travel
trav·el // make a journey, typically of some length or abroad.
Chefchaouen, Morocco by Maya Greenfield-Thong
Photographer's Note: The entire city of Chefchaouen seemed to be washed in a million shades of blue, creating an atmosphere just dying to be captured on film. I found that my favorite parts of the city were where the locals typically went, away from the hustle of the popular tourist destinations.
Pinar del Río, Cuba
by Maya Greenfield-Thong
Photographer's Note: When I think of Cuba, three things come to mind: its white sand beaches, water so clear it looks as if it could be straight from a beer advertisement—its streets, peppered with houses every shade of the rainbow—its humor from the locals which seemed to overflow from houses and spill into the streets.
Elegy: avon-by-the-sea
by rory finnegan
I said, Let this one be dead. –Sharon Olds
1.
The day we would have gone
to the shore, I woke up nauseous,
shivering in bed in summer, the thick
sap of sickness caught in my throat.
I knew what I would I miss—
you, in biting ocean beside me,
salt-water amnesia in our bones.
Holding breaths for more
than just the water.
Crinkled eyes, sand
trapped under fingernails.
The small things like
someone to share them with.
2.
If only I could chase a fevered morning
like a little girl, and not be afraid;
wake up to the salt air and
know it well, each cell of my body
lit like a summer sunrise.
In my dreams the ocean still moves
with the ease that made me believe you
needed nothing as right as my life was right,
needed nothing as whole and honest
as the wood of the boardwalk
or your love for me.
Jellyfish
by noah s. thompson
Photography
not the tangible type of waves
by amelie m-j
the children went to swim in the sea
one day like little black
fish on little black trees
can you see them from the kitchen
in the electric choked frequencies
they swim swing s(t)ing
on static radio waves
but they don't know--
they think they're swimming
in shawls of pools, of golden green, of crinkled shell,
of sea bend salts, acrylic streams, or glitter queens
but the noise, the broken re(chords) stagger,
retch, and plummet vomits of radio
knives and blank noise we can't even hear--
we're not on the static step, technicolour mirages,
when we thought it would be a good idea
to turn the contrast up just a bit higher
on their secret stolen television lives;
yes--that sort of high, it's harder
to walk than fly, oh it's harder to walk than fly.
Skylines
by noah s. thompson
Photography
Dynamism
by amanda mei
Hours, fractured into seconds and minutes, I have spent over roads, crossing white painted crosswalks and yellow lines, dirt, rocks, worn-out asphalt. Always moving because I don't want to be hit. I have a friend who was hit and had some part of his body shattered. Always weaving between cars, trucks, buses, motorcycles and bikes. No memory of the road is distinct, but I remember the passing air and the skies, always grey-tinted. Snippets of conversation, half-hearted and interrupted by the immediacy of moving, watching in side-darted glances, not being hit. People and places and roadside buildings dwarfed by the transition. Usually, I wait until the light turns red, but it is always a distrusting red, unable to govern those like me who pass through lanes of traffic. The green does not hold me either.
I could make a living of crossing roads. Of not being hit. Crossing roads to reach more roads to cross. I think I could fly through so many intersecting and parallel and cross-directional roads that my heart would stop. But I would be driven forward by the sheer momentum of crossing roads and streets and turnpikes and render the stop signs moot. I would grab onto poles that hold traffic lights in place, and my movement would tear them from the ground. I would move forward so fast that the cars coming in perpendicular would try to stop me and miss, and the cars running parallel to me would fall behind me like sidewalks. I would become a whirlwind of roads come and gone, and the miles etched into my windblown skin would reach the moon and back and back again. The billboards would no longer proclaim the name of this or that store and would instead whisper among themselves, "She was here for a drawn-out heartbeat. She left so fast we didn't see her leave."
They would try to make me into a statue. They would try to build one in place next to a highway or an alley once traversed, but they would break down over the impossible task of assigning me a single location. No pinpoint on the map for me; I move in lines. Criss-crossed, imbued with energy, shimmering across pages of imagination. I would fly the earth like a saturnalian ring, lifted off the ground by my sheer vicissitude.
And then I would shatter. A million heart-shaped pieces, marked with the name of roads crossed and turned to dust. I would float for a few more hours, and then without the force of motion driving me any longer, I would fall to the ground. Cars would wash over me. Trees would bend and sigh. The feet of children would walk across my body, never stopping, never wanting to be hit. I would be remembered then, between lights flashing red and green, as part of the motion of the earth. And some other young girl would bend over my broken body and say, "She was here," and, "She left so fast she never left at all."
Kennecott Mill in Alaska
by Maya Greenfield-Thong
Photographer's Note: Abandoned since the late 1930s, Kennecott Mill is something that any adventurer would love to explore. Standing fourteen stories high, the red structure sits between a lush hillside and a barren glacier.
ink dragons
by elizabeth gibson
That day in Beijing
we were on a high floor
in a tall building,
if I remember correctly.
We were given ink
in a dish, and a brush,
with Chinese characters
in gold—it was sophisticated.
The master taught us to draw dragons,
to ink dragons, to write dragons.
I’ve always loved dragons
and I marveled at how these lines
in series could be scales and heat,
but I could see it.
I could see the dragon in the lines
and I wrote dragon after dragon,
each one careful; each one had a right
to be perfect, to be able to breathe flame and fly—
I filled the page.
Other people were inking their names in Chinese
and I gave it a go, but I wanted to give
them life, fill my paper, fill the world
with dragons. I didn't need to write my name—
I was already there.
That was seven months ago.
I can just picture the dragon character;
its essence, if not every stroke.
I hope my own dragons are well
on that piece of paper somewhere.
I should set them free:
put it on the wall or a window.
I must learn to write dragons again—
you never know when you might need one.
Sheep somewhere in the Middle Atlas Mountains, Morocco
by maya greenfield-thong
Photographer's Note: This photo was taken in a village so small it's not even on a map. Located somewhere in the Middle Atlas Mountains between Demote and Ait Bou Goumez in Morocco, it remains one of my favorite places I've ever visited. The locals were very kind and always had time to offer us some tea and a place to rest.
Lunch
by meghana mysore
Janitors meander quietly through halls
concentrated with hungry children.
The children possess lips of gold; their eyes
are adorned with the embellishments
of a far too material world. They press their
lips into the silvery morsels of food,
grasping greedily at chunks of nourishment,
wondering whether the calories will be enough
to fill the deficit in their bodies. It’s cold
outside today, but not cold enough to freeze
their dreams; it seeps through their fingers
and bones and sends a shiver down
their spines—maybe tomorrow
this cold will dissipate and maybe
these children will know where to sit
and this void will be filled and
they will not forget to push in
their chairs and they will remember
to hold the nourishment close to their chests before it
dissipates too and maybe tomorrow
the janitors won’t have to
pick up what they leave behind.
Tranquilize
by Ashlyn Lackey
Photography
beauty nyc