jacob sanders

pui yan fong

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jacobsandersart.com

puiyanfong.com

@jacobsandersart

@pyill

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AMBROSIAIssue5

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julia shiplett juliashiplett.com

cloey zikmund

adria mercuri

milk-paws.tumblr.com

adriamercuri.comcontributors

bridget flaherty

writing director- jason melton @captainjmoseseditor, design - jacob sanders @jacobsandersart

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@bridget_suckit

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rosemary valero-o’connellcargocollective.com/rosemaryvoconnell

jonathan bush jonathanbushdesign.com

dave d’incau & craig mcnaire ddincaujr.com

March 2014

Cloey Zikmund

Sarah SchneiderPui Yan Fong

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THE SUMMER BEFORE FIFTH GRADE is when we first met. She went to private school but was friends with a popular girl whose circle I occasionally finagled my way into. But this other girl was a year older than me and quite

possibly the most beautiful being I had ever seen in my ten years of life. She looked like she could have been an Alloy model, maybe even dELiA*s—olive skin, big hazel eyes and a small

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gap between her front teeth, which to this day is one of the most alluring things a person can have in my book.

It was the Fourth of July, and she was painting American flags on all the girls’ cheeks. We eagerly lined up to be marked by this stunning, slightly more mature creature. I was nervous when it was my turn; her face was only a few inches from mine, her eyes focused sharply on her artwork. Be cool, Julia. Be cool. When she flipped her hair back, a fragrance I had never experienced before wafted from beneath, catching me off guard. A sweet, spicy richness like if cloves met jasmine, which I inhaled as deeply as possible. I didn’t know that girls could smell like that already. I didn’t. I smelled like sweat and Ruffles, probably. I knew we would never be real friends, but I at least wanted the chance to breathe her in again.

And it was the words emblazoned on her chest that introduced me to Abercrombie & Fitch. At first, I was confused by these odd names in bright, upper case letters, but by the end of the day I wanted her exact shirt in every color. The extent of my clothing label knowledge was from vis-its to TJ Maxx with my mother. My mom couldn’t believe how much I was willing to spend on a cotton t-shirt, but I thought the bold typography accentuated my non-existent breasts. Perhaps I hoped that by dressing like this girl, I would somehow give off that incredible scent myself (maybe these shirts had secret, built-in perfume pouches in the armpits—I didn’t know!).

I saw her a few times after that, but then middle school happened. I lost touch with that mutual friend whose social ranking far surpassed mine and became distracted by other girls who had long known about Abercrombie. I haven’t seen her in close to 15 years, but I’ve looked her up on Facebook for clues of what she might be like now. Yes, still very pretty and based on photo comments, many men agree. It looks like she spends a lot of time at the types of bars I try to avoid so I’m not sure we would have much in common today.

But sometimes when a woman—not a girl—walks by on the sidewalk or passes me in an eleva-tor, I get a distinct whiff of what hid on her neck that afternoon in July and think about the wet strokes of a patriotism she left on the side of my face.

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Rosemary Valero-O’Connell

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I HATE TO ADMIT TO IT, but I think my ambrosia would be alcohol. I don’t feel this is un-common. Alcohol gives everyone a chance to sleep in my bed, gives me the ability to think no place is off limits (like Lake Michigan, naked in July), and if I drink enough no one is old or really young for that matter. If I get a tummy ache, I buy whisky to numb or “cure” the pain. If I get my heart broken, I drink Sailor Jerry’s to “cure” the pain and maybe to find someone else to bore my heart and soul to. When I am drinking, I am in a free fall. I can go on forever in a

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world where wants come before needs. Or maybe it is just amplified.When I am drunk, I try to jump fences, tall fences. A couple of summers ago I jumped a fence to break into a public pool after hours. I bruised my heels (which is a very painful ordeal) and swam anyway. I decide no matter the time of day or distance I have with someone, the time to call them is al-ways great. I call exes, new lovers, friends I haven’t seen in years, just to check in at 3 am. Everyone does these things when intoxi-cated. This is not entirely unique. Even if one does not break the law as much as I do (petty law breaking, mind you), they know someone who does when intoxicated. Would I be so brave and out going with out alco-hol?When I was a teenager, I did similar things with out a drop of my ambrosia. As a teen, I was also very, very bored. I lived in a town with a population of 10,000 or so in Iowa. We would go out attempt cow tipping which really ended with five kids standing around while cows stampeded along circling us. We would also hike through corn fields until we became directionless, make a bond fire, and then try to find our way back. I am not bored in my adult life, but I am more likely to go to a bar before I just start the adventure.I am also more likely to reach for a bottle of whisky when I am having gastric prob-lems. I am not condoning or advising this action. Ever since I can remember, I have had severe tummy aches which cannot be explained. They feel like some one inserted

an acid filled balloon just under my ribcage. The pain has been so bad that I can’t sleep through them much less leave the house and function. I have been to doctors about it and did ultra sounds and X-rays. No explanation has been found for the pains. The nurse tech-nicians usually go as far to compliment me on my healthy looking organs, “that is a a lovely gallbladder.” Generally, I have found if I stick to healthier food options, the pain stays at bay. Occasionally though, it is not enough, and I find myself pining for some Jameson to literally numb my insides.I am not a fan of my romanticized relation-ship with alcohol. I have a friend that jokes whether or not she has a new boyfriend when she drinks because she knows the night started out as fun, but she wakes up full of bruises. I have watched a loved one punch a mirror while intoxicated resulting in a necessary major surgery to repair his hand. So why do I gravitate to this ambrosia? Why not just quit and say hey no more hangovers and heart aches? I do detox from time to time. Near the end of the detox, I think I can do this all the time. I don’t need to drink, but those thoughts diminish as soon as a birth-day happens or when a friend says, “I just need a drink.” I find myself never actually needing alcohol as much as considering it as a pleasing additive. Alcohol is a bonding agent added to celebrate whether if it is a hot day in July or to let go of some one who will be missed.

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Jonathan Bush

LATER, FOLKS