>> [MUSIC] Welcome to
The Tower's podcast.

I'm Cate Tynjala, and I'm
one of the editors-in-chief

of this year's magazine.

The Tower is the undergraduate
art and literary magazine

at the University of
Minnesota Twin Cities.

The magazine is
produced, published,

and promoted all by students

during a two-semester course.

Every year, The Tower
staff chooses a theme

for the edition.

This year our theme is asterisk.

We chose asterisk for
its different functions

across disciplines.

It can be used to
reference footnotes,

mark a section break,

and serve as a symbol
for multiplication.

Asterisks can be
used in many ways,

and this fluidity is at the
heart of this year's theme.

Our theme underscores

that there is always
more to uncover.

We believe that the
adaptability of asterisk

lends itself to creating
an inclusive space

that supports the exploration of

new and numerous approaches
to life and storytelling.

My co-editor-in-chief,
Lauren Swee,

is going to talk a
little bit about

why we're listening to
a podcast right now

instead of hanging out at
our annual launch party.

>> Hi, I'm Lauren Swee.

Usually we celebrate the
publication of our magazine

in April with a launch party
at the Weisman Art Museum.

Due to the coronavirus pandemic,
that party was canceled.

With our entire campus shutdown,

our staff had to get creative to

find a way we could celebrate
this year's edition.

Like the launch party,

this podcast will feature
both staff and artists.

You'll hear contributors
read from their writing

and others discuss their work,

as well as some of our
editors talk about

their experience
being on staff and

their personal favorites
from this year's edition,

all from a combination
of this edition's art,

fiction, nonfiction, and poetry.

To see featured art,
please check out

our
art/artwordspage@sites.google.com/

umn.edu/theTower2020podcast.

The Tower staff would also
like to thank our professor

and faculty advisor,
Dr. Jim Cihlar.

Without Dr. Cihlar's help,

this magazine and podcast
wouldn't be possible.

Now let's hear a word
from our genre chief.

>> Hi, everyone.
My name is Miki.

I'm an art editor and marketing
director with The Tower.

Being a part of this magazine

has been an incredible
experience,

and I thank both everyone
that I've worked with

and those that have
submitted art and writing.

One thing that I love about

working in the art genre

is the variety of
art we receive.

Our campus is full of
brilliant visual artists

with many people creating
art in more than one medium.

I was happy to see all
the different kinds

of photography, paintings,

woodcuts, prints, ceramic, and

mixed media forms submitted
by students this year.

Art can take on an
endless variety of forms,

and I think that art paired
with text and writing

can provide readers
with new perspectives

over and over again.

As you page through
our magazine,

you'll be able to see

beautiful spreads
of this year's art

along with some great
poems and stories.

Thanks for tuning in to
our first hour podcast,

and I hope you enjoy it.

Hi, everyone. This is Miki.

I would now like to introduce

contributing artist
Christian Hastad.

Christian is an emerging
artist in the Minneapolis area

and a senior at the
University of Minnesota

pursuing his BFA.

Christian's artwork
explores the relationship

between digital processes
and the human touch

and how this
conjunction can lead to

new forms of creating,
thinking, and connecting.

He has two of his pieces
featured in our magazine,

"Aberration" and "Born."

"Aberration" is also featured as

our amazing cover image
for this year's issue.

One thing I love about
Christian's work is how he uses

strong contrast between
warm and cool colors

to create deep and
engaging imagery.

These pieces definitely
make you want

to keep looking back.

Let's hear from Christian.

>> Hello. My name is
Christian Hastad.

I am a contributor to
this year's edition

of The Tower art
literary magazine.

My contributions are
"Aberration" and "Born."

Each of these are paintings

that are characteristic
of my style of creating.

Each are the result of

an experimental inkjet
printing process onto Canvas,

which starts in the
digital realm using

photo manipulation software,
such as Photoshop,

and it is then pressed through
a printer onto Canvas.

Afterwards, I juxtapose
that digital element with

a very traditional oil painting
application of material.

I felt that it was
surprisingly fitting

that "Aberration"
would be on the cover

of this year's edition
for an aberration,

the definition of the word is

an unwelcome shift in
the scenario of things.

And I was first thinking
about that in terms of

how life as we know
it is being wrapped

around a digitization
process so rapidly,

but now, all of a sudden,

it's also characteristic
of the pandemic scenario

that our society is
finding itself within.

For these reasons, I felt
very happy and honored

to see that "Aberration"
would find its way

onto the cover,

and this style of painting
would find itself

in the magazine as well,

so thank you.

>> Hi. I'm Jess, and
I'm a publicist,

copy editor, and the
chief nonfiction editor

for this year's
edition of The Tower.

Something I love about
creative nonfiction

is that it allows us to reflect

on personal experiences

in new and engaging ways.

I believe retelling our
own stories reveals

what's important to us,

and it's worthwhile
to pay attention

to the stories that
others choose to share.

Reflecting on my own experience
over this past year,

I'm very grateful to
head a genre committee

as supportive and
creative as this one.

Collaborating with
Bailey, Maddy, Swetha,

and Lauren has been great,

and I honestly can't thank

them enough for their hard work.

Outside of our genre committee,

Bailey was one of our
managing editors,

always updating us on
dates and deadlines.

She was a huge reason
we were able to keep

our magazine
production on track.

Swetha's role as a
development director

provided us the funding
to create this magazine

and host our first
ever Spring Gala,

which was a super exciting
event for all of us.

Maddy was an online editor
providing content for you

on social media about our staff

and our magazine's progress,

fostering our Tower
community online.

And lastly, Lauren's
responsibility

as editor-in-chief
was a huge one,

honing our creative vision
for the entire magazine

and making it into the finished
product we have today.

Each one of us brought
our own unique strengths

and insights to the table,

and I believe
that's demonstrated

in the assortment of
amazing nonfiction pieces

that we've chosen to publish.

It has truly been a
pleasure to be chief

for this committee.

So thank you.

I also want to thank
our entire staff

and every person who
submitted to us this year.

I loved working with so
many of my talented peers

and learning from the stories

that they found
important to tell.

>> My name is Maddy Folstein,

and along with editing
our nonfiction genre,

I also work as an online
editor for the magazine.

Each year, I look
forward to reading

the nonfiction
pieces in The Tower.

They always represent a
wide range of experiences

while elevating the
distinct perspective

of their authors.

This year, as we focused
on the asterisk and

its ability to draw attention to

what is typically
confined to the margins

is no exception.

It's been a real treat to work

with this team of
nonfiction editors

who brought their unique
expertise and interests

to all of our conversations.

Together we assembled
a nonfiction section

that touches on the wide range
of the human experience,

including memory, art, humor,

psychology, food, music,
and so much more.

Thank you to our
nonfiction authors

for sharing these stories and

to you, our readers
and listeners,

for taking the
time to hear them.

>> Hello, everyone. My
name is Swetha Saravanan,

and I am a development director,

copy editor, and nonfiction
editor for The Tower.

The following piece that you'll
hear, "The Left Breast,"

is by Demitria Sabanty who is a

junior studying English
and creative writing.

When not habitually reading
memoirs and poetry,

she enjoys documenting her life

through writing,
painting, and tweeting.

After graduating,

she hopes to pursue
an MFA in nonfiction

in the hopes of one day
publishing a memoir.

We chose to publish
"The Left Breast"

for its use of detail and
artistic self reflection.

Please welcome, Demitria.

>> The left breast.

I paint a portrait
of my naked body,

catching the reds, yellows,

the surprise of purples,
the saturated blues,

all the unforeseen
hues of my skin.

In my reference photo,

I'm standing in a
shower looking regal.

My body has turned about
30 degrees to my right,

draping my left side in shadow,

but my face is pointed
straight toward the camera,

chin up loud, no
smile, no frown.

My knee is jutting
out with nerve.

My hands are delicately
curled into fists.

My right breast is obscured,

but my left is
arresting, bulging,

a glowing lighthouse,
the heart of the photo.

I don't look angry.
I look undeniable.

My brush is bathed in pigment,

tacky acrylic calcifying
in the brush hairs,

stiff, stiff, stiff.

I ponder how to capture
the attitude of the neck,

the grit of the lips,
the density of the ass,

the crest of the hair,
the hate of the retina.

I begin with the left breast,

the apex of the photograph.

The guts of me,

the red core found
not in the stomach,

the sad sack hanging out,

but in my left breast,

it holds, in its majesty,
my very essence.

This breast, imperfect,
pointing out like a cone

has never drawn my
attention before.

It's merely been a swelling,

a sore reminder that
I'm about to bleed.

I study the form of my breast,

a fatty pomegranate with a
bull's eye in its center.

In the photo, the breast
is ignited, divine.

I stare at it for so
long with such reverence

that I almost forget it
has ever been touched,

but it has been touched.

I fail to escape the
hands, eyes, mouths,

both wanted and unwanted,

both foreign and beloved,

which have reached
for my breast,

in a crowd, pulsing
toward the stage

with the force of a
great sweaty magnet,

in a cold and sterile apartment,

so undecorated and blank

like the man who occupies it,

in a kitchen, crowded
like an ant farm.

The intruders are endless,

daring to linger everywhere

on my mighty left breast,

a flag to which they pledge

their blind, hungry patriotism.

My flesh neglected
and consumed,

both bare and clothed,

I felt the map of my body
searched and examined.

I am nude to the world.

My fingers grip my
palette knife furiously,

stirring the paints into
the tints of my skin.

My neck aches, as
it always does,

the thudding pain of defeat,

each brushstroke, an
unforgivable mistake.

The rendition is nothing
like the real thing.

I suppose it is a gift
to be so dissatisfied

with the rendition of my body.

I'm not frustrated at the
inaccuracy of the image.

I'm angry that the photo
is so much more striking,

so elegant.

I'm unable to capture
my body's own beauty.

I examine the photo, my form,

its contours and edges,

each inch demanding
acknowledgment.

I keep getting hung
up on my chest,

the damn left breast,
so pointed and decided.

It occurs to me that
it looks brave,

so proud to announce
itself in that way,

to demand the honor
it has been denied.

I lean back and sigh
almost satisfied.

The painting is not as
striking as the photograph,

but the strokes of the
chest are looking heroic.

My left breast, still
soft and dense,

tethered to me, a rusted anchor.

>> Hi. I'm Bailey,
a managing editor,

copy editor, and nonfiction
editor for The Tower.

The next piece out here,
"Asking for a Friend,"

is by Abby Person,

who wrote this while on
exchange in Amsterdam.

Abby is a psychology student,

but for many Christmases
and birthdays,

she's been given
notebooks and fancy pens

from family members

who know she has always
wanted to be a writer.

The staff on The Tower
chose to include this piece

because of its scientific
perspective and dry humor.

Here's "Asking for a Friend."

>> "Asking for a Friend."

Perhaps one of the most
overlooked and revealing

of psychological
questionnaires is

the two component models

of socially desirable
responding.

Researchers use this measure

when they want to
identify participants

who will say anything
to be liked.

The logic behind questionnaires

that measure socially
desirable bias is that

humans universally
engage in behaviors

that we all deny doing,

like taking sick leave
when we aren't really sick

or voting for candidates
we know little about.

And that while the
average participant

will admit to these behaviors

in the context of an
anonymous questionnaire,

socially desirable
responders will be unable

to admit to doing
these things because

they need to be
liked and approved.

In essence, this measure is

trying to identify
the people-pleasers.

The thing is, in writing
these questions,

researchers are admitting
what they do too.

So instead of having
only a vague image

of the creator of
this measure as

a gray-haired and
glasses-wearing professor or

an aloof researcher
in a lab coat,

I now know that they may try

to get revenge
instead of forgive or

doubt their sexual adequacy.

And I wonder, if I were to write

my own measure of
social desirability,

what items would I include?

It might look
something like this.

Do you ever steal
two slices of bread

from your roommate
when you discover

that your own has turned
frosty blue with mold

and proceed to make
yourself feel better

about the theft by
telling yourself

that, five months ago,

she ate your Trader Joe's
microwavable quiche

thinking it was her own
and never replaced it,

even though she said she would.

Do you ever find a way
to work in a story

about cleaning the
sink the other day,

including details
of the brown sludge

that had worked itself
into drain and spigots

in the hope that
your dirty roommate

will get the hint and
clean something already.

Do you ever conspicuously
place your book face-up

while reading in public

so that the people
sitting beside you

can see that you're reading

Fyodor Dostoevsky's
Crime and Punishment,

which you will later
guiltily put aside bored.

Do you ever insist to a
significant other that

it's only fair each of you
pay for things equitably

in a relationship,

even though he has more money

and then becomes
secretly disappointed

when he tells the waiter
to split the check.

Do you ever watch
consecutive hours

of America's Next Top Model,

but when discussing the
show with friends,

you speak as if you're
watching the show

for some sociological purpose,

tossing out words like
consumerism and objectification,

instead of saying
that you watch it

because of the drama and
destination photo shoots.

Do you ever abstain from
recycling simply because

the trash can is
a little closer?

Do you subscribe to
various news podcasts

and email newsletters,

knowing that you
really should become

more politically aware

but move those email newsletters
to the trash unread.

And when, on a whim,

you open your iPhone's news app,

thinking you may as well use
a spare minute to catch up.

Do you swiftly drag your
finger past articles

pertaining to impeachment
processes and

trade agreements and, instead,

open an article about Drew
Barrymore's recent weight loss?

When sharing a
one-room apartment

that can only be
described as acoustic

with a roommate you're not
particularly close to,

do you ever leave the
apartment simply so that

you can take a shit in a
more discreet location?

Do you feel guilty
in museums because,

while you and your
friend are staring

at the same artist's
description,

she seems to be reading it,

and you're thinking about

whether you'd rather wear
your high-waisted green pants

or your loose-legged
yellow ones the next day.

"Asking for a friend."

>> Hi. I'm Lauren Swee,
editor-in-chief and

nonfiction editor for The Tower.

You're about to hear Abe
Diaz's "Return to Form."

Abe Diaz is studying Asian
and Middle Eastern studies.

When he isn't
struggling to write,

you may find him at
his kitchen sink

scrubbing dish
after dirty dish or

petting his dog who really
wants to go to the park

but can't because Abe is busy.

Our nonfiction committee
loves "Return to Form"

for its ability
to braid together

themes of authenticity
and identity

through two main threads

Abe's experience with
Filipino-American cuisine

and his passion for
Radiohead's 2000 album Kid A.

Here's "Return to Form."

>> "Return to Form."

Alas, it is shit. Blank,
2006. The ordinary world.

You press "Play,"
and the disc whirs.

The player's digital time
code displays a row of zeros

accompanied by a brief
but tense silence.

Then the first sound you
hear is an arpeggio.

Five cascading notes
from the mellow hum of

an electric piano followed
by the pulse of a kick drum.

Is it a real kit or a machine?

You can't quite tell.

Meanwhile, the electric
keys cycle through

a short three chord progression.

C, D flat minor, then E
flat minor, and back to C,

Phrygian, according to
Western music theory,

therefore, enigmatic,
haunting even,

especially once the
unintelligible vocals fade in,

scrubbing forward and backward,

chanting gibberish.

The soundscape is
unsettling but groovy,

and you notice your foot
is quietly tapping along

with a subtle metronomic
drive of the bass drum.

The garbled chants give way
to an unmistakable voice.

However, while you recognize

the bright timbre of the singer,

you cannot decipher
the bizarre lyrics,

the first verse, or
repetition of the same line.

Yesterday I woke up
sucking on lemon.

Yesterday I woke up
sucking on lemon.

You contemplate
whether it has value

as surrealist poetry or if
it is just trivial nonsense.

It isn't long before you ask.

Where are the guitars? I
thought this was alt rock.

Give me a power chord
for Christ's sake.

You watch the time code
accumulate elapsed time,

holding your breath
as you anticipate

a moment of relief

at the sound of
something more familiar.

Your foot continues tapping
while you wait and wait,

while the track's
eponymous refrain insists

that everything is
in its right place.

Nothing about this place
seems right to you at all.

Departures.

Apoy is the only
full-service restaurant

in Twin Cities,

and to the best of my
knowledge in all of Minnesota,

that specializes exclusively
in Filipino food.

The one-year-old
restaurant stands on

the southeast corner fittingly,

of Nicolett Avenue and
West 43rd Street in

the Kingfield neighborhood
of Minneapolis Southside.

Its neighbor across
the street is

another small region
specific eatery,

the southern
soul-inspired Revival.

And on the other
side of Nicolett is

another commercial low
rise with storefronts,

a bike shop, a record store,

and what appears to
be a small clinic.

The three of us,

my girlfriend Sigrid, my
sister Lee, and myself,

arrived just before 7:00
PM on a Saturday night.

Outside, the late
November air was

bris,

and it had been dark for hours.

As we hurried to cover the block

between our car and
the restaurant,

I noticed myself
feeling tense, jittery.

I'd been to Apoy once before,

and it was okay.

To be fair,

I had unnecessarily high
expectations back then.

On the one hand, I was
still naively holding on to

the hope that restaurants
could provide

a level of excitement
worth seeking.

And on the other,
I was projecting

a much greater significance
onto the experience

regarding the act of eating
at a Filipino restaurant

as partaking in some
spiritual homecoming

in affirmation of identity.

Instead, all that
was affirmed was

a feeling of incompleteness.

I recognized the flavors
brought to our table,

but something was off.

Maybe it was the contrived
restaurant "atmosphere"

or the deliberate presentation

with the self-proclaimed
foodie, I in mind.

In the end, the dishes
resembled the food

that nourished my upbringing,

but it seems that
that was not enough.

In spite of my disappointment,

I found myself back at Apoy.

Only this time, I was determined

not to scrutinize this
moment for something

that was not what
it could never be.

I had confidence in my ability
to quell my expectations

but was nonetheless feeling
anxious about something.

Perhaps deep down, some
part of me wanted so badly

to be proven wrong.

I tucked my hands
into my coat pockets

and immediately
dismissed the thought,

blaming the jitters on the cold.

Hyphenated rock.

Three years after their
breakthrough album,

OK Computer, redefined alt rock,

Radiohead redefined
themselves with the release

of their highly-anticipated
fourth studio album, Kid A.

The band during this era
is commonly portrayed

as disillusioned by
the oversaturation

of prog rock and Brit pop

and discouraged by the
attempts to imitate

OK Computer's success

by which they too
felt constrained.

The arduous 18-month recording
process was so fraught

with conflicting ideas
and unproductive sessions

that the group nearly
reached a breaking point,

agreeing to disband

should their efforts
continue in vain.

So Radiohead sought to
redefine themselves

by undefining themselves.

They set aside their guitars,

dismantled the traditional
band hierarchy,

and strived to
defamiliarize the listener

by increasing the distance

in the artist-consumer paradigm.

Frontman Thom Yorke obscured
his balladry tenor voice

behind modulators
and esoteric lyrics.

Jonny Greenwood,
guitarist cum keyboardist

cum orchestral arranger cum
synth programmer, etc.,

continued to tinker with
the sounds and harmonies

one wasn't supposed to use.

Filling the absence of
snappy guitar riffs was

the subdued warmth
of synthesizers and

ethereal effect layers.

Convention was replaced
by experimentation.

The result: 10 meticulously
arranged compositions

amounting to 50 minutes
of genre-bending tracks.

Through Kid A, the listener
vicariously explores

the realm beyond
the tenuous borders

that haphazardly define
"alternative music".

The minimalist groove of
Kid A's opening track,

"Everything in Its Right Place,"

sounds more like experimental
jazz than electronic rock.

The mystifying soundscape
sets the tone for

the remaining tracks and

establishes the uncanny
reality of the album.

The title track is
a haunting lullaby

with Yorke's processed
vocals conjuring

the image of the Pied Piper.

The rats and the
children follow me

out of town. Come on, kids.

The National Anthem
is the first track to

feature a discernible
traditional rock sound.

An overdriven bass drums
a sinister rift that,

with the energetic drums,
indeed, sounds anthemic.

Once the harsh wails
of the brass kicks in,

the arrangement rapidly unfurls

into a cacophony too chaotic,

perhaps even for rock.

The dust settles by the onset

of how to disappear
completely which,

aside from the lone,
dissonant pitch

droning in the background,

is reminiscent of the
melancholic ballads

from their 1995
release, The Bends.

However, any semblance
of nostalgia or

familiarity is undermined by
Yorke's dissociative refrain.

That there, that's not me.

I'm not here. This
isn't happening.

Concentrated in this mantra are

Kid A's deconstructive motives,

and the track dissolves
the music like the road of

trials that breaks down
Campbell's archetypal hero.

Structure is eaten away,

the truths of the ordinary
world are abandoned,

and all that's left
behind is essence.

Enter Treefingers,
arhythmic, atonal.

This journey into
experimentation has led us here,

far from the realm of 4
bars, rich harmonies,

and exhilarating
verses to sonic limbo.

The old world, the band of
the past we once knew or

thought we once knew
is all behind us.

Departures 2.

When we walked into
the restaurant,

I was met with a familiar
smell that brought me back

to a typical moment
in my childhood.

My parents would often
drag my sisters and me

out to the suburbs to attend
some family friend's party.

The smell of the
restaurant took me

to the unfamiliarity I felt

the instant I stepped
into the suburban foyer.

It conjured the image of
shoes piled onto a rug and

shoved off to the side.

There is often a large staircase

that only the host's children
and their closest friends

would utilize to
retreat upstairs and

away from the forced mingling.

An untouched piano and

an adjacent unlived
in living room

would prompt the host
to ask if I play,

and I anxiously
anticipate what may or

may not happen when I say yes.

As I waited in front
of the host stand,

I considered whether or not
the smell was a good sign,

resisting the urge to
mull over "authenticity".

Then approached a cheery fellow
who would be our server.

He had long, moppy black hair

which barely parted
around his face,

further obscured by bold,
round black glasses

with thick, high-powered lenses.

To Lee's credit, he can be
most accurately described

as Ringo Starr from the
Yellow Submarine cartoon.

And what he lacked in
facial visibility,

he made up for enthusiasm,

which for the entirety
of the evening,

we would not be able to match.

You're living in a
fantasy world. Come back.

Interlude.

Mom left in 1985.

She was as old as I am now.

Dad left in 1992.

Carlos Bulosan left
on July 1, 1930.

Even though I was born here,

I can't count how many times

people have asked
if I've been back.

Departures 2, continued.

Bright bulbs, which would
occasionally flicker

throughout the night
hung from the ceiling,

many encased in
lampshades that resembled

wicker or woven bamboo work.

Leafy vines draped
from floating shelves

that were mounted
along the walls,

and a few ferns and trees
and indoor planters added

to the tropical greenery.

Playing overhead, above
the steady buzz of

the Saturday night dining
crowd were energetic hits

from Anthemic '60s classics
to synthy New Wave.

The evening started off
with a round of drinks

from Apoy's signature
cocktail menu.

Each drink featured rum,
some citrus liqueur,

and tropical fruit
juice and was given

an appropriately catchy
Philippines-related name,

like Pacquiao Punch
or Manila Sunset.

I started with the
Manila Sunrise,

essentially a gin and tonic,

with an extra L and no
discernible hint of calamansi

which was ostensibly
a key ingredient.

The menu seemed to offer the

Philippines' culinary
greatest hits

with no regional specificity
explicitly stated.

Unsurprisingly, there
was [FOREIGN] and adobo.

In addition to the classics,

there were what
Soleil Ho would call,

"assimilation foods,"

whitefish dredged in
San Miguel beer batter

before being fried and
served with [FOREIGN] chips,

adobo chicken wings with honey
and a sesame seed garnish,

and [FOREIGN] in burger form

topped with annatto
oil on brioche.

There was even the
infamous Pinoy spaghetti

with its hotdogs and
shredded cheddar.

As per the cuisine, most of
the menu was meat-based,

so Sigrid Li and I
would have to put

our vegetarianism on hold.

We began naturally
with [FOREIGN],

selecting the [FOREIGN].

There was no shortage
of pork that night.

The [FOREIGN] were long
and thin [FOREIGN],

golden brown and cut on a bias,

giving one end a distinct point.

They had the delicate
crunch and light savoriness

of the [FOREIGN] I had grown
so familiar with as a child,

staples of every big gathering.

Each serving came with
six rolls lined up on

a long rectangular plate

lined with a strip
of banana leaf.

Forgoing the accompanying
saucer of banana ketchup,

we opted instead for the
bottle of spiced vinegar,

which claimed its rightful
place on each table

as proudly as Heinz
and Applebee's.

The sharpness of the
vinegar helped mellow

the richness of the pork
for us vegetarians,

thus suiting the [FOREIGN],

although Lee lamented the
absence of sweet chili sauce.

Instead of a sleek
rectangular plate,

the [FOREIGN] came
to the table in

what was supposed to be a
searing hot cast iron skillet,

as it would in the Philippines.

Nevertheless, the [FOREIGN]
was rich and succulent,

the chopped up bits of
chicken liver adding

darker savoriness to
its meaty decadence.

As we worked our way
through the appetizers,

Ringo occasionally
graced us with

his animated presence
and refilled our drinks.

For our [FOREIGN], main
course, more or less,

we settled on the Bicol Express,

a medley of shrimp
and mussels in

a pale broth of coconut
milk and chili,

and their version of adobo,

which is comprised
of chicken thigh,

large cuts of potato,
and bay leaf.

By 8:30, we had our entrees.

It wasn't until then
that we were served

our first insufficient
portion of rice,

the modest helping just barely
filling the small soup bowl

in which it was served.

As we took turns
dividing the rice

into even smaller helpings
among the three of us,

I imagined a world

where Asian
restaurants, like Apoy,

would always have rice
ready for each table

as European bistros
do with bread,

a world where I could
simply reach toward

a giant heap of White Jasmine
at the center of the table

and appropriately structure

the rice-to-[FOREIGN]
ratio of my meal

without amassing a surcharge,

where our server,
who would otherwise

have to take lap
after tireless lap

between our table and the
rice cooker in the kitchen

could leave us alone and
finally see to other tables.

I came back to reality when
Sig handed me the bowl

saying I could have the rest,

so I tilted it and emptied
what was left onto my plate.

The Bicol Express,

the smooth warmth of
the coconut broth,

was soothing.

The broth had a similar flavor

to other [FOREIGN]-based dishes,

coconut with a subtle peppery
zip of garlic and chili.

The adobo was less impressive.

The chicken was dry,

and the broth leaned too far

in the direction of soy sauce,

indicated perhaps by the
darkness of its color.

I should have known better than

to order something with chicken,

an irresponsible refrain
from vegetarianism

for what is inarguably
the worst meat.

Finally, for dessert, in
lieu of the [FOREIGN],

which was [inaudible]
early in the evening,

we ordered the [FOREIGN]
and the [FOREIGN].

The former was served again

on a sleek rectangular plate

in three delicate
lavender dollops

garnished with slivers of
jackfruit and macapuno.

The flan was an extra
firm custardy triangle

drizzled with a dark brown sauce

that claimed to be caramel

and tasted like the
artificial smell of the air

around the Starbucks in
your local shopping mall.

After a so-so dessert,

we stirred the ice at the
bottom of our glasses

while waiting for the
bill to be processed.

I ended up paying
something like $150.

It was much more than
the food was worth,

but after witnessing
the whole spectacle

of the restaurant,

the mid-century
modern furnishings,

the elegant plating,

the trendy with a
hint of exotic decor,

I conceded that it
wasn't about the food.

And it hasn't been
for a long time.

Return to form.

It was this phrase

that sent me down the
Kid A rabbit hole.

I exhausted the album
with back-to-back listens

while I contemplated
the unspoken criticisms

beneath return to form commonly
interpreted as praise.

I hear it is a dog
whistle for, finally,

a sigh of relief after a
protracted, often tense, period

of expectation for
something else.

What does that say
about the artists,

that waiting period?

Are they in their artistic
endeavors useless?

What is form?

And what gives one the authority

to essentialize certain
works over others?

Questions of return
to form lead to

the same dilemma as
authenticity in foodie speak.

It assumes that the
subject in question

has a fixed essence,

an inherent and
quantifiable purity.

It narrowly evaluates and
fails to contextualize.

Its reliance on
permanent pigeonholes

compartmentalizes creativity
and punishes experimentation.

Essence and authenticity
are constructions

that serve less to
evaluate a subject

but to flaunt the
ostensible expertise

of the one doing the evaluating.

Those who, following
the release of Kid A,

still await Radiohead's
return to form

don't just pigeonhole the band.

They seem to be misreading
art altogether.

The opposite of
creativity is stasis.

[FOREIGN], a recipe.

You wake up one morning and

head straight from the
bed to the kitchen.

You're eager to make breakfast

not because you're hungry

but because you're exhausted,

and you like to have something

to complement your coffee.

You prefer the taste of
something sweet for breakfast,

thinking it's more palatable

first thing in the morning,

and it's a more suitable
flavor to the black coffee

that steams away in your mug

as you look for
something to eat.

You're out of your go-to cereal.

There's no fruit because
the season is so short.

Jam on toast won't
last you long enough,

and a bowl of oatmeal
will last too long.

You start from scratch and
decide to make a [FOREIGN].

You have time, and it's easy,

just four ingredients.

Sugar, check, cacao, check,

boiling water, easy enough,

rice, check.

You dissolve the cacao
in the boiling water

as per the ratios your
mother explained.

One [FOREIGN] for every
12 ounces of water.

You pour the liquid
over the rice

that's nearly finished
cooking in the other pot,

the melted chocolate seeping
down through the grains.

You spoon in some
brown sugar and

stir until the rice is an
even shade of deep brown.

Is it too dark? You
can't quite remember

what it should look like
and use your best guess.

After all, what matters
most is how it tastes.

As you scoop a portion
into your bowl,

you notice the rice clumping
more than expected.

You decide to add more
liquid to your bowl,

only remembering now the
final key ingredient,

evaporated milk, a
splash to taste,

to sweeten, to enrich.

You go to the fridge

knowing you only
have almond milk.

That'll do.

You pour the milk into the bowl

and give it an impatient stir.

It seems that it smells right,

and you take that
as a good sign.

You take your first bite and

hold the flavor in your mouth.

It's missing something,
but you're not sure what.

You try it again, hoping
that prolonged exposure

will reveal the missing piece.

You think it could be
either chocolate or sugar

and end up adding more of both.

You try your [FOREIGN] again.

It still tastes
slightly different

than the version in your head.

You've gotten used
to this discrepancy.

This happened numerous times
with adobo, [FOREIGN],

but a thousand plates later,

it is nevertheless discouraging.

You look down at your [FOREIGN]

sitting slightly too dark
and clumpy in your bowl.

It's fine, you concede.

After all, it's rice,
sugar, and chocolate,

so how bad could it be?

You are reminded of the
refrain to Kid A's Optimistic

as you take a sip
of your coffee,

the bitterness balancing
out the sweet.

The best you can is good enough.

>> Thank you all
for listening to

The Tower's 14th edition launch

as a podcast presentation.

My name is Ann.

I am a managing editor,

along with Bailey and Afton

who you will hear
in just a moment.

As you may know by now,

The Tower art and literary
magazine started in 1952

as a column in the
Minnesota Daily.

Today we are a class
of 19 students

running the magazine
with the help of

an English faculty
advisor, Dr. Cihlar.

Every year we ask for students'
submissions in the fall

then compile a themed
magazine in the spring.

We are happy to present

the 2020 edition of the
art and literary magazine.

Please visit our website

to see the newest
edition available online

at thetower.umn.edu,

which will be released at
the end of April 2020.

Our physical copies are
sure to be available

and free to all once
campus is reopened.

>> Thanks for that
explanation, Ann.

As for everyone else, hi.

I'm Bailey, another
managing editor,

in addition to
being a copy editor

and nonfiction editor
for The Tower.

At this time,

we would like to sincerely thank

the Minnesota Daily,
the Wake magazine,

FUSE, or the Fellowship of

Undergraduate
Students in English,

and Radio K for helping
us get the word out

for submissions every fall and

for advertising the
launch party each spring.

We would also like to
extend our appreciation

to Chipotle and Blaze Pizza

for their fundraising
partnerships.

We also thank our
contributors, families,

and friends of The Tower

and our professor and
supervisor, Dr. Cihlar.

We sincerely thank
the business groups

without whom the creative
work of the magazine

would not be possible.

This includes the copy editors,

designers, developmental
directors,

publicists, marketing directors,

managing editors, and
our editors-in-chief.

Afton will now explain the work

these groups did in more detail.

>> Hello, everyone.

My name is Afton, and
I'm a managing editor,

the chief poetry editor,

and an ArtWords judge
here at The Tower.

Thank you for listening.

Throughout these podcasts,

you have heard from each of
our incredible team members,

all in different genres,

including art, artwords, poetry,
fiction, and nonfiction.

Every person on The Tower

plays at least two crucial roles

between genre and
business categories,

and many have three or more.

Please listen carefully to
each person's introduction

and feel free to reach out to us

if you'd like to
learn more about

what working in these roles
on The Tower is like,

although I can confidently say

one answer across the
board will be fun.

I'd like to take
the time to thank

the staff of The Tower for
all of their hard work,

from producing a
literary magazine

to creating this podcast.

Working on a dedicated
team of 20 people

has been exhilarating,

and I appreciate the time,
patience, and effort

that went into this
year's edition.

Our editors-in-chief,
Lauren and Cate,

have guided the team's
thematic vision

of this year's magazine
from the very beginning.

My co-managing editors,
Ann and Bailey,

have helped me to organize
and create this podcast,

collaborate with other
business teams and genres,

and to keep everyone on
our production schedule

throughout the year.

Our online editors,
Maddy and Shae,

have done some amazing
campaigns and blogs

on our website and social media.

Our marketing directors,
Miki and Annie,

have guided our publicists,

Rylee, Jess, Maggie,
and Kimberly,

to perform an amazing
amount of outreach

in partnership with
local businesses,

such as Radio K, the Wake
magazine, Minnesota Daily,

Chipotle, Blaze Pizza,
and so many more.

Our development directors,
Swetha and Hailey,

have worked closely with
student unions and activities

and the Minnesota
Student Association

to raise funds and make
publication possible.

Our design managers,
Sara and Chaundra,

have led the design
team of Jacob, Maddy,

Rylee, and Claire to visual
perfection on everything,

from flyers to the
margins of our magazine,

while our copy editors,

Bailey, Claire, Hailey,
Jess, and Swetha,

and our head copy
editor, Maggie,

have followed up over and over

to make sure
everything we produce

is nothing short of
sheer perfection.

Finally, I'd like to thank

our director and
professor, Dr. Jim Cihlar,

for giving us the opportunity

to work on this amazing team,

which has been a
once-in-a-lifetime experience.

This podcast would
not be possible

without the help of Ryan Hayes,

who guided every step from
audio recording to editing

and who created our
fabulous intro music.

You can find him on
SoundCloud and Twitter,

@DJHayesMPLS.

I'd also like to
extend my thanks to

Jamie Yung and the
Weisman Art Museum,

who collaborate in
partnership with The Tower,

from publicity to hosting
our launch party.

Despite the party being canceled

in the face of COVID-19,

Jamie and the Weisman
have worked twice as hard

and have been nothing
but a pleasure.

I'd also like to thank our
ArtWords guest judges,

Michael Curran from the
Weisman Art Museum,

Professor Douglas Kearney from

the University of Minnesota's
Department of English,

and Sam Van Cook, the
founder of Button Poetry.

And of course, [MUSIC]

The Tower would not be
possible without readers,

listeners, and
contributors like you.

Thank you.