welcome to sunbow’s journal entries webzine. this series is dedicated to the beautiful imperfections of our human existence and the ruminations that come with them. thank you to all of the wonderful artists who shared their work with us.
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Izabela Myrzyglod
just some thoughts//
i’m going to move away one day. i’m gonna move to a city, where i feel whole. where i feel like a living, breathing, part of something bigger. i’m not religious, but i’m faithful. i worship the sun, and the moon, but mostly i worship cold weather and sugary drinks. i worship milk tea bought with spare change, running across the beach at night, with a girl you will never feel the same way about again. i worship love that fades. i worship the night; at the times between 12 and 3, when time seems to stop; at those times where it’s so quiet, my footsteps are loud. everything’s so much louder when it’s quiet. and i love it. i worship the things that dare to be loud when it’s silent. more than that i worship the silence itself. it’s like how the blue of the ocean regresses into black at night. everything regresses to black. that dark, loud, silent night. the time where i think. the time where i remind myself that breathing isn’t useless, it’s so necessary! i worship my body, and your body, and the bodies that huddle together to engineer their own warmth. we create our own warmth, isn’t that adorable? i’m not sure what i’m trying to say. this part of myself that comes out at night. there’s something beautiful waiting for me, i hope. i have faith in it.
clockwise from top left: Laurel Mcbeath, Ezekiel Cambey, Emilie Jade, Kelly Phillips
Clockwise from top left: Donica Larade, Andy Morrigan, Bridget Tweedy, Andy Morrigan, Lauren Elise Fisher
11/2/2021; 9:56 PM
I can’t even finish the other journal, it’s all too sad. It carries too much pain and it’s heavy... I’m thankful that it was there for me but I don’t want to drag the past year around with me anymore.
So: here’s to a new journal.
There’s too much to catch you up on. I feel disconnected from home and the worst part is that I’m thankful for it (please forgive me).
(facade)
i’ve covered my mud with grass and flowers and stones. and people tell me i have the most
beautiful garden,
but now i’m ripping it all out
and the roots extend so deep
Do Butterflies regret transformation?
Butterfly, Butterfly, Butterfly – Her whole life for the end result. The caterpillar storing food,
The sleeping
The waiting
The breaking of everything she once was for something new Something beautiful
Something worthwhile.
Does she miss it?
That tiny, wriggling worm of a creature who somehow shares her cells,
Who looked to the skies as much as her fat little neck would allow, in awe of winged beasts. Does she miss it?
Does she miss the feeling of endless potential?
Does she miss the feeling of being so small, and yet all encompassing?
Does she miss the cradle of the chrysalis, swaddled in its warmth and safety?
She could be anything, the little caterpillar must have thought She doesn’t remember now.
An Atlas Moth, with their size, and scope.
Or a Luna moth in Brilliant color.
A blue Morpho, a Glasswing, A Birdwing, a Swallowtail- Or perhaps something new.
All her own.
All for her.
And she misses it. The wonder.
The excitement. The reality is lonely disappointing.
In her dreams, she is back on the ground, her mind only on thoughts of food of growing bigger
or getting stronger.
She dreams of the cocoon and its comforting weight
until it grows tighter and tighter
and tighter still
she can’t move
she can’t breathe
the walls close in on a body too big and limbs too long and heart too fast and—
The cocoon rips.
irreplicable
irreplaceable.
and her common yellow wings unfold from their bindings.
clockwise from top left: Bridget Tweedy, Erin Murphy, Mina Marcelino, Ciara Louise Williams, Marisol Ontiveros, Ciara Louise Williams, Taima Sordoni, Ella Jewell
Atlas Avalon
Central Park Horses (12/12/21)
They’d say hi to cats
and hello to dogs
but never a word to you,
whose long faces droop during infinite shifts. Your jobs finish when the port city finally sleeps but it prides itself on never doing so.
Your knees, knobbled,
and faces, cherub,
tucked under peacocked showhats and taut martingales, doing so well, looking so strong,
even though you need a break.
I wonder why they would never say hi to you
when you probably needed it the most.
I found myself wanting to weep seeing you again today. I remember when we rode side by side in that park, though my steed was blue-framed,
a measly three dollars and eighty one cents
compared to you costly colts.
I have never seen old money so broken.
I was out of breath that day in April
and I was just so tired all those months after,
because my riding partner chose to hurt me, too.
They left me, eventually,
hurt that sent me bolting to edges, piers,
17, 40, 35,
rank wafts from hard water somehow sweet to me in my months of need.
I spent so long wishing they had stayed.
Even now I sometimes fantasize their return.
The idea of my bleeding gums separated by their bits arouses me, albeit less now than before.
I hope that means I’m running in the right direction,
albeit slowly.
Your inner colts must be crying for you. I join them.
I can’t believe I mourn my freedom when you can’t even afford the thought.
clockwise from top left: Bridget Tweedy, Brianna Levy, Tribekah, Donica Larade, Abbi Day, Manuela Duque, Nolan Johnson, Leah Silverstein
Adelaide
Abbi Day
And the sky is so beautiful today, even though the “a million miles away” light fails to reach me
And seeing my lipstick stained kisses on the side of my coffee cups is the reason I always carry makeup wipes
And I’ve tricked the part of me still wearing red converse and purple hats with flowers to stay in her room
And I still think about the rotting wiffle bat under the fern bushes in the front yard
And it’s not lost on me that my hands can still feel everything around me, but I can’t help but think my nerves must be shot
And trying to carve a home into my bones makes the vibration from every foot fall cause me to choke and cough
And practicing to run in the night under street lamps, bare-foot on asphalt, felt miles more freeing than the actual thing
And today I looked to my hands and the reflection made me flinch
And at some point I’ll realize I’m the fist pounding on the door, and the half-broken hinges straining on their weight
And I’ll never be able to stop wearing two pairs of socks and praying the stairs don’t squeak
And I know the failure of my skin to recognize the warmth around me, does nothing to diminish it’s glare, so I’ll stand outside and blind myself every day until it’s bright enough to burn
Piper Miller
Anna Mattocks
Taylor Pannell
Disillusionment of the woman
Rana Rastegari
I’d like to tell you about the modern war. It is an ongoing battle between the people and the minds of the people. It is the lingering whisper of futility that plays like a broken record, day and night. For those plagued by the war, the wish to feel worthy is magnified. It is a badgering, malicious berating that forces you onto your knees, begging until they bleed. I believe that the desperation to find a purpose, a sense of meaning in the world, is nurtured by the cruelest of circumstances. Those who feel the need to justify their existence by finding value are often casualties of the modern war.
When I was 8, my parents moved us to London. The week before the move, we spent almost everyday at my grandparents’s house; saying goodbye and leaving behind remnants of our life with them. I had to leave behind my beloved dolls; i made my grandmother promise to check on them every single day and make sure they stayed dustless and she promised she would. Bits and pieces of us, my dad’s tools, his scrubs, my mum’s books and her beloved furniture and china, were left in the attic of my grandmothers home. I remember her house very well. It was large, traditional and filled with the essence of saffron and unconditional love. Her house was a home because her presence, her soulful and heartwarming aura that encapsulated the house and made you feel truly loved. She would greet you at the door, every single time even though her knee was hurting. She would force feed you deliciously unhealthy meals because “there wasn’t enough of you to hug”. She would let you ruin her skin with makeup and traumatise her hair as you gave her a makeover. She would give you secret gifts and kiss you on the forehead when you were sad. She would tell you she loves you and that she knows you’ll be the world’s best surgeon one day. She would give you warmth and it was the kind of warmth that never left your heart. On our last day at home, my grandmother made each of us kiss the Quran before passing under it and splashed some rose water behind us as we drove to the airport. She cried and wished us a safe flight. I cried and hugged her tight. My parents cried and told her they loved her. We left behind the warmth of home with smiles on our faces and tears streaming down our eyes.
Simran Kaur
On March 11th 2011, we boarded a British Airlines flight to London, Heathrow. We moved into a small flat, and then we all sat down and cried. My parents, because they missed their parents. Me, because my parents were crying and I couldn’t understand why. When we visited our home
again 3 years later, my grandmother had changed the arrangement of her dining room. The large and grand dining table was now horizontal and not vertical. I cried that night too.
On May 18th 2018, my grandmother died of cancer. I hadn’t seen her in 4 years. I hadn’t called her in months. On July 21st 2021, I visited home once again. Her house had changed once more. Nobody lived there anymore and it no longer felt like sunshine. No one greeted me at the door and there was no saffron being used in the kitchen.
The day I visited home again, was the day I became viciously aware of my own disillusionment. The dreadful news that I had lost (or perhaps never had) value. I had an awareness, or hyper awareness, of my flaws and my shortcomings. I felt I had been a pawn in a game created by my own mind and I had lost the final round. My grandmother’s passing can hardly be called her “disillusionment” but it was certainly mine. What I mean to convey is this; when it comes to war, the disillusionment of one woman is not completely her own. Her failures belong not only to her but to those who fixated on her potential. There is a pre existing prophecy for us in the war and it states that we will never truly find peace. There is a constant threat of failure; even when there is no hill to climb, we are searching for ways to get to the top of the hill. Because, frankly, the mere thought or ideation of imperfection sparks a match that lights up the most hollow parts of us. We are inherently lost and passionate. The urge to find something, anything that can provide a resolution for a problem that does not exist drives us to perfection. The passion for perfection drives us to imperfection and failure. There will always be a speck, a dot, a singular, minute molecule of dust that sullies our work. There will always be another step to take.
In a sense, we carry the weight of idealism and we allow it to merge with our skin. We carry a vision of ourselves that can only be obtained in dreams and in fantasy and we call it ambition. We know it is unachievable and yet, we yearn for it, play the game for it and fight the war for it. And so, it should come as no surprise that we lose the war and are forced to walk away from the game. You see, the disillusionment of the woman is not about her career or her relationships or even her life. It is about the reality she never got to live. It is about the reality she never will live. It is about the woman who is forced to watch the blank TV screen, begging to see, not the ending she favours, but the beginning she favours. And to her disappointment, the film never begins. Simply put, the disillusionment of the woman is about the woman who never was.
Izzy Hettmansperger
Resolute
Today
doubt weighs heavy on my mind & it is no fair battle.
I am losing.
I have no chance.
As the day comes to a close
I will walk into the field full of my doubts -
hand pick as many as will fit in my trembling palms. tug at the stubborn deep-rooted ones.
Meet me in that field.
Rest your hand above my tailbone as a reminder
to remain resolute.
Your touch assurance
I am not alone in this battle.
One by one
I will pluck each doubt out of my hands examine
then
ruthlessly forge my emotions
as a force against each and every one.
Weep. Roar. Cackle. Swear.
Summon
the moon’s comfort the sun’s strength
the rain’s vulnerability.
Raise fists to the violent doubts.
Breathe deeply through the brutal ones.
Dance fiercely to release the ones lodged in my joints. Proclaim my fervor to the wind.
Petal, stem, root, Petal, stem, root. Petal, stem, root.
I will give into hysterics as I fight
toe to toe
against each doubt.
And you
will be there
holding me up as my energy gives way, ravishing at the rawness of the war. You will be my respite
so I come back unscathed
as my palms empty
and my body crashes to the ground you will meet me in the
brush and wreckage.
A small smile sneaking across your lips you ask,
“Now, do you want to go home?”
I will use the last of my withered energy wrap my arms around you & say
“I am already there.”
01.19.2022
clockwise from top left: Mae Owen , London Loftice, Lana Scibona, Sophie Robertson, London Loftice, Lilly Seaver, Atlas Avalon
above: Anna Aversa and Allie Wallace
below: Rebecca Rooney
purgatory
and i’m in this hazy purgatory
between entirely broken and healed and some days i suppose it’s not so bad and other days i suppose it is so bad
i don’t know where i stand
maybe i’m progressing in this very moment maybe i’m forever stuck in this inbetween it’s hard to tell when every day feels the same
and every tuesday at three o clock
i look out the window of my classroom
and the sun sets and golden hues embrace the orange trees and i think the world is beautiful
and everyone i know and love is gone
and everyone i knew and loved is gone but they left their traces behind
and i think the traces make it a little worse
and nineteen is such as unexpected inbetween i feel younger than ever
but not free
just knowledge-less and stuck
purgatory is depicted to be this horrific thing and it is not
i romanticise purgatory to be this beautiful thing and it is not
and as lacklustre as it may be, the truth is just; purgatory is
Eclipsed
10/13/2021
I just remembered the sun
will start setting later and later,
Until the night splits right through the day.
There are dried leaves scattered like confetti
But when did they change from green to yellow and then yellow to brown?
I guess it’s okay that we barely talk anymore
Except I wish we did and
I wish it didn’t split right through me.
After this cold retreat into darkness
I hope the bright sun will spill into my life again
And maybe you will return too,
My friend.
left: Megan Riehl
above: Lana Scibona
above: Anna Aversa and Allie Wallace
below: Skylar Speedwell
Lynn Kelders
The Dream Sequence Sofia Kumbalek
The dream wrote itself
when I was an incredibly contemplative child; I had many dreams,
as I had many creations,
I was a mad scientist
cloaked in the body of a 6 year old girl,
an overzealous artist
from the moment I exited the womb,
a visionary director
whose glaring perfectionism-
gets the very best
and the very worst of her-
and the projects
she puts so much of herself into.
The world around me
was merely a giant rounded movie screen
for the incessant daydreams I projected;
the dream in question
was some variation of the same:
a dream of a dream;
I was well into adulthood
in that happy period in your 20s-
between a revitalized coming of age,
and a mere regurgitation of your teenage years.
In an unknown summer backyard,
I stirred among a crowd of well-dressed silhouettes; I watched string lights sparkle
over a delicately placed table,
all while some level of success and beauty
peeked through my countenance;
my night-colored hair stretched to my waist,
and I was adorned in a silk gown
of the most delicate shade of lilac;
and as the dinner party commenced,
I felt the most reassuring sense of contentment;
like the beauty that swells in an overwhelmingly minuscule moment, like waking up and realizing
though you don’t believe you can be sure of anything,
not even this belief itself,
you feel you are precisely where you’re supposed to be.
The stories wrote themselves
like that fateful day in kindergarten
my teacher read us that picture book
and some undeveloped part of me
rose to the surface,
gently seeking development,
gently pressing the walls which housed it; inspiration danced within me
in response to the story itself,
in response to the vision itself;
the same inspiration
which rushes along my adult insides:
like a free flowing stream
of eternally wrinkling waters.
So I raced off of the bus,
I surrounded myself with crayons,
and markers,
and pencils alike;
I sat hunched fervently
over a growing story of my own;
within my scribbling
was the general madness pertaining to a creative adult, and the beautiful unbridled passion
which belongs so especially to a child.
The songs sung themselves
when I was an especially tender youth;
they followed me everywhere:
into the ink blue of the mountains,
into the stale, suffocating air of the school hallways,
into the late hours-
where the aching pain crouched in the spaces of my bedroom- before nearly consuming me;
the songs seeped into the sacred, vivid spaces of my dreams, they colored my sorrows and triumphs alike.
With time,
the dream’s significance was erased; many seasons fell into each other,
and a certain darkness descended over the whole of the scene;
a darkness I still cannot quite articulate, a darkness I still cannot quite fathom, and though I had grown in stature
and in number,
I remained of a fundamental sameness to my smaller self;
the foundation continued to stand,
it had simply changed its hue.
A new shop had just taken root
in the old town I’d conducted most of my existence in; by chance, I wandered my way to it,
I was taken by all of its newness,
all of the realized fantasies it offered;
a familiar song was sung
as my eyes met a notable, lilac dress
it was the last of its kind,
the last of my size,
I adorned myself in it,
and suddenly,
I remembered the warmth of the dream.
So, I bought the dress,
and I shared all those stories I’d written,
the ones I’d kept hidden for so long,
and I felt the opening sequence of the dream, as it began churning.
The dream wrote itself,
and it was by some miracle, I was living in it.
156. Lauren Deaton
Blue, purple, green, orange
Yellow specks sprinkled in the swirls. Nothing around but the darkness
They won’t be around for long. Colors fade,
Grow apart,
Take a picture so you won’t forget.
But you will forget, it’s human nature. Especially if you keep it to yourself.
Tell your children about the dying stars. Tell them about the impact they left on you, How much you loved them.
You know stars don’t last forever As beautiful as they are.
You didn’t know that those tiny yellow dots Could burst with beautiful blues
Darling purples
Intense oranges
And delicate greens.
You want them to stay forever.
Beauty so magnificent, it has to stay forever, right?
Above: Elifsu Ustun, Kelly Phillips, Kelly Phillips
Below: C
My Father's Eyes
Deliah el Bekkali
i share my fathers eyes
dark brown, round, and wide
but the difference between
my father eyes and mine
is that mine look alive
my fathers eyes
have been closed shut for forty years
he's become legally blind
because whenever he sees the future
he never dares to look behind
Both our eyes are large enough
to see whites
below the iris
he sees love as an opportunity to strike
while my eyes are capable of seeing kindness
my father’s eyes are dry
he cannot cry over
what he does not understand
my eyes get wet and weepy
and fog a blurry lens
my drowned eyes see love
fleeting as youth
and bound to end
my fathers eyes
are cemented shut
I could not pry them open
if i tried
i share my father’s eyes
both dark brown, round, and wide
I share my father’s eyes
but his eyes
do not sting as much as mine
i share my father’s eyes
both dark brown, round, and wide
I share my father’s eyes
but he will never share mine
clockwise from top left: Sara Selig, Kailey Ann Blunk, Kailey Ann Blunk, Serena Fick
the artists:
Abbi Day (@abbiday_), they/them, 22
Adelaide (@lemonadelaide), she/they, 20
Andy Morrigan (@andy_morrigan), she/they, 22
Anna Aversa (@annabananaland56) and Allie Wallace (@alliewallace), she/her, 18
Anna Mattocks (@annasarahh_ and @sapphosinging), they/them, 20
Atlas Avalon (@missjender), they/them, 23
Brianna Levy (@babblingbread), she/her, 20
Bridget Tweedy (@inkwasted_), she/her, 24
C (@ihopethislasts), she/her, 21
Charlie Greenwalt, she/her, 16
Ciara Louise Williams (@ciaralwilliams), she/her, 20
Deliah el Bekkali (@koolkatdeliah), she/her, 19
Donica Larade (@sea_shanties), she/her, 24
Elifsu Ustun (@elifsustun), they/them, 19
Ella Jewell (@ellarjewell), she/her, 18
Emilie Jade (@emilieweeding), she/her, 17
Erin Murphy (@egomurphy), she/they
Ezekiel Cambey (@Omanihirth), he/him, 19
Izabela Myrzyglod (@im.studio.im), they/them, 21
Izzy Hettmansperger (@hibounoir), they/them, 21
Kailey Ann Blunk (@kaileyblunk), she/they, 21
Kelly Phillips (@ur.a.real.peach), she/they, 19
Lana Scibona (@lanascibona), she/her, 24
Laurel Mcbeathart (@laurelmcbeathart),
Lauren Deaton (@laurendeaton_), she/her, 19
Lauren Elise Fisher (@allfishswim), 21
Leah Silverstein (@leahsilversoul), she/her, 24
Lily Seaver (@lilyviola), she/her, 21
London Loftice (@shadeartcollective), she/her, 24
Lynn Kelders (@lynnkelders), she/her, 24
Mae Owen (@madzowen17), they/them, 24
Manuela Duque (@ducquemejiam), she/her, 22
Marisol Ontiveros (@marmogart), she/her, 21
Megan Riehl (@megan.riehl.art), she/her, 24
Mina Marcelino (@mijjjita), they/she, 22
Nolan Johnson (@_flavorgrenade), he/they, 22
Piper Miller (@piper.miller.812), she/they, 18
Rana Rastegari (@ranarastegari), she/her, 18
Rebecca Rooney (@rebecca.rooneyy, @u.tterance), she/her, 20
Sara Selig, she/her, 17
Serena Fick (@creamsodaserena), she/they, 19
Simran Kaur (@simran_k_01), she/her, 20
Skylar Speedwell (@skylarspeedwell), they/she, 19
Sofia Kumbalek (@subliminally_sofia), she/her, 21
Sophie Robertson (po0rn_syrup), she/her, 21
Taima Sordoni (@srgntslag, @t.n.t.photo), she/her, 20
Taylor Pannell (@always.underwater), they/she, 22
Tribekah (@tribeckah.jordan), she/her, 21
Edited, compiled, and designed by Ella Bailey. Submissions managed by Sydney Bickel