Visual identity for InBalance, Antonin Scalia Law School’s health and well-being initiative. As part of the initiative, the law school hosts various programs and posts helpful information that supports law student well-being. Typeset in Nickel Gothic, designed by David Jonathan Ross.
Now that the TV is gone and the music
has been hauled away,
it’s just me here, and the muffling silence
a spider wraps around a living morsel.
And at times, often, the unbearable.
I bear it, though, just like you.
Long ago, I bore a suitcase filled with books,
bore it far on city streets. To sell, I guess, at some
used-books place, one of those doorways down
steps into dankness and darkness. The scent
of mildewed, dog-eared, fingered pages.
The suitcase, big and square and sharp-cornered,
covered in snakeskin, bought at Goodwill
for a dollar, knowing I had some travelling to do,
some lugging, and I was right.
What books I sold I do not know.
Maybe that’s where “Modern Poetry” went.
The cover cherry-red and blossom-white.
I can see its spine in my mind’s eye,
pointing downward beneath the dank
and the dark to the water tunnelling
under the city and making its way to the river.
Poems sliding down the book’s spine
into water, the shock of the cold and dank,
down where my uterine lining, my blood
and cast-off ovulations, cast-off fetal
tissue swims, below the city.
The micro-dead ride modern poems
like swan boats in the park.
From the park to the river to the sea.
I’m thinking now of PJ Harvey and Nick Cave.
Balladeers. Lovers. Vita and Virginia.
Frank O’Hara and Vincent Warren. Somehow,
we ride our lost loves out to sea. Or they ride us.
It doesn’t matter. Poet or poem or reader, the same
ectoplasm. The modern, in time, becomes antique,
and the stone faces of the dead convert to symbols,
ripe for smashing. Come to think of it,
symbols are terrible. As the tyrant
shouted to the masses,
part of his brainwashing campaign:
I know it, and you know it, too.
I was twenty-three when I sold off
“Modern Poetry” and sailed to Italy, seeking
Romantic poetry, which was at one time
modern, and found my way to Rome,
and Keats’s death room.
His deathbed, a facsimile.
Everything he touched was burned,
to kill what killed him.
I lifted his death mask from its nail,
cradled it, closed my eyes and kissed his lips
until the plaster warmed,
and stained his face
with the lipstick on my lips. Red
as the cover of “Modern Poetry.”
The color of the droplets of arterial blood
he coughed onto his sheets, and viewed
by candlelight. Then he knew he was done for.
His death warrant, he called it.
After those many kisses over his face and eyes,
and the reticulated eyelashes,
cold and tangled,
my lips were blossom-white,
my face, chalked. Like I’d caught
something from him,
and I don’t just mean consumption,
though my lungs burned for years.
They still burn.
This is the danger of the ecstasy of kissing
the dead or dying poet on the mouth.
The disease you’ll catch—well,
it changes you.
The tingle in the spine,
the erotic charge, will be forever married
to poetry’s previous incarnations.
It’s why marriage itself never worked for me.
I kept wanting to get to the part
where death parts us
and I could find myself again.
Keats made such a compact corpse.
Only five feet tall, shorter than Prince,
and intricately made. Always,
he was working it, working it out,
the meaning of suffering, the world’s,
his own, the encounter with beauty,
nearly synonymous with suffering,
how empathy could extinguish him,
and he could set down the suitcase at last,
or finally deliver him to himself, distinct
as the waves in his hair and the bridge
of his nose. How auspicious,
rare, lush,
bizarre, kinky, transcendent,
romantic, to be young, just twenty-three,
and to cradle him
in my arms, as we listened
to the burbling water
of the Fontana della Barcaccia
from the open window.
Diane Seuss
Brand identity for the National Security Institute at Antonin Scalia Law School. Typeset in League Gothic, designed by Tyler Finck, Caroline Hadilaksono, and Micah Rich. Even though this is not the official logo for NSI, I like to keep it for my portfolio.
No one ever grabbed my ass on the stairs down to
the D. But on the stairs up to the El, it happened
all the time. I guess it was anatomically more natural,
like reaching for an apple, but the first time,
I wasn’t sure how to feel. I think I felt warm,
which wasn’t an emotion. It felt like a rite of passage,
though I’d never heard of rites of passage.
Disgusting is what I said when I told my friends.
A grown man. I was twelve then. It felt like flattery.
From the El, I could look into other people’s windows,
but if I saw them at all, what they were doing mostly
were the same kinds of nothings we did in our own
apartment. What I usually saw were their curtains
blowing in and out, ’cause their windows were wide open.
It wasn’t like the High Line, where many years later
I saw two men in a hotel room doing a performance
just for me. The High Line used to be an El. It still is in a way,
though it’s covered with flowers. And I’m the train.
When I turned nineteen and got married, I went to live
up by Mt. Eden. It was cheap and noisy and the El
ran below our window and our daughter died and we were
still in school and took the D train to Manhattan now.
But coming home one night, I looked up and saw curtains
blowing in and out of someone’s window. I was on an El,
I don’t know where, or how I made it home. It wasn’t our El,
but it’s the El I dream about: I’ve just come down the stairs,
and now I’ve got to figure it out. Up on the platform
you could buy peanuts from a dispenser and either
give them to the pigeons or eat them yourself.
Joan Murray
A few years ago, my mother’s youngest sister shared with me stories she had written about her parents, sisters, and brother. She wrote about their lives in great detail and her narrative came from her heart and memory. The stories helped me understand their legacies; therefore, I asked her permission to preserve them in online book format so we can share them with the younger generations. I edited her stories in Vietnamese and English. I put the website together. I also came up with the book title. Familý was a play on my mother’s family name: Lý. For the visual identity, I pulled together NaN Serf and its sibling NaN Serf Sans, designed by Daria Cohen, Fadhl Haqq, Léon Hugues, Jean-Baptiste Morizot, Luke Prowse, and Florian Runge.
Allegedly the worst is behind us.
Still, we crouch before the lip of tomorrow,
Halting like a headless hant in our own house,
Waiting to remember exactly
What it is we’re supposed to be doing.
& what exactly are we supposed to be doing?
Penning a letter to the world as a daughter of it.
We are writing with vanishing meaning,
Our words water dragging down a windshield.
The poet’s diagnosis is that what we have lived
Has already warped itself into a fever dream,
The contours of its shape stripped from the murky mind.
To be accountable we must render an account:
Not what was said, but what was meant.
Not the fact, but what was felt.
What was known, even while unnamed.
Our greatest test will be
Our testimony.
This book is a message in a bottle.
This book is a letter.
This book does not let up.
This book is awake.
This book is a wake.
For what is a record but a reckoning?
The capsule captured?
A repository.
An ark articulated?
& the poet, the preserver
Of ghosts & gains,
Our demons & dreams,
Our haunts & hopes.
Here’s to the preservation
Of a light so terrible.
Amanda Gorman
My father was a builder. When I was a kid, he took me on the roads to watch him built houses, temples, and theaters with his crew. In his tribute wordmark, Hồ Hữu Tỷ (his name) fit together like a building block. I love the way squares and circles are built together to make up Megazoid, designed by David Jonathan Ross.
Last night, my wife broke the chain when she tried to turn off the ceiling fan. We bought a new switch at Lowe’s for about $7. The replacement process takes 10 to 15 minutes. We use these fans in our bedrooms a lot because our second floor is always hot. Our AC unit doesn’t work too well. I am not sure how long we can ride it out before we have to spend about $15k. I just don’t want to think about it. Being a homeowner comes with too many responsibilities and I have very little skills to fix them. Oh well!
As I was debating whether I should spent over $50K to buy a new Toyota Sienna or fixing our 2011 Toyota Sienna XLE, I chose the latter. This time I chose the Auto Team in Manassas. One of the co-owners is a friend’s uncle. Even though it was my first time, I could trust him. He’s an honest mechanic. He replaced the front struts and sway bar links.
Labors: $400
Total with discounts: $850
The AC is still not working. The sliding doors are still not fixed. Nevertheless, I can still use in in the winter to drive to Whitetail for work.
I do not condone gun violence. I condemn the assassination of Charlie Kirk. My condolences go out to his family.
Nevertheless, let’s not forget that Kirk was a right-wing provocateur who built his fame and fortune on abomination, disinformation, polarization, and radicalization. Kirk knew damn well what he got into when he boasted, “It’s worth to have a cost of, unfortunately, some gun deaths every single year so that we can have the Second Amendment to protect our other God-given rights.”
America has a dead-serious gun problem and Kirk’s violent rhetoric only makes it worse. He normalized gun violence. He was a great political performer. He rose to the occasion and seized the moment. He was unstoppable until a bullet caught up to him.
Again, Charlie Kirk did not deserve to be shot and killed, but let’s not forget there was another school shooting on the same day at Evergreen High School in Evergreen, Colorado. Kirk’s death is heinous, but the lives of so many innocent children we lost to mass shootings are also tragic.
At this point, we still don’t know the motive behind Kirk’s assassination, but what we do know is that gun violence is neither the left nor the right problem. Gun violence is the American problem.
