WARNINGS ART AND LITERARY

JOURNAL

VANITY

Editors

Amelia Wolfamwolf@loyola.edu

Taylor DeBoertcdeboer@loyola.edu

Anthony Medinaajmedina@loyola.edu

Design ByAmelia Wolf

Annie FurnaldTaylor DeBoer

Editorial Staff Madylyn FaganAshley Twaddell

Joe O’RiordanAnthony Medina

Annie Furnald

Send all submissions to:warnings@loyola.edu

Warnings is published periodically. All rights reserved. All content, un-

less otherwise noted, is the property of the author(s). Warnings welcomes and considers unsolicited manuscripts and electronic submissions are either kept

on fi le for the annual writing contest, are available on warningslitmag.tumblr.com, or are discarded. For more information, e-mail warnings@loyola.com. In works

contain herein denoted as fi ction or poetry, any resemblance to actual events,

locations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Store in a cool, dry

place not to exceed 72 degrees F.

Th anks to those who helped make this magazine possible:

Education For Life, Doug Evans, Crystal Staley, Lia Purpura, Dan Schlapbach, Th e

Writing, Fine Arts, English and Com-munications Departments, SGA, Th e Greyhound Collective Poetry Revival,

Anis Mojgani, Loyola University Mary-land, all those who are graduating and all those who support the arts and creative

thinking.

Don’t say we didn’t warn you!

“Every time I write, every time I open my eyes I’m cutting out a part of myself to give to you. So Shake the Dust, and take me with you when you do...”

WARNINGSLoyola’s Art and Literary Journal

Vol. 5 Issue 4 April ‘11

Well folks, that’s all she wrote.

Th is is our swan song, our last hoorah, our fi nal calamity.

Th e 2010/2011 school-year is over in less than a month and this issue, VANITY, will be it until next fall.

Joe O’Riordan, Ashley Twaddell, Amelia Wolf and Taylor DeBoer are all graduating in May. Please, hold the applause.

Joe will be a Writer in Residence at Northwestern University where he was awarded a grant to write “Th e Next Great American Novel.” Ashley was invited to paint a mural of Jackie Onassis on the wall of the capital building in Boston, Massachu-setts. Amelia will become the youngest member of Th e Screen Writer’s guild and has been given a grant to produce a documentary on college literary magazines. And Taylor will be aimlessly wandering America in hopes of writing a Great American Novel better than Joe’s.

Th is issue is extremely self-centered and way too concerned with its own appear-ance. Madelyn Fagan has explored what it means to be vain, while Anthony Medina has refl ected on his own vanity.

Anthony Medina will be taking over as Editor next year along with Samantha Smith (Design) who will be returning from the land down under.

In the words of Fall Out Boy, “Th nks fr th Mmrs.”

Yours Truly,

Taylor and Amelia

front cover: Alexa Yakelyback cover: Annie Furnald

2 | Warnings

When I was little, vanity was not an abstract concept. It had nothing to do with the apparently inherent hedonistic and malevolent nature of man. Because who debates morality when you’re ten? Vanity was not on my personal check list of what was considered naughty or nice. Yes, I was always trying to score points from the Father Christmas, but you cannot pretend to be something when you don’t know what it is in the first place. At that point in time vain was not even a person-ality trait I could tack onto someone I did not particularly like. It was something much more corporal than that.

To my prepubescent self, vanity was the key component to playing dress up. And by vanity, I do mean the old fashion piece of furniture. Metal dipped in a milky white paint framed the voluminous mirror right at its core. The mirror looked like a prop that was stolen from a flapper’s bedroom. It had a tendency to sway back and forth from even the slightest in-vestigatory prods I made at it as I sat in front of it on its matching pedestal. I liked to pretend the reflection could distort itself from different angles like the ones I had seen at a carnival, but my hands on inquiries revealed no secret images or alternative universes, only conspicuous finger and palm prints.

The Vanityby Madelyn Fagan

by Billy Thacker

3 | Warnings

Below the mirror an open glass drawer was partitioned off, where makeup could be carefully enshrined at my choosing. The vanity was my flood gate to adulthood. In it I put my very first form of maquillage, the powder makeup my grandmom gave which looked like sandy beige snow covered by a cloud puff, compactly concealed in a dark circle. This was accompanied by my random ensem-ble of fruity chapstick, and the red lipstick I borrowed from my mom with the intent of returning later, of course. My use of my growing hoard of nail polish was only a mere exten-sion of a new type of finger painting I was still getting the hang of.

While I have grown out of us-ing cosmetics as stage makeup for my imaginations’ private billing premieres, nail painting is still anes-thetic vanity of choice. I do not re-member when van-ity stopped being tangible for me, but it was most likely around the time when my vanity broke. My vanity did not shatter into countless jagged fragments. It sim-ply lost its foundation to the extent that it became necessary to send it on a voyage to the garbage. It’s ironic that an object that proliferates con-

scripts of beauty in such a subtle way can so easily fall into the snare of de-cay.

I would like to believe I have grown the childhood narcissism we all go through when we believe we’re the center of the universe, but even I have relapses. I do not examine every miniscule im-perfection of my skin in order to assail it immedi-ately with moisturizers with myste-rious origins. I take perverse pride in the fact that I see no need to slab on makeup like I’m ashamed of my natural pallor. Because I’m not re-morseful about shadows under my eyes from sleep deprivation. I earned them through midnight laughter

and conversations, just as I’ll someday work my way up to be able to watermark laugh lines onto my face. As much fun as it is to hold ourselves above our more obviously narcissis-tic and egocentric peers, particularly when their choice of attire clashes

with our sense of temperature and propriety, I’ve come to realize that type of scorn is a cop out. It hides our own insecurities. It is much is

much easier to spotlight others’ im-perfections than to stand in front of a reflective glass and look at are own.

As the culture we live in places a lot of esteem on being an individual, there is some virtue which glimmers

through the basis of this par t icu lar vice. Van-ity, in mod-eration, is a self-preser-vation tool. If we inflate

our egos, the emotional hits we take from the perceived judgments of our peers are at least halved. Who is to say that vanity is not a form of confidence necessary for social in-teraction? Modesty is not practical anymore anyways. Modesty is a rare commodity, and I would venture to say that it’s on its way out. Most of the time humility is a way to hide our arrogance by juxtapositioning ourselves with openly vain people. Some women call makeup their bat-tle armor. Maybe there is some truth to that. Perhaps the obsession we have with ritually putting on make-up and staring doe eyed into a mir-ror everyday stems from the feeling that we are still stuck in the limbo of childhood, and still struggling to fit into our off kilter reflections, and at-tempting to make believe that vanity and makeup make us all grown up.

...you cannot pretend to be

something when you really do not know what it is in the first place.

It’s ironic that an object that subtlety proliferates conscripts of beauty can also fall so easily into the snare of decay.

4 | Warnings

by Kate M

arshall

5 | Warnings

I. HYPE

pouring out the door inwaves of beauty and youthful vibrancy--the frenzy in the night air,the thrill of uncertainty,and the promise of excitement--shining so to make you wonderif there’s something to this whole thing.

II. HOMOGENEOUS

you sought that defining element, thatsomething of yours.you proclaimed “never will I ever!”and stomped your foot and stood your ground,but here you are among the ranks,all uniformed and held on strings--so easy to control!

III. HYPOCRISY

I bet you never dreamed that theseconversations would be yours, that thesestories would be trueand about you.I bet you held yourself above all this mess, hovering,sighing, shaking your head atall the fools and their mistakes.

IV. INQUIRY

apologies bubbling on your lips--to whom? for what?memories in pieces, still shots and frames--what fun! what shame!brewing in your chest, a littlepotion of opposites, a seriesof questions and wonderings:yearning for explanation as towhy it seems to matter quite so much.

Def

init

ions

by S

arah

Kar

povi

ch

6 | Warnings

Wants to be real. She no longer thinks of what she wearsas she stands there, the tiny mooneyes dissecting her body in the day, the rolling misshapen shadows of the mall by night. It is not enoughto stand so with her shiny skull among the wigsand belts, the leather and the numerous grabs, with her sculpted breastspushing softly against the pale green sweaterand the hardened feet consistently arched,regardless of the shoe. She has not grown used to the dismemberment that comes with each new season, and broodsher inability to suffer the weight of time.

The Mannequin in the Department Store

by Nicole Ferrari

7 | Warnings

Life Drawing ClassProfessor Christopher Lonegan

clockwise from top:Christina Marchetto

Andrea DelgadoSarah Bowen

Lyndsi MaciowMolly O’Brien

Helen White

The Cyborg’s Mirror

“I have so often dreamed of you, walked, spoken, slept with your Phantom that perhaps I can be nothing any longer than a Phantom among phantoms…”- Robert Densos: “I Have do Often Dreamed of You.”

8 | Warnings

clockwise from top:Kat Murphy

Katherina GraceRebecca Longo

Philip BoltonPooja Bhatnagar

Ayla Badell

“I am a little world made cunninglyOf Elements, and an Angelike spright…”

- John Donne: “Holy Sonnet V”

9 | Warnings

I’m the type of person who looks the same in every picture. I do ev-erything in my power to avoid the camera. My goal: to prevent this collection of identical photographs from growing any larger. Where the necessity of documenting each and every social event came from, I do not know. Nor do I know what will become of this inevitably increasing stack of photographs. I’ll never be the one who looks back on old pho-tos. No nostalgia to be found in my photo book. What will people say when they pour over images of me through the years? How quickly they will realize that I have never changed nor do I seem to be changing.

This is me, excited. This is me, distressed, overwhelmed. This is me when I was surprised at your spon-taneous, almost-candid shot. This is me, overjoyed to be there at your brother’s party in his new apartment. Here I am marveling over his deco-rative prowess, the antique chest-of-drawers, the frosted drinking glass-es. Such details have never been and could never be recounted. My glazed eyes are the only consistent de-tail one could glean from a flip through my photo collection.

This is a photo of me with no children, no ancient family tradi-tions, no stories, no place to be.

I woke up this morning at age 36. Today would be the day I wore my grey suit and rode the bus to

work. So would tomorrow. My ex-wife called me at the office. Some-thing about her niece’s graduation and how it would be nice if I came because the whole family would be there and it doesn’t look great on her part if I distance myself completely and if I’m not there her mother will most certainly take notice and most certainly make vocal her concerns about my lack of responsibility and my apparent distaste for her entire side of the family. If I attend, there will be photographs taken. Another evening of dodging the lens. But I do attend, and as I am only present out of obligation, and everyone knows it, no one wants to include me in their snapshots. Afterward I retreat to the living room of my apartment. On the sixth floor, under a soft glow of lamps, surrounded by dark wood floors, wood paneling, I feel alright.

The next day I go to work. I must make a trip to the city hall to

deliver a docu-ment. The re-volving door that I usually enjoy is stuck, and when I step to the side an ordinary door

opens for me electronically. The place has tall ceilings and smells like dust and stone and paper. When I’m done I stop at the bank. No drive-thru, I go inside. I wait in line in the bank’s metallic atmosphere. After work I go to the grocery store. The

doors open up for me instinctively. The sterile lights, the shiny floors, the vibrantly colored, meticulously organized boxes and cans make me feel overwhelmed. There is some-

thing disqui-eting about the integ-rity of the shelves. They carry an in-

human quality, a robotic perfection. People from all around gathered inside the store, all performing the same action, all here together in the same place, only out of necessity, not because we want to see each other. Not interacting, but co-acting. No one comes here to meander through the safe, clean store and just look at people, recognize them, appreciate that we are all human, all gathered inside the same man-made structure for the same reason. When I leave, I face the automatic doors once again. They seem to open anxiously while I am still somewhat far off, as if they are ready for me to leave.

After the grocery store I stop in a carry-out restaurant. I sit on the small, uncomfortable red bench in the corner while the bright ceiling lights hum like wasps. I wait. The ca-shier and I, alone, in the same place at the same time, co-acting. When I make it back to my apartment I set-tle into the living room once again, sheltered, isolated.

This is a photo of me living my life indoors.

Automatic Doors

What will people say when they pour over images of me through the years?

They carry an inhu-man quality, a robotic perfection.

by Chris Sweeney

10 | Warnings

It crusts on lashes like a scab, crunching miniscule hair follicles into alleged perfection. Succumb to crying and it bleeds on your pillow, staining helpless fabric and streaking your face like dense oil slicks. Try not applying it, as if you don’t care. But you do, oh everyone does. Feel exposed without and vulnerable in its absence. Pump it again and apply it once more. Placing mystery ingredients near a critical organ, the very organ that creates its need. Flawless features, that’s what everyone wants. They hope anyway, but they’re deep in it too. That makes it necessary, so we can be pretty, I think.

by Morgan K

enny

- Anonymous

11 | Warnings

On the subject of vanityLet me not start outwardly judging all humanityBut rather begin some careful inflection and thought About what is perhaps my own insanity and obsession with self.

Maybe, just maybe, I am asking for help And for someone to validate my periodic glancesOver at windows of academic buildingsWhich I seem mechanically programmed to do. Like Clockwork.

Insecurity lurks in the confines of my mindWhere mirrors often like to smudge and blur lines And claim to be friends and attempt to hide the fact That they’re my worst enemies.

Harshly Judgmental. I become a reflection of my reflectionShamelessly expressing all the flaws of othersFrom their clothes to their complexionRefusing to acknowledge my own vain nature.

And Nature has given way to societyWhich I have come to realize, via my newfound sobriety,With these open eyes how influential it has beenAnd how naïve and impressionable I really am.

I am a man. A flawed one at that. My conceited demeanor isn’t always visibleBut now that the beer goggles are off and the darkness is exposed to the lightI get up for round two with the mirrorAnd truly realize how ugly I am, and have been.

I breathe in. Then out. It is humbling…Com

ing

to T

erm

s with

the

Mir

ror

by Anthony Medina

12 | Warnings

One day I had a memory:

A blonde girlof my height and age

patiently blowing her nose,rubbing her heavy-lidded eyes

and smiling in the warmth of the summer sun.

I blew my nose, too.On those days when the AC wasn’t quite enough

my sinuses were more full than in January,when our mountain home saw snow.

The combination of hot and cold producedsuch life

in the springthat transplants could not cope

with pollen that painted the streets gold.We were unique

for our exotic birth certificates.Mine was of the garden state,

but hers?I discovered, as my heart grew large,

that she hailed from Aetna’s sunny shore.Young, I knew not pain.

The decade, which neatly containedboth our final embrace

and the day that assuredit had been the last,

saw my mirror populatedby a procession of monsters:

Abandonment and Disloyalty,chief among them.

For as I grew more distant,her inability to confide in me

seemed a great cruelty,for her.

And my first kiss,which came just before moonrise,

could not have been a more perfectbetrayal

of the trust I’d once believed placed in me.

The memory of the blonde girlcame when I saw her name in the paper

and discovered I’d been wrong.For in those last minutes it was not I

who was a comfort to her, but the arms of another,who had been busy making everything all right,

while my self importance had depended on it being wrong.

Vainglorious

by David Hipp

13 | Warnings

by B

illy

Tha

cker

14 | Warnings

Black & Tan,Green and white,Blue,You.A thousand vices—a thousand things you left behind.

Clinking glass,Wisps of smoke,A cheap plastic flame,Yours.This is the image of me you created.

A frail pile of flesh andA rough L-shape propped upright between the warm ground and stone wall,Blurred in shadows of a summer night.A blank stare,A blank soul.

Sloshing sickness,A crippling haze,Your lighter.A tangible relic of what would be the last time we smiled together.

A hand weighed down by a glass bottle,Breath choked short, a mind cloudy with Marlboro smoke,A heart suffocated.As fingers toy with a stupid lighter,Lips gently, slowly mouth“Black & Tan… green and white… blue… you.”

My All-American Packaging

by Kelly Robertson

15 | Warnings“...so when the world knocks at your front door clutch the knob tightly and open on up, running forward into it’s widespread greeting

arms with your hands before you, your fingertips trembling, though they may be.” -Anis Mojgani

This place has no ghosts, they tell meNo ancient tome of loreand no scholar perks his browat our printed name,Dear friends,has Ignatius died in vain?

The collared Architectsits in his oak-trimmed officelifts the crown of his penand tries to conjure spiritsOnes to hallow these halls,ones to grow ivy on this stone

Go Forth

by Jerard Fagerberg

But we never asked to be hauntedGive me the vital throe of a heartbeatA quivering banner in the windflown at full mastproudly proclaimingthat nothing here has diedThe fire of the Earththat never burns downinto a ghost. by Jerard Fagerberg