YEAR WITHOUT SUMMER Written by Caitlyn Tella
we walk uphill with the teenagers everything leads to a view I’ve seen before in different weather triplet , stolen , sunvein , I stop listening— it’s all too meaningful to sit like figurines and act bright blue
tucked in our private lexicon protected from imaginary peril like a couple. Windows shut I click and pretend. Our luck constellates, oils, storms it works in the quiet, no subtext
my thoughts are pure hair, clair, aster, glacier basically unspeakable like I can’t really talk I’m, um, gardening, doing good, doing great high on the strength of the inconsolable
THE EYE OF THE NOCTURNAL STORM Written by Erica Brown
The life cycle of any LA scene is as follows: 3 acts, 1 monitor: CalArts nerds, LA natives, and AM ra- dio listeners in a basement or backyard The Rise: When the right person attends and tells all the other right people to attend as well. Promoters are breaking even. Peak: The infrastructure of the party is flushed out. Lim- ited capacity. At least 4 people on the list had sex with some- one to get there.Resident Advisor. Death: Late 20’s clout demons and recent LA transplants. The Cobra Snake. I’ve observed the lifespan of a party a few times, but never accounted for the death of a party girl, and did not know the signs. This, to me, is a disaster, for which I need to stockpile and warn others. Like many instances of mourning, it comes slowly, and then all at once. I watch the sunrise from the plas- tic chair I’ve been planted in since 10pm. The last party goer stumbles past the entrance as I turn on the lights to a sea of whippets, White Claws, and a straggling guest shooting LA’s most niche home videos on a camcorder. I have a unique per- spective on these things, being that I’ve spent my formative years involving myself intimately with the club scene. I have since outgrown the 18-24 bracket and, despite much warning, I am in awe that my perspective has shifted. “Is it really that serious?” If you’re thinking this, it’s al- ready too late. I’ve watched loved ones matriculate psycho- logical warfare, cults, bullying, overdoses, etc, and for what? I look around at my peers and wish there was a less judgmental way to express that forcing inspiration by traumatizing them- selves and others will never relinquish you from your upper middle class status. And while we’re on the subject, I know we could raise the production value on these things. With all the combined generational wealth of LA’s “rejects,” we could easily be partying in a venue with less plumbing issues. In one extremely sobering moment I realized I’m circling the drain, and no, it’s not just the stench of the porta-potties. Once you’ve escaped the hellish loop of the internet’s
most empathetic narcissists, you can take a step back, and have a look from the outside in. Delusions of grandeur and (undiagnosed) mental disorders is the perfect cocktail for very real trauma. It is also important to note that not all circle jerks are created equal, especially if your aim is to stop panhan- dling on Instagram. Like riding a bike, you go where your eyes are and when your gaze is set on dick-riding, you get dick. Sometimes not even that. I find myself wafting from behind the (cigarette) smoke screen and into the light. Finally, I’ve hopped off the not-so-merry-go-round—at least not without a few hits of something, that is. I reminisce on all the ways I have been destroyed and re- born at the hands of other people’s cravings: fame, love, drugs. The plight of craving has long been personified and glamor- ized by vampires. Plagued by a want, not a need, and crushed under the guilt of pursuing it at the cost of others. Not allow- ing themselves the warmth of the sun to mourn those they’ve taken in the night. Mythology’s most beautiful leeches are im- itated by gorgeous tragedies that stalk the city of fallen angels. Maybe they aren’t thirsty for blood, but they all really know how to suck all of the air out of the room—and quickly. Contrary to how this all comes across, or even something I’ve expressed directly, this is not a piece on parties or a sat- ire on the scene—not intentionally, anyway. My intent is not to direct your thoughts in any particular direction; rather, I am documenting an end of an era. Despite my best efforts, I am struggling to feel anything but nonchalance towards the things that I once idolized. It is important to cherish the times in which you’re grow- ing up, especially in a city as timeless as Los Angeles. It is here that I find myself, in the evil eye of the storm, surrounded by the clamoring of LA’s Most Wanting, as I am now literally “moving in silence.” To sit still and let the storm be was nev- er possible. It is a form of transportation, to join the storm, with no control of outcome. But 8 years later, the clouds have parted, the sun has come out, and I am surely not in Kansas anymore.
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