DISPLACED IN

TIME AND SPACE:

LETTERS FROM
THE EMBRYOS OF
THE FUTURE

Modern History
Billy Butler

We are the best

of the best
of the best
of the best
of the best
of the best
of the best
of the best
of the best
of the best
of the best
of the best
of the best
of the best
of the best
of the best
of the best
of the best
of the best
of the best
of the best
of the best
of the best
of the best
of the best
of the best
of the best
of the best
of the best
of the best
of the best
of the best
of the best

37

Table of Contents
Necessary Theses for the Hypothetical Future

Andrew Beckner
Prisoners of Flesh and Metal
Oscar Del Toro

Primordialist Manifesto
Randall Sass

Exquisite Corpse
The Embryos

Writings on the Wall, Children of Time

Stefanie Winton

10, 12

Utopian Xe
Margarito Leon

13

Utopian Garden

15, 16

Paige Sidway
Outside the Wall
Grace Bethel

17, 18

A Call to Color
Chance Rhome

19

No 9
Josh Cane Pool

20

Written on a Bus Ride

Grace Ackles

21

Future of Surfing
Alex Smith

22

Table of Contents

Anti-Capitalist Photography

Confession Booths
Alexandra Moskow

25, 26

Times Arrow
Masha Bluestein

27

The Apocalypse Will Blossom

Grace Ackles

28

Dystopia, We
Nate Donato

29

Where Then is Truth?

Diane Vega

30

Eye a World
Nate Donato and Grace Ackles

31

2 Weekends sans Clock

Moriah Harden

32

Blackout Poem
Monica Calsbeek

34

Uniform of Excess
Monica Calsbeek and Hayley McClintock

35

Anti-Capitalist Photography
Monica Calsbeek and Hayley McClintock

36

Modern History
Billy Butler

37

Monica Calsbeek and Hayley McClintock

Insert Kapital

Unplugging Channel

Voicing Amalgam

Reviving Support

Perceive Appendage

Additional graphics by Grace Ackles, Nate Donato, and Grace Bethel

Formatted by Billy Butler

ii

36

The Uniform of Excess

Monica Calsbeek and Hayley McClintock

Title Brainstorm for this Zine

Coup
Anachronistic Notions for People of Age
No Future, No Past, No Title
Mysterious Embryo
The Poems are the Titles, the Titles are the Poems
Limericks for a Dislocated Fetus
Fecundation of the Psychedelic Ovum
Viewer Discretion Advised
Future Fear
Memories of a Dislocated Future
The Becoming and Unbecoming of Everyone
It Should Have a Brain, a Heart, and a Colon
Embryo of Age
Dragonfly Pregnancy and the Omnibus Experience
Take Acid or Die
Die or Take Acid
Under Siege
The Endless Joke that Keeps Telling Itself
Letters from the Fetus
Letters From the Embryo to the Future
Apocalyptic Readings from your Favorite Young People
No Apocalypse
The Dystopian Survival Guide
The Embryos Survival Guide for School and Apocalypse
Displaced in Time and Space: Letters from the Embryos of the Future
The Neverending Joke: Told by Your Favorite Fetus
Battle Cries from the Dislocated Womb
Battle Cries for People of Age
Warning Signals Sung by the Apocalyptic Baby
Apocalyptic Baby Sounds: To Be Read Aloud With Great Conviction
A Giant Maladjusted Baby Will Destroy the World

iii

Necessary Theses for

the Hypothetical Future
Andrew Beckner
I
The poet was right when he began Theogony: Chaos
was first of all.[1] In ancient and modern times, in all
times, chaos reigns. We are a couple hundred years,
or a few seconds, from slaughtering each other in the
streets. Never forget that.
II
The future is not for artists. The Artist must put a
jackboot to the throat of the muse. The System has
made room for its own critique, a Guy Fawkes mask
can be purchased on Amazon for $3.99 and worn by
men with no conviction whatsoever.
III
The activist of the future calls for subjectivity based
on depression and exhaustion.[2] The Judas of psychoanalysis sounds the defeat of Eros under the arm of
Thanatos. And civilization marches back into the sea.
IV
Eros created a prison. Instead of killing the guard, the
super-ego made him redundant. Instead of releasing
itself, mankind retreated behind bars. Man can fold
himself into ever-smaller, ever-darker prisons. The panoptic gaze finds him yet. Man is weary of man. He was
always an interlude, something to be overcome.
V
Non-violence is a myth. If you disagree go to India and
see what gifts non-violence gives. Modernity is violent.
You are a combatant by another name, a consumer.
The hand of violence created everything you own. If
there is to be a future it will be made with blood. Is
there an Achilles living? Surely there can be no Paris

Blackout Poem
Monica Calsbeek

Out there on the ocean, removed from the consequential hour, you float
freely in an eternal, timeless, liminal spaceyoure neither here nor there,
liberated from the psychic restrictions that sever the day into digestible
componentsand for just a few moments, you feel more a part of time
then you ever did looking at the clock.
If the non-clock-looker is adamant about non-clock-looking, shell experience this floating sensation after just a few hoursthis is what she lives
forin fact, this escaping of organized time is life affirming, just as is the
acknowledgement of death.

to kill him. Great men like these are not as common as

they once were: the earth has become small and on it
hops the last man.[3]
[1] Hesoid. Theogeny.
[2] Berardi, Franco Bifo. After the Future. Oakland: AK
Press, 2011. Print.
[3] Nietzsche, Friedrich. Thus Spoke Zarathustra. The Portable Nietzsche. Trans. Walter Kaufman. New York: Penguin
Books, 1976. Print.

All this (and how to effectively remove myself from the social sphere) is
what I learned for two weekends sans clock.

33

Prisoners of Flesh and Metal

2 Weekends sans Clock

Oscar Del Toro

Moriah Harden

The plumes of smoke rising through the air were always the
first thing I noticed when I walked out of classroom 15208. There were
hundreds of them feeding into the grey sky, resting like a bulbous mass of
poison above the smokestacks before finally beginning to convect with the
air currents, spreading out and at some point dissipating. The particular
moment when they did dissipate was impossible to decipher, however,
being that the shades of grey and black in the sky were all as good as
identical.

School grew more tiresome each day, and I was glad to finally be
on the decrepit concrete that led back home. The campus was way too
crowded, and the teachers were probably some of the most annoying
people he had ever met. They were lower class, just like their students, but
clearly bought out by the government. The curriculum for the past few
years had been secluded exclusively to almost pure history and science,
the versions of history and science that the people in power wanted us to
know. We were told that the stagnation of the past was bad even though
my parents had a happier childhood than me. We were told that scientific
progress was good even though there was now more poverty in the streets
than ever. We were told that the Transcendence Project for enhancing
human bodies with genetic and biometric engineering was going to usher is
into a new age of empowerment even though none but the rich would ever
be able to afford it. Luckily, my parents taught me better.

Normally, my friends were the only thing that brightened up the
suffocating murkiness of each day. Today, however, theyd be waiting at my
apartment for me to get there. I knew it was meant to be a surprise, but
when all your friends mysteriously disappear after the final bell on your
birthday, at least a couple of assumptions can be made. A small breeze
began to pick up, blowing dust and trash into my eyes. Coughing and
squinting, I peered down at my watch. 3:05. If I didnt run into any trouble
today, I could be home in another ten minutes.

Looking around, I didnt see any immediate reasons to worry. The
streets were full of other kids on their way back home from school, and
the high-rising apartments next to us didnt look like they had any chunks
of railing ready to break off their hinges and fall on someones head today.
Beyond the apartment complexes stretched the rest of the city, with the
buildings becoming taller and more luxurious the farther you looked out.

I spent two weekends without looking at a clockpost-it note covering the

microwave clock (my roommate, quickly and confusedly removed this, after
which I filled her in on what I was doing), unplugging of the alarm-clock,
post-it note stuck to the top-right corner of my lap-top and iPad, and handcovering the clock on my phone every time I went to check it
and, after all the effort placed into insuring a kind of temporal oblivion (in
the standard sense), I found it impossible to wholly escape the clock.
First off, Im living in a community with 500 other students who (forgive
me if Im generalizing) live their lives on a strict hour-to-hour basis.
You want to eat dinner with me, in like, ahh..thirty minutes, at 7 PM?,
says a hungry hall-mate, intent on arranging his next meal. Immediately, Im
aware of the hour, and how in about thirty minutes from now, whether Im
hungry or not, itll be a fairly appropriate time to eat dinner.
Eating at a fairly appropriate time doesnt much concern the non-clocklooker, as she does what she pleases, as necessitated by her body. I found
this out the second night of non-clocking, when the minor rumbling of my
stomach brought me to open my fridge at who-knows-what-hour of darkness in the evening.
It was rather disorienting when I was able to escape it, and it required I cut
off all social relations and rid myself of plan-making intentions. You have
a better-than-vague idea about the time of day based on the location of the
sun in the sky, but there comes a certain pointlets say from about two to
six pmwhen you find yourself caught in a mystery zonea suspension
of timeand with it, comes a sort of freedom.
Its as if youve swam out past the waves, a bit further than youre comfortable with, your toes hardly touching the sandy bottom; so you instead
decide to float, shoreline receding, then the wiping away of any spatial and
temporal awarenessits just your breath, your white, sausage-like legs, the
gentle pull of the black-green liquid mass all around you, and the sun thats
been hanging in the sky for as long as youve knownso what of the time?

32

Eye a World

Nate Donato and Grace Ackles

Long before your bricks or concrete
We without yous and without mes,
on knees built thick as redwood trunks
stood tall, and watched the world change
beneath Us, from grey to red to blue
to green, and finally back to gray again,
as We faded away and hardly any of us
remained. past and future were the same
though the rate of change accelerated
We did not harbor any disdain for those
human hordes replacing Us, only a warning:
love the mountains. dont fight the rust.
soon it
always turns
to dust
We felt the sky flow through our hair tips and
remembered an age when life was lifeless.
We know someday it will be again, and
then again, and then again, and again,
and again, and again,
and again.

Dozens of helicopters buzzed around the outer sections, shining lights

down onto streets that were too dark with oil and grime to be seen clearly
by the pale sunlight. Farther inside, however, the darkness met its match
against rays of glaring neon lights, making the grandiose buildings at the
heart of the city glow in red, green, and yellow fire. Nothing seemed out of
the ordinary today.

My line of vision caught something just as I began to turn my
gaze away from the city and out towards the slums. There was something
speeding towards the street at incredible speed, something with a shiny,
black luster. I could feel my heart begin to speed up against its will, but I
held my breath steady and stood rooted to the spot. The black dot grew
into a ball and then a mound, finally crashing down onto the ground a few
feet in front of me. The mounds trajectory caught a younger boy in its
impact, hitting his side and flinging him against the wall. There were audible
cracks and a cloud of dust before I could finally see what was happening,
and when I did, I couldnt help but breathe a sigh of relief.

It was the boys ribs which had cracked and not the wall. Had it
been the wall, Im not sure he would have survived the hit.

The black mound in front of me finally began to move, and just as
I expected, a humanoid figure began to extend its limbs outwards and stand
up. The mound was a transhuman, more specifically a physically enhanced
one. It was easy to tell from the metallic exoskeleton he was made of that
he had repurposed his body for greater strength, and maybe even speed and
flexibility. A large black cloak covered it now, but it had been partly visible
when he had started to get back up from the ground. Looking back at the
boy, who was now rolled up into a ball and sobbing silently to himself, I felt
a pent up rage rise up in me, as it had many times before.

Except this time, on my fifteenth birthday, it felt like the right
moment to finally act upon it. Taking a large breath, I steeled myself and
walked up to the transhuman, who was casually dusting off his cloak with a
strange device I was angry to say I had never seen before.

What the hell were you doing? I asked, pronouncing each word
as slowly and purposefully as I could. I almost regretted the words as soon
as they left my mouth, but the transhuman didnt even look up.

Test drive, he replied with a silky voice.

Youre all the fucking same. Why dont you test your toys in your
own backyard, bastard? You dont have any business here, I spat, trying
to emulate the contempt I saw in my parents faces every time they talked
about transcendence, wondering at the same time whether this wasnt just
about the most reckless thing Id ever done.


The transhuman finally finished cleaning his coat and deigned to
look down at me. He had a thin, sallow face that didnt at all seem like it
fit in with the muscled build his exoskeleton gave him, and a mischievous
smile played on his lips. A large group of kids had gathered a few feet away,
watching the conversation play out with wide, alert eyes. Most of them, I
knew, were ready to run at a moments notice. My heart was now beating so
fast I could hear it inside my own head. When had I ever seen another kid
stand up to a transhuman? Probably never.

So dramatic, he said plaintively, laughing softly at his own words.
Such an exciting time to be living in, and you cant even appreciate it?
What a shame.

I made a motion to clench my fists, but I didnt realize they already
were, and only succeeded in driving my nails deeper into my flesh. I felt hot,
angry tears building up behind my eyes.

Shut up! Youre a prisoner to the government, and theyve got
you tricked. One day youll wake up and youll miss feeling the wind on
your real skin. And if one day you run out of money, good luck in paying
for the medicine you need to keep those machines inside you running.
Youll become a junkie and beg for drugs on the street so you can inject
yourself full of holes. And after that, when you cant even control your own
body, theyll have you all to themselves. Ive done my research. They know
when your trascendent limbs are malfunctioning and they wont be scared
to infect you with a virus to control you and ship you off to their private
army of robots. Youre nothing but a prisoner, I said, my mind racing to
remember more of my parents diatribes on the matter.

The man looked at me for a few moments with an interested
expression, cocking his head to one side as a dog does when it hears its
name being called from afar. Then, he took a few steps closer until he was
directly in front of me, his head towering almost a full foot above mine. I
glared back at him, my stare unwavering despite my fear.

He moved his head closer to mine and whispered in my ear,
Youre scared, kid. I know. I can smell it. Quite literally, in fact. Youre
letting off pheromones that give it entirely away. And if I wanted to, I
could release some myself to convince you to turn around and run home to
the starving mommy and daddy who provided your research. I think you
deserve a bit of something more interesting though, dont you?

Before I could react in any form, he grabbed my arm and jumped
high into the air on his robotic legs, so high that we rose all the way to the
roof of the apartment complexes. He landed here with a hard thud and
began to drag me towards the edge of the roof. I struggled as violently

Where Then is Truth?

Diana Vega

Dystopia, We
Nate Donato
My future is your nightmare:
tearing out my hair playing air guitar
screaming ballads about N O T H I N G
in a bombed out parking lot.
Somewhere between dumpster sandwiches
and bong rips I found a metal washer
that fits my transistor radio perfectly,
and fixed it by myself. So fuck your shit.
This is a poem about _________
fight your friends, crying encouraged;
youll find new ones passed through
chain link fences (and on the internet
you can get anything these days).

as I could, kicking and flailing and twisting my body into increasingly

unorthodox positions. Try as I might, however, his grip was too strong.
I could not wriggle away. My heart, at this point, was on the verge of
exploding.

He pulled his arm back, holding me in a single hand with ease,
poised to throw me off the building. Fear invaded my mind with violence,
spurning my body to its most desperate attempts to break free of the
transhumans hold. Even as I bit and kicked at his metallic limbs, however,
I knew there was no longer going to be an escape from this. My mind was
now so garbled up I couldnt quite tell whether I even regretted coming up
to him.

Let me tell you a few things thatll clear this matter up for you.
You think Ill miss the feel of the world on my skin? My real skin had a
virus that made it raw and unable to touch anything without excruciating
pain, so no. I wont miss it. Also, Im rich. You wont see me running out
of money any time soon. I also dont need to worry about the government,
because having all this money means I can work with them and help
advance their vision of the future. The government and I, were like best
pals. They want me to be here... but I cant say the same for you. How many
poor dogs like yourself are expendable? Millions in this city alone, so...
whos the prisoner now? he asked, turning his head slightly to look me
directly in the eyes. The same sly smile was playing on his lips again, and a
strange yellow glimmer flashed from the depths of his eyes, making him
look less human than ever.

He didnt allow me an answer. Just like that, before I had a
moment to look at the sky or think of my mothers face, he flung me off
the rooftop. I cant remember how many times Ive been told that your
life flashes in front of your eyes before you die. Either I hadnt lived life
correctly, or they were all wrong. The only things I saw as I plummeted
down onto the ground were flashes of robotic armies slaughtering people,
skyscrapers that rose up above the grey clouds, and a murky, black sky, all
followed by a rush of wind on my skin and a final, cracking darkness.

When I woke up again, there were two strangers crying by my bed.
A strange machine was attached to my mouth, and it looked like it was
attached to my arms, legs and abdomen as well. I had to wonder what kind
of strange technology it was, as it rendered my entire body motionless and
completely numb to all feeling.

I remembered nothing.

Primordialist Manifesto
(An Unmanifesto for non-Primordialists)
Randall Sass
Primordialists dont know they are primordialists

feel everything without knowing a thing

claim no predecessors but revel in Holy knowledge

of Tantric Copulative Auspices over everything.
Primordialists claim no membership to organizations yet permeate

every organization and disorganization uniformly
Primordialists hail idiot savants, drug addicts, lunatics, and

grocery shopping wasp women as saints while secretly

speaking their own name?
Primordialists are naturally freakish and freakishly natural

pray to every god except yours

plan nothing

and know that Nothing plans everything
Primordialists disavow all vows

especially this one
Primordialists are drunk on air, besotted by sobriety,

Cosmically elated
Primordialists are most sober zonked out on weird drugs,

strange decoctions, psychedelic botanica, ancient elixirs,

And bardic tinctures
Primordialists dream galaxies into goblets and goldstorms

Into thimbles
Primordialists dont care about manifestos

So they die for them at every chance whilst laughing
maniacally
Primordialists talk to entertain you

Saving their most important messages for silence
Primordialists know the Buddha nature is in poo poo and pee pee
but,

also that its in you too
Primordialists have many mommies and daddies

that make love to them
Primordialists have gurus in the pumping heart, whirring brain,
singing voice,

Enflamed loins, and dancing body

The Apocalypse Will Blossom

Grace Ackles

think of a rose bud:

soft little bundle of nice
cold red and so small
you want to eat it
like a berry. wouldnt
taste great but youre
certain you could
swallow it whole
(very few repercussions
save the thorn)
a rose bud wouldnt taste
great but Im sure you
could stomach it.
OK, now picture
the rose bud unfolding
at three trillion framesper-moment youre paying attention
and so fast it goes starch-white like old men
who go grey after traumatic events or like
fire when it gets too hot. flames get big really
fucking quick and in every direction but mostly
a flower burns upwards. a white flower now
blooming itd be so gorgeous you cant take
your eyes away, I mean itd better be so good
that you forget the urge to bite the
petals and make it stop

28

Times Arrow
Masha Bluestein

Primordialists pledge their souls to Girl Scout cookies and make

Child sacrifices on their behalf
Primordialists are Zen Voodooists, Futurist Luddites, Anarcho
Buddhist Primativos

Seraphic Shamanic Sufis and Chaoist Christ Carnival is
Primordialists orgasm at the sight of ladybugs, blood oranges in
moon light,

and all kinds of sexy shit
Primordialists have Omni-beliefs

an ontological equivalent of the Zen koan
Primordialists invent religions for fun

spawning miracles, saints, and saviors

once they resurrect Christ in pinstripe pjs, they quit
Primordialists think in fractals

eat cumulonimbus

speak pederast gummy bears
Primordialists are incahoots with everyone

Especially Eris, OTO, Sesame Street, Illuminati, and the

Empire that never ended
Primordialists eat fire halos and water spirits

Because the spigot wasnt good like Charlie
Primordialists are consanguinial to the charnel sadhus

VooDoo clocks, Taoist banana hammocks

And vatican ramekins
Primordialists find scripture in fortune cookies

Bum diatribes, suicide notes, Velvet Burroughs ground
Primordialists are indeliberate Cult leaders

That arent motivated by Cult Dynamics
Primordialists know the price of heaven

they choose to steal instead or

barter their pubic beards
Primordialists live in the clockless nowever

Abolishing clocks and sundials and chronometers

Poised on ecstacy they know now is now is now
Primordialists
Memento Mori: For Bob Kaufman and Bob Wilson

And a billion other nameless angels

Exquisite Corpse
The Embryos

An alabaster priestess with rainbow eyes

looks forward to a new temporality
looks rearview mirror into the future
and sees n o t h i n g looking back
but an unearthly chasm yawning & moody
And a gust of wind, blowing skywards
wandering and wondering why we all cant
push backwards
...when were only wandering
whys it have to push / pull / stop go

red light green

fish 1 fish 2 fish I do

wish you were a fish.

wed get along much better
but I get along without you very well
and even when I find the softness to enjoy
your prickly remarks, it still leaves me
in a state of anticipation
we warned the Lizard King

Confession Booths
Alexandra Moskow

Bathroom stalls are confession booths. People open up to their walls

in a way that they rarely do in personal encounters with others. These
writings juxtapose publicity and privacy through their anonymous nature
they are uninhibited intimate statements exposed in shared spaces.
What compels us to inscribe our truths into bathroom stalls? A yearning
for connection, for the possibility of a response, surfacing of fear, a
desire to be seen safely; a desire to spread a message. While writing on
the wall may not seem like a revolutionary act, these instances of raw
honesty displayed in the open forum of a public restroom have often been
deemed rebellious or vandal - beyond convention. Each inscription
contains spark of revolution and, at the very least, some uprising of honesty.

Writings on the Wall

Stefanie Winton
Compiled from various revolutionary writings found on campus
as well as around Santa Cruz. The places vary from bathroom
stalls, underground graffiti, post it notes on rails, and billboards.

Eat your propaganda,

resist and exist even though
our ideas are bleached out,
painted over, erased.
In a system of incarceration,
we chant for education, freedom,
fuck debt. Find what you love
and let it kill you instead.
Eat less propaganda
Live not in fear of creation,
conserve water, save California.
Do more of what makes
you happy.
Eat no propaganda.
Love,

The Visionaries

10

Children of Time
Stefanie Winton
Primarily derived from extracted texts from the
Dispossessed, along with lecture notes and other
readings that have sliced, diced and reassembled.

Be careful as the future

becomes the past, the past
becomes the future.
Today there is a suicidal
sickness that states low
pay is better than no pay.
Our possessions own us,
until we are possessed.
Drive kills desire, yet we
are still content living
within prison walls.
We are children among
thieves, been bought,
but change is freedom.
Dont write as you were trained
to, but, by what feels right.
Walk through the wall.
The most valuable things
lie in the mind. Art is made
out of time and today
there is no time for art.

11

taking home an unforgettable moment any day. In the hypothetical domain,

the only areas for improvements I see would be to make the rules of
surfing and the reasons for political hierarchy public to avoid confusion in
the lineup. Furthermore, there would be less tension in the air if everyone
in the water was more appreciative and thankful for their experience they
are receiving no matter the conditions (surf quality and crowd quantity).
By being able to look at the grand picture, days of worse surf quality
and increased crowds can still be a recipe for feeling stoked to be able to
participate in the variety of conditions that makes surfing interesting. While
this maybe a difficult challenge, I think it breeds the best outcomes.

As of now, surfing doesnt need a revolution. No one is going to
protest the politics behind surfing because they make sense. However, along
the lines of dystopian visions, ecological destruction will make the ocean
less enchanted and will change the waves themselves for better or worse.
In addition, the population of surfers will continue to grow and make
resources more scarce. There are some technological advancements that
will help surfers tap into uncrowded waves such as lights for night surfing,
board development, artificial waves, and kitesurfing has allowed me to ride
a surfboard on fun waves with no surfers in the water. There might be a
revolution of the unspoken hierarchy if locals at particularly crowded spots
create a centralized power that would systematically call out waves to certain
individuals. That said, my utopian futuristic vision of surfing is living in
the pacific northwest as the climate changes and find the next Santa Cruz
to live with a smaller population of surfers and share good waves with the
same system we have here today.

isolating myself on the outside of the perimeter of the break as I let them
all get whatever waves they desired until it was my turn, in which I had to
make an aggressive display to concretely show that I deserved this particular
wave. I didnt get kicked out because my demeanor showed humility,
confidence, and I gave much more than I took because I lacked the history
of the human economy they shared. Furthermore, while my ability was
lesser, I still made considerable use of the energy of the waves. This was
a good day, and there have been other days where I was not as lucky, got
frustrated, and did not play by the rules as I should have and suffered the
consequences. The element of luck is something that evens the playing field
where sometimes surfers on the bottom of the hierarchy might happen to
be in the best place for the wave of the day. While surfers at the top of the
hierarchy might see this great wave to be wasted on a kook, I think we
should all be stoked for whoever it is having perhaps the ride of their life;
take away the jealousy and insert appreciation.

Moving away from surfing politics, it is important to understand
the addicting supernatural feelings that surfing provides. While I cant put
the feeling of getting barreled into words, I can say that surfing has given
me many moments of my life that I will never forget. Theres something
to the good feelings one gets at the beach coupled with anticipation of
perhaps making a new unforgettable memory. Nonetheless, the reality
of surfing is many days of poor conditions and crowed lineups, in which
having a remote control surfer could be more entertaining that hopping
into the water. With reference to The Dispossessed, it seemed that
Shevek had the highest appreciation for food after starving on the trains.
Good waves are also a scarce resource, and the fact that they are a select
few is a function of what makes surfing so fun. With reference to the
Benjamin notion of temporality, there is no continuum as surfers are
utterly dependent on the randomness of mother nature. It is a constant
goal to make patterns out of the randomness, but sometimes constructed
ideologies backfire. For example, Ive had sessions of waiting a half hour
for one wave to come based on my logic in reading a certain swell, tinged
with uncontrollable optimism, and have had to paddle in without the
desired end state.

Surfing in Santa Cruz seems to be close to a Utopian vision. We
have a system to share limited resources, and waves range in quality to fit
the range in surfers ability, which means that everyone has a chance of

23

The sun cant be hidden

under a stone, you cant eat
art. In a dream there is no time.
Freedom is invisible space,
the center void to fill with Utopian
ideals of paradise is for those
who make paradise.
Lights differ but there is one
darkness, midnight whispers,
future rebellion.

Hopeful Despair
Monica Calsbeek

12

Utopia Xe
Margarito Leon
Marg,
he,
him,
his,

Masculine pronouns are how I am referred to, all the men get
treated like royalty, the job we want is ours for the taking, the pay is high,
and the food is served, by the opposite sex of course, so why wouldnt you
want to be born a male. I mean, females, she, her, and hers, maintain the
men, they cook, they clean, and take care of the offspring, and as a payment
she can live with him.

Nothing is wrong with being a woman, I mean you dont have
societies pressure on your shoulders to not show any form of femininity. I
understand females also have societys pressure, to look a certain way and
possess many qualities. But hey, at least when you break a stereotype of
women cant be strong, they cant lead companies to riches, or even
being able to vote because when broken, women are seen to have some sort
of upgrade in their life and not a downgrade like when a man bends his
knee when he stands in place because only girls do that.

Who wouldnt want be born a male? That is until I discovered a
new place. A utopia you might call it, its rules are contradicting, I dont
know how the economy works just quite yet, or if people even die. I heard
from a man once that those who worry not about gender representation
stay wrinkle free at age 100 because gender is not applied to either she or
he. Who could of thought that being free to express yourself is the key to
eternal youth. The streets are painted in every color because blue and pink
arent the only colors we can like and yet there is symmetry to the painting
of this place and its adds extra beauty.

At first you will notice xe sits and brushes xyr hairy feet as ze paints
zir fingernails next to them. Zir favorite color to use has a slight glow of a
neon pink with the texture of a purple spiral galaxy from outer space. You
might wonder why xyr doesnt shave or how did zir find such a queer color.
Isnt xyr embarrassed that someone might judge them for that? I tell you,
they would just stand right up and shake their arm at you exposing their
armpit hair.

13

The Future of Surfing

Alex Smith

Somedays it seems that nobody works in Santa Cruz. There
must have been hundreds of sick days used on this particular Thursday
morning around 9am. The first south swell of the season ignited a favorable
section of coastline that became occupied by over 70 wave thirsty Santa
Cruzans. While one part of the rocky point looked particularly fun with
some guys getting barreled and punting airs, the dense pack of 20 looked
impenetrable. so I surfed elsewhere.

Theres an unspoken hierarchy in surfing due to the fact that waves
are a limited resource to only be ridden by a single surfer. The event of
an individual surfing a wave depends on luck in addition to this political
hierarchy. A surfers position in the lineup is based upon: their ability, how
familiar they are to the other surfers, the wave quality, who else is in the
lineup, the individuals demeanor, and their knowledge of the rules. The
components of this hierarchy regarding the relationship one surfer has to
the others can be synthesized into an understanding of the human economy
that takes place in lineups. Many surfers in Santa Cruz have surfed together
for decades and have had the opportunity to exchange favors (waves) with
their close friends. This is why I believe there is resentment towards UCSC
students in the water. Locals know that Slugs are only around for a few
years, so they lack the history of participating in the human economy and
they will not contribute to the exchanging favors for long. Furthermore,
a UCSC student might show up with four friends (extra people taking
a limited resource) and could have unpleasant demeanors. Also, some
students might be on the beginner end of the ability spectrum while many
locals rank among pros. As a Slug, I have adopted a methodology to try
integrating myself into the local human economy, which can be exemplified
by the following experience.

Recently, I surfed a more secretive spot that requires a 15 minute
paddle to access. The surf break is a hidden gem, which has implications
insofar as higher quality waves make hierarchies more present insofar as
better surfers can do greater maneuvers, and everyone trecked a bit and is
hoping for less people out. Because there were eight guys out that all knew
each other and were absolutely killing it, I put myself at the bottom of the
totem pole. I followed the set of rules corresponding to this situation by

22

Written on a Bus Ride

Grace Ackles

Thats the thing though, why should they. Here, they can have as
much hair as desired and still lead a progressive company. Everyone wears
genderless clothes, they look similar to your dresses, pants, and bedtime
wear except..... It does not require genetelia to tell you what you can and
cant wear. Why does it affect the way you present yourself ? Go ahead wear
makeup , become a good cook, or show your emotions because here.....
genetelia is not your gender nor sexuality, they are all separate. Dont allow
it to limit as to how happy you can be........... feel free to express what you
can do, can wear, or can say. True freedom of expression.

Everyone works together, there is no need to compete to see
which gender is greater. No one is hurt by being misgendered because the
words to do so do not exist. Thats why some might call it a utopia. But you
see........
...........
.........

I identify as Mexican, my mother tongue does not allow for me
to speak in such a neutral way. My actions are gendered, adjectives change
for the binary, and even everyday objects are gendered which caused the
destruction of my own utopia.
Its okay, once we get rid of gender, peace can be restored.

Try it out, some people already have no gender. If you ask
someone what their pronouns are you might be surprised with some of the
responses.
Marg,
They
Them
Themselves.

21

14

Utopian Garden

No. 9

Paige Sidway

Josh Cane Pool

The sun shone on the green fauna, creating an aura of densely
bright light harboring the life-energy of the community. The community
consisted of the entire life-cycle; the plants, the animals, the land, and the
humans which lived among them. Children and adults alike wandered the
tall green and brown stalks, picking off the ripened fruits and vegetables.
Some would be handed to others to plants their seeds, using the whole
womb to plant, so that the seed might have the natural nutrients needed to
grow into a strong life with the help and gentle care of humans. One youth
picked an avocado and felt it was one to be birthed. Ze buried the dark
green bulb in the womb of the earth, thinking about the nutrients of the
community that helped em grow just as the avocados nutrients helped the
seedling. The oleic acid at the center was replaced with teachers; those who
used their patience to help their peers of all ages digest and comprehend
new knowledges. The antioxidants held in the dark green outer curvature
were the honest centers instilled by the community over time which allow
one to decipher harmful ways of thinking and acting in a manner that is
out of tune with equality and respect. The omega-3s are the mark of caring
left behind by the community and imbedded on each creatures heart. The
vitamin E transformed into the vigor and passion for life and community
that is passed on to each member. Ze poured water on the freshly turned
earth and walked back toward the ripened fruits to be picked.

Birds chirped as they flitted from one branch to another, choosing
brittle twigs to reuse and renew life in through making strong nests. As the
birds flew, seeds from each branch would fall, and if the land permitted
it, the seed would grow on its own. These seedlings were called Wonder
Seedlings, in tribute to the awe inspiring perseverance of all aspects of
nature when in unison. These Wonder Seedlings were to be taken care of
by any human who saw it needed care. Often youths would choose one to
care for and would harvest what the plant gave to them, which they would
them take back to the community center and use it to prepare a portion of
the meal, which was given to humans and animals alike, with all that was
left over being added to the compost which would then feed the next era
of plants. The compost was also fed to the soft grass underfoot and the
lavender and sourgrass coloring the open spaces around the community
center. Each and every aspect of the community, the life-cycle, bore the
mark of caring. No voice is silenced. No creature not respected. No life not
cared for.

15

The alarm goes off, a shock to my bed

No need to shower, just get off to work
No nose anyway, dont need that to work
That Robot Overlord has a great head
It knows to think and, that I dont need to
All I really need, is to get to work
And the supplements, make it fun to work
No need to eat or fuck and cure the flu
And I fear the buzz, the end of shift
chime
Respite in my bed, after long days work
Cause weve all been programmed to love
this work
So we do send this message back in time
A cautionary tale, to be wary
Of mans world without any, rosemary.

A Call to Color
Chance Rhome
Color inside the lines
Let them show you how to draw.
Let them tell you what beauty means.
Watch as they show you what number pencil to use,
and sit back as they guide your hand ever so firmly across the paper.
Stay inside the lines.

We Planted a Garden
Paige Sidway

Live your life for them.

Work yourself to death to pay for school to work yourself to death to pay
off the loans.
Make sure your tie is tight enough to choke the protests from your throat.
You are successful now.
Color inside the lines.
Let them mold you.
Stand still as they squeeze and pull and knead
and shove you into a role, binarize you.
You are solid, you cannot crumble.
You are delicate, handle with care.
Watch them dictate the person you will become,
mold you into the perfect sculpture.
Let them tell you who you are.
You are beautiful now.
Color inside the lines.
Then. Refuse.
Color outside the lines.
Smile with perverse satisfaction as your pen glides over the unwritten rules,
blots out the pre made barriers
Smash through the walls of gentrified ludicrousy.
Become genderless. Fluid. Liquid.
Seep into their veins and drown the lungs.
Turn their dictations into gurgles.
Break through the glass ceiling and see the stars for the first time.
Let the brightness of our revolution blind you.

19

16

Outside the Wall

Grace Bethel