to what your
body wants right now, and pay close
Lorelle
Saxena
attention to how it feels after eating each
new food. Having a very limited diet for
a few days puts us back in touch with
what things actually taste like and how
they make us feel, which enables us to
sharpen our intuition about what to eat,
whats good for us on the individual level,
and what we really like versus what we
eat out of habit or for comfort.
These two days are your time to explore
what intuitive eating means for
you. Youve spent three days in close
contact with your foodchoosing it,
cleaning it, cooking it, creating appealing
combinations from limited options.
Because you havent disguised the true
flavor of your food with condiments,
spices, or refined sugar, your perception
of taste is heightened. Notice, today,
what sweet really tastes like. Perceive
the mild sweetness in brown rice and
compare it to the intense sweetness of a
carrot. Enjoy the slightly bitter grassiness
of the quinoa and the mysterious spiciness

of dried figs and apricots.
Try to avoid assigning judgment to your
cravings. Whether youre jonesing for an
apple or a Krispy Kreme, ignore thoughts
of good food or bad food and instead
examine the reasons for your desire. Are
you thirsty? Are you seeking familiarity?
Is there a comforting memory attached
to the food? How do you expect to feel,
both emotionally and physically, while
youre eating? How do you expect to
feel afterwards? And after you eat the
food, does the way you feel match that
expectation? Resist feelings of failure. If
you have any negative feelings, whether
physical or emotional, after eating a
food, they have occurred for you to learn
from, and they are part of the process of
uncovering your ability to eat intuitively.
Maintain this self-examining, selfforgiving practice as you transition back
into a full spectrum of food choices.
Take the transition as slowly as you feel
you need to, but spend at least two days
with it.
If youre doing this to isolate an allergen
or sensitivity, add potential trigger foods
back in one at a time, leaving a few days
before adding each new one. These
include dairy, wheat gluten (including
oatmeal, which has a similar protein
in it), nightshade vegetables (including
potatoes [not sweet potatoes], tomatoes,
eggplant, tomatillos, peppers, pimentos,
and tobacco), spicy foods, corn, soy, and
seafood.
LET THIS BE A STEPPING STONE

TO BETTER HEALTH
Again, there is no reset button on the
body. There is only long-term, proactive
lifestyle change. Health is not a singular
goal to achieve. It is an everyday gentle
effort, a constant series of choices: pure
instead of processed, fresh instead
of fried, real instead of refined. By
concentrating on a few days of simple
eating and eliminating the overwhelming
array of heath choices we face every hour,
you might find your body already knows
exactly how to choose. v
[editors on editors]
Frontier Psychiatrist:
Music
, Bikes, Drinks, Words,
Love
wherein HWJ queries FP on a few of their favorite things, the future of online publishing
and whether they want to go steady.
by Jennifer Meleana Hee and Mayumi Shimose Poe

In the art-for-the-sake-of-salvation world, it seems natural
to crush on like-minded magazines that have a big plushy
heart where their dollar sign would be. Online 'zine Frontier
Psychiatrist is that boy who was gangly and quiet in class but
then, once you got him started, wouldnt shut up about the
physics of time travel and his parents old jazz cassettes and
his speculations on why J. D. Salinger was such a hermit
and then, years later, you ran into him at the bar and damn
if he didnt look sexy in plaid, drinking his bourbon, talking
about the most amazing new song he heard at this concert
he biked to in Prospect Parkseriously, check it, vocals like
the lovechild of Fiona Apple and Tom Waits born to a live
reading of e. e. cummingsmmymmmymhslurrrp. Whoops.
It appears you smashed him against the wall to make out.
FP is what we read to take the edge off our half cup full o
cynicism, to face another blank page each day with gusto
and the proper cocktail. FP teaches us to enjoy the good stuff
along the death-defying bike commute that is existence.
We interviewed FPs co-editors Leo Lopez and Keith Meatto
because they have ultimately set out to do the same thing
were trying to do: build a community of readers and writers
who know that the best way to live is to treat life like a blind
dateto see every day as another chance to fall in love with
the world. If you enjoy music, urban cycling, quality beverages,
excellent short fiction and creative nonfiction, food, and
writing that helps you take ten steps back from the ledge,
then Frontier Psychiatrist will have you swooning, laughing,
and telling your ex-favorite publication, Its not you, its FP.
HWJ: So. Frontier Psychiatrist: How the heck did you come
up with that name? Did it involve illicit substances and a
DSM-IV upcycled into a Ouija board?
Leo: Keith and I share two views on art: (1) start from the title
and (2) good artists borrow; great artists steal. So, we stole
the title from a song by The Avalanches, a group that knows
plenty about stealing. If the DSM-IV was involved, it was only
in the diagnosis of Kleptomania, aesthetic type.
HWJ: How did FP come into being?
Leo: This question affords me the opportunity to answer
the previous question seriously. The idea for the site came
to us when I was the process of switching careers from a
rather mechanical medical specialty for which I had lost all
passion to my current, more humanistic one. At the time, I
saw a lot of opportunities ahead in both my professional and
nonprofessional life, including a chance to reimmerse myself
in all the things I had been forced to abjure for the sake of my
prior career. Hence the name and the site.
Keith: For me, FP also filled a void in a time of transition. Two
years ago, I left my job as a high school English teacher to
photo courtesy of Keith and Leo
concentrate on writing. (Leo had already left his job at the

same school, where he taught math, to pursue a career in
medicine.) This spring I finished a fiction manuscript and was
looking for a new project. At first, FP was a way for Leo and
I to amuse ourselves. Quickly, it became an obsession. We
starting writing daily posts and then solicited people to help
us expand our vision to include cycling, food, cocktails, fiction,
i.e., our favorite things in life. So far, it seems to be working.
in them an infectious curiosity about contemporary culture, a

dialogue that includes, but also transcends, the band of the
moment or a recipe for ravioli. Ultimately, we want to build
a community. Some of our happiest moments have been
enlisting readers to become writers and when readers have
asked to write for the site. We love that.
HWJ: Do you ever receive medical advice queries?
Keith: If you love music, we want your reviews of albums and

concerts and profiles of bands. We like national acts, but we
also love smaller, regional artists and scenes. If you ride a
bike, we want your dispatches about urban cycling. Ditto if
you know something about food and/or beverages. Right now
we have photography and theater columns in the works and
are planning forays into environmental writing, social justice,
travel, and other areas of cultural and intellectual life. Really,
though, were open to anything that makes us think and laugh
and not necessarily in that order. [Also, we like submissions
that do not end sentences with prepositions.]
Leo: Most commonly, Im asked questions of the form

recently, Ive been experiencing (blah blah blah some kind
of symptom). Is it ok if I keep drinking? I usually say yes.
Of course, I only answer such questions when Ive been
drinking.
Keith: Thankfully, no. But I have learned a lot about mental illness
from Leo.
HWJ: Dear FP: I have a rash on my soul that itches when Im
alive, what should I do?
Keith: If you want to indulge the itch, try listening to Bright
Eyes, Elliot Smith, or any musician whose basic message is
my pain is painful. If you want to conquer the itch, try some
vintage Jay-Z or the new Chromeo album, Business Casual.
HWJ: What kind of submissions are you looking for?
HWJ: You have been known to solicit our writing (the HWJ
editors). Did you know solicitation perpetuates patriarchy
and factory farming and is the main cause of autism in
children?
HWJ: Give us your mission statement in haiku form.
Keith: We are against patriarchy and factory farming, despite

the fact that we still live in a de facto patriarchy and that 99
percent of meat in America is produced in factory farms.
Leo: Syllables Allowed:/ Seventeen. Far too few to/ Relate our
mission.
Leo: Keith forgot to mention that we are also against autism

in children.
Keith: I prefer dactylic hexameter.
HWJ: Just kidding.
HWJ: Dactylic hexameter! Oh no you didnt! [Everyone

knows the way to our editor-in-chiefs brain would be
through a mashup of The Aeneid read in Latin by Louis
Armstrong and anything Indigo Girls. Title? The Classics,
Book Fuck Yeah.]
Keith: We are not. Autism is not funny.
HWJ: Describe your typical reader. (Haiku form optional.)
HWJ: Will you send us your writing?

Keith: Absolutely. In fact, my short story Oh Baby appeared
in HWJ #2 and my short story Endless Necklace appears in
this issue. But we would be happy to send more.
Keith: Our reader is between the ages of 18 and 40 and likely

between 25 and 35. He or she lives in Brooklyn, once lived in
Brooklyn, aspires to live in Brooklyn, or lives in a place that
aspires to be Brooklyn.
HWJ: What are a few must-read FP pieces?
HWJ: You just made the managing editor, who just moved
to northern California, really homesick for Brooklyn. Thanks
a lot, guys.
Bikes: Dana Perrys The General Rutherford and Micaela

Bleis Bike Anthropology.
Music: Leos Ask a (Frontier) Psychiatrist #5 and Keiths The

Church of Sufjan Stevens.
HWJ: What do you hope readers take away from your

'zine?
Drinks: Damien Castens Wine, Plastic Cups, and Chicken

Dancing and Roddy Rickhouses En Garde! The Lucien
Guadin Cocktail.
Keith: We want to amuse and enlighten our readers and instill
Words: Suzanne Farrell Smiths Shower Talk and Daniel F.
Levins Fiddler in the Rough serial.

HWJ: If you could have any writer in the whole wide literary
world write a piece for FP, who would it be, and what would
you want him or her to write about?
Leo: I would have Philip Roth and Junot Daz write a pointcounterpoint on how to get Jersey girls. I recognize that this
joke is probably only funny to me.
Keith: No, its funny to me, too. Roth and Daz are two of
my favorite contemporary fiction writers. I decided to write
short stories after I read Drown. And Roth has cranked out
more great novels than any living writer, perhaps even any
dead one. In fact, he may have written one between now
and the time this issue goes to print. Like Leo, I
have New Jersey roots. Also, I like Jersey Girls:
especially one in particular.
has an MD and I only have an MFA, so Id say the scales are

now about even. If we had a love child, it would be William
Carlos Williams or Anton Chekhov, or if not a literary-medical
lion, then at least tall, dark-haired, and myopic. Now we have
a question for you [editor-in-chief]. When you meet a new
person, which H-Bomb do you drop first: the fact that you
went to Harvard or that you are from Hawaii?
HWJ: Um, were doing the interviewing here. And the first
H-Bomb our editor-in-chief drops is that shes Hella Vegan.
Whereas the managing editor is Hella into Bacon.
HWJ: Do you think print journalism is antiquated and irrelevant
in modern society, kind of like a degree from Yale?
Frontier
Psychiatrist
Leo: Keith is, of course, referring to Meryl

Streep. I should add that we are both big fans
of Nicole Krausss new novel, and wed love to
have her contribute as well. Not her husband,
though. Im pretty sure either of us could pull
the robbery there. Adding new meaning to the term art
heist.
Keith: Though FP is a digital operation, there will

always be a place in society for printed material.
Then again, times have changed. I told my
college students that the concept of Facebook
came from physical books that contained
pictures of college students along with their vital
information. They were shocked at this ancient,
barbaric custom.
HWJ: Anything else you want to tell our readers?

Keith: We are neither from Hawaii, nor women, but we love HWJ.
HWJ: We think you should make some swag, particularly

racerback tanks that say: WWFPD? (This is not a question.)
Leo: Did you know swag is a backronym for stuff we all get?
Or that backronym is a portmanteau? What Im trying to say
is, were going to make Frontier Psychiatrist portmanteaus. You
know, like the luggage. To put your swag in.
HWJ: Our editor-in-chief went to Harvard, you went to Yale,
care to comment?
HWJ: Proof #19496839030205968 that FP has excellent

taste. v
To make the most out of your Frontier Psychiatrist experience,

HWJ encourages you to Read, Bike, Love, Listen, Eat, and
Submit to www.frontpsych.com.
Keith: To clarify, I went to Yale. Leo went to Columbia. But he
UNLIKELY READS
[the feminine critique]
The Price of Remaining Human

Wandering Souls: Journeys with the Dead and the Living in Viet Nam.
Wayne Karlin. New York: Nation Books, 2009.
wo strangers meet on a mountain

path. One dies, one lives. Decades
later, they both return to finish
the story.
More on that in a minute.
In a recent Atlantic blog entry, Chris
Jackson addresses the widely covered
debate between women writers and a
book industry they accuse of primarily
celebrating men. Rather than enter the
fray, Jackson experiments: for every book
he reads by a man, he will read one by
a woman. How exciting is it to consider
that there are worlds of literature out
there that you may not have tapped
into, undiscovered countries of books to
explore that might yet tell you something
new in a new way? (Jackson 2010).
Though literary exploration is hardly a
new idea, I respect Jacksons decision to
get educated. It doesnt matter how you
enter untapped worldsbookstores,
eReaders, Moms denso long as you
enter them. Jackson inspired my own
experiment: for every book that Amazon
recommends to me, I will read ten it
does not.
The first book on my list of unlikely
by Suzanne Farrell Smith

reads came to me via a friend and
professor of war literature. It is here,
in Wayne Karlins Wandering Souls:
Journeys with the Dead and the Living
in Viet Nam, that two strangers meet
on a mountain path. One is American
soldier Homer Steedly, the other, a
North Vietnamese soldier named Hoang
Ngoc Dam. Both men draw weapons,
but Homer wins the duel. Rather than
destroy the notebooks he finds on Dams
body (per military custom), Homer sends
them to his mother for safekeeping.
Im a farmers son that got sent halfway
around the world and wound up killing
people that I didnt mean to (p. 256),
says Homer of the incident that, like so
many wartime encounters, wraps itself
around his memory and squeezes out
the details until just the bare bones, the
worst of it, remains. Once home, Homer
recalls all too clearly Dams face in death,
but he forgets about the documents.
Thirty-five years later, Homer is urged
by his wife to face his ghosts, and so asks
his mother to dig out the letters he had
sent home during the war. She sends
them, along with Dams notebooks.
Homers memories had remained
locked in the darkness of the box his

mother had kept for him, in the greater
darkness of the attic, Karlin writes of
the remarkable rediscovery. He drew
them out now, into the light (p. 175). In
reading Dams notebooks, Homer finds
healing and resolves to return them to
Dams familythough as a retiree with
health problems and a limited income,
hes not sure how hell track them down.
However, through the veteran network,
Homer meets fellow Vietnam vet Wayne
Karlin, a writer and a frequent visitor to
Vietnam.
Karlin believes this is a story that
needs to be told. Yet admirably, he lets
Homer do much of the telling: over half
the lines on the first page alone are an
uninterrupted quote from the quiet,
unassuming man. Furthermore, Karlin
understands his duty to contextualize,
not dramatize, the story, a distinction
that benefits the books first section.
Despite the geographic distance that
separated them, Homer and Dam lived
surprisingly parallel childhoods. Both
grew up steeped in poverty, patriotism,
and political purity (p. 36), willing
to fight for their countries. Whats
fascinating is Karlins ability to keep

us on tenterhooks: we know they will
meet and that Dam will die. Yet I held
my breath as I read about that long,
hot, green week in November (p. 71).
When the story moves to the present,
with Homer reading the notebooks,
Karlin the narrator becomes a character.
He shares his own war experiences and
lets loose the full force of his prose, at
times astonishing in its tender portrait
of human suffering and spiritual healing,
at other times twisted with guilt. When
Dams documents arrive at Karlins
house:
I hesitated a long time
before I opened the padded
envelope. I knew that for the
Hoang family what I had now
was literally a piece of Dams
soul. For a moment I felt a
kind of resentment, fueled by
an atavistic fear. What was I
releasing into my home? I had
not killed this man. As soon
as the thought came to me,
I tried to struggle against it.
One of my Vietnamese friends
had written me, when I told
her that Homer might come
over, that she would not want

to meet the man, was not sure
she could look into his face.
Homer could have been me, I
replied to her. He could have
been any of us. [p. 203]
Karlin grippingly illustrates the price
of remaining human (p. 10). He then
takes us allHomer includedback to
Suzanne
Farrell
Smith
Vietnam. Through his notebooks, Dam,
one of the 300,000 wandering souls
of Vietnam, returns home at last.
At heart this is a story of two men.
When Karlin strays from that story, into
the upbringing of Homers wife, for
example, his otherwise tight narrative
frays, obscuring its heart. Though
metaphorically potent in a book of
wandering souls, the narrative works
best when it doesnt wander.
Homer says of war veterans: We

may see the same world you do, but
perceive it differently. We may even
see parts of it through our perception
that do not exist in yours (p. 130).
Wandering Souls implores us not to
enter other worlds but to enter our own
with the willingness to perceive parts of
it weve never seen before. v
REFERENCES CITED
Karlin, Wayne
2009 Wandering Souls: Journeys with the Living and
the Dead in Viet Nam. New York: Nation Books.
Jackson, Chris
2010 All the Sad Young Literary Women. The
Atlantic, August 20. http://www.theatlantic.com/
culture/archive/2010/08/all-the-sad-young-literarywomen/61821/, accessed August 23, 2010.
photos by Gintare Janulaityte
[artists' corner]
Woman on Film
an Interview with Marta Sanchez by Kathryn Xian
Marta Sanchez is a multifaceted
filmmaker, film festival director, and
feminist activist. Shes the kind of
woman other women admirenot
only for her Spanish beauty, European
accent, and elegant demeanor but
also because of her ability to imagine
creative and political projects and then
make them happen. Perhaps thats a
necessary talent of filmmakers, but
Marta goes a step further than the rest
because she makes it a point to use
her experience and knowledge to help
other filmmakers voice their visions to
the worldvisions that evoke, inspire,
challenge, or make viewers think

outside of their cultural comfort zone.
I first met Marta nearly a decade ago
and we immediately hit it off. Just like
me, she was a filmmaker, a Capricorn,
and a woman unafraid of self-labeling
as a feminist. Over the years, we did
as most determined women bent on
changing society for the better do:
we lost touch. I remember our last
telephone conversation, when she was
Director of Distribution at Women Make
Movies in New York City. It was during
the George W. Bush Administration.
She said, Were going to take a stance
against Bush. Were nonprofit, I know,

but hes got to stop. We dont care if we
lose our nonprofit status.
Thats pretty hot.
Thankfully, we have reconnected.
In the last decade, Marta Sanchez has
created a short film festival in Spain
called Short Metraje and another
travelling film festival called Pragda,
which exposes the work of Spanish
filmmakers to the world. Amazed
but not surprisedby what she has
accomplished in the last ten years, I
decided to share her vision with our
readers.
HWJ: Where are you from, where do

you live now, and what did you want
to be when you were a child?
from my goal [to be a film director],

so I quit and moved to New York City.
I wanted to learn how independent
filmmakers do it. In New York City, I
felt at home. I started meeting activist
filmmakersindependent filmmakers
with the same vision. I also worked
for Women Make Movies for many
years, among other institutions, but
I still had in my heart the idea of
working with Spanish films. I created
Short Metraje, a showcase of Spanish
short filmmakers that premieres at
the Film Society of Lincoln Center
every December. I am very interested
in new visions and I love daring young
filmmakers. [ShortMetraje] was my
way to help young Spanish filmmakers
come to the U.S. Now, after nine
years, it is a reference for many. But
showcasing short films wasnt enough
after a while, [so] I created Pragda.
Pragda is an initiative to promote
feature-length Spanish films to the
world through public exhibits in
theaters, in schools, and through the
Internet. Now we are developing a
project called the Spanish Film Club
probably the most ambitious [project]
to date. Our goal is to show new

visions of Spanish filmmakers. We do
not care so much about format, but
we do care about risk. We program
all kinds of genres. We also do classic
films because we believe that this is a
genre Spain lacks: bringing to the world
our phenomenal older filmmakers. We
also organize master classes with the
filmmakers in local universities and
high schools.
MS: I am from Madrid. After ten years

in New York and some time in Brighton,
I moved to Barcelona, where I have my
permanent residence.
When I was a child, I was very
sensitive to the unfairness of the
world and I wanted to change that
[injustice]. When I became a teenager,
I decided I wanted to change the world
in an active manner, but it took time
to decide how. I didnt want to be a
politician or a lawyer. I finally got an
ideafilm. Film affects peoples views.
You reach millions of people, and it is
fun. So I decided to be a film director
at the age of about thirteen. I have to
say that I come from a family of film
lovers.
HWJ: What inspired you to start Short
Metraje and Pragda?
MS: After school, I started working
for 20th Century Fox in Madrid as a
distributor. But that was taking me away
HWJ: What kinds of films have you

created? What stories did you choose
to tell? What kinds of challenges, if
any, did you face?
MS: My last [film] was a political
documentary about the reasons why
Americans and Spaniards react so
differently regarding terrorism. It is
really an essay on national identity
and the power of history and how that
affects our daily lives as civilians. I have
made other short filmsall of them
about people escaping [something].
Jaja! The major challenge is always to
combine family life and responsibilities
with a full-time job and filmmaking. I
combine family life and responsibilities with a full-time job and

filmmaking. I never made enough as a filmmaker to sustain myself
without an extra job. I do not know many women filmmakers
who do.
HWJ: What is the most pertinent challenge facing women
filmmakers today?
MS: Film is a mens issue. It is run by men in all capacities. Female
and male approaches are different, so when a male producer is
deciding to give money to a filmmaker, he probably will connect
more with work made by another man. Thats why its important
to have women as directors, producers, directors of photography,
art directors, festival programmers, and film curators. How many
women do you know are directors of the top ten film festivals in
the world? None. But whats the percentage of women actually
working in festivals? Huge! It is ridiculous how women still need
to fight every minute to be respected and how much we have
to work to get to a regular position. Its much less than for men.
Also, men dont like to have women over them, and they are very
protective of their space. Maybe this sounds very bad for the
interview!
HWJ: What motivates you most about filmmaking?
MS: The power of imagesthe power [of film] to take you by the
hand to different worlds you have never seen, the power [film]
has to open your mind, the power of bringing people together in
a theateremotionally and intellectually. Its a miracle.
HWJ: Where do you see Spanish filmmaking as being in twenty
years?
MS: Bigger productions, more commercial [productions].
HWJ: Do you feel that Hollywood

has a responsibility in contributing
to American culture? How does
Hollywood affect the perception of
America to the rest of the world?
Does Spain have an analogous
conglomerate that controls media?
Spanish Film Club, and also to use the

Internet not only for sales but [also]
to educate about films and Spanish
filmmaking.
MS: Hollywood is America. [The world]

thinks America is what Hollywood
conveys. Even in love! We all wait for
the typical American love story with a
happy-ever-after [ending]. Hollywood
is about dreams, not reality. Yes, I
think [those in Hollywood] should
have a commitment to contribute to
American culture in a smarter way.
Some try, but not enough.
[Regarding the media,] we do have
Mediapro [in Spain], for example, but
nothing else. In any case, media is not
free media, is it? I do not know of any
news in Spain that isnt controlled.
[Comparatively, the situation with
media is not as bad] in America.
MS: The future is exciting. [People]

will have access to films regardless of
where they live. They will be able to
make films freely without waiting for
a fat check from Hollywood. We are
ready. We have the freedom. But do
we know how to use this freedom? I
am afraid of self-censorship. Last week
in Berlin, we opened a retrospective of
Spanish clandestine filmmakers during
Francos time. I invited the filmmakers,
who were on average around seventy
years old, and they presented the
dangerous films they made during
sixties and seventies. I want to see
that spark in young filmmakers today,
as well as that commitment with
subjects, not concern over money.
Those old filmmakers didnt have
the tools, yet they made films. Now
filmmakers have everything. Its
exciting as long as we do not think
that one gig will make us millionaires.
Film is about communication, not fat
HWJ: What are your future goals and

plans?
MS: We had last year fifteen festivals.
And this year it will be twenty. I want
Pragda to try new projects, like the
HWJ: Where do you think the future

of filmmaking is headed?
checks. But both at the same time

would be perfect!
HWJ: What kinds of advice would you
give a young filmmaker?
MS: Persistence, persistence,
persistence. Risk, risk, risk. v
Read more about Martas

current and past projects:
Short Metraje
www.shortmetraje.com
Pragda
www.pragda.com
Women Make Movies
www.wmm.com
photos courtesy of Marta Sanchez
Blonde Peacock
Art by Alice Mizrachi www.am-files.com
Hawaii Womens Journal | 41www.facebook.com/blondepeacock
THE PINKY SHOW

Gently poking your brain since 2005
a nonprofit 501(c)3 organization
[creative nonfiction]
Mundaneum
pen your eyes to the world. Squawk. Your mother

thinks youre ugly, but everyone else thinks youre
beautiful. She explains her judgment thus: you have a
squished head. You are too small. No hair. Anyway, your father
was waiting in the lobby for you to be born, so the only direct
source of information here is your mother. Authoritative
sources are important.
Nonetheless, your current state, infancy, is what defines
you in the hierarchy of the world, a natural order compounded
by the human desire to categorize everything. In this massive
spinning library of natural and man-made order, you are
currently located in 205.232, Infant. There is little else
exciting about you at the moment. You do all the infant things:
you sleep, you scream, you shit. No further subclassification
needed.
Start looking around. Youll notice a few things. One
important thing is that the scenery keeps changing. You
are first here, where there are long wooden hallways for
you to tumble along on hands and knees. And then you
are there, where there is a house with a deck looking out
over a drinkably clear blue ocean. This is explained by the
factors surrounding 658.383, Economic Services, which
specifies the inclusion of all material relating to employee
relocation and assignments. This is your parent class, if you
will, this life of moving from one home to another because
of a career path. You are still young and have not developed
your own faceted classification, although you will start soon.
by Krissa Corbett Cavouras
Thats 372.21, Preschool and Kindergartens, when you

stop speaking Portuguese to your mother and start learning
English, thereafter refusing to speak anything else. This breaks
her heart, but thats 306.8743specifically, the mother-child
relationship. This classification is important, as you will test
the limits of its capacity for information in many ways as you
progress through this space.
As you grow and start to explore new corridors, new
shelves, you develop a few traits that make it easy for your
fellow humans to understand you. First, you are a loquacious
and friendly child. Then, as you learn to read, you become
a bookworm. Actually, real bookworms, or booklice, are
called Psocoptera (595.732), which means that people are
speaking in metaphor when they call you a bookworm. You
are also very easily attached to animals. In one of your many
homes, there is a very old tree with hundreds of birds living
theresmall ones, like finches or sparrows. You can class
this under 598, Birds, because you were too young to take
note of their particular species. More specifically, it was baby
birds, 598.139, because these little creatures would fall out
of their nests and you would invariably take them into the
house and keep them in the bathtub. You dont remember
what you fed them, but they never lived longer than three
to five days. You would bury them in a shoebox under the
mango tree each time, singing them the song from the end of
Charlottes Web and crying. Class here: 297.385, Mourning
and Burial Rites.
Unfortunately for your parents, you also develop a facet of

adolescence. Suddenly, after a breezy and delightful twelve
years where you were quite happily the sun in their universe,
you can't stand to be anywhere near them and adopt a
worrying tendency to roll your eyes every time they say your
name (which they do in increasing tones of frustration).
This unfortunate period can be defined by 155.51244,
EmbarrassmentAdolescence, but thats not even the
worst of it. You are a pretty young thing and all the books,
all the serious studious elements of your nature,
get thrown out the window when you discover
306.77, Sexual Relations and Related Practices.
We will delve no further into the subclassifications
here, but the street parlance is boy crazy.
You experience rushes of dizzying euphoria,
chaste and not-so-chaste kisses, pint-sized broken
hearts, long letters written on lined notebook
paper, crying in bathrooms at dances. Your misspent
youth is spent in pursuit of love and other. You also
unfortunately develop a brief fondness for country music,
781.642. Both manias will embarrass you when youre older.
You finally begin to thicken and cool, to settle into the mold
intended for you by loving parents, when you reach college.
Here you are slavishly devoted to your image of yourself as
highly intellectual, although most of your time is spent at
coffee shops, staring at people and imagining their lives rather
than actually doing the assigned reading (see 153.1532,
Attention and Learning, and also 3.44, your GPA that still
shames you). Some of it sticks, enough to make you realize
that your teens were a deviation from self, a misdirection in
your classification. You are not just a flighty slip of a thing but in
fact someone quite intelligent who should take herself a little
more seriously so that other people will, too. Your parents
sigh their relief when you graduate relatively unscathed into
155.65, Young Adulthood.
There are many more things to discover, of course,
many more experiences to pick up and classify,
some neatly, some not so. It is human nature to
categorize, and its never copy cataloging when
its your own life. It doesnt matter if your best
friend knows your that guy for whom you pined
away 2003 is going to break your heart in new
and inventive ways, youve got to shelve that one
yourself. Try Love 128.46, and then Loneliness,
155.927.
And then the real thing, the real 128.46 comes
along, and boy does it knock you right off those stylish shoes
(oops, 332.024, Personal Finances gone awry). And on the
day that marks the legal process of joining two souls that falls
under 306.8, Marriage and Family, your father will take you
aside and tell you that this incredible man is your nuclear
family now, and he will be right. So you will start a whole new
branch of your personal catalog, one that is marked with an
Us.
Krissa
Corbett
Cavouras
Other than marriage, your twenties are spent trying new

careers, new disciplines, and understanding the trick of this
particular library: there are limitless hallways but not all of
them are yours. You will understand, as you move through
this floor, that the task assigned to you here is to pick the
notations that best fit you and to know which ones to let fall
into disuse. This is the categorization: What information is
important enough to merit being found? What do you need
to know to continue? And as you finish another decade here,
as you graduate without pomp and circumstance into true
adulthood, you will see that theres so much more you can
learn, once youve figured out everything you are.
Welcome to the main floor. Here is the good news: there is
nothing you cannot find here, or learn about, or accomplish.
You have some of the tools; you will gain more. It is all here,
from 000 to 900, the breadth of possibility. The bad news:
there is no longer a story hour. v
NOTE
1. The Mundaneum was the brainchild of Paul Otlet, a Belgian
lawyer who created the Universal Decimal Classification and
conceived of the Mundaneum as a place to gather together
the worlds knowledge. One hundred years later, we can look
at Otlets drawings of a series of portals that connect users to
information stored remotely and be amazed at his perspicacity.
photos courtesy of Krissa Corbett Cavouras
[the balancing act]
Making Womb
by Theresa Falk
I am going to be a mother.
Yet, there is no baby in my womb.
My husband and I recently started
the process of adopting a child. As an
adoptee myself, I had always wanted to
complete the circle: to give a child the
gift that I had so lovingly received. Fortyone years after my parents opened their
hearts and home to me, Chris and I are
making room in ours.
It was the easiest and most difficult
decision we have ever had to make as a

couple. My reasons for wanting to adopt
were obvious, and Chris, although not
an adopted child, had also considered it
for reasons of his own. We both wanted
this: there was no question. There is
also no question that we would love to
get pregnant: Chris and I are physically
healthy and able to conceive, and
were trying. We are hopeful we will
someday be blessed with a biological
child. However, I turned forty-one last
March, and common sense told us
both that now was the right time to

adopt: not as a failsafe but because
he and I were ready and willing to be
parentsdefinitely through adoption,
and perhaps biologically as well. We
want one as much as the other.
At our first meeting at the adoption
agency, our social worker told me that
although I may not give physical birth
to my child, I would go through my own
kind of labor.
I didnt have to wonder long about
what she meant: one of our first baby
photos courtesy of Theresa Falk
bumps proved to be the awkwardness

of the reveal. I have no outward signs
of impending parenthood, no morning
sickness or swollen belly. Both of us are,
however, expectant parents and want
others to share in our joy. The problem lies
in the fact that pretty much every form of
lead-in may elicit a moment of awkward
misunderstanding: We have news! We
have something to tell you! Even Guess
what? has resulted in appropriate yet
misdirected excitement from friends and
family who are all rooting for a physical
pregnancy. Once we tell them that
were adopting, theyre still overjoyed,
especially knowing that I am an adopted
child myself. There are more than a few
eager aunties and uncles waiting to spoil
our child.
The reactions have been, for the most
part, all wonderful. There have been hugs,
kisses and congratulationsand I am
gratefulbut there was one particular
reaction that stopped me cold.
A female acquaintance nearly jumped
out of her chair when I told her I had
some news. Youre pregnant! Youre
pregnant! she exclaimed, and her hand
went directly to my decidedly unpregnant
belly.
After removing her hand from my
uterus, I patiently explained the situation.
No, I am not pregnant, but we are
adopting and are thrilled to be doing so.
She smiled, her happiness indeed
genuine, but it was subdued. Thats
wonderful, she said.
But did you try IVF?
That moment cut at my heart. I read
it as an assumption on her part: that a
biological child would be my first and only
choice, that in adopting I am somehow
settling, and that because of this my
mothering would only be a shadow of
the real thing.
As I drove home that night, my
emotions ranged from anger to sadness
to, finally, a disorienting confusion. I
suddenly burst into convulsive tears at a
ridiculous question: Do adoptive mothers
get to have baby showers?
That was one of my first labor pains.
The next would come from an even more
unexpected source.
My husband and I were duly warned
by our agency that the process and
paperwork would be both extensive

and invasive. Indeed, we have been
required to hand over our entire financial
history; complete a comprehensive
battery of psychological testing; offer up
fingerprints, blood, urine; and provide
no less than ten letters of reference from
our friends, employers, and pastor. We
have had someone come to our house
and literally look through our closets.
And then we took fifteen hours of online
parenting classes.
We not only understand the necessity
of these requests but also appreciate
themthe Hague Adoption Convention
was established in 1995 to safeguard
against child laundering and trafficking.
However, our emotional response has
been frustration and more than a little
indignation: I highly doubt the Pharaohs

daughter was asked if she ever had a
venereal disease before she scooped
up Moses from the Nile. And if we
were having a biological child, the only
questions we would encounter would
be about names and nursery wall colors.
Birth mothers are not asked to prove they
have no history of child abuse before
they leave the hospital, nor do they have
to submit to HIV testing.
My husband and I agree that the crux
of our frustration with this particular
element of adoption has to do with
yet another assumptionthat of our
parental readiness and/or worth. A
couple expecting a biological child surely
goes through self-reflection and even
self doubt: Will I be a good parent? Am
I worthy to nurture and raise another

human being? The difference lies in the
fact that biological parents get to answer
those questions for themselves. Adoptive
parents have to submit a dossier and
have other people decide that for them.
Yet another painful contraction.
Between the labor pains, however,
are moments of ecstatic joy. I am
not physically pregnant, but I am an
expectant mother. You cant tell by
looking at my waistline, but you should
be able to see the glow in my smile. I
dont have morning sickness, but I have
been sick to my stomach worrying about
paperwork and passports. I walk through
the baby section at Macys and hold up
tiny onesies. I fantasize about family
Christmas cards and first days of school. I
tear up knowing that soon I will be able to
instill in my child the lessons and morals
my amazing parents taught me: justice,
perseverance, and independence. I have
placed my dog-eared copy of To Kill A
Mockingbird on the shelf in my future
childs room, where it will wait for the day
when we read it together, and I can tell
him how much Atticus Finch reminds me
of his Grandpa Brand.
A biological mother knows her due
date. She has an idea of when her
child will come. My due date could be
tomorrow or next yearI just have to
wait, and keep breathing.
When my child comes, I will do
some things right and more than a few
things wrong. I will panic over her first
scraped knee. I will laminate her drawing
of a Halloween pumpkin and hang it,
permanently, on our fridge. I will take a
hundred embarrassing pictures of her
before I let her leave for prom. I will
shake my head at her taste in clothes.
I will give her advice she doesnt want
and wait patiently for her to come to me
when she does want some. I will furiously
snap at her, regret it, and hold her tight
afterward. I will gaze lovingly at her when
she isnt looking. I will be her mother.
I may not feel this child in my body,
but it does not mean that I dont feel her
in my womb.
I may not push her out, but I have
already breathed her in. v
[creative nonfiction]
Love, For
Me
L
ove for me is the drive to Ipswich,

the way the road grows sandier
the closer we get to the beach,
the stop for beerIpswich Ale!at the
family mart and the worn gray boards of
the bathroom walls. Its the walk from
the parking lot over the dunes onto the
crowded beach, which turns empty the
farther we amble toward where the land
curves and disappears. Its the water that
flows up at high tide and makes sandbars,
cutting fast shallow rivers into the ground.
Its your salty lips on mine, its my arms
around you in the water, its looking up
from where I lie in the sand, seeing only
your outline as you hold yourself over me
against the cloudless sky. Its the silky,
tight skin over your ribcage, the first time
I bring my hand up to touch you.
Love for me is the night I get sick, too
much calamari and Stella and cigarette
smoke in the room. Its the rain that falls
through the bars of the fire escape, the
night misty and mottled with streetlights,
the slick road thirty feet down. Its my hair
in your hands as I retch. Its the taxi ride
home, leaving the party that had only just
begun, and its the way when I tell you in
the morning Im starving you smile, take
eggs from the fridge, say I bet.
Its the cabin you rent in the mountains,
one room split in half by a wall you built
yourself and painted dark brown. Its the
wicker couch, your only furniture besides
the bed, and its the cement bathroom
with its gray peeling paint. Its the way you
say, I hate my shower, because it is barely
big enough for both of us to fit. Its your
VHS collection, and the night we watch
Thelma and Louise and start kissing, and
when Jimmy screams at Louise, you turn
by Kate McCahill
the video off, the sounds too violent as

your lips touch mine. Its the window by
your bed, the woods visible through it.
Those trees mark every season: lush in
summer; crimson in fall; white and silent
in winter, the neighbors blue tarp over
his firewood brilliant. In spring, the trees
will bud slowly, the winds warm breath
bringing them life. You light candles on
our first night together; theyve never
been used.
And its when I drive from Boston to
Lake Placid after work one night in January,
the thought of climbing into bed with you
keeping me alert the whole way, my foot
hard on the gas. The empty tank light
comes on forty miles from home, and I
call you, panicked. You tell me Ill make
it. Theres no reception through Keene, I
remind you. If you arent here in thirty
minutes, Ill come, you say, but I make
it down the dark, curving road, past the
Route 9 junction, the empty Stewarts,
the marsh and the mountains beyond.
When I get to your house, step out of my
car, and feel the cold dryness, I look up
and see stars filling the sky. The space
between them seems darker, they look
so bright; you come out in your sandals
and hurry me inside, where the windows
are steamy. Youve got ten years on me,
but you always look so young, younger
each time I see you, it always seems like
that first year. Your skin, its so soft, your
muscles so tight, so tense, your hair and
eyes always so light.
But love is not the way you told me,
I love you, that first time. Your voice
sounded so thick and drunk on the line. I
was at a girlfriends place, in her kitchen
with the garish yellow walls, and just as
you choked out those words Id waited

so long to hear, she walked in and caught
my eyes, which were filling with tears. I
wished I knew you meant what you said;
when I accused you of being drunk, you
denied it. I stayed up late that nightlong
after youd hung up and passed out, long
after the girls and even the cats had crept
to bed. When I saw the sky lightening,
pink hints appearing on the floor through
the window, I finally slept. Love isnt
doubting you, and though its the last
thing you say before we fall asleep each
night, there can only be one first time.
Love should be the notes you have
written to me, the pictures scrawled in
the margins, the scribbled xs for kisses.
But the first time I read a note youd left

for me, I realized with a sinking heart
that you had never learned grammar,
or that maybe you had but didnt think
it mattered. You cant spell. I knew this
before you even went back for your
degree, the degree you started more for
us, for me, than for yourself. But I didnt
question that either, not at first, not
even as your years toward a bachelor's
stretched before us. Love is not the
awful day I proofread your English paper
and made so many corrections to your
words that you grew sullen, defensive,
even after I tried to explain. You just cant
leave it like this, I had said. Later, while
you slept beside me, your temper long
cooled, I lay awake, tossing, because

I hadnt known until then that you are
uneducated in the way I am, I think,
most gifted. Knowing this made me feel
guilty, guilty and sick because I couldnt
speak it aloud, so I kept quiet, turned
my eyes from yours in the morning. Love
isnt feeling like the wrong kind of critic.
And love is not the memories, good
and bad, tinged with alcohol. Its not the
nights you called me, crying, to admit
youd been arrested. It isnt you saying
to me that in the last decade you took
LSD thirty or forty times, or me cringing
inside, frightened for us both, for what
an intake like that can do to a person.
Love isnt screaming at you after dinner
in a South End restaurant because your

debit card couldnt cover your portion
of the bill. It isnt worrying about how
youll pay off your student loans, though
I know its not just about the money.
In the end, love shouldnt be a
teacher on how best to bite my tongue.
It isnt waiting for the door to open so
that one of us can finally leave. Its not
wishing you are different than you are,
or letting this be about desire. Its not
hoping in dark moments that this ends.
I think about a future with you, and I am
afraid, because lately, each time I look at
you I feel something tear a little more,
some divide splitting my soul, this loving
and hating you both. v
poetry
I.
Little Riddles
Morning Riddle
I am an alabaster womb,
a house with no door,
carved from brittle ivory
without a chisel.
You hold me and wonder
if you can feel a beating heart within.
Or is it too cold inside this small igloo
for life?
II.
Late-Summer Riddle
I am iron lace,
rusted with rain.
Wind breathes through me
like a fishermans net,
and I grow noisy as a hammer.
IV.
Queen Annes Riddle

We are albino tongues
licking your steps.
Heads and tails pointed
like small, synthetic beaks,
we wag and wave at the dirt.
With each panting breath,
we hold you together
bound in shackles of our own skin.
VI. Sailor
I am overgrown, too large

for my surname, my beard
tangled brown seaweed.
You watch the leaves gather

at my feet, and stand
in fractured sunlight,
hoping that I will keep out
the small things.
III.
V.
Bedtime Riddle
We are small sofas,
cocoons of comfort
that protect and serve.
House-trained
dirt wary, we are afraid
of what lies beyond
your front door.
We caress the day from you
and breathe sleep into your limbs
from the bottom up.
Inside me, there is an ocean,

wan and washed by wind and wave.
Hardened, weathered, I am ready
for soft hands to hatch me.
You meet me and wonder
what horizons I have seen
more sun-drenched than yours.
Treasure Chest
Rock-shod and silent,
I am marooned.
VII.
I breathe visibly.
Every few minutes, a fractured puff
excites the tiny minds
that dance within my belly.
I am transparent to your pleasure,
and fear the thunder
of your attention.
Shell out of Water

I am a peach labyrinth,
my walls ridges that bend
to your will.
Soft, inverted, I am a muted echo
of the conch shells
interior.
You peer into me
looking not for the ocean,
but for some hint of knowledge
equal to its depths. v
Before Breakfast
poetry
(An Answer Key to Little Riddles: There is an answer per stanza )
In the mornings, I am a deviled egg,

smooth and white,
my top riotous and sprinkled
with paprika.
My eyes are like screen doors
filtering the sunlight,
slamming shut when the day
grows too fierce.
Still sleepy, my fingers

are shoelaces, tangled knuckles
white-washed by the cold,
bound in the shackles of my sheets.
My dogs sleep beside my bed
as faithful as small, brown
slippers, bodies curled
in cocoons of comfort.
My head is a coconut,
the night hours still swirling
within its hardened shell,
a headache threatening to hatch.
In the silence before the alarm
my ear channels
the muted voice of morning
through its labyrinth of cartilage.
I stumble from the bedclothes.
Hair tousled, belly rumbling
hands frozen, head splitting,
I stare into the mirror and wonder
What am I? v
Anne Marie Kelley
Sometimes, my belly bubbles

like an aquarium
and I imagine bright fish inside
demanding to be fed.
[fiction]
My Lover Is a Former Fat Kid
With his clothes on, my lover looks like your average mansoft in some places,
strong in others. Hes not what you would consider a beautiful man, not stately or
distinct. No chiseled features, high cheek bones, or the slightest hint of pecs and
abs. With his clothes on, he looks like your average Joe, my completely unaverage
TJ. My lover is a former fat kid, and I tell no one.
cant pin down when I officially met TJ, only when I first
saw himon the set of a short film on which we were both
working. He was the Best Boy and I, the Art Assistant. My
task that day was to age a foam-based ceramic tablea
job that kept me spreading and wiping mortar long into the
uncharacteristically humid Los Angeles night. As the rest of
the crew cleared out, he came walking toward mea tall
figure in a floppy hat led by the faint orange cigarette glow
between his lips. You staying much longer? he asked.
Just a little bit, I said, though I wasnt sure how long Id be.
Cool, he said and walked away. A few minutes later, he
emerged with two clamp lights. He ran an extension cord
and hung the lights from the edge of the shed where I was
working. He turned the lights on and left, saying, When
youre done, just unplug it. He didnt look back.
When I arrived the next morning, I noticed the lights had
already been put away. All night after this first meeting, Id
thought about him more and morefinding out his name
from the following days call sheet and knowing that he
would be one of the first people on set. His single friendly,
unfriendly act had made him a person of interest, and though
I wanted nothing more than for him to look at me, talk to
me, acknowledge me in some way, TJ went about his work
with no notice of me and no mention of the lights, either.
The film shoot lasted only six days, and for the next five, I
stole glances at TJ and held full conversations with him in my
head. In those days and imaginary conversations, we talked
about cursory things that meant much more underneath.
Hi, how are you? would have been code for I want to kiss
you, touch you, and find out everything there is to know
about you.
When I think back to the first time I saw TJ, I remember
two things: first, that people as tall as he was shouldnt
wear floppy hats because, from a distance, it eliminated all
possibility of seeing their eyes (you just cant trust people
whose eyes you cant see). Second, that his lips were the
fullest, softest-looking lips Id ever seen on a man. Perhaps
this was only because I couldnt see his eyes, and so in
contrast, his lips might have been overemphasized. But they
by Duy Nguyen
werent. They were real, large, and thickso well-crafted

they were almost womanly. So there he was, my future lover,
this unreadable giant, his enticingly soft lips.
I dont believe in love at first sight, but I have this theory
that the first kiss can tell you everything you need to know
about a man. That, with just one kiss, you can find out if its
going to be worth it. I believe that one kiss can determine if
something is friendship, admiration, infatuation, or whether
it resembles the possibility of love.
I wanted to find myself in TJs lips. Though TJ paid no
attention to me, I kept telling myself to be one of those girls
I see in the movies, the ones who wear lingerie to match
their heels. I pictured myself going up to himsauntering,
sexy, confident, pulling him toward me by his shirt collar, and
telling him that I wanted to test my theory out on him. Then
Id kiss him, all lips and tongue
Of course I didnt do it. Im not that type of girl.
In the end, it was TJ who approached me. On the sixth
and last day, he gave me the address to a karaoke bar in
Koreatown. Were all going out for drinks after since this
production is too cheap to throw a real wrap party.
My lover is a former fat kid and I tell no one because not
so deep down, the folds of his skin embarrass me.
Its been three weeks to the day since that night in Koreatown,
and I want to see TJ every day. I dont tell him that; I try to play
it cool and casual because I want to appear cool and casual.
We have no set schedule for when we see each other, but I
call him every other day. On these calls I try to not seem too
excited when he does want to see me, or too disappointed
when he doesnt. TJ doesnt call; instead, he just shows up
at my door. Hes somehow charmed my landlady into letting
him into our gated community. Shes even started to wink
at me every time I go downstairs to get my mail. I tell my
roommate its annoying, but Im a little proud. It makes me
happy to think she knows its me TJs visiting.
Because I never know when I will see him next, Ive
started getting dressed up to go to bed. No more old
t-shirts and shorts. Its all cute glasses, perfect ponies, and
tiny purposefully mismatched PJs. My roommate has also

learned to start knocking.
Weve only made love with the lights off. I wonder if this
is a coincidence. He never brings up the skin that hangs off
his body. Theres enough to know that there had once been
something underneath that second skin, someone different.
At first, I thought it was because he was self-conscious
about the skin, but thats just another one of my theories.
When I look at TJ, Im constantly searching for some sign of
self-consciousness, a look of uneasiness or unreadiness to
take off his clothes, but its not there. TJ never hesitates. He
never insists on me being on top. The skin is just there, like
a mole or a hairy chest, just a part of his body that doesnt
need to be acknowledged. Im both in love with and bothered
by his confidence.
Every time we make love, TJ says the same thing: Youre
so fucking hot. I know its supposed to make me feel good,
sexy, wanted. But Ive never been able to take a compliment.
My shrink says it goes back to my history of dating the wrong
sort of man, the kind that believes a hard-on is the biggest
compliment he could give. Youre so fucking hot makes me
uncomfortable. What am I doing to be hot? How do I stay
that way?
Every time he says it, I groan and dig my fingers into his
loose sides and pull him toward me, but its always too late.
My mind is already wandering. What type of girls was TJ with
before me? What type of girls do former fat guys date? I
picture fat high-school girls having sex with the fat version of
my lover, and Im insanely jealous. Did that TJ ever tell those
girls they were hot? Or was that TJ deeper, less superficial?
Did that TJ have conversations in bed with those girls? Then
I think about this TJ, the one who so easily covers up his past
with a single layer of clothing. I wonder if this TJ would even
date fat girls. Then he kisses me, and Im filled with shame
because I cant imagine making love to the fat version of my
lover.
When were in bed, TJ is always in control. He does all the
pushing and pulling. My only job is to hold onto him. Naked,
I like how my body is acquiescent under his. Clothed, I wish
I were someone else. Someone more like the person I see in
the mirror, someone slender and delicate.
After we make love, we hold each other. We never talk
much, but it always feels as though we stayed up all night
doing just that. One night, I go so far as to tell him about
my day. We lie in bed, and TJ listens as I talk. Im instantly
addicted to his listening, and I tell him about the younger
version of myself, about the awkward years, about my
relationships with my mother, my father, past boyfriends. I
tell him about my body issues, about all the men who told
me I needed to gain weight, to lose weight, to wear clothes
that were more revealing, less revealing . . . I tell him about
the ex-boyfriend who insisted that I wear more makeup and

stop eating bread. I start to tell him about how Ive worked so
hard to become who I am, and about how I feel lost because
I dont know if I even like that person.
I talk so much that I think my tongue will fall right out of
my mouth, and then I get quiet, because if it did, I would
never be able to taste those soft lips again. The entire time,
TJ doesnt say a word; his breath is slow and steady. I think
he has fallen asleep. Im a little sad, a little relieved. But
suddenly those lips are on me, and my TJ guides my body
under his. For a moment, Im suffocating, but I hold back his
hanging breasts, arch my head toward his chest, and kiss the
person I know is underneath all that skin.
Im waiting for the day that TJ lets me in on his not-so secret.
Its as simple as five words: I used to be fat. I wonder if he
thinks that if he says nothing, I wont notice the folds of his body.
I wonder if he thinks that I would look at him differently, touch
him differently, or let him touch me differently. But Im afraid
because theres a chance we never even make it that far . . . that
he will never let me into that part of his life that hangs onto him
so apparently.
I have a thousand and one questions ready for him should
he ever decide that day has come. Were you made fun of as the
fat kid? Were you that kid in gym class? Did you date fat, ugly
chicks and masturbate to girls that look like me? Did you ever
think about girls like me? What do you really think of girls like
me? Could you ever love a girl like me? Because the truth is, Im
vain. The truth is, Im only beautiful on the outside. The truth is, I
dont really know what beauty is. The truth is, Im in love with TJ
and Im afraid that he doesnt love me back. The truth is, Im in
love with TJ and Im terrified he might love me back.
My lover is a former fat kid, and I tell no one because Im afraid
that when he leaves there will be nothing left to hold onto.
The first time we made love was the night we went to Koreatown.
The party moved to his house, and though I knew that very few
people would be there, I followed him home like a puppy. He
was not yet my TJ, not yet my lover, but I followed him anyway.
When everyone started to leave, TJ whispered into my ear to
stay. I fell asleep on the couch waiting for him to get out of the
shower and awoke to the feel of his cool hand on mine. Gently,
he pulled me up and led me to his bedroom, and even more
gently, he leaned against me until we both were lying on his
bed, his body pushing down on mine. I normally dont do this,
I confessed, hoping that my words sounded like a lie.
In the dark, I couldnt make out the details of his face, but
I could feel the softness of his lips and body. As he lay on top
of me, I could feel his skinloose, hanging, brushing my naked
self. I remember being surprised at how much of him there was,
how much more there once had been, and how it felt like being
engulfed in a million soft, fluttering kisses. v
[fiction]
Endless Necklace
But my words become stained with your love.
You occupy everything, you occupy everything.
I am making them into an endless necklace
for your white hands, smooth as grapes.
by Keith Meatto
Pablo Neruda
photo by Bianca Mills
ila smelled fire in her dream and woke to see Gabriel

on the balcony, cigarette in one hand, newspaper in
the other. The desert sunrise bloomed behind him in
red stripes. Gabriel still wore his clothes from their concert
last night: a rumpled button down and charcoal pants. Lila
checked the clock on the nightstand; they had barely slept.
This had been a road ritual. Their band had played 45 cities
in two months and Gabriel always woke at dawn. He always
tried to kiss Lila awake and burrow against her side, and
when his efforts to arouse her failedshe hated mornings
hed go outside and pace the parking lot. No doubt hed been
awake for hours. And they had to drive 250 miles today for
the last show of the tour.
Youll be too tired to sing, Lila called.
Gabriel did not respond. Lila waited in bed for a few
minutes, but he stayed on the balcony. Her stomach
growled, and she opened the fake leather menu. She wanted
breakfast, an omelet, maybe, or Eggs Florentine. Spinach
would be good. She couldnt remember the last time shed
eaten an actual vegetableher tour diet had been mostly
fast food and power bars. She slid from bed, tightened the
sash of her robe, and stepped over their guitar cases and
onto the balcony, where Gabriel stood serene and beautiful
below the bluffs.
Lila suddenly wished she owned a camera. She had no
photographs of Gabriel. And there would be good ones:
him riding an invisible horse through Monument Valley;
contorting his limbs under a Joshua tree; doing pushups on
the Four Corners. He had pulled off the highway so he could
be standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona. He had chuckled
and wondered if hed meet a girl, my lord, in a flatbed Ford.
Then they pulled into town and found stores filled with tee
shirts, bumper stickers, and souvenir mugs, a tourist shrine
to a thirty-five-year-old song lyric. An hour later, he sprawled
crucifixion-style across the middle yellow line of the empty
desert highway while she panicked that some crazed driver
would mow him down like an armadillo.
The morning light stung her eyes so Lila shaded her
forehead with the menu. Then she asked Gabriel if he was

hungry.
We cant afford room service, he said.
Lets splurge, she said and opened the menu.
He looked away. She asked if he was still upset about last
night.
No, he said, Im thrilled we played another empty room,
unless you count the eighty-year-old drunk doing the
crossword puzzle.
You take it too personally, she said. Lets split the
continental breakfast.
Do you know how much money Ive lost on this goddamned
tour? Gabriel stood from the green plastic chair and ground
out his cigarette in the standing ashtray.
Lila had never asked Gabriel about his finances. That
seemed too intimate, even now. She knew his father had been
a cop, his mother a public librarian. And Gabriel had alluded
to odd jobs, some musical, most not. He had engineered
recording sessions, sung in church choirs and kids birthday
party bands. He had also been a caterer, busboy, bike
messenger, and cashier in a gay bookstore where the owner
thought he was cute. He probably earned so little that at tax
time the government gave him money.
Im down ten grand on this trip, he said. And its all gone,
Lila, on meals, on motels, on gas, not to mention all those
CDs and tee shirts.
You never cared about money before, she said. You sound
like my parents.
I never said I wanted to be impoverished and anonymous.
I maxed out three credit cards, deferred my student loans,
and I owe six friends money.
Youre just overtired, she said. The summer had been
long, some 5,000 miles on the road. They had just driven the
PCH from LA to San Francisco, through the strawberries and
artichokes and the harrowing hairpins. Between shows, they
had hiked the Grand Canyon and camped at the bottom. But
Gabriel got claustrophobic in their two-man tent so he slept
alone under the stars. He redeemed himself the next day and
took her to Taliesin West. Lila loved the odd buildings and
the gardens. Gabriel seemed more inspired by the history.
Frank Lloyd Wright had picked the best young architects to
build his winter palace, and they met annually to change the
future of architecture.
Lila put a hand on Gabriels neck and rubbed the stiff knot
of muscle above his shoulder blade. You can sleep in your
own bed soon, she said. But have some perspective. Pablo
Neruda didnt just decide to be a poet, roll out of bed, and
walk into a stadium of 100,000 adoring fans. He just wrote
every day until something worked.
She squeezed his shoulder and went inside. The room
was low budget, but motels were still a luxury. You began a
new life every day and your mess became somebody elses
problem. For all the inconveniences of the roadas her
mother and girlfriends had predictedLila had not made
a bed, emptied the trash, or cooked a meal all summer,
attended by an army of invisible
servants. Still, she wondered if
the Pakistani graduate student
who was subletting her studio in
Brooklyn had let her avocado tree
die.
Lila showered, slipped into
jeans and a tank top, and brushed
her teeth in the mirror. She had
lost weight on tour, maybe five or
six pounds. Her arms were slim
and firm from lugging her amp and
guitars. The sun had tanned her
skin and cut blond streaks through
her dark hair. Her pale office friends
would be jealous. She opened a
bottle of eyeliner and traced her
lids. Yea, she looked good. The tight
coils of her body had all loosened,
her face muscles had relaxed, and
she had shed her anxious look. Leaving the city had helped
and so had performing every night. But the real change was
Gabriel.
They had shared beds across the country but never their
real ones back home. That had almost happened after
rehearsal when Gabriel took her to a dumpling house on
East Broadway. He was different away from the instruments:
quiet, thoughtful, inquisitive. He also had good timing. Lila
had been to six weddings that year, heard the biological
alarms ring, and saw the singles tables shrink. Her friends
saw her as That Girl, drifting at thirty with no man and no
plan. And she had gone on too many dates and heard too
many monologues. Gabriel actually complimented her,
said she played guitar like a ninety-year-old black man. She
laughed and said her father had a good record collection
but skipped how her parents fought most nights and she
played Mississippi John Hurt in her room until she went into
a trance.
He had been fascinated that night by Lilas stories about her

private girls school in Cherry Hill. He had taken three buses
from Hoboken to Catholic school in Manhattan. The threehour commute was ludicrous, but he had a full scholarship.
But they had similar families. Lila was the accidental fourth
child whose birth delayed her parents divorce. Gabriel was
an only child whose father died from a heart attack when he
was eleven.
They waited on the corner after dinner for a taxi. She
usually rode the subway, but they were too far east. No cabs
came for a while. Lila tried to think of a conversation starter,
but after trading life stories for two hours she had nothing to
say. They fidgeted and leaned into the road. Lila rocked on
her heels and then let her knuckles bump against his hand.
Gabriel clutched at her fingers and she let him. They stood
like that and held hands until a cab pulled beside them. The
driver rolled down his window and asked where they were
going. Gabriel looked at her. It
would be so easy. Gabriel would
hold the cab door for her, and she
would slide into the middle seat so
their legs would touch. Hed give
the driver his address and then
take her hand. Shed close her
eyes and ignore the radio jazz and
the driver chattering on his phone
to Bangladesh. He wouldnt rush.
Theyd sit together on his couch
under wooly blankets, sip chai, and
listen to Abbey Road on that record
player he bought at a flea market.
Hed show her his travel photos:
monsoons in Vietnam, temples in
Cambodia, beaches in Laos. Hed
read her Keats or E. E. Cummings,
and shed dissolve in the rasp of
his voice. And then when the air
got still, when she couldnt wait another second, hed kiss
her once, softly, just to be sure, and then again, for real.
But then what? She knew nothing about him, really.
What if he had a girlfriend or, god forbid, a wife or a new
crush every week? And they were about to tour together,
ten weeks in a carher first chance at serious music and a
reprieve from photocopying for guys in pleated pants. What
if he changed his mind in the morning, or three days later, or
three weeks later? And how many musical couples actually
worked? Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks? James Taylor
and Carly Simon? Jack and Meg White? So Lila released his
hand and slid into the taxi alone. The whole ride home, she
touched the spot where he had wiped the hot sauce from
her cheek.
Gabriel didnt call Lila in the morning or say anything
after the next rehearsal. The tour opened to a packed
house in New York, followed by tiny crowds in New Jersey,
Pennsylvania, and Ohio. Each night they dissected every
note of their performance in the hotel bar. Each night, they

retired to separate rooms. Each night, Lila lay in bed and
wondered if he would knock. When he finally did, in a Super
8 outside Columbus, she almost dragged him across the rug.
She mailed a note to her best friend the next morning and
enclosed a five-dollar bill.
Lila returned to the balcony and the desert vastness. She
tapped Gabriels arm and asked what he was reading.
My worst review yet. Gabriel unfolded the paper, cleared
his throat, and read aloud: This music is pretentious, tedious,
indulgent, and ponderous. One wonders if someone dared
Gabriel Montefiore to write a whole album of unmemorable
tunes, devoid of lyrical, melodic, or harmonic hooks. If so, he
has succeeded.
Cheap shot, Lila said. Your songs all have hooks.
It gets better, he said. The concept sounds original: a
musical adaptation of Pablo Nerudas Twenty Love Songs and
a Song of Despair. Only someone forgot to tell Montefiore that
Luciana Souza set Neruda to music a few years ago. Or that
Schubert made a similar move 175 years ago with Die Schne
Mllerin. But unlike Souza and Schubert, however, Montefiore
has robbed the poems of their poetry.
Everyone gets bad reviews, she said.
Wait, he said. The live show only highlights the
albums flaws. Montefiores voice is raw, thin, and
untutored, a half-whine, half-whimper.
Put that down, she said.
Gabriel lit another cigarette, turned his back,
and continued to read: The real tragedy is Lila Coles
presence amid such mediocrity. Many women play fine guitar,
but few dominate with such virtuosity. Her quick fingers and
succulent vocal harmonies
Stop, Lila said.
redeem the duo from damnation. It doesnt hurt that
shes a knockout.
Gabriel let the newspaper drop to the floor. Smoke floated
in the dry air. Lila wrapped her arm around his waist.
Sweetheart, she said and kissed the tender spot beneath
his jaw. Its one review.
Thats number fifteen, he said. And theyre all miserable.
Why do you care?
Thats easy for you to say, Ms. Quick Fingers, Ms. Vocal
Succulence.
What should I do, play worse so you feel better? Please.
You wake me up with your cigarette, I try to comfort you, and
then you attack me? Talk to me when youre not acting like a
three year old.
You could tone it down on stage, he said. Do you really
need to play behind your back or walk into the audience to
take solos? How about the time you went into the street and
played outside the club?
You gave me that idea talking about Buddy Guy. I thought
you wanted me to do that. I just want to make our show
better.
I never told you to set the night on fire.

Lila recalled the night in Sebastopol, at a bar packed with
migrant farm workers and a handful of hipsters. As the last
note of her solo rang out, she emptied her shot glass, spewed
a burst of clear alcohol, and struck a match. The fire cloud
spread and someone captured the stunt on a cell phone and
posted the clip online. By the end of the next day, more than
10,000 people had worshipped the Holy Dragon Goddess.
You always say we need more promotion, she said. That
was free publicity.
For you, he said.
If you wanted somebody just to wiggle, play tambourine,
and look cute, you picked the wrong girl. Im a musician,
Gabriel, not band candy.
You dont always have to play at a million watts, he said.
Fine, she said. How about I buy a really long cord and sit
backstage?
I auditioned you, he said.
And I accepted.
Theyre my songs.
Your first draft was some chords and a few images. We
made them together. Not to mention that you stole the lyrics
from Neruda.
Fine, take half the royalties: Fifty percent of zero
is still zero. Do you want half of my bills, too? Do
you want to pay for gas now? Its up to four dollars
a gallon.
Listen to yourself. I do everything for you and
this is how you repay me. I dont want any glory
or credit, just a little respect. You cant just use me
when you need me and then tell me to be quiet in the corner.
Everybody said I shouldnt hire a girl.
It sure had some side benefits.
When Gabriel did not reply, Lila went on: Please. I knew
as soon as you asked me out for dumplings. Youve never had
to fight for attention or share anything in your entire life, Mr.
Only Child, Mr. Lead Singer. Try having four older brothers and
sisters. Try being stuck in the car listening to sports radio where
two idiots argue for an hour about the existential meaning of
some pitchers rotator cuff injury. You smoke every twentyfive minutes, and you havent showered since we crossed the
Rockies. Everybody makes sacrifices, Gabriel. So dont lecture
me about being a team player.
You make it sound like I tortured you, he said.
Lila stared at Gabriel. He patted his shirt pockets, and then
his jeans pockets, for his cigarettes: nothing. He dropped to
the floor, unzipped his suitcase, and flung shirts and pants,
underwear and socks, as he rummaged for a pack. When he
found one, he went to the windowsill and struck a match.
So, she said. What happens when we get back to New
York?
Gabriel turned his back, a pale Irish ghost against the red
desert. Lila bent down and gathered his clothes. She folded his
tee shirts into perfect rectangles: Snap, right, left, over, under.
Thanks, retail jobs. She stacked the shirts into bricks inside
Keith
Meatto
his suitcase, then his pants, before she paired and stuffed his
socks into his shoes.
You know, she said. Wed have more money if you didnt
insist on separate hotel rooms. Thats what, seventy-five
to a hundred dollars wasted every night times sixty days
equals
I know how much it costs, he said.
Maybe that made sense the first or second time but not
anymore. You cant just drift and expect me to follow.
What about all those guys who hit on you after every
show?
Lila tucked her hair back into a ponytail. Are you really
jealous of random strangers? Sure, I flirt. Then they buy a
CD or a tee shirt and then I go home with you. Do you think
I want some loser who wanders alone into a bar at eleven
oclock on a Wednesday? Besides, youre the one who sings
love songs to strangers.
You mean empty rooms.
Lila swept the loose change from the nightstand into her
hand, cleared her throat, and lowered her voice. Go shower,
she said. Then well order some breakfast.
I told you, we cant afford room service.
Ill drive, she said. You can sleep on the way. Lila spread her
arms and pulled Gabriel in for a hug. His body felt frail, and
his heart twittered against her chest. They held the embrace
and then he pulled away. She heard the faucets run and the
toilet flush.
She saw her cell phone blinking red. Probably parental.
She had not told them about Gabriel. They would hate him.
Hed rub in their faces the life she had chosen. They had a
hard enough time when Lila failed freshman bio and decided
to major in classical guitar. Her surgeon father insisted that
music was a hobby. She had proved him right for eight years,
giving lessons, singing Ladies Night Karaoke, and working
time-bider jobs at a travel agency, clothing stores, and, lately,
as a paralegal. Then she had seen Gabriels poster on a caf
bulletin boardFemale Guitarist Wantedand summoned
the courage to audition.
She returned to the balcony. No cell towers or power lines
or telephone poles, no traces of humanity except the paved
roads that cut through the striped hills. Pioneers had crossed
this land, she thought, on foot, in the saddle, and in wagons.
They wanted gold and adventures, God and freedom, glory
and anonymity. They fought the desert to survive and
sometimes they won.
The weather would be perfect in New York now, almost
fall. Lila imagined the days to come. Theyd play tonight and
then make their way home. Her jealous girlfriends would
swoon and wish theyd never given her the Pity Face. She and
Gabriel would nap in Prospect Park. Theyd barbecue on her
roof and watch the sun set over Manhattan. And while her
parents might object to the idea of Gabriel, hed charm them
in person. Her mother would cluck and cook him a ninecourse banquet. Her father, who could not boil water, would
take them to Caf Lux and tell stories about his campus radical
days, how hed seen Hendrix and loaned him a quarter for a
newspaper. And shed meet Gabriels mother, the little Irish
widow who had loaned them her station wagon, a low-slung
white whale with a loose muffler and Hudson County PBA
bumper stickers.
Then Lila would write her own songs. Gabriel would help
and support and encourage her the way she had done with
the Twenty Love Songs. And then theyd tour again next
summer, but this time with one hotel room.
Lila never bought bridal magazines or fantasized about
china patterns or fabric swatches or stainless steel appliances.
She didnt need marriageher parents had destroyed any
illusions about the sacredness of that institution. She just
wanted to be one of those couples that bloomed every
spring, the ones who sprawled out together on the grass or
leaned across restaurant tables, intertwined like vines.
The bathroom door opened. Lila glanced up from her
paperback and saw Gabriel step through the steam, cleanshaven in a crisp shirt and jeans.
Hey, he said.
Lila held up two fingers and went back to her Chekhov.
She had read one story per day all summer, always in a
single sitting. She never stopped in the middle. Once she
started, she had to finish. She tried to re-engage the Russian
noblewoman and her woes, but after Gabriel crossed her line
of sight three times, she stuck a pencil between the pages.
He looked at her for a long time, words stuck on the edge of
his lips.
Im sorry, he said.
Its OK, she said. Were both tired.
She took his hands and clasped his fingers. He stared at
her a moment, then looked down at the floor, and released
her fingers.
I went for a walk after the show last night, he said.
I heard you, she said.
I needed real air. I cant breathe in all this air
conditioning.
Lila sat up and traced her fingers around the buttons of
the remote control.
So I go out, he said. And I just lie down on this rock. There
are all these stars, ones you cant see back home. And the
only constellations I know are Orion and the Big Dipper. And
Im thinking Neruda would know their names. Hed know
what they meant.
Theyre named after the Zodiac, she said. You can look
them up online.
The television flashed on and Lila twitched at the sound
before she realized she had accidentally pressed the power
on the remote control. She pressed the red button again,
apologized, and told Gabriel to continue.
Dont make fun of me, but for a minute out there, I thought
I heard my dad. Gabriel laughed in embarrassment. Not like I
saw a ghost. I just imagined what hed say.
Lila frowned. Her parents were crazy, but they were alive.
And then this girl came out.

Lila felt her stomach flip. What time was this?
About two, he said. Maybe it was three.
So, what, did you kiss her?
Gabriel blinked twice but said nothing. Lila slammed
the remote control on the bed and the quilt muffled the
sound.
Are we talking a peck on the cheek, a smack on the lips?
Was it a French kiss?
I just went out for some air, he said.
If you wanted a romantic evening, you could have just
asked.
I just went out for some air.
And then what, this mystery woman bewitched you?
Really? Were in the middle of the desert in the middle of
August in the middle of nowhere. There are like two and a
half cars in the parking lot. And there just happens to be a
girl who just happens to love stargazing? If youre going to
make up a cheating story, make it a little more original.
You think Im lying? Fine, her name is Martha.
She laughed. Martha? Whats her last name? Washington?
Stewart? Did you meet the Vandellas? Did you serenade her
with that Tom Waits song?
Lila grabbed her guitar, fingered a chord, and bounced
her thumb on the strings. Some people did yoga; some
people did therapy; she just fingerpicked.
Li, he said.
She steadied her thumb and picked the melody with her
fingers.
Li, listen.
Take this hammer and carry it to my captain, she sang.
Tell him Im gone.
Gabriel grabbed the guitar by the neck and held it over
his head like a trophy.
Watch out, she said. You think you have money problems
now, try replacing that.
Gabriel relaxed his grip and laid the instrument down.
What she taste like? Was she wearing lipstick? Chapstick?
Is she a good kisser? Did you sing for her? Of course you did.
I thought you didnt like small crowds. Did she give you any
new ideas? Its important to be inspired. Just ask Picasso.
As soon as he ran out of ideas, he got another mistress.
He hooked a thumb on his jeans pocket. It was only a
kiss, he said.
Her eyes stung and she put her face in her hands. He
kneeled beside her on the carpet and stroked her hair. But
as soon as he touched her cheek, she howled. Why would
he hurt her like this? Why was she such an idiot? Her
girlfriends had literally bet that shed fall for Gabriel and
then warned her to be careful. Why did every relationship
explode, from her gay prom date to her last boyfriend who
left her for his hairdresser?
Lila suddenly wanted to call her mom. Those social work
skills would help now. And her mother knew about men.
Lilas father had left his wife for an aerobics instructor and
stalled for years on child support and alimony. But Mrs.

Cole didnt stay home and weep. She worked overtime
counseling at Our Lady of Lourdes, took night classes at
Camden County, and got her real estate license and sold
houses on weekends to pay her daughters tuition. Lila had
always hated those sacrifice speeches. But if her mother
were on the phone now, shed say, Be strong. Keep your
dignity.
Lila stood, sniffled, and wiped her face.
I had to tell you, Gabriel said. What, did you want me to
lie?
No, I want you to stop lying to yourself. Youre that
kid who cuts class rather than take a test. You leave
Conservatory three months before graduation because its
easier to drop out than to call yourself a real musician. You
steal someone elses love songs because youre too afraid
to sing your own.
Tomorrows our last show, he said.
Too bad, she said. Find someone else to blame when the
world fails to recognize your genius. Go write twenty songs
of despair and hope you have enough left for a love song.
It just happened, he said.
That line is played out, Gabriel. You and I just happened.
You and Miss Martha just happened. Life doesnt just
happen; you make choices and you deal.
I care about you, he said. I need you.
I care about my avocado tree, and its probably dead.
You didnt need me last night. What was all this to you,
summer camp?
Li, he said. I love you.
Her throat twitched, and she swallowed a rush of salt.
He had never said that before. And she had almost said it
a hundred times but didnt want to be the first one. Her
brother told her once never to put a guy in that position.
Then hed be obliged to say it back. It was horrible and
sexist and illogicalwouldnt the same be true in reverse?
No, she said. You cant say that now.
He got down on his knees and pressed his face to her
legs, shoulders convulsing. When Gabriel had needed her
help finishing the Song of Despair, she had told him to
improvise. Its easy, she said. Everyone has despair. Gabriel
called the idea avant garde crap, but she just turned off the
lights and picked and strummed in the dark, snapped the
strings, smacked the wood body. Gabriel had waited for a
while and then keenedno words, just howls and moans.
He sounded like that now.
Lila patted his head. He had cheated on her, and she
was comforting him. But he couldnt talk his way out of this
one. She wasnt the security guard at the private beach in
Carmel or the federal marshal at the Hoover Dam whom
Gabriel convinced not to search their car. She pried his arms
from her legs, stared into his eyes, and told him to call room
service and order the Continental Breakfast. And the Eggs
Florentine, she added. Shed need the energy. v
THE
PROMPT
IT'S ALL ABOUT YOU
[the prompt]
THEPROMPT@HAWAIIWOMENSJOURNAL.COM
The Prompt:
What is your must-have morning-after
cure for a late night?
Your words:
Alka seltzer. Plop plop fizz fizz . . .
Julia Kibble Fortenberry
Is coffee too obvious? Rachel Wiley
Ideally, I drink a Gatorade before
going to sleep. And keep water and
Advil right next to the bed.
Levi Hookano
Orange energy drink (e.g. Gatorade,
Vitamin Water) and a chicken cutlet
sandwich with lettuce, tomato, hots
and sweets (peppers), and honey
mustard. Keith Meatto
Ive recently found Gatorade to
be helpful. I think its the whole
electrolyte-replacement thing. I
also find myself craving sugar, so it
addresses that as well. Eric Cannon
Water-rich fruits with breakfast to
rehydrate and bananas with toast are
good to soothe an upset stomach. For
someone who wants to detoxify, milk
thistle may be helpful. Jeanette LeBlanc
I havent needed a morning-after cure
in a long while, but I hear that coconut
water is what the kids (i.e., my 45year-old boss) are drinking nowadays.
Beth Brezenoff
Gatorade and a Bloody Mary. Cheryl Wilder

Does vomiting count? Shaun Wiley
Fresh lemon squeezed in cold water,
two glasses on waking. Len Gary
Bacon and eggs with a glass of OJ!
Daniel Day
Umeboshi plums! Megan Rogers
Drink a tall glass of water and eat a banana
before going to bed. Julie Aliipule
My favorite cure is a swim in the

oceans of Hawaii, but since I am
landlocked for the next year or so, I
have to suffice for eggs with runny
yolks, toast, bacon (yes, I know, its
meat, but the grease helps), and
green tea. Jessica Kessler
Assuming the previous evening wasnt
so outrageous that the next morning
isnt spent next to the toilet ... a few
big glasses of water, a long shower,
and a nap in the sunshine will bring me
back to life! Courtney Pierce v
I like lots of Starbucks coffee . . . and

being left ALONE. Beth Pellino-Dudzic
Another all-nighter with six Jolt Colas
and a box o Dunkin Donuts. Durn
English major! Davin Kubota
(1) Two glasses of Emergen-C,
followed by one hour of yoga; (2) pelo
de perro! (hair of the dog), i.e., more
of what got you there; (3) a bowl of
Pho and a Hue beer; (4) a Bloody Mary
with a margarita rim and a big stalk of
celery. If these dont work, you simply
must quit! Jim Pat Pounds
My cure is 1.5 hours of hot and sweaty
Bikram yoga. Its a bit rough but you
feel as if not a drop of alcohol touched
your lips the night before. Sweat it out
baby! Amanda Onken
Im with the Gatorade folks . . . and add
a good egg and cheese sandwich (eggs
replace the amino acid needs and are
nice and greasy, which somehow is
helpful). Did I say painkillers for the head
too? Kat Reaney
The Prompt for Issue 5: Born

during a writing salon conversation,
as shared by managing editor
Mayumi Shimose Poe, And
then we admitted it: We all have
something about which we feel
crazyblindjealous. HWJ wants to
know: What is that thing for you?
Your response may be edited to fit
space restrictions. Aim for 75 words
or less. We will use your name as
shown by Facebook, Twitter, or
e-mail unless you specify otherwise.
Should we choose to feature your
response, you may be contacted for
more information.

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November 2010 - February 2011

HWJ asks Frontier

ADVICE from von Hottie

The Lady Behind

The Feminist Housewife

Our Room Is the World

above photo and cover photo by Tommy Shih www.tommyshihphoto.com

poetry & prose

Not Without My Truth Stick:

Five Minutes with RZONE

Music, Bikes, Drinks, Words, Love

Kindness over Genius

BY ANNE MARIE KELLEY

BY KELLY ZEN-YI TSAI

BY ANNE MARIE KELLEY

BY JENNIFER MELEANA HEE

An Interview with Marta Sanchez

BY KRISSA CORBETT CAVOURAS

BY ANNE MARIE KELLEY

Hawaii Womens Journal | 2

The Domestic Diva

The Feminine Critique

The Feminist Housewife

View from the Moon

Holiday Drama Soup

REEL REVIEW Gratuitous Tragedy:

Toxins and Chemicals: That's What Pretty

At Home with Homemaking

The Feminine Critique

The Balancing Act

From the Managing Editor

Hawaii Womens Journal | 3

photo by Tommy Shih

photo by Justina Taft Mattos

Our Room Is the World

Jennifer Meleana Hee

Mayumi Shimose Poe

Andrea Devon Bertoli

Suzanne Farrell Smith

Gintare Janulaityte, Marisol Lopez, Justina Taft Mattos,

Rachel Ana Brown

Krissa Corbett Cavouras

Mayumi Shimose Poe

Suzanne Farrell Smith

Jennifer Meleana Hee

Kelly Zen-Yi Tsai

Anne Marie Kelley

Hawaii Womens Journal | 4

[from the managing editor]

rying to fit how I feel about

been an acquaintancebut only

photo courtesy of Mayumi Shimose Poe

wont try to convince you of any

can find a hair on an ants ass (to

we put them through the editorial

our work is done. This is exactly what

Mayumi Shimose Poe, Managing Editor

~ Anne Marie Kelley

The old office party,

Andrea has a master's in political

A graduate of Harvard University

Jennifer Meleana Hee

Jennifer Meleana Hee is a vegetarian