HASH The Mag

Jotted Notes in the Margin

2015-02-13T11:30:00.000+04:00

In my enthusiasms pages
turn thick

with ever-more-ecstatic markings.

He said

no one can ever read a book

  I've read.
  My hieroglyphics serve me well,
  though,
  and I hate the paltry margins
  of Kindle.
  More like you, they are, lost
  in the past,
  words raced by and gone back
  into mystery
  of thoughts come and gone into ether.
  My treasures
  require much pumping up to stay,
  fireworks
  on a darkened winter sky.

Carol Hamilton is a retired educator, having taught elementary school in Connecticut, Indiana and Oklahoma, community college and in the graduate writing program at the University of Central Oklahoma. She has published 16 books of poetry, legends, and children's novels.

King Tut

2015-02-06T09:30:00.000+04:00

Today he was pacing back and forth, dragging his fingers in the dirt and glancing at the people.

Last year, he'd sat there like a stuffed trophy.

Jim, John and I yelled and threw peanuts, a handful of which sold for a nickel from a glass dispenser by the guardrails. When some of the nuts hit him, he picked them up one by one with a hand way too big for the job, but then he delicately picked off the shell with his fingertips, popped the nuts in his mouth, and ate them. Just like we'd do. John, Jim and I laughed real loud.

The gorilla looked at us, stood straight up, roared, and beat his chest with his hands, Whap! Whap! Whap!

It scared me and all three of us jumped back. A man in a blue uniform with 'Cincinnati Zoo' embossed on a white badge came over. "Don't tease him, boys. He's an old man like me, a silverback.Have a little respect."

King Tut snorted and opened his mouth so his gums showed. His teeth were yellowish and worn except for four big fang-like canines.

Jim said, "I'm glad he can't get out."

My brother John and I stared down into the gulf that separated us from the gorillas. A moat they called it, but it didn't seem nearly deep enough to me. I glanced at the ape again, but he was ambling away, showing his rear end to us.

"Let's go somewhere else," I said, still shaking.

Mom said like a joke, "He's your cousin. So are all the monkeys. You're related to them."

Although I'd heard that before, it stuck in my mind this time.

The rest of the visit was just entertaining, like we were watching cartoons on TV: the animals brought up close enough to see clearly. The floppy proboscis drooped over the muzzle. The huge claws of the aardvark. The big-eyed nocturnals, tricked into feeding by some kind of special light in a dark room. Animals so enormous they were hard to believe. Roar, hiss and howl of their calls. They were odd and interesting, but they seemed very different from us. They lacked something King Tut had.

He looked so much like us, he bothered me. Our hair was like his thick fur. His long fingernails were like ours only bigger and stronger. His roar had seemed like a human scream of protest or complaint. All he could do was howl and act up. We could use words. Knowing he was kept in a cage made me think that a wildness like his was locked up inside of ourselves, and we were just as afraid to let it out as the zoo keepers were to let King Tut run loose.

Bill Vernon served in the United States Marine Corps, studied English literature, then taught it. Writing is his therapy, along with exercising outdoors and doing international folkdances. His poems, stories and nonfiction have appeared in a variety of magazines and anthologies, and Five Star Mysteries published his novel Old Town in 2005.

Baseless

2015-01-30T01:00:00.000+04:00

one day the ground crumbles
the streets of stability split and

separate you

and me

and we stand at different poles

not tethered by power lines or sewage pipes and i feel

alone

despite the enormous sea

the enormous city engulfing me

and i wonder what the weather’s like on your side

and i wonder what i’m missing out on because i crossed over

and crossed back to what i once left behind

where are you? where are we?

across, over, around the bend?

lefts and rights that don’t lead to ends

lefts and rights that lead to nothing

they lead to nothing

nothing

Melani Grace Tiongson is a twenty-something Filipino-American writer based in New York. Although her aspirations lie in law and philanthropy, Melani has loved writing from a young age, and looks forward to seeing how her career goals will shape her future works.

Untitled from ‘Me Myself and I’ by Kamar Thomas

Middle Class Poets

2015-01-23T16:00:00.001+04:00

A tolerant democracy
allows self-full, bloated poets
to hide in a university
sneering at the workings of the world,
secure in the protective cloak of tenure.
Once poets' voices raised the call
for freedom, other great causes.
Now most wallow in comforts
mumbling impotent objections
to current events
beyond their comprehension.

- Gary Beck

Tennis-playing, ditch-digging, salvage-diving writer with a penchant for poetry. Explore his impressive repetoire of poems, short stories, novels, plays, and other musings at garycbeck.com

Nadia

2014-09-30T20:17:00.000+04:00

by Alan Swyer

“When are we going to have lunch?” Nadia asks for the third time in the last ten minutes.

“We'll be leaving for dinner right away,” my father replies as he's done twice before, his patience clearly wearing thin.

We're seated in the living room of their apartment in Boynton Beach, Florida, a nicely decorated place that only mildly suggests that it's part of an assisted living facility.

“Why won't you let me have lunch?” Nadia pleads a moment later, her face showing signs of confusion rather than hunger.

I like Nadia. Though technically my stepmother, I've always preferred to think of her as my father's second wife, given that I was already married and had two kids at the time I was Best Man at their wedding. But now I'm witnessing for the first time what my father never quite managed to explain during our cross-country calls. The woman he's living with, with whom he has shared what have been- without a doubt- the happiest years of his life, is barely the same one he married.

Nadia's decline, I'll come to understand as I get more information, began with the death of her son, whose attempt to be three different people at once -- a biker, a hipster, and an attorney -- ended tragically, with a fatal overdose. That was a shock from which Nadia never fully recovered, and it was followed by a bad fall, which further accelerated her departure from reality.

The result, I see all too clearly, is a situation with little chance of improving. The good times together are now consigned to my father's past in the same way as the misery he endured with my mother.

During my childhood, my father and I were never close. He worked ridiculous hours in an ongoing attempt to satisfy a woman for whom satisfaction was impossible, then distanced himself even further from family life because of migraines that disappeared only once he was widowed. When prodded into some facsimile of what my mother called manliness due to what she constantly termed my “impossible behavior”, my father would occasionally threaten physical violence, which failed to induce fear or obedience, especially once I'd discovered boxing. At that point, after daring him to try what he called “getting tough”, the threats changed from hollow to nonexistent.

Yet despite the distance and differences between us, what I've come to realize is that, in a curious way, I started follow his example early on. Like him, I did everything imaginable to stay out of the house as much as possible, then I topped him by running away on more than one occasion.

When, at the age of seventeen, I departed for good, my parents, too, relocated. That led to a joke they never appreciated: that their only mistake was in letting me get my hands on the new address. But their move only reinforced my feeling of having no place to call home, since I knew no one in the Jersey suburb to which they moved, other than my mother, father, sister, and dog. And only with the dog did I get along.

Though I have little interest in aphorisms, there's one that does apply to my mother: “People don't change, they become more so.” Never easy, she became, as the years went on, even more demanding, more difficult, and more impossible. Thanks to a mental ledger she cherished of slights both real and imagined, over time she distanced herself from scores of friends and family members, diminishing not just her world, but my father's as well.

Not surprisingly, our relations were marked by periods of estrangement, which grew longer once I, having moved 3,000 miles away, was busy with a wife and kids of my own. Even our sporadic ceasefires were short-lived, thanks to my mother's barbed criticisms of what she called “California child-rearing”, plus her one-sided comparisons between what she called my “poorly raised sons” and my sister's “little angels”.

When I got word, after a particularly lengthy period of silence, that my mother, a lifelong smoker, was hospitalized due to respiratory problems, I tried my best to put the past behind. She was in Intensive Care by the time I got to Florida, fragile and frail, sustained only barely by an array of tubes and other devices.

Putting on a smile as best I could, I entered her room with a bouquet of flowers, told her I was pleased to see her, and announced that I would try to round up other family members who, like her, had migrated south. But when I mentioned one particular cousin from her generation, my mother grimaced.

“What's the matter with Sylvia?” I asked.

“Everything! She's a monster!” my mother sneered with as much force as she could muster.

“She's always been a sweetheart,” I replied.

“Shut up!” my mother snarled, her countenance radiating a kind of venom I hadn't seen in ages.

I studied her angry face for a moment, then left the room without another word.

“Why are you leaving?” I heard my father ask when he stepped into the hallway while I was headed toward the elevator.

“Want the truth?”

“Okay.”

“Because I want to remember her in character,” I explained.

My father took a moment to let my words sink in. Then, to my eternal surprise, he nodded knowingly.

That, to my surprise, was the beginning of a new and infinitely better relationship between my father and me. With my sister caught up in her own private melodrama of mourning and grief, alternating crying fits with expeditions for spa treatments and new handbags, it was on me alone that my father relied. I was the one entrusted with the task of making arrangements at a mortuary. Then, once he made the decision to have the burial in Florida instead of in the family plot in New York, it became my job to find a cemetery.

And it was to me that my father expressed his dismay once everything was over and done with, wondering why so many women - some who were known to him, others total strangers - showed up at the funeral, bringing containers with coffee cakes and danish, which they thrust into his hands, plus phone numbers, which they stuffed into his pockets.

“What do they see in me?” my father asked when we were alone that evening, munching with little zeal on turkey sandwiches with cole slaw and Russian dressing.

“You're a great-looking guy,” I replied, willfully overstating the case. “You're bright, good company -”

“That's not enough,” my father protested.

“Are you kidding me?”

“What's that mean?”

“Dad, you're alive, you're male, and you've got a valid driver’s license.”

“So?”

“In the land of widows, you're king.”

My father pondered that thought momentarily, then surprised me with a chuckle.

My sister was aghast when, after a difficult few weeks of being alone, our father actually called a couple of the women who had given him numbers. “What would Mom say?” she complained when she broke an extended silence between us.

“The way I see it, there are three choices.”

“Okay -”

“Worry about Mom -”

“Or?”

“Move to Florida to be with Dad.”

“Or?”

“Watch him die of loneliness.”

Once it became clear that Nadia had become first among the many, my sister went into overdrive. From that point on, it was nonstop belittling, mocking, and knocking, all of which, to her chagrin, backfired. Instead of heeding her negativity, my father did what he never dared do with my mother, turning a deaf ear to the badgering and bullying. More than ever, he took to relying on me when he needed advice, or help, or simply someone with whom to do something new for him: shoot the breeze.

But that was when life was good, and Nadia was Nadia; when she and my father had a future that seemed, if not lengthy at their age, at least reasonably bright. Now I'm in Florida, and their life together seems hopelessly grim as we're led to a table in the dining room at their complex.

Immediately my father tries to take control of a world that, for him, is otherwise falling apart. “Every night there are three specials,” he takes pleasure in informing me, “a meat, a chicken, and a fish.”

Grabbing the sheet of paper listing those choices, he peers at it for a moment, then looks up with a quizzical look on his face. “What's Rigatoni Bolognese?” he asks, struggling with the pronunciation.

“Tube pasta with a meat sauce.”

“Couldn't be.”

“Whatever you say.”

An awkward silence falls over us until my father flags a busboy.

“What's Rigatoni Bolognese?” my father asks, pointing at the words on the sheet.

“No se, senor.”

“Could it be meat?”

“Quizas,” answers the busboy with a shrug.

“What's that mean?” my father asks me, never having picked up the slightest bit of Spanish.

“Maybe.”

“See that, Mr. Know-it-all!” he exclaims triumphantly. “A meat, a chicken, and a fish.”

Aware that my father desperately needs any victory he can possibly get, I take a deep breath, then feel eternal gratitude when Nadia bails me out by changing the subject.

“Am I ever going to get lunch?” she asks plaintively.

That night, as I lie in bed trying to sleep more than a few minutes at a time, I can't stop my mind from racing with the strangest combination of thoughts, memories, notions, and fears. For no reason that makes any sense to me, I find myself first remembering, then pondering, the fact that my father has always refused Novocain at the dentist's, no matter how serious or painful his condition. And I think back on how peaceful our apartment would seem when I was young on those mornings when my mother was ill or visiting relatives, which meant that it was my father who made breakfast.

I go on to recall how shattered I was the day I finally gave up playing the piano, due to my mother's insistence that I only practice immediately after school, which meant no sports or fun with other kids, and that I only play her kind of music, not mine.

Those memories lead to recollections of lying in bed with a radio tucked under the covers, escaping from the world of my parents into one peopled with the likes of Big Joe Turner, Big Maybelle, Dinah Washington, and Little Willie John.

Tossing and turning in a futile attempt to quiet my mind and get some rest, I finally give up in frustration, then wonder why it is the world knows so little about people like Slim Harpo and James Carr, and why it cares even less.

Then I ponder why it was that my father was so incapable of standing up to my mother. And how in the world he'll manage to survive if Nadia's deterioration continues.

Still finding few answers, I start imagining what the world will be like by the time my kids are grown. And what kind of place, within that world, they'll make for themselves… And whether they'll be happy, and have satisfying lives, and perhaps even kids of their own.

By that point it's 3 A.M., and I'm drenched in sweat. Almost in a frenzy, my mind drifts into a vision that's haunted me forever - one in which I'm old, lonely, unwanted, and unloved, with everything I've accomplishment, and all sense of personal history, completely obliterated.

And I can't wait for the night to end.

With family waiting for my return to California, and work calls mounting, I'm back on a plane a day later, feeling that I should make more - and more frequent - trips to see my father, rather than simply doing so when I have business in Miami.

What I don't know then is that a next trip will never come - at least not while father's still alive. Instead of being left alone with a fading and failing wife, my father will keel over suddenly several days later while peering at the sheet of paper listing the evening's choices of a meat, a chicken, and a fish. Instead of declining slowly, he'll be the victim of a fatal heart attack that spares him the indignity and suffering of even a short hospital stay.

The funeral will be short, sparsely attended, and completely misunderstood by Nadia, who will repeatedly call his name, wondering when she will finally get lunch.

Then I will again leave Florida, thinking about things my father and I said to each other over the years -- and more poignantly, the volumes that went unsaid that went unsaid.

Alan Swyer is an award-winning filmmaker whose recent documentaries have dealt with Eastern spirituality in the Western world, the criminal justice system, diabetes, and boxing. Though American, he also writes regularly for a British music magazine called "Blues & Rhythm." His fiction has appeared in Ireland, England, and in several American publications.

Oil Field

2014-09-06T07:43:00.000+04:00

Artwork by Michael O
(featured on www.hashthemag.tumblr.com)

Clay-eyed and metal-skinned executioners

breaking the body of the earth,

machinery rattling through the night,

workers aged by the wars of profit.

One man stands alone,

dreaming of an ending.

It’s happening,

all around.

-Janelle Rainer

Janelle Rainer is a 24-year-old poet and community college teacher living in Colville, Washington. Her work has appeared in Harpur Palate, Steam Ticket, Script, Sugar Mule, and elsewhere. She earned an MFA in Poetry from Pacific University in Forest Grove, Oregon.

SLASH Featured Poet No. 2: Ariel Chu

2014-08-26T23:44:00.000+04:00

Welcome to the featured poet series at SLASH! In this series, we interview spoken word artists of any age, any background, from anywhere in the world. We feature established poets alongside students and writers who are just beginning to hone their spoken word skills. Read on to learn about a brilliant writer and member of the HASH staff, Ariel Chu!

photograph by Sam Jeong

Name: Ariel Chu
Age: 18
Location: Eastvale, California

1. How did you first get involved with spoken word?

Though I've loved poetry since elementary school, I didn't get involved in spoken word until college. A confluence of forces helped me to fall in love with the medium: my involvement in theatre, an impulsive decision to join my school's spoken word club, and the fortune of meeting other writers who had experience in the field. Before then, my only exposure to spoken word was through YouTube videos and the occasional high school poetry slam. It took me a while to realize that I could be an active participant!

2. What themes commonly feature in your poetry? How do you use the medium to express identity?

Poetry is a place of heightened emotion for me, a medium where the feelings I internalize around others finds a sort of cathartic expression. As a result, the subjects I end up writing about are dramatic to the point of being somewhat overwrought. There's the typical young adult angst--love, insecurity, idolizing people who are irresistibly toxic. But spoken word also provides an ideal platform for talking about problematic issues and making them resonate with an audience, and I've recently found that it's a great outlet for talking about my identity. As an Asian-American woman, I've faced no shortage of doubt about my ability to write well, engage in creative work, and succeed in the performing arts. I've grown to use spoken word as a platform not only for sorting through emotions, but also for addressing and dispelling some misconceptions about who I am. As a result, my work has turned a bit more political lately, dealing with the barriers that I've had to overcome as someone who doesn't fit the preconceived notion of who a "writer" should be.

3. How would you describe your style?

Having been involved in both writing and theatre, I love that spoken word is a chance to merge the best of those two mediums. Most of the poetry I write follows a rhyme scheme, and spoken word is an ideal platform for conveying the sense of rhythm, momentum, and musicality I enjoy. I'm also working on bringing elements of theatricality and storytelling to my performance--time will tell how that works out! Overall, I'd like to say that my works have a sense of flow and rhythm to them, a kind of sing-songiness that delivers unexpected, emphatic punches.

4. What sets spoken word apart from other forms of writing and performance?

Writing and most performing arts seem to hold the audience at an arm's length--authors speak to their readers only through words on a page, while actors and dancers have to exist in a world apart from the people watching them. But spoken word doesn't shy away from human interaction so much as it thrives off of the dialogue between the poet and the audience. A poem becomes a conversation, and a performance becomes inclusive. It's a much more personal and vulnerable form of art.

5. What inspires you?

I'm inspired by passionate emotions, thought-provoking conversations, social justice, powerful people, and larger-than-life beauty. I'm particularly enamored by the romance of deep space, the sea, and the desert.

6. Who are your favorite spoken word artists?

I've recently discovered a fondness for Franny Choi--"Floating, Brilliant, Gone" is beautiful both when read and performed. I admit to being new to the larger spoken word scene, though, so I've yet to discover a definite favorite.

7. Anything else you'd like to share about your experience? Any advice?

Don't allow others to stifle your inspiration or discourage you from your ambitions--if you can't believe in your own work, there's no reason to expect that anyone else should. Instead, use the doubt of others as fuel for your dreams. Success is the greatest revenge, and your persistence can inspire an entire slew of young poets who are in a similar place of self-doubt.

AMERICAN INVENTION by Ariel Chu

My name is Ariel.

I'm a tiny, fragile thing. My skin reeks of the color
Of anemic, washed-out sunshine. My roots are LA,
but still they ask me, "You're from China?" So I turn to them and say
That I am, and always will be, an American invention.

I spent most of my childhood adhering to convention.
When they value you for perfect grades and give you vast attention
Just for being nice and quiet and a paragon of silence
Then you learn to shut your mouth and give up all creative license

So they like you.

Yes, my mom said "people like you
Don't get work published in bookstores; no, your last name is abrasive
And the media erases
all the people with our faces
There are never special cases when it comes to people like you."

And I wondered if she's right, too.
Since I've always had to fight to
Justify my need to write to
Almost everyone I meet.

But I'm no precious fortune cookie:
Yellow and brittle, harmless and little
Break open the middle and read what you like
Protract all my sweat while you retract my rights.

And I'm not a dead white man
And I am not your Amy Tan
And I am not the robot chemist mathematician people think I am.

My name is Ariel.

My claim to creativity is no point of contention.
That is, and always will be, an American invention.

[audio coming soon]

Abigail Rampone, SLASH Columnist
slashcolumn@gmail.com

SLASH Spoken Word: Updates

2014-08-21T23:01:00.005+04:00

I apologize for SLASH's hiatus over the past month - my residency at the campus environmental center unfortunately interfered with this column's upkeep. I hope that all of HASH/SLASH's readers have had an eventful and productive month! Additionally, I wish a productive and literary (!) school year to all students who are preparing to return to the classroom.

Here's what you can expect from SLASH as the column resumes its weekly schedule:

Next week, look for an interview with another member of HASH staff who experiments with the spoken word!
The following week, SLASH will present a piece about spoken word and activism. Stay tuned!
SLASH has established a tumblr presence to reach out to spoken word artists throughout the web. Check us out and follow us here!

And as always, please email me with questions/feature suggestions/etc. SLASH is a work in progress and I'd love to hear from you.

Abigail Rampone, SLASH Columnist

slashcolumn@gmail.com

We Can't Be Friends

2014-07-29T22:27:00.001+04:00

We can’t be friends. We’ve been spoken for by the Universe, a power so knowing, so undeniable - it is beyond our combined scope. We can spend days by the ocean, skipping stones and flicking cigarettes but we know separation like we know regret; how inevitable it is, how looming it is.

The wind blows, a wave crashes and I turn to you, your body rich in color, irises the shade of emeralds, hair in a messy ponytail; a vibe so unfamiliar. I remember when I couldn’t look away.

“What do you think happens when we die?”

Sunlight hits your lens yet I can still see myself in the reflection, an orange tinge of a human being.

“Poof,” you say. “Nothing. You live and you die.” Your delicate fingers dance in the wind, hands intertwined above your head.

But that’s not true. You don’t believe that. We used to ditch parties and go to rooftops and stare at stars and point at the ones we’d like to come back as. I don’t faze you, you’ve grown too accustomed to these type of questions and musings.

“I feel sorry for you if you really think that,” I say and lay out, let the Sun scorch my skin, the beach towel the only thing between my bare back and specks of sand.

“Were you planning on doing something? You should do it soon.”

If I left it to you to explain, our story has no magic. It’s a moment. We met in a library, you needed a pencil, whatever. But when you hear me talk about the moment our eyes aligned, I can sense your awe, your sight following the words into the air, wishing you could gather this language and store it into a cauldron or a vase, decorate it with flowers, show it to your children. This fool fell for me one day. And he fell for me hard. Look how much he cared about me. Look at all the nice things he said about me.

“Our love is a facade,” you told me in privacy, two years later, cigarette in hand, eyes distant, cold, not there.

“A facade?”

“It’s not real. Nothing is real. We’re not here to do this, to live like this.”

“I love you.”

“How can you be so sure? What gives you the right to say something like that?”

“Just sit, let’s talk, can we talk?”

“I have to go.”

Why does the Woman cry? Why does the Man shout? If you leave, I’ll fall apart. I’ll disintegrate into the Earth, a lost memory, a facade of a human being, irrevocably ruined.

“I can’t do it anymore, I can’t take this shit.”

Your silhouette in the sun astonishes me. Its slender form, the way it moves, so smooth, so temporary. You know the type, the type of tears that sting to wipe away, to burn to release. If you leave, I’ll smoke a million cigarettes, drown in alcohol, call my mother, stare at space. We can’t be friends because we listened to Empathy together too many times in my backseat, in your bed, in my bed, in this lifetime. “I love you in a place where there’s no space or time.”

Sitting down next to me, your long fingers sifting through the sand, lighting a joint, I don’t think I could ever love again.

“This isn’t working. You’ve got to let me go, you’ve got to let me live.”

I could never be a surgeon. My hand trembles at your diction alone, my heart spirals into delusion. If you leave, I’ll go for a drive with the windows down, let the wind hit me. You always told me to remain unassuming, uncertain of the future. It’s a dice roll, a flip of a coin. It’s torturous. There's no year... just seasons.

"You need to love yourself first.”

I always knew it, I always knew love shouldn’t end in exhaustion, in repetition. If you leave, I won’t leave the house, tormented by what-ifs, goodbyes and no mores.

“If I leave, will you be okay?”

You don’t wait for an answer. You stand, your shadow towering over me, joint dangling from your fingertips and keep walking, seemingly into the Sun as it sets, a lone figure, a soul departed, a love unrequited. We can’t be friends because our love manifests itself into a ghost, a hazy dream, an illusion. As I go my way, the assumed truth slowly dawns on me: however long the heart beats, it has beaten both for and by you.

Mustafa Abubaker is a 21 year old writer and student of Pakistani descent in Atlanta, Georgia. A self-proclaimed music-addict, he wrote this story inspired by a Dream Koala song of the same name.

He says, "This story is for me. I want to look back at it years from now and feel something."

Anguished Culpability

2014-07-21T13:23:00.003+04:00

What if you could step into the shoes of one of your most beloved icons at one of those crucial moments in their lives that end up defining them forever? Adam Ashraf braves these murky waters, venturing into the mind of the eternally fascinating Truman Capote on the eve of one such moment...

My publisher just hand-delivered a copy of my new novel that will hit the racks next week- In Cold Blood, by Truman Capote. Me – cold-blooded killer. Merely looking at the instrument I used for the murder – the murder of a man far better than I – makes me nauseous. I can’t bring myself to touch it, much less read it. I steal a look at the back cover and read, “On November 15, 1959, in the small town of Holcomb, Kansas, four members of the Clutter family were savagely murdered by blasts from a shotgun held a few inches from their faces. There was no apparent motive for the crime, and there were almost no clues. As Truman Capote reconstructs the murder and the investigation that led to the capture, trial, and execution of the killers, he generates both mesmerizing suspense and astonishing empathy. In Cold Blood is a work that transcends its moment, yielding poignant insights into the nature of American violence.”

Truman Capote. My name always comes with a little bio. In early days, I was called “Local Reporter”. Later, it was “Freelance Writer for The New Yorker”. “Best-selling Author of Breakfast at Tiffany’s” followed. Today, I get a new sobriquet. It is the most significant of them all.

I wrote a book that was of a new genre; a new style of writing. It is bound to become a classic and is probably going to be compared to the work of Hemingway. I am probably going to be put in the league of Dickens, Twain and Fitzgerald. I’m not just about to become the Manhattan literary toast of the sixties, I am about to become an icon. As the dreariest of thoughts pops into my head, I pour myself a glass of champagne and toast, “To the man who betrayed his friend!”

“Was it all worth it?” I wonder. In forty years, what will the world remember? The man who betrayed his friend or the man who wrote the best non-fiction novel of his generation? Am I going to be compared to Hitler or Lincoln? After draining my glass down in a single gulp, attempting to vanquish the guilt that refuses to let me go, I pour another drink. “To the man who will inspire writers in generations to come”, I say as I wait for my emotions to numb.
(continued below)

Guilt Of Ignorance: Icon by Michaela Rinaldi

“Of course it was worth it!” the rational side of me attempts to calm it down- the guilt.

“They were murderers, Truman.” I remember, my best friend, Nelle Harper Lee’s words from right after the execution. They are words that never fail to calm me down. “They were murderers, Truman”, I repeat to myself. Those words are my calming lullaby. They soothe me and shelter me from my own self-contempt. They help me sleep at night. I slump into slumber praying that they will sink in once and for all even though I know they never will. They are laws. They are not the spirit of the laws. They are what bound the laws, but they had nothing to do with justice. They are not what bound me. I know better. Perry Smith was indeed a murderer, but he was no beast. Perry Smith was indeed a murderer, but he was no monster. Smith was my friend. If Smith was a monster, then who is not?! If Smith was a monster, then what am I?! And now he is gone. The pen is mightier than the sword. I would know - I used it to kill.

That champagne isn’t serving its purpose. I need something stronger. I gulp a gin martini and toast out-loud with the theatrical tendencies I shall forever be notorious for, “TO THE MAN WHO KILLED HIS FRIEND”. I scream hoping it will numb my senses because the alcohol is doing such a bad job.

My demons will haunt me for life. I know that. I know that my editor, Shawn, is a stranger to the truth. He will lie to save himself the guilt. “You didn’t kill them,” he would tell me with the most plastic of smiles on his face. “You simply did not help.” Nothing is further from the truth. The whole jury probably read In Cold Blood’s excerpts before the final verdict was made and the sentence was uttered. I practically tied the noose around Smith’s neck with my bare, filthy hands, to land myself a bestseller. No, no, no – I did it to make myself an icon. I need more gin. Straight, this time.

“To the biggest writer of the twentieth century! TO THE BIGGEST FRAUD OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY!” I toast in my sharp voice as I turn around flamboyantly.

What is happening to me? Why am I thinking like that? This is the book that millions around the world are waiting for! Millions around the world are chanting my name! I can’t pull the plug now. It’s too late. I’ll open a charity in Smith’s name. It’ll be redemption for his sins. “And yours too,” my demons remind me with a condescending look on their faces. I don’t know what they’re talking about – I haven’t done anything wrong. Everything will be okay. In one week, I’ll be the biggest household name in New York. I’ll be the biggest household name in America! I’ll attend all the fabulous galas and parties. Life will be good. It will be good. I’m sure it will be.

“It ought to be, right?” I mutter over another glass of gin.

-Adam Ashraf

Spoken Word Prompt: "Moments" (SLASH)

2014-07-10T02:15:00.004+04:00

Hello, spoken word poets! Here’s SLASH’s very first spoken word prompt. In the coming weeks, you’ll see more in-depth features about identity, activism, and spoken word. For now, I’d like to offer a quick prompt to make you think about how you can use the medium. SLASH is an educational column and it should be a conversation among readers and performers, so I want to see what you can do.

Spoken word’s immediacy and vitality allow spoken word artists to make very personal performances. It’s essentially storytelling and storytelling can be a very effective form of activism. It might not initiate widespread policy changes, but it affects individuals. To change one person’s mind feels very concrete and genuine. You can do that by telling your story. That story doesn’t have to be the sum of your entire life, though. Moments are just as important.

When you tell your story, you can draw the reader in with intense concrete imagery. For example, sentiments like “love conquers all” or “do unto others as you would have them do unto you” may be shared among many people, but we’ve all heard it before! Those lines are dry with overuse. When you use specific examples to make a universal emotion feel nitty gritty and personal, you remind your reader that the idea is still real. It isn’t lofty or romanticized - it belongs to a real person! Your story has unique details. It may involve emotions that many people feel, but it’s something they’ve never quite heard before.

So! Here’s the challenge:

1. Pick a moment from your life that you associate with a specific emotion.

2. Make a list of concrete images to describe that moment. What did you smell? Taste? Feel? Hear? I want salt, strangely tinged skies, strawberry juice, dirt, the sound of firecrackers, or sun shining on glass.

3. Write a poem of images that make up that very specific moment. Convey emotion without ever using “feeling” words (no “happy,” “sad,” “angry,” etc). 

4. Read it aloud. How does it feel? Which words stand out? Which words do you stumble over? Practice emphasizing different lines.

5. If you’d like, make a recording of your moment poem. Send it to SLASH to be featured in the coming weeks!

Here’s my example:

1. Moment: the Fourth of July parade in my hometown after a storm. Emotion: nostalgia/sadness.

2. Images: children playing in mud puddles, chilly, muddy gravel, cars going the wrong way, a six-legged dragon, overcast sky, hot sugar, gray boards, white T-shirts, children singing, my uncle clapping, dirty flipflops, horns blaring...

3. Write:

children splash in mud puddles in the road,

throw rocks at the holes in the cement.

cars turn around and drive where they shouldn’t go.

today the dragon is coming, the dragon is coming

down from the cloudy sky.

the horns are out of tune.

children sing. my uncle jumps up and down.

yesterday, the hurricane ripped through again

and knocked the trees on rooftops,

flooded the lakes out into town,

piled the power lines like spaghetti.

the dragon is coming from the sky

into the gray morning.

he chases the rain down the road,

brings back the heat.

4. Record (sound or video!):

As always, please email me with questions/feature suggestions/etc. SLASH is a work in progress and I’d love to hear from you.

Abigail Rampone, SLASH Columnist

slashcolumn@gmail.com

Death To...

2014-07-04T20:27:00.001+04:00

Digital painting by Falk

Is this a common courtesy,

Alive in only me?

Where once it was that thriving pulse in every vain,

A common place,

But with a societal pace,

So easily did die away?

Red,

And rose,

And chose-

To leave a door unopened,

A chair pulled in,

A glass of wine replaced with rum,

And beer,

And sunsets of a fruity tinge?

Or so did we whisk away-

With a rude,

Crude,

Brute replace-

Chivalry.

But try it for a taste,

Give it your hand,

For a kiss to place.

You’ll find no kinder smile,

Nor gentler pace.

A suit,

A tie,

A poem-

Confession?

A lie…

Oh but isn’t that the trouble,

Let Chivalry that died rest,

It did so because-

And this one must detest so-

A fib,

A phrase,

A passing phase-

I grieve,

I weep,

Because Chivalry did so,

For Chivalry’s sake.

-Maurina Robinson

An aspiring Lead Game Designer, who captures dreams in writing as inspiration for that truly iconic, "terrifying" and artistic game that many will hopefully enjoy.

Read Maurina's "Butcher" in Issue 04 here.

SLASH Featured Poet No. 1: Zoë Riell

2014-06-25T19:46:00.001+04:00

Welcome to the featured poet series at the SLASH spoken word column! In this series, we will interview spoken word artists of any age, any background, from anywhere in the world. We feature established performers alongside students and writers who are just beginning to hone their spoken word skills. Read on to learn about our first featured poet, Zoë Riell!

Name: Zoë Riell
Age: 17
Location: Poultney, VT, USA

1. How did you first get involved with spoken word?

I was introduced to spoken word poetry in the first Creative Writing class I participated in - before that, I had dabbled with it briefly, but it wasn't until I was given an assignment to write something for the specific purpose of being read aloud that I really started to delve into it with any kind of seriousness.

2. What themes commonly feature in your poetry? How do you use the medium to express identity?

Lately I've noticed that many of my recent poems have featured the longing for fantasy - the desire for the un-ordinary and un-real in everyday life, and how that affects how someone sees the world. More often than not, I'll have a 'protagonist,' if you will, within my poems who, somehow or other, begins a metaphorical journey to go beyond the three dimensions and see what else is out there. In that respect, I guess you could say that my poems are deeply rooted in curiosity. The one thing about spoken word that I can appreciate for personal purposes is how open it is to emotion - the line break, the carefully-placed punctuation, the specific inflection of just one word when read aloud - each of those factors is paramount to being able to express what I want to say in the method I want to convey it.

3. How would you describe your style?

I would describe my style as surrealist - I enjoy taking my readers and listeners to places where they may not feel comfortable or at home, while still maintaining that human element as a lifeline that keeps them invested in the piece.

4. What sets spoken word apart from other forms of writing and performance?

Because it is so vast a medium! With spoken word poetry there is no right or wrong way to go about it - you might write it with blunt vocabulary, leaving nothing to the imagination, or you could shroud your piece in mystery and leave the readers and listeners guessing. The spoken part lends a lot of aid to both sides - there is nothing like hearing something read aloud by the author - it's a glimpse into how they see it, what they were thinking when they wrote it, what the poem means to them. That's why I will always return to spoken word again and again and again.

5. What inspires you?

Reading, without a doubt. I tend to gravitate towards surreal, metaphorically dense & poetically written fiction, and generally speaking if I find one I enjoy very much, at least four or five poems will come of the experience I had while reading them. Also, too, various media forms have all inspired me at one point or another - I've had poems I'm proud of stem from TV shows, from movies, from video games, from a verse in a song. I'm very open to inspiration coming from all sorts of sources.

6. Who are your favorite poets or spoken word artists?

I've have to say Donald Hall - I was given a chapbook by him by my Creative Writing teacher because she thought I might find a connection within his work, and I'm very grateful she did. He has a specific style in which to the casual eye he is merely narrating the everyday, but underneath he manages to capture intense, complex emotions and experiences. It's a feat I've always envied, and I've devoured his work in the hopes of figuring out just what makes him tick.

7. Anything else you'd like to share about your experience? Any advice?

Just write! I'm a notorious perfectionist, and so I find myself making excuses not to sit down and write everyday because I don't have proper inspiration, because it'll be shit, because it'll only be a line and it'll waste paper, etc etc. But what I'm trying to beat into my brain right now is that even if the first draft of something scribbled on the fly is something that should never see the light of day, it will still sit in the back of your brain the next time you sit down - maybe that line break that was decent, those two words you liked, the title you thought was clever, will inspire you to write something glorious the next time!

No Glass by Zoë Riell

There’s no room for glass in here –

only the labeled shears to shorten

the ribs, the bellows

for the cavernous lungs, and the towering

dumbbells larger than I that I

attempt

to lift sometimes.

No room, not ever,

lest the blood be drawn

out from the woodwork.

I have welded the hinges to the muscle

of the mind—

no doors to my home, no welcome

mats spread for you.

I live with mementos,

memories, meticulous

mindsets,

but no glass.

No glass in here.

Abigail Rampone, SLASH Columnist

slashcolumn@gmail.com

Intro to SLASH!

2014-06-17T19:15:00.001+04:00

Welcome to SLASH, a dynamic new feature at HASH magazine. SLASH is a weekly column that will bring spoken word poetry to HASH’s readers.

What is spoken word?

If poetry is alive, spoken word poetry inhabits a third, vivid, and especially personal dimension. It incorporates dynamics, chord changes, staccatos, throat-clearing, gestures, movement, and breathing. Spoken word is where poetry meets theater, but it’s theater that you write for yourself. Spoken word poets are not actors or intermediaries; they both write and tell stories themselves. They present their work with all of the emotions, complexities, and immediacy that the genre allows.

You might hear “spoken word” poetry called “slam poetry” or “performance poetry.” These are all terms for essentially the same artform. A “poetry slam” typically refers to a competition among poets. I first experienced spoken word poetry at a slam. I sat at the back of a packed auditorium and boo’ed when judges didn’t give performers sufficient scores. We gave standing ovations and laughed and screamed when performers exceeded the time limit. Non-competitive performances have the same energy. Audience members snap their fingers to express agreement or encourage the poet.

You might think that spoken word poetry should be loud, energetic, rhythmic, rhyming, controversial, personal, or political. It can be, of course, but that’s only one style. Poets should experiment with diverse techniques and themes. Write about activism, family, frustration, love, your favorite science fiction show, or the deplorable oatmeal in your school’s cafeteria. Spoken word poetry can be loud or soft, fast or slow. Poets can create powerful performances by raising or lowering their voices, rhyming, or stopping. Restrictions don’t apply.

What is SLASH?

SLASH will be a weekly feature on the HASH website. It will feature work from its readers and the HASH staff. It will also present interviews, articles, and posts about effective strategies for creating and performing spoken word. Readers: we will accept video (to be featured on HASH’s YouTube page) or sound recordings of spoken word poetry. Please see the “spoken word” category on HASH’s submission page for details.

“SLASH” is mashup of “slam” and “HASH,” but the word “slash” also indicates two separate ideas, which suggests the union of writing and performance. SLASH has a simple goal: to bring spoken word poetry to new audiences across the world. I grew up in a small town and didn’t learn about spoken word until I was a teenager. Many people lack opportunities to experience live performances. I want to bring spoken word to HASH’s readers and encourage writers to explore this form. I want to challenge you to experiment, invent, and share your spoken word performances with the world.

Abigail Rampone, SLASH Columnist

slashcolumn@gmail.com

Aesthetic Necessities

2014-06-13T23:13:00.000+04:00

I want to live with my parents forever because my passion does not bring the money for independence while mother chases away the beatniks because my lifestyle does not bring distinguishable satisfaction

I want to sleep on the floor of a ramshackle drug house, the rats biting my toes to wake me up and lice tap dancing in the forests of my head – a morning fix to add to the joy of working or living or bleeding as the pen quivers at the sight of my magical fingers

I want to curl up into a depressed ball of self loathing after reading rejection letters as my ex-sanguinated soul was not valuable or tainted enough to make money at the big summer sale

I want to be a burden for every friend I’ve ever made my drunken shenanigans remuneration for the never ending pile of favours that empties every wallet and coils around every mind like the shrewd boa of Eden

I want to contemplate suicide in the heartbroken shoes of eternal doomed romantics because my genius is left undiscovered for future generations to find and only then praise in my afterlife

I want to be the saintly nomad of the world – leaving pieces of his angelic heart in every village, fragments of his intellectual brain in every town and his dharma soul scattered throughout the rock

I want to embrace the radiantly malignant bosoms of life – losing myself in the love-struck snatches of the Aphrodite harpies, losing myself in the void of deliberate hallucinations, losing myself in the starry abyss of indie, psychedelic jazz and blues

I want to die too soon by the hand of god or my contradicting hand – my legacy is my life and its infinite struggles that enhance the eventual victories. Tears, blood and madness left behind for the miserable sheep that choose to follow and get high on tea and drunk in nightclubs and copulate ecstatically and write through tearful eyes then die at 27 and I am forgotten and they are reborn

I want to revolutionize the world with my essence – my artistic words to resurrect my heroic saviors and guarantee the sweet release of immortality.

- Gilroy Van Wyk

South African Mechanical-engineer-to-be-turned-wordsmith seeking self-enlightenment by embracing life, many religions, and every bit of knowledge this wonderful world has to offer.

Read Gilroy's 'Era of a Ruined Gods' in HASH E-zine Issue 04 here.

Medusa No. 2 by Japanese Artist Hiroko Sakai

Night Falls

2014-06-04T16:57:00.001+04:00

The enamel moon rises over the darkened land

The stars sparkle like grains of sand

The elusive stars flutter from our grasp

Hanging just out of our begging clasp

We remain grounded, covered in scars

And shake our fists at the laughing stars

We look up at the taunting sky

And stand with an enduring sigh No matter how many times we tumble and fall

We'll always dust off and stand up tall

-Sophia Randall

Favim's Photography

What Life Is

2014-05-29T13:01:00.001+04:00

Seasons change, night falls, day breaks, wealth fades, and technology ages but life is way more than that.

One cool summer night, I was gazing at the dark but starry heavens lit by the fullness of the moonlight when a scene caught and captivated my clouded senses. A scene that reminded me of what life on earth should be. A family in their barong-barong just meters away from where I am. A shelter made up of a recycled and rusted aluminium roof that, should an ant sneeze, would surely be blown off. Uneven wood flooring on which they spend their nights dreaming of their unrealized dreams and routine candle lit dinners. Sofas and toilets that flush shall forever remain a mystery to them. Their children go to school with faded and crumpled school uniforms, worn out bags, mismatched socks and- if they’re lucky enough- a good pair of shoes. Life was kept out of complexity. They don’t have televisions to spend watching dramas through the night; they don’t have Steve Jobs to reach the virtual world; they are strangers to Android; they don’t even have a bed to call their own. They don’t have Louis Vuitton or Hermes; they cook their food on firewood; they study their lessons through candle light, yet you can still see happiness and contentment in their eyes.

The scene made me feel light-hearted and realize how lucky I was to have parents working their butts off to send me to prestigious schools providing all the decent things I need. How lucky I was that when I was younger, I always had a new set of school supplies at the start of every school year. How lucky I was to own a Barbie when I was a kid, that I’m a computer literate at the age of 11, that I can goof around the club and eat on buffet anytime I want, that I am here writing this with an excellent power source.

Life is neither about wealth nor prestige, they are just merits. But real life? It is appreciating what you have and being happy despite of the detours, humps and road repairs during the journey. Learn to appreciate everything. If you are in pain, feel it! If you are confused, pray. If you are happy, scream at the top of your lungs, laugh your heart out, dance under the rain, and take chances. We’ve got only one life to live, dare to be different and make memorable memories.

-Julie Anne Damudara
Inspired, Inspirational, and dedicated, Julie Anne is a 20-year-old writer from the Philippines.

Artwork by Marta Dahlig

HASH E-zine: Issue 04

2014-05-01T06:08:00.001+04:00

innocence lost

On Speaking Out & Taking Chances

Sunny memories are eclipsed by the horrors of reality. Drowning in the murky waters of the past, you see a vision of despair. Innocence lost in the darkest of alleys. Haunted by your own shadow. Dreams once gleeful now torment you.

Without an outlet, the darkness becomes you. Silence augments your suffering, and it builds up within you like a seething sea. Muffled protests claw from the cracks in your teeth. How much longer can you internalize your pain?

When the iron walls can hold the melancholy of suffering no longer, words unspoken shatter the glass windows. Years of rusted negligence flake off inch by inch; pain and misery dissipate through the cracks. The pressure within is not yet all gone, but the healing of wounds has at long last begun...

Contributors: Nikki McGinnis, Rabbit Nauman, Gilroy Van Wyk, Sophia Randall, Maurina Robinson, Ian Whitson, Stephanie Naylor, Fleur Xavier, Sophia Yasser Abdel Aziz

Featured Artist: Fabrizio Ciuffatelli

(Have trouble viewing the magazine below? Click here to see it on Issuu)

The Window to Our Souls

2014-03-31T04:50:00.000+04:00

Davey by Shannon Lee

Eyes. Four letters. One meaning. The windows to our souls. Help us detect an unnoticed lie and an obvious truth. Let us see light against dark. An advantage and a burden. One body part. Liberates right from wrong. Keeps us in place but can help us fall in depth. Controls our thinking and lets us escape reality. Eyes closed. Have our imaginations take over and leave the world behind. Another world. Eyes wide open. Lets us find out who we are. Why we choose to be the person we are today. A scary thought. A miracle. Eyes.

- Reza Moreno

The Dress and the Dove

2014-02-09T06:04:00.000+04:00

The dress was a shimmering shade of white; it puddled around her feet when she walked, making her far more beautiful than one could possibly imagine.

She was flawless and incredibly stunning, with the heavenly white dress to top it all off.

Living far above, she could but see the reflection of the image she had built in her head, of the world she had come to love so dearly.
This made her oblivious of the small details, the small imperfections that made the roots of her beloved world.

And so, one day, out of curiosity, she stepped out of her heavenly abode and for the first time, set foot into her much cherished world, flapping that brilliant dress behind her.

As she reached the gate, it opened before her, welcoming her with open arms, to prove to her that she had done well…or so she thought.
For once setting foot into the world, the light blue skies turned into a deep shade of grey and the green grass, burst into flames before her unbelieving eyes.

Hearing a loud tear, she found that the right strap of her dress was torn viciously.

And suddenly, she heard a crying scream. As she turned her head abruptly, she found herself – hoping against odds, it was a mere figment of her imagination – hurrying towards the sound.

Upon reaching the source of the sound, she could do nothing but stare in sheer despair.

She stood in a battle field, watching the massacre take place, unable to prevent it from happening.

People killing people, out of materiality, out of greed.
And with every tear shed, every drop of innocent blood spilled, her dress became scarred. Piece by piece, the elegant white dress, turned red – the color of brutality, of inhumanity - , the soft fabrics, of which the dress was made, were mangled beyond recognition.

And as the white dove was shot out of the sky, heartlessly, and without even the smallest hint of hesitation, she fell on the ground.
Holding, what was left of the once flawless, one-of-a-kind dress to cover herself up, she put a hand on her heart, trying her best to put an end to the pain she felt, the disappointment in the inhabitants of her beloved world.
Looking at the dove, now lying on the floor, eyes still and resembling crystals, she lay on the floor beside it.

The world had lost so much, in that moment, for the heart of the earth, was bleeding.

And one is faced with a perplexing question: Will she be left to bleed, or will she be saved miraculously, by the same people who had inflicted the wounds on her?

-Layan Adham Ismail
Self-proclaimed 'writer wannabe', 'drama queen', 'annoying know-it-all', 'avid exaggerator'. The makings of a creative megamind.

Watercolor painting by Agnes Cicile

Previously published in TeenStuff Magazine, Egypt.

The Trace

2014-01-24T01:45:00.000+04:00

Hashthemag- Tumblr

I was lying on the roof top one evening, staring at the glowing sky. I was mesmerized by the twinkling stars, how they are so far away yet you can still see their beauty. Then the weirdest thought occurred to me... What am I really bedazzled by? Travelling light?

I say I'm looking at stars, but I'm actually staring at the trace they left behind. It was an illusion.

It reminded me of the people who walk in then walk out of our lives every day. They always leave something behind, something to remember them by. Good memories. Bad memories. Their belongings. Maybe even things they "accidently" left behind.

I think of how they appear to be one person the moment they walk into our lives... how we bond, build trust, create a foundation for the relationship to be built upon... and then think of the person they are when they walk out. You get that feeling that the person walking out that door is a complete stranger.

I remember personally thinking... How could I have not known that he or she would turn out to be like this? How could I have been so blind? How could I have not seen this coming? How could I be so foolish?

I was living an illusion.

Then like everybody else I sit and I mourn, I scream and I yell, I curse and I cry, sooner or later... I move on.

Five years down the line, I meet someone, I become part of his life, we become good friends for three years... maybe even more than friends. And the moment I was in arm's reach of something better, something I thought to be "valuable" at the time, I walk right out of his life and go on like he never existed.

I get a flashback of the person who was very important to me and walked out of my life. And the reality of what I was doing was like a slap in the face.

The person who I walked out on, who was suffering because of me didn't deserve the pain I caused him. And for what... for genuinely caring about me? Who was I to do such a thing?

And, ironically, I followed back the trace I created.

Its so easy for us to walk over each other to get to where we want. But wouldn't it be much easier for us to just let them tag along the journey of success with us?

- Sara Omar

Shakespeare, brownies and warm milk is my kind of cocktail.

Lion in a Coma

2014-01-07T08:29:00.000+04:00

Lion in a coma, lion in a coma
Who wants to smell the fine aroma

Animal Collective

I want to smell the fine aroma

The fine aroma of Leila’s leisurely cigarettes

Not the way she smokes now.

The revolting scent of a hated habit, yearn for most.

As her homeland crumbles, Dunhill Switch to Captain Black she wishes to relax

Yet her pulmonary veins continue to throb, cinnamon sears with every pulse

Destroying her lungs the way the Lions have destroyed everything

Everything.

From her sister’s voice box, bedridden not only by a critical error but by years of rooted terror

That not only choke the throats of my paralyzed Teta but the throats of every Syrian woman, man, child.

“Don’t talk about such things on the phone ya Asma’a”

Don’t talk.

Rip your throat box out before the calamity of the consequences of free speech impend on you

Like they impended on your father

Like they impended on your mother

How can they not see?

You cannot impend upon bravery.

How can you not see?

The Lions will not destroy their bravery.

Mount Vesuvius is no longer dormant

Ashes of withering sorrow knotted in our knuckles

Pompeii hunters seek the informant.

Pointed bullets to the Lion’s den, bullet through his head,

Silence the chuckles.

Lion in a coma, lion in a coma

Freedom is my fine aroma

-Asma Alabed

Losing Symmetry

2013-12-24T23:28:00.001+04:00

Equivalence was dear to me,

It was a yearning of the soul.

Two equal halves, a balanced mind,

It took its toll.

With the hand's slightest twitch,

The colors start to blend.

Perfection dies before your eyes,

and symmetry is at an end.

-Joshua White

An Airman with an imagination

http://hashthemag.tumblr.com/post/69962363567

HASH E-zine: Issue 03

2013-12-19T23:31:00.000+04:00

Bruised Perfection

Whispers of a Tainted Soul

Paper ghosts flicker on the fringes on yesterday, crawling into the space between ink and fingertips.

They breathe, they heave, they sigh, they weep...they speak.

Words spoken shatter delusions. What once was picture perfect becomes a bruised reality.

Contributors: Layan Adham, Dane Bahia, Ariel Chu, Okwuje Israel, Asma Alabed, Sabrina Wu, Emily Aguilar, Joshua White

Featured Artist: Ana Priscilla Rodriguez

(Have trouble viewing the magazine below? Click here to see it on Issuu)

A State of Affairs

2013-12-07T08:28:00.001+04:00

Do you often think of the world? Of the human race? What of life? More specifically, how do all of these things collude in the modern context?

Modernity, with all its power and majesty, is – to use a modern term – plastic. I do not know for sure if it is this way because it might be that we have simply jumped on an exponentially large number of times in the past 1000 years (and especially the last 100 years) in all physical terms; we might have simply not had the ample time to evolve into accepting all our progress as a race.

That being said, however, the emptiness of life as we know it is astounding once we take a moment to absorb our actions and the mentalities behind them. It is the very fact that we have accustomed our being such that we do not examine our activities that prevent the majority of us from seeing the very depressing situation we are in.

Think of your daily routine and what makes you do it, right from the simple act of waking up at a particular time down to our extremely complex human interaction protocols and you will understand that almost everything we do, we have no real reason to do; we just do things because that’s how things are done and because things ‘need’ to be done.

The Imam, al-Ghazali – possibly the most influential figure on Islam since the Prophet Muhammad himself – realized this around the age of 30, when he was already one of the most important scholars in the Islamic world, and his thoughts and doubts regarding the purity of his deeds climaxed to a point where he walked out in the middle of a class he was teaching, not returning until some 10 years later after spending a tremendous amount of time in the vast deserts in seclusion from his 11^th century world.

What took a spiritual expert 10 years, 1000 years ago, to grapple with would take the average person of today an eternity. The dilution and desensitization of the entire spectrum of the human experience into a mainstream monoculture, as well as its condensation – in terms of relative importance and purpose, through popular and social media – into a couple of minutes long sexual experience in itself is a dilemma beyond what most of us care to comprehend. When we add to this the modern perception of success – that of belonging to an elite, international and wealthy culture – we see the extent and seriousness of this crisis.

It should be noted, at this point, that by referring to ‘modern’ or ‘modernity’, I do not mean to contrast this with some sort of nostalgic classic age where all was well with humankind. It is, in fact, my understanding that the extension of time did not corrupt us, so much as it peeled off many layers of life that kept us busy. In a sense, the advent of today’s science and technology is that which gave us the luxury of enough spare time to further scrutinize our basic human instincts and their relevance to our intelligence.

Our experience with our advance so far is akin to that person who climbed the tallest of mountains only to discover that he is blind and incapable of witnessing the view from the top. The only reasons possible for this is because we either climbed the mountain in the wrong way, or we have simply climbed the wrong mountain altogether.

In the first case, the solution is facile, even though it is demanding. That is to say, all our knowledge and experience can be looked at or utilized in a way that changes us from the state we are in into something more favorable. The simplest example of this type of a solution is what is known as a ‘motivational speech’, where a charismatic person delivers a hearty speech which invigorates us for (usually) a short period of time. This is generally accompanied with audio and visual effects, to boost effectiveness, then disseminated on popular video-hosting sites like Youtube, much like mass-produced drugs.

The second case is a much hairier state of affairs, primarily as it involves understanding which theories are, at their core, incompatible with a meaningful life that is more ‘organic’ than ‘plastic’. Examples of such a case would include capitalism, consumerism and other ideas that measure positivity based on ‘physical’ values like money which contribute to ‘outer’ wealth that does not intrinsically change our value in terms of ‘morality’.

After the identification comes the far more challenging aspect: finding a real alternative; that is, one that contributes to our ‘inner’ wealth without sacrificing our ‘outer’ wealth. Generally, such solutions are attempted by religions and spiritual movements and have historically had an entire spectrum of results with, unfortunately, no honorable mentions of success in our modern times.

All this said, we must understand that, as the great Arab poet, al-Mutanabbi, once said, “Matching the fortitude of the people, crises befall them.” In other words, our problems are only as big as our ability is powerful or shrewd enough to solve them.

-Abdul Rahman Dabbour

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