Stereotypes of sexual predators were pimpled, bleary-eyed men with jagged teeth. Hector had intelligence and charm. I didn’t see how him being a monster in one regard stopped him from being a hero in another.
“Student Raped by U.C. Santa Cruz Professor,” I read in the Santa Cruz Sentinel.
I pulled back from my computer screen. Moments before, my college friend Luke called to supply a long stream of curse words and a recommendation: read the Santa Cruz newspaper, which I hadn’t in years. Though the headline didn’t include that name, it didn’t have to: Hector Perla. I knew him from lecture and sat close to him in the front rows.
In our attempts to learn a new language, we might try to synthesize all the parts of ourselves that were shattered when we built Babel. “Learn a language, get a new soul,” a Czech proverb declares. Maybe deep in our psyche, we know all human language to be one.
Despite myself, I looked at these blank journals before anything else in the bookstore. The other books have already fulfilled their creative potential. They are tragically incomplete and absolute without a writer.
As a country, we are less compassionate and unmotivated to help others. No one kept count of the damages that kept slowly accumulating. Now, we’re paying for it—and it’s time to take a look around. I don’t think Luis Alfaro’s Mojada: A Medea in Los Angeles could have come at a better time.
The interaction of the components in a collage are a psychic play that is deeply personal to the artist, even if they’re unaware of it.
I was in Santa Barbara for Spring Break when I heard the news.
Rough year, being a special needs assistant with a very strong-willed and off task child. What they don’t tell you when you first sign up for the job is that it’s on you to make everything work. The child, teacher, your boss, and the parent all must be happy in order for you to be happy. Those are the balls I had to juggle and many were dropped in the process.
So for spring break I run far away and don’t invite anyone to come with me.
The sunset was visible behind the crowd of palm trees as I walked back from Santa Barbara Coffee Roasting where I spent three hours staring at a wall, comatose from endless sand and sun. There has to be a way that all of these people confuse relaxation with depression, a fine line I was playing with myself. I get a call from my aunt Laura, and I take a deep breathe before answering. Having been a midwife in Nicaragua during the contra wars, sometimes she talked as if she was trying to run away from landmines.
To many, Persephone is a scandalous love story about a young girl taken from her mother by an evil, dark god. Others might view it as a twisted coming of age tale, with some not-so-subtle-allusions between “womanhood,” fertility, and the bright red colors of pomegranate that Persephone eats. A more promising and philosophically poignant meaning lies underneath the tale. What makes Persephone’s tale so tragic is its necessity: the allure of death, and death itself, is inextricable in the continuation of life, rendering us all paradoxes in disguise. We live and thrive in our dissonances and conflicts, our beauty conceived by melancholy.