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Becoming a N(on-) A(thletic) R(egular) P(erson)

Nicholas Miller
February 24, 2023

College club sports have grown exponentially since the 1990s, according to a New York Times article by Bill Pennington. A significant factor is what Pennington refers to as “America’s outsized youth sports culture.” He writes, “With more than 40 million children playing organized sports—often on first rate travel teams—more students are graduating from high school with extensive athletic interest and skills than ever before.” That figure is now 60 million with over 3 million children playing youth soccer.It was this scale that I began to partially understand when I arrived at the Brown University field and saw all the kids with gray Under Armour T-shirts, white Nike socks, and backpacks of their previous club team, stretching and juggling and passing.The tryout itself went fine—I made a few good plays but certainly didn’t stand out among the hundred-some others. We would’ve been emailed if we were invited back the next day. As I expected, I never received an email. It didn’t quite sink in immediately that my competitive soccer career was likely over. It happened slowly over the course of the semester as I walked around campus realizing I didn’t have a thing, something people connected me with, something I connected myself with. I remember hypothesizing to my parents later that semester during Parents’ Weekend: “I don’t think our brains are capable of comprehending how many people are in the world.” The experiences I had on the soccer field as a kid were joyful, terrifying, invigorating, painful, and undeniably special for me and for my development, but I had to realize they were not unique. It was a frightening realization that dislodged a fixed and crucial part of my identity that had existed for almost fifteen years. My intramural soccer team won the championship, providing a brief moment of glory that reignited the memories. But other than that, I had become a Non-Athletic Regular Person, or a NARP. I started wearing my glasses more, abandoning my black trainers in favor of my beige Vans, and devoting time that I previously used to workout to writing and learning Portuguese and thinking about the inadequacies of breaking news journalism. It was an unsettling transition, but I have come to see such a degree of change as a necessary part of college. The average American university population size is 6,354, according to U.S. News and World Report, while Forbes says the average high school has 850 students. Incoming college students are not just away from home for the first time or in a more rigorous academic environment, but also in a community far larger than the bubble they are coming from. They must reevaluate the size of the world and reconfigure their place in it. And they will have to do so again when they study abroad and meet people who don’t understand what it means to be a quarterback or the student government president or when they graduate and lose the figurative brightly colored nametags of fraternities or university email addresses or ultimate frisbee teams (Post-Graduation Depression does get its own page on Healthline after all.) Or again when they apply for a new job and realize that there are a lot of people who have interned for a congressperson and not everybody can be a diplomat. As one’s world grows, one’s identity shifts, potentially landing one in apparent mediocrity. But such a change is also a chance to come to terms with that averageness and the size of the world in relation to oneself. Unmoored from the specific activities and accomplishments that previously made them unique, people find new hobbies or develop new skills, or even choose to no longer use such external metrics to determine their self-conception. They become free to appreciate the many things the world has to offer outside of the rigid identities of their youth.Because thankfully, life is a lot bigger than an eight-year-old soccer field.

Collections: The Favorite Words of Sole Magazine

Words by Deeya Prakash, Libby Dakers, Pooja Kalyan, Navya Sahay, and Riley Stevenson
February 17, 2023

This article is the first of several collection pieces we will publish this semester, in which we ask some of our staff writers to each write a short blurb in response to a prompt. This week’s prompt was: Write about your favorite word. We received a wide range of responses, about words that were silly, graceful, violent, sophisticated, imaginary. We invite you to take a stroll through these mini word exhibits, starting with Deeya Prakash’s presentation of “diaphanous,” and seeing where you end up. DiaphanousDeeya Prakash‍Diaphanous. It sounds like the name of an eternal goddess, her body slim and sleek, eyes drawn closed, skin glowing in the evening air. It sounds like a clear breath at high altitude, open sky and streaming sunlight and “Mom can we please go…” It sounds like the meadow. It sounds like my sister.Say it. Whisper it. It feels like something you shouldn’t know. It means delicate, light, the way the wind blows raindrops off the side of our moving minivan, tears streaming down cheeks until you’ve cried so much that all there is is silence, a gaping mouth and a beating heart and no sound but the echo of what once was.It means sheer. Transparent. Cover it up and we’ll see right through.It means that you know I can’t stand living at home anymore but I come back to school and cry because there will be a time in my life when our parents are no longer alive. Diaphanous. -ous. us. You and me. Do you miss when it was just you and me? Jack and Jill bathrooms and sidewalk chalk smiles and pajama pants too short? Let’s go watch the stars together. Nobody braids my hair like you do.Diaphanous. -phan. phone. I’m sorry I sometimes don’t pick up the phone. Tell me about your day. How was school? How’s dad?Diaphanous. Di-. Die. Unthinkable. It’s a little scary how diaphanous this life can be. It feels like something you shouldn’t know.‍Bleeding‍Libby Dakers‍Everyone knows the drama of bleeding. Rich red, morbidity, beating hearts. What about the bleeding that means settling into a new position? The bleeding that describes how one thought, one sliver of wind, one bold spot of ink, runs into its next opportunity? Bleeding demonstrates the unity of two becoming one, as my time bleeds into yours, and yours into mine when we walk side by side down the street. Bleeding describes life, though not in the way of warm blood running thinly. An unmistakable feeling; I bleed when you cry.Bleeding is the word that pulled me closer, urging me to place words where they may not typically go. In my first poems, the wind would not tousle the leaves and the tension in the air would not throw pebbles at my window if the blue sky did not bleed to dusk. Bleeding pushes me through boundaries, like blood pours through open skin. Think beyond the heart, because so much pulses around you.‍UbePooja Kalyan‍Ube. Not pronounced how you might think at first glance, but rather, “OOH-BAY.”U, for unexplainably delicious.B, for beautifully purple.E, for exquisitely flavorful.Say it out loud and you’ll experience the wonderful way the word bounces off your lips. Feel your mouth open for the “Ooh,” quickly close for the “Beh,” and open again, but a little less this time, for the “ay.” It’s kinda like bouncing on a trampoline—how the lips quickly bounce together, then apart to say the word.It’s wonderful.Almost as wonderful as the taste of the starchy root vegetable itself. I remember the first time I tasted ube. A sweet, nutty flavor blended perfectly into a naturally purple ice cream. My taste buds came alive for a brief moment, as if the ube was begging me to try another spoonful. I couldn’t resist.I still can’t.Ube. Picture purple yam. Still sweet like plain sweet potatoes, yet even more moist. Coco-nutty, with a hint of vanilla. Soft and moist when boiled. Creamy and smooth in a scoop of ice cream.Delicate and light as a pot de crème.Yes, ube is a word. But it is also an experience:An experience to say it.An experience to eat it.An experience to see itsbeautiful purple color.You won’t resist.‍ElusiveNavya Sahay‍Elusive. Roll it down your tongue, lingering on the “l” like it’s your true love but playing hard to get—which fits in well with the word’s meaning: a thing that’s there briefly, fleetingly, before escaping to somewhere beyond your reach. It’s ice melting in your hands. A deer you glimpse in a quiet forest that bolts as soon as you try to get a better view of it. A shimmering reflection in a pool of shifting water that vanishes with the slightest change of angle. It’s something that is never fully there, but which makes its presence felt, becoming all the more valuable because of its infrequency. It’s a rarity, a word that exists in abstract realms of hypothetical thought, a word to quantify the unknown that one can’t catch. As a word, it is subtle just like what it describes—it is sleek, sophisticated, and mysterious. It isn’t like those chunky, obvious words like happy, delicious, magnificent, horrible, or splendid. It calls to mind clouds or mists in the moors that one can never quite touch or dreams one can never fully remember. It’s an introspective word, something that makes you stop and think, “Wait a minute, what is in there?” A secret that no one knows but everyone longs to find out. ‍BEEBAHBOORiley Stevenson‍My favorite word is not exactly a word. Rather, it is a nonsense collection of sounds, which came to me straight from the mouth and mind of a six-year-old. It’s not a word but a memory, really, forever ingrained in my mind. It was the second-to-last day of summer camp. I was on the water with two six-year-old boys, facilitating their now-typical routine of jump, splash, climb. Floating in the water, I waited as the boys launched off the dock and into my arms, then flung them back toward the dock, where my co-counselor sat, helping them in and out of the water. Time and time again we repeated this routine, all splashing and giggles and bright sunlight reflected in flying water droplets. In one of these cycles, B, on his way into the water, gazed at me with a wide-eyed, big smile, and said, in his little-kid manner of never-ending monologue: “I can’t wait to be alive!” I instantly cataloged this, recognizing the way it so perfectly described his ethos: Each moment was more exciting than the last, each instant one to be savored before galloping onto the next, even more breathtaking second. Moments later, he shouted, of all things, “BEEBAHBOOOOO!”A series of nonsense sounds, exclaimed into a glorious summer day, all yellow and green and blue, warmth and noise and sunshine. He could have said anything at that moment, but when he said it, these two ideas––B’s zest for life, and the phrase itself––were instantly and eternally linked in my mind. In that moment I thought, unexpectedly, of every second I’ve ever spent on a trail, all of the miles I’ve walked on my own two feet, the trees I’ve seen, the mountains I’ve climbed. I felt a moment of intense, blinding gratitude—I can pull myself up hard trails and howl at the sunrise from rocky outcroppings, and I get to be here, present in this moment of slinging a child onto a paddleboard while he shrieks with delight. Now, when I am on mountain summits, approaching tumbling rapids, at the top of ski runs, and skating on frozen ponds, it is my favorite thing to scream, to remind me that I am alive and lucky: “Beebahboo.” This is it. I think of B each time, of how well he knew that nothing has ever mattered more than this single moment, and the next one, too. I think often of those two blue, waterlogged eyes staring straight at me, and my two feet strong beneath me as I stand atop the world. Beebahboo. I can’t wait to be alive. ‍

What’s a P-Funk?

Elysée Barakett
February 10, 2023

Sometime during the first days of classes in 2021, I met a girl named Nora who could make entire facial expressions with just her eyes. She was good enough at Introductory Level Chemistry to help me when I was stuck, but not too good to avoid Thursday Night Optional Problem Solving Sessions—we went together every week. She always layered her shirts: a tank top over a white tee shirt or a gray graphic tee shirt over a black turtleneck. Sometime during the second set of exams, I stopped seeing Nora as much. She tried out for Ultimate Frisbee and made the team she wanted. She stopped coming to Thursday Night Optional Problem Solving Sessions and started wearing her brown hair in pigtails. Whenever I saw her later in the semester, she’d be wearing a polyester long sleeve and white sports glasses with ear grips and reflective lenses. The world of Ultimate Frisbee had slowly consumed her, and I had lost a friend in the process. How could someone completely disappear—into the World of Frisbee? Was Nora even on campus still? Maybe she was somewhere else—floating through space on a massive purple frisbee and talking only to frisbee-shaped aliens. I decided to explore what draws people so far into Ultimate Frisbee that they are never seen again. To do this, I had to ask the people on the other side. I thought of the frisbee players I knew and reached out to all four of them: Henry ’25, Daniel ’24, Aaron ’25, and Bella ’25, who have all been a part of the frisbee program since their first year at Brown. I spoke to Henry inside the lobby of the Nelson Fitness Center before his Sunday afternoon practice. Henry wore a flat black cap with a logo of a distorted frisbee and a purple athletic shirt with a cartoon of a frisbee slicing through a mushroom. Henry explained that wearing merchandise from past tournaments or old teams gives you clout. He explained that someone who amassed a lot of merch over the years was called a “FCG,” which stands for “Frisbee Cool Guy.” A FCG is basically a “frisbee sweat.” From his appearance and description of a FCG, I believe that Henry is your textbook Frisbee Cool Guy.Henry was first drawn to frisbee at the Club Fair. The frisbee team placed a frisbee on top of a high pole and challenged kids to leap up and grab it. It was a fun challenge to test people’s jumping abilities and draw them in—if they could retrieve the frisbee off a pole, maybe they would be exceptional at Ultimate. Henry, who is from Nebraska where the sport is more or less “nonexistent,” accepted the challenge. Standing at 6’4”, he easily retrieved the frisbee with a graceful leap. He has been hooked on Ultimate ever since.I met up with Daniel and Aaron at Jo’s. Although Jo’s is known for its cheeseburgers and spicy chicken sandwiches, Daniel and Aaron are vegans. Both opted for salads with every topping available, and a hot cup of classic minestrone soup on the side. Daniel likes to wear athletic shorts to practice, and he brings both a light and dark shirt to change into for team scrimmages. He also always sports his navy Brooks brand visor when he plays. The Brooks logo, once white and reflective, is a bit yellowed and peeling off. From Middletown Springs, Vermont, Daniel played frisbee frequently before coming to Brown—he played pickup with friends and his school included Ultimate as a part of gym class. He entered the world of Ultimate Frisbee on campus during the 2nd semester of his first year. Aaron said that he wears standard athletic shorts and a shirt to practice, but that on Halloween the players dress up into costumes, such as furry animal onesies. He started playing when he was 10 years old at summer camp, and he joined his first Ultimate team when he was 14. He says that he spends most of his time with the team, as they are his closest friends. Bella, who is from Brooklyn, also started playing Ultimate in high school. At practices, she likes to wear a pinny and whatever you would wear to soccer, while also usually sporting skinny tortoise shell glasses. She said that people can wear whatever they want because the sport is so inclusive. The funky fits people wear are called “Flair,” which is less of an adjective and more of a noun. Bella noted that she has seen people play barefoot and in “Cow Hats,” which she logically described as “hats that look like cows.”Ultimate Frisbee is a noncontact sport—you can box people out, but you can’t push them. The game starts with a “Pull” which is basically a kickoff, but it’s actually just a throw because kicking a frisbee would probably be impossible unless you had super-high toe dexterity. There are two end zones, like in football, and seven players on each team, like in touch football. Of the seven players on the field, two are “Handlers” and the other five are the “Stack,” explained Daniel. The Handlers are the passers—like the point guard in basketball. The Stack lines up down the field from the person with the frisbee. They cut back and forth to get open and catch the frisbee when it’s thrown to them before passing it to someone else, eventually, moving the frisbee down the field in this way (you cannot run with the frisbee.) There is a Vertical Stack Formation to move up and down the field and a Horizontal Stack Formation to move across the field. Teams can choose to use Person-to-Person Defense or Zone Defense, also like in basketball. On defense, Aaron likes to do a “Layout D” which is similar to a slide tackle in soccer, with the defender diving toward the frisbee. When the frisbee touches the ground, possession changes—it is now time for the team that was on defense to get a chance at offense. Sometimes when the frisbee touches the ground it rolls about for a bit and players from each team chase after it wildly.Players can choose from a bunch of different throws. There are forehands and backhands, like in tennis. The backhand is the more common throw with the back of the hand facing outward. It is similar to the shooing motion. The forehand is where the palm faces out. It is similar to slapping motion. There are more spicy throws as well. Henry likes to use a “Scoober” which he described as a “floaty throw.” This toss gets the frisbee over the defenders, with the disc staying in the air longer. To do it, you grip the frisbee as if you were throwing a forehand, flip the disc upside down, and throw the frisbee as if you were throwing a backhand, but with your arm twisted a bit. Depending on how far you want to Scoober the disc, you should try tossing at different angles. Daniel likes to use the “Hammer” where you wind up over your head and throw the disc as if you are playing the High Striker game at a carnival. Aaron added that the Hammer “can lead to a magic trick” where you act like you are going to throw the disc but you don’t actually do it. He compared this move to when you play fetch with a dog and pretend to throw the ball. He quickly added that he doesn’t know if he wants to “make that image” because most people already connect frisbees and dogs. Frisbee teams typically have quirky names as a way to counter typical sport culture. Brown’s teams have been around since the 1970s. Henry’s team is called “Brownian Motion,” better known by its nickname: “B-Mo.” Brownian motion is a physical phenomenon in liquids and gasses in which the particles randomly and spread out evenly. The phenomenon was named after Robert Brown, a Scottish botanist, who was the first to study it in depth after he noticed microscopic pollen grain particles spreading out while researching the fertilization of clarkia pulchella, a purple flower whose four petals look like reindeer antlers. Aaron and Daniel play for “Polyester Funkadelic,” better known by its nickname: “P-Funk.” There was a funk band in the 1970s called Parliament Funkadelic, that was abbreviated to P-Funk. The American band has released multiple albums with names such as “Maggot Brain” (1971) and “One Nation Under a Groove” (1978). The team’s name is a nod to the band, Aaron explained, and he guesses that adding “Polyester” to the name is a reference to polyester being a common material in athletic clothing. Bella plays for “Cosmic Rays,” better known by its nickname: “Co-Rays.” Galactic cosmic rays are high energy atom fragments that come from space. They can be created in supernovas (a star exploding), when particles within the explosion crash into each other.B-Mo’s logo is a Hellfish curled up to look like a frisbee. The Hellfish is actually not a real fish. It is the name of a World War II military unit in the television show The Simpsons that had members including Abraham Jebediah “Abe” Simpson II (the grandpa in the show) as well as Charles Montgomery Plantagenet Schicklgruber Burns (also known as Mr Burns, the evil guy who runs the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant). The frisbee slicing through a mushroom on Henry’s shirt is the logo for P-funk, the team he was on last year. The mushroom, probably a psilocybin (magic) mushroom, is a reference to the psychedelic themes of the band the team is named after. The logo for Cosmic Rays is a sting ray with constellations covering its back. The ray is curled up, presumably in the shape of a disc. I asked Aaron why it is called Ultimate Frisbee, and he said that he had a story that he felt was “pretty true.” He explained that “Frisbie” was the name of a pie tin brand. People started calling the game Frisbee, but the name was patented, so they switched to just calling it “Ultimate,” without frisbee in the name at all. But, he added, “they” didn’t want to seem like they were trying to be too cool, so they went back to calling it Ultimate Frisbee. Henry thinks that the frisbee disc was invented before the game, and that random high-schoolers from New Jersey were the ones that invented the sport. Upon creating the game, they called it “Ultimate” because it was the best way one can play frisbee, Henry said. To me, Ultimate also means final. I’d like to think that perhaps this form of using a frisbee is the final stage in the game’s evolution. Other records suggest that Ultimate Frisbee was created in 1968 by eventual American film producer Joel Silver after a one-year stint at a prep school in Massachusetts. He learned of a game kids were playing in Amherst, the site of the Frisbie Pie Company, called “Frisbee Football,” in which they threw around the metal pie tins. Silver then moved to Columbia High School in New Jersey, where he successfully advocated for the game to be added to the school’s curriculum. Kids played in the school’s parking lot, and Silver, along with his two friends Bernard “Buzzy” Hellring and Jonathan “Jonny” Hines, developed rules for the game. Ultimate Frisbee became a hit, and students at neighboring schools started to play.Over 100 people tryout for Brown’s five teams. There are three open division teams and two women’s and gender expansive teams. B-Mo is the top open division team. Last year, it was the second best team in the country. Some of the people on the team play professionally or play on club teams during the summers. P-Funk is considered the open division B-team. It is still competitive like B-Mo, but “more chill,” according to Daniel. The open division C team is called Mo Ship. Shiver is Brown’s women’s and gender expansive A-team and Cosmic Rays is the B-team. Both Mo Ship and Cosmic Rays do not require tryouts and accept all players regardless of their skill level. On these teams, anyone can join at any point during the season. They allow for a wide variety of commitment and skill. Teams compete in various tournaments in different regions depending on their conference. Henry went to Maine a few weekends ago and woke up at 4 am this past Friday to fly to Georgia for a competition. This past weekend, P-Funk went to New York for a tournament and stayed at their captain’s grandma’s house. By winning tournaments, the team gets trophies, medals, merchandise, and “cool frisbees,” Henry said.To recruit new members, the teams advertise themselves at the Club Fair, host pick up games through their Falltimate (Fall Ultimate) League, or do a Dorm Storm (print out flyers and distribute them in every first-year dorm). Daniel added that most kids on the higher level teams came to Brown knowing they wanted to play because they had done it previously. Off the field, the teams come together for program-wide functions. These include casual scrimmages and parties, which mix with other teams in the program, allowing players to meet each other in a different way that is not focused on actual frisbeeing. Bella said that Frisbee People tend to live together, and that although there is no official “Frisbee House,” there are different groups of frisbee players all living on Pitman Street. As Daniel put it, frisbee draws in people who “tend to be cool.”Each Halloween, there is a program-wide party called the “Big Bang,” where all players from all teams can come party in their costumes. Another all-program party tradition is the “Yule Ball.” The concept of the Yule Ball comes from the Harry Potter movie series. In the movies, it is a formal Christmas party for students from three different wizarding schools. Prior to the frisbee event, players self-select into one of the four Hogwarts Houses and attend a pregame with their respective house. Bella was a Gryffindor. She noted that there is “lots of interteam dating,” and that during a party with alumni present, she heard from many of her frisbee peers that there was a lot of tension in the room between past lovers. Bella explained that some teams have their own traditions such as Chicken Finger Fridays where a whole team goes to the Ratty and eats chicken fingers on Fridays. “Everyone who does [frisbee] loves it, which makes it such a great community,” Henry said. Aaron explained that nicknames are a big part of college frisbee culture. Every person is given a nickname by the rest of the team. “People pride themselves on people not knowing their real name because people only know their frisbee name,” Aaron said. Daniel’s last name is Graves. His older brother John is on the team and received the nickname “Bones,” so kids on the team gave Daniel the nickname “Stapes,” which is the smallest bone in the body, located in the middle ear. Aaron is called “16.” That was his number on his high school’s team and he wore his old jerseys to practices. People started calling him “16,” and one day someone joked that calling him “16” was funny because “he looks like he’s 16,” and the nickname stuck. This year, Aaron asked to get a new nickname because he wanted to move away from being compared to a 16 year old, but “someone was like ok, what about 17?” so now he has two nicknames: 16 and 17. Aaron said that he doesn’t think about where the name came from or what it means. “It’s the same way I’m Aaron,” he said. There are a bunch of cheers and chants that teams do in between points. Daniel said that these are never taught; players instead learn them on the fly. “They are nonsensical and amp you up,” he said. I asked him to give me an example of a cheer, and Aaron and Daniel began rhythmically chanting. Daniel made a fist and started hitting the table to make a beat. I am unsure of how to spell any of the words from the chant or explain what they meant. I can say with confidence, however, that the cheer did hype me up. Aaron said that there’s no varsity level of the sport, no official recruitment, and no referees. The lack of referees puts the responsibility on players to make the right call. The game relies on people trusting one another’s judgment, which is very different from other competitive sports. Aaron said that the lack of institutional hierarchy makes the sport anti-authority and therefore more inclusive. This somewhat countercultural aspect of the sport is one of the reasons why he loves it so much. It also lacks many of the skill barriers that other sports have. It is physically less taxing than other sports and Henry said that in order to play Ultimate, all you really need to know how to do is throw a forehand or backhand. Henry added that he only knew how to throw a backhand for the first several months when he began playing on P-Funk, and now he is competing on the second best Ultimate team in the country. To Daniel, frisbee is an activity, a community, and an escape. Aaron explained that the sport adds a break in his day, which has been good for his mental health. The practices are a great opportunity to workout while hanging out with your friends, he said. Today, it’s mid-November and I’m watching a practice on the Berylson Family Fields where the football team practices. Some of the players are wearing knit hats and gloves to keep warm. In between plays, one player pats another on the back. They look at each other and smile between rosy cheeks, then turn back to the game. I’m not sure if I’ll ever enter the black hole of Ultimate Frisbee, but after talking to Henry, Aaron, Daniel, and Bella, I can see why Nora never returned. Perhaps she is learning new throws, enjoying chicken fingers on Fridays, or signing the lease on a new Frisbee House.

The Tears of F. Scott Fitzgerald

Faith Kim
February 10, 2023

Imagine a world where grass was pink, the same light blush of a sunset on a salty summer evening. Would people eat it like cotton candy? Maybe children would grow up despising the pink of broccoli and kale, of hearing parents’ admonishments to “eat their pinks.” Or maybe people would be a little more romantic, more affectionate—love constantly in the air. Green would become disgracefully relegated to the color of recycling bins and Android text messages.But this is all a hypothetical situation. Grass has no choice but to be green. It must be green. Plants contain chlorophyll, chlorophyll converts carbon dioxide and water into glucose through photosynthesis, photosynthesis energizes plants to build tissues and thrive. Chlorophyll absorbs all light except 560-520 nanometer wavelengths—green. Walking along a broken sidewalk, the presence of trampled yellowish-brown weeds underfoot means no photosynthesis, no chlorophyll, no life.Plants are green because of their ability to be alive.Green communicates to the world that science can explain the basis of human survival. Molecules infinitely smaller than the thinnest blade of grass are swimming, transporting, functioning, and repeating to bring about being. Look closely. Science works, and green is living proof. There are seasons in life without green. In the dead of winter the grass is gone, the ground covered instead in a sheath of white. White can be pretty too, the radiant sunlight bouncing off the snow in pure brightness, no chlorophyll present to absorb it. Yet white singes the eyes and burns the heart. Trudging through snow in the absence of life, there is a feeling of perfect ruthlessness, no forgiveness offered, no promises made. White is bright, but it is not life.Green is the color lovers wear on the third date. Maybe she wears olive pants, or he has on a mint sweatshirt. No longer sticking to the safe blacks-whites-browns and denim jeans, a little more comfortable in branching out, venturing a little further. He’s a little shy, so maybe he’ll hold her hand as they walk home that night. Green beckons, says, “Come, don’t be afraid.” The lovers reach out to each other, stretching, leaning, meeting. Green takes root in her heart and flourishes outwards, encompassing and enveloping her whole. To her, he is no longer a superficial Valentine, a fleeting interest of flamingo pink or fuchsia rose petals, but something steady and warm. She shivers, and he gives his jacket to her, a bundle of fabric as precious as the most brilliant emerald, wrapping her tighter than she would have ever thought possible. She halts as the swirling colors coalesce around them, small moments making life. The night is cold, but the feeling is warm. “Hey, wait up,” she calls as he turns and extends his hand.But wait! There is a picture too terrifying to even imagine. Green is the color of jealousy after all, the envy of seeing him with a new girl on that same road. An image framed by an alarmingly vivid ring of jade. A deep color tinged with heartache, a light shade of anger, and a dash of hate. Let it be a warning: hold on tightly to that jacket—or that green will never be the same again. Look closely. You might see that green light across the shore.In the end, maybe the worst happens: the snow falls, the leaves wither along with the heart, and beauty falls to destruction. When everything is dampened, when life feels smothered by a season of apathy and loss, when it all gets too overwhelmingly empty, what remains?Green is the color of matcha, quietly sipped on a lonesome twilight afternoon. Alone? But Dad is right there. A drink from the continent he draws his roots from. A new start, a new place, a new life. Green is the promised land. It calls repeatedly, “Wait for me, wait for me.” A sprout breaking through the ice, ushering in a season of renewal. Even in the middle of the coldest winter, it is present. Christmas trees exist, after all.

Bad-Breakup Survival Guide

Words and photograph by Sarah Hope
February 3, 2023

When the moment happens, when the fracture inevitably occurs, you might feel as though you’ve been immersed in deep water for a long time, slowly running out of air, and now you really, definitely can’t breathe at all anymore. You will be scared. Naturally, you will want to go to the person—previously known as “your person”—for comfort. This is a bad idea. You might even still be living in the same house and sharing the same bed at this time. It is a bad idea to continue this. Stop saying those little habitual endearments as soon as you possibly can. If the space-sharing is unavoidable, you need to build the strongest wall around your head and heart that you ever have, and preciously guard whatever is most you about you. It will be confusing trying to decide what’s you alone and what’s you together, especially at first. Don’t worry about that right now. Instead, separate all of your physical things from theirs, avoid their routines, wean yourself off of their attention as best you can. i At first, try not to be alone at all; you’ll need to lean heavily on your friends. Hopefully, you’ll have some that don’t know the person, but you might not. This will make things more complicated. Don’t, for example, find yourself—as a result of shared friendships—in a long and heartfelt and drunken conversation with the person around a beach bonfire when it’s only been a couple of weeks and you’re both still picking bone chips out of the soft tissue of your feelings. Whatever you do, don’t invite the familiar pressure of their hand on the small of your back as you walk away from the dark ocean. This will not end well for you. The next afternoon, in the fog of your hangover, you might mourn the ways you two were wrong for each other more than you regret bringing this person back to your bed. ii You will, of course, want to talk to all your friends about the big, gross feeling that’s swollen with rot, touching all your other thoughts and festering in your chest. Your friends will not want to talk about that, or if they do, it’ll be with a measure of thirsty curiosity and the kind of pity one might reserve for a wounded animal, or an unpopular child. That doesn’t help, but self-pity has a syrupy sweetness to it, and nobody can blame you for indulging until it makes your stomach hurt at least once, maybe even a few times. But you need to grow up and learn your lesson before you make it everyone else’s problem or the only thing that’s ever going on with you, because that’s just no fun at all. iii Get your motorcycle license. You’ve always wanted to, ever since you were a little kid, and now you have time because you’re not busy with the person anymore. Plus, you might be overflowing with manic energy at this point. Get a motorcycle to go with it, probably secondhand, because this is just a phase and you know it. Right now, you should be pursuing something that feels sexy and wild, because you just turned 20 and you’re tan and single and alive on the California coast for the summer, as the case may be. Ride your motorcycle down the Pacific Coast Highway. Pull over and take off your helmet, let the ocean wind tangle your hair, let yourself smile for real in the glittering June sun. You’re life’s protagonist, babe—act like it! iv Download a dating app for the first time. This is a perilous thing to be doing, yes. Your motivations in that weird new world might not be clear to yourself just yet, and you might make some uncomfortable choices—choices with great potential to put you in harm’s way. I hope you get lucky (euphemistically, sure, but mostly earnestly, emotionally lucky) with those first few mistakes. You deserve enjoyment, or at least distraction, not regret and shame. It’s great to feel so wanted, though, and great to be experiencing new people. Explore as safely and as joyfully as you can. Go to a party where you only know the friend you came with, drink cheap white wine out of a chipped mug on someone’s roof, and see where the night takes you. v Find time to be in your brain, but with a buffer. Important meditations might be happening for you, and you should figure out a way to nurture them without letting yourself wallow. Take up a hobby—or, better, a minimum-wage job—doing something repetitive but not unpleasant. The recommended course of action is landing a part-time gig at the local native-plant nursery, where a work day consists of seven hours of watering, weeding, pruning, shoveling soil, and planting seedlings, preferably done while listening to music or a podcast. This is the optimal environment for productive rumination. The bonus of this is that sometime in the future, you can come back and visit, and see how much all those plants that you potted as inch-tall sprouts have grown, and you can think something cliché and cosmically positive about their undeniable parallel to you. vi Move away from wherever the memories live, at least for a while. If you do come back there, wash your pillowcases immediately, or else you might cry when you find out they still smell like woodsmoke from the night of that ill-fated bonfire. Go and live with other people your age, ideally somewhere perennially sunny and culturally awake. Just for example, if your childhood friend has to sublet her room (with a big window and a loft bed) in a co-op house in Berkeley, move in for the rest of the summer, with your new-used motorcycle and some art supplies and your favorite jeans and not much else. Run on the forest trails every day, longer and longer, with bright eyes and a clear mind. Spend afternoons napping in the hammock on the porch, and make new friends who invite you camping on short notice. Go camping! Wake up with a cold nose and the fresh world’s wide-open sky pale blue above you. Visit the used bookstore on Sundays and leaf through thin volumes of eccentric and unpretentious, un-famous poetry, whatever catches your fancy. Go to thrift shops (trendy or not) and buy all new clothes, clothes with no memories attached to them, clothes that suit your reborn self. vii Make some more mistakes, hopefully fun mistakes, in frat house coat closets and apartments you’ll never see in the daylight. Write about all of it, by hand in your favorite journal, under July’s golden afternoons. Stay busy! Ask your housemate to teach you how to make vegan espresso fudge. Write a phrase that makes you happy on the wall of your room with colorful pens. Go sit on the rickety fire escape with your friend while she clumsily rolls her own cigarettes and smokes them; these twilit conversations will bring you closer. Take your motorcycle up to a viewpoint to read the poetry, visit a boy you’ve been seeing casually (in the middle of the day, in his clean apartment with the courtyard view), then go back to the house and eat tofu curry, perched on the kitchen counter with your happy, loud companions. viii When, eventually, you have no going-out plans on a weekend night, try not to spiral. Try not to have one of those nights where you write feverishly and self-deprecatingly until you fall asleep on your tear-wet pillowcase. Instead, go for a walk, alone, in the fading dusk. Go back to your room and get super high, take out your paints, listen to the Pixies until you forget what it feels like to be a person, and then climb that creaky wooden ladder up to your bed and go to sleep. This may be a form of spiraling, but when you wake up the next day, you should feel as though you’ve shaken something loose in your heart. This is likely for the best. ix Allow yourself to feel something real for someone. She’s not just another name on the Tinder slot-machine, not anymore. There’s something so enchanting, so compelling about her. She’s mercurial, but warm, and you want to be close to her; that’s okay. Hold her hand in the crowd at the back-alley indie concert she brought you to. Give her dried sprigs of lavender from your garden, so she can arrange them in the tiny frosted-glass bottle of the Absolut Citron shooter she saved from a previous night together. Don’t overpromise yourself, since you know you’re going east in a month, but enjoy every moment. x Go east. Embrace the reset. Your mistakes and your explorations of what makes you you (and of what’s not you) all existed inside a bubble, a playground of minimal consequences. Understand that your wild and crazy summer was mostly dress-up. Use the new season of your life as an effective integration period of whatever you’ve discovered about yourself. Lean into your new reality, relearn who you’d like to be. The change might be hard. Try not to relapse into communication with the person, even though they do provide a sense of consistency to your life, and it is nice to have someone who really knows you. Someone who you can talk to before bed, even if they’re in another time zone because they dropped out of college and moved to Berlin after the breakup. If you need to distract yourself, be tactful, and step lightly with the people implicated in your distractions. Pour your energy into something rewarding, reconnect with friends you haven’t seen in a while. Bask in the fall colors—change can be so beautiful. It’s a cliché for a reason. xi When, inevitably, you find yourself caught up in something that’s blossomed into much more than a distraction, something with a bright warm solidity to it, something that makes you laugh and feel truly seen and appreciated for the first time in a while—don’t be so scared, so cynical. Don’t let yourself freeze up. Just fall. Yes, he will catch you. There can and will be new sacred memories, both here and in California. It might be nothing like you thought it would be, delightful in an unfamiliar way. You might feel a slight dissonance when you bring him to your parents’ house on the coast for the first time, but when you hear him thank your mom and you look up into those smiling blue eyes it’ll feel more right than you could have imagined. Now that you know you can be whole alone, after all the luck and all the learning, it’s that much sweeter.

Animals

Randy Rockney
February 3, 2023

For a good part of my adult life, I lived on a farm shared with sheep, pigs, horses, ducks, geese, turkeys, chickens, guinea fowl, cats, dogs, the occasional llama, and lots and lots of goats. Feeding the animals twice a day, gathering eggs, shoveling manure, growing and processing hay provided a rhythm and a sense of purpose. I miss that life, or at least parts of it.Now I live with just one non-human animal: my cat Lim-Lim (pronounced Leem-Leem). The name “Lim-Lim” evolved from her original name “Lemur-Cat,” which was selected by my oldest daughter and Lim-Lim’s original owner because of her large lemur-like eyes. Every morning she jumps on my bed and lies on my chest facing me, Sphinx-like, stretching her neck so I can scratch her the way she loves to be scratched, sometimes sparking jealousy in my wife. I’ve come to realize that now, a sole non-human animal is enough for me. One animal is a pet while a farm crowded with them is a full-time vocation with all its constraints. While I know that I am Lim-Lim’s God, shepherd of her life and provider of all good bounty, she is my “daemon.” It is an idea that was introduced by Phillip Pullman in his trilogy of fantasy novels, “His Dark Materials.” In Pullman’s imagined world, a “daemon” is a non-human animal that is the alter-ego or really the essence, a guiding spirit, of the human with whom it is associated. Most daemons are oppositely gendered from their humans—like me and Lim-Lim. She, like many daemons, intuits the emotional state of her human and responds in kind. I like to think there is a shared energy, a light from within, that passes back and forth between us, most obvious when I “phantom pet” her. I move my hands in a petting motion adjacent to her body, not actually touching her, while whispering her name and its variants over and over. She moves her body and purrs as if I really am touching her. It makes me think I am playing her like a Theremin. But in a heartbreaking contrast to Pullman’s daemons, who die when their humans die, animals generally live shorter life spans than we do. My lifetime of loving animals has therefore also been a lifetime of loss after loss. There was:Zorro, my first pet, a black cat, named after my early childhood obsession with the black-caped swordsman.Buffy, my childhood dog, who nearly died from a tumor that filled half her chest before being given three more years of life by a top human cardiothoracic surgeon.Pumpkin, the dog, lean as a Whippet and fast as a Greyhound;Felix, the cat, brought back from Africa where I had worked as a physician and where I bribed airport officials to let him through. He was killed six months later by a speeding motorist in front of my first house in Rhode Island.Ruby, the cat, aka Ruber-Duber-Guy, an old adopted stray; The twin cats Vanya de Doodle and Oedi-Pus, aka Eddie-Bob the Fat Fat Fellow.Opie, aka O-Di-Do, O-Di-Do, a Papillon, who would wiggle like Lim-Lim in response to his name and nicknames. Ajax (Ayax), one of many livestock guardian dogs, a Great Pyrennes, kept to bond with the goats and protect the herd from coyotes and stray dogs.Molly and Pee-Wee, the first of countless goats. Molly was the subject of an essay I wrote called “Molly and Mahler,” written after a concert performance of Gustav Mahler’s 6th Symphony, which I witnessed shortly after Molly’s death. The symphony includes the tinkling of bells, like those worn around Molly’s neck, to elicit an Alpine scene, a feature that Mahler described as representing “the last earthly sounds heard from the valley below by the departing spirit on the mountain top.”Shukum, a Vietnamese Pot-Bellied pig, named after the all-purpose word my oldest child made up when first learning to speak as an indicator of anything and everything.And, of course, Eppie, Ajoka’s Hepsibah Harvest (her AKC name), aka Yuppie-Fur the Puppie-Fur, YupYupYup. Named after the little girl orphan in George Eliot’s “Silas Marner,” Eppie, a yellow Labrador Retriever, was the pre-child dog in my first marriage, definitely my daemon at the time. As a young dog, she would leap straight up when excited, all four feet in the air with a tail flapping like a helicopter’s rotor. Eppie, I will always love you.And then, even after life on a farm with its abundance of animal mortality, the losses kept coming with my three-legged cat Monty-Schma, the dog Ruby and her son Zeke, and the daemon of my second wife, the cat Pumpkin. All this loss, this heartbreak, could, of course, be avoided by simply not assuming any responsibility or relationship with animals other than seeing them as useful commodities, but such an option, in my view, would be denying oneself one of the richest sources of love and joy in life.‍Nothing is immortal and that is, at the risk of sounding trite, a fact of life. In truth, why would anyone want immortality? One of my favorite operas, “The Makropulos Case,” by the Czech composer, Leoš Janáček, asks such a question. In the court of a 16th century emperor, an alchemist’s young daughter, Emilia Marty, takes an elixir that provides immortality. Over the course of the opera, she experiences many successive lives, each with a different identity, though all her names have the initials “E.M.” As she lives one life after another, everyone around her including lovers and children grows old and dies. As a result, she grows weary and finds living painful. I’ve lived, as many of us do, with Emilia Marty’s nightmare when it comes to animals. I often weep thinking about the ones I have named, the ones with whom I have shared mutual affection. I look at Lim-Lim who is of an indeterminate age, young enough, though, to leap four feet up onto my dining room table each morning in anticipation of her breakfast. She sits with me now, staring out through my west-facing window—as she does each evening—watching the sun go down and flocks of seabirds flow north into the cove in front of my house. Maybe I’ll be lucky, and she’ll outlive me.Author Bio: After 37 years on the faculty of Brown’s medical school and about half that time as a farmer, Randy Rockney is now retired from both. He enjoys writing and reading and has published numerous medical articles, some of which could be categorized as creative nonfiction. He now turns to non-medical topics.‍

Learning to Tie Our Shoes: Looking Back on the First Year of Sole Magazine

Nicholas Miller
January 14, 2023

On January 14, 2022, Sole Magazine published its first piece. Since then, we have posted 35 creative nonfiction essays, ranging from humorous listicles to in-depth journalism to personal narratives. Beginning with seven members of Professor Jon Readey’s Travel Writing class, we’ve acquired an illustration team, gathered a devoted audience slightly more numerous than just our mothers, and are planning to launch a new website and a print issue in the coming months. In other words, we’ve learned to tie our shoes and are now praying they stay knotted.

Play

Benjamin Nelson
December 9, 2022

Run. Stop. Couple steps. Hit the ball. Run back to the line. Split step. Run. Stop. Hit. Back to the line. Run. Stop. Hit. Back. Run run run run run run run ru… Stop.Ball drops out of bounds. Take a deep breath. Run back to the line. Lift the racket up. Wait for the serve. Hit the ball back. Move to the center. Run. Hit the ball. Run and keep running.Don’t stop won’t stop can’t stop. Can’t stop. On and on it goes. A game that, by its own rules, might never end. Why would anyone want it to? It’s continuous action. It’s triumph and sorrow. It’s a connection, bringing people together. Why would anyone want it to end when the world beyond it is so much more complicated? When nothing else has ever felt so simple?Run. Hit. Run. Hit.It’s just a game, people say. They’re wrong. It’s a rhythm, a cycle. It’s reliable when nothing else is. Hit it crosscourt, keep the rhythm, keep the cycle. Until you want to break it. Then, down the line it goes. If it comes back, restart the clock, restart the cycle, fall back into the rhythm. Until it’s broken again.How long the cycle lasts, how long the rhythm stays unbroken, depends on the players. Sometimes, it’s one shot, and it’s over. The cycle never starts, no rhythm develops. Disappointment throbs through you.So… run back to the line, lift up the racket, wait for the next point to start.Run. Hit. Run. Hit.Then, sometimes, the cycle never seems to end. Back and forth over the net the ball goes. Five, ten, twenty, maybe even thirty shots, and still, it persists. Neither player breaks the rhythm, both are a servant to it. Your heavy panting fouls the air, your racket seems to weigh more with every swing, your feet burn from skidding and sliding across the court. Your whole body begs you to stop. Inwardly, though, you are ecstatic. With each shot that goes by without the point ending, your excitement grows. The rhythm pulses through you, demanding perfection. Your body tightens up with the thrill. It’s no longer about winning. All you want in the world is to keep the point going. Your legs may burn, you may start to cramp, you might not be able to breathe, but you keep running, forever and ever. Anything to keep the point going, anything to keep it from ending, anything to maintain the rhythm in your head. Anything. And when the point finally comes to a close, when the rhythm finally stops, whether you emerge victorious or not, you head back to that line and wait for that next serve. Because no matter how long the point lasted, no matter how many amazing shots there were, no matter how far or long you ran, it is still just one point. So… lift up that racket, take your ready stance, and begin anew.Run. Hit. Run. Hit.Is it just a game? Is any game ever just a game? Or do games have meanings beyond just who wins and who loses? What about the stories that are behind each and every game and match? Each is its own story, and every player on that field, on that court, has their own story that led them to this moment, playing this game. Some of these stories are known to all, while others are unseen and unheard. Two sisters, taught by their father, who came from nowhere and went on to change the game, and the world, forever. A rich boy, playing the game since he could hold a racket and acting like it too. A former baseball player, learning a new sport, then making that sport his everything.What’s your story, playing the game you love? How has it changed you? What does it mean to you?Whatever your answers are, keep running back to the line and lifting up your racket. You’ll regret it if you don’t.‍

The New Home

Juliana Morgado Brito
December 9, 2022

A building like many others stands not too tall in a somewhat peaceful and bourgeois part of town. Sometimes, when crossing the street, people might still look up at the building with their hands protecting their eyes from sunlight, in admiration—the construction still hanging to its status of ‘new.’ It does not deserve the praise, however. If one were to look closely, one would see the crackling corners of the opening arch of concrete, or even the imperfections in the darkly laminated glass doors. But foreign eyes see beauty everywhere. Looking from the south windows, from behind the plastic grids that protect toddlers from plummeting to their deaths into the three-car-sized pharmacy parking lot, you might see the main avenue where cars crash into one another every once in a while and hesitant protesters sing the national anthem in defense of the President on Sunday afternoons.

October in Triple Meter

Caroline Sassan
December 2, 2022

I’m starting to see why some things matter more than others, the reasons why that is allowed. Somebody told me so. Maybe that was G. and he was talking about freedom or that was J. and he was talking about the Phillies or you were my mother and you were talking about love, in which case you were standing in the kitchen with that one burnt-out lightbulb and your hands on the granite countertop. Maybe you were me and I was sorry, or you were somewhere else entirely and my heart was still beating in my teeth. And there were the birds flying south right behind us, and each year at least one would fly into the glass back door, and some of those times you didn’t even flinch. There was the dew dripping slow out beyond us. Maybe we were talking about selective attention.

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